Part 6 (1/2)
They went, one by one, each with his bow or her curtsy. Mammy paused a moment to deliver her p.r.o.nunciamento. ”Don' you fret, marster! I ain'
gwine let er soul _tech_ one er my chillern!” Julius followed her.
”Dat's so, marster! An' Gawd Ermoughty knows I'se gwine always prohibit jes' de same care ob de fambly an' de silver!”
When they were gone came the leave-taking of the guests, of all who were not to sleep that night at Greenwood. Maury Stafford was to stay, and Mr. Corbin Wood. Of those going Cousin William was the only one of years; the others were all young,--young men, young women on the edge of an unthought-of experience, on the brink of a bitter, tempestuous, wintry sea. They did not see it so; there was danger, of course, but they thought of splendour and heroism, of trumpet calls and waving banners. They were much excited; the young girls half frightened, the men wild to be at home, with plans for volunteering. ”Good-bye, and good-bye, and good-bye again! and when it's all over--it will be over in three months, will it not, sir?--we'll finish the 'Virginia Reel!'”
The large, old coach and the saddle horses were brought around. They drove or rode away, through the April night, by the forsythia and the flowering almond, between the towering oaks, over the bridge with a hollow sound. Those left behind upon the Greenwood porch, cl.u.s.tered at the top of the steps, between the white pillars, stood in silence until the noise of departure had died away. Warwick Cary, his arm around Molly, his hand in Judith's, Unity's cheek resting against his shoulder, then spoke. ”It is the last merry-making, poor children! Well--'Time and tide run through the longest day!'” He disengaged himself, kissed each of his daughters, and turned toward the lighted hall. ”There are papers in the library which I must go over to-night. Edward, you had best come with me.”
Father and son left the porch. Miss Lucy, too, went indoors, called Julius, and began to give directions. Ready and energetic, she never wasted time in wonder at events. The event once squarely met, she struck immediately into the course it demanded, cheerfully, without repining, and with as little attention as possible to forebodings. Her voice died away toward the back of the house. The moon was s.h.i.+ning, and the lawn lay chequered beneath the trees. Corbin Wood, who had been standing in a brown study, began to descend the steps. ”I'll take a little walk, Judith, my dear,” he said, ”and think it over! I'll let myself in.” He was gone walking rapidly, not toward the big gate and the road, but across to the fields, a little stream, and a strip that had been left of primeval forest. Unity and Molly, moving back to the doorstep, sat there whispering together in the light from the hall.
Judith and Richard were left almost alone, Judith leaning against a white pillar, Cleave standing a step or two below her.
”You have been in Richmond?” she said. ”Molly had a letter from Miriam--”
”Yes, I went to find, if possible, rifled muskets for my company. I did not do as well as I had hoped--the supply is dreadfully small--but I secured a few. Two thirds of us will have to manage, until we can do better, with the smoothbore and even with the old flintlock. I have seen a breech-loader made in the North. I wish to G.o.d we had it!”
”You are going back to Botetourt?”
”As soon as it is dawn. The company will at once offer its services to the governor. Every moment now is important.”
”At dawn.... You will be its captain?”
”I suppose so. We will hold immediately an election of officers--and that's as pernicious a method of officering companies and regiments as can be imagined! 'They are volunteers, offering all--they can be trusted to choose their leaders.' I don't perceive the sequence.”
”I think that you will make a good captain.”
He smiled. ”Why, then, the clumsy thing will work for once! I'll try to be a good captain.--The clock is striking. I do not know when nor how I shall see Greenwood again. Judith, you'll wish me well?”
”Will I wish you well, Richard? Yes, I will wish you well. Do not go at dawn.”
He looked at her. ”Do you ask me to wait?”
”Yes, I ask you. Wait till--till later in the morning. It is so sad to say good-bye.”
”I will wait then.” The light from the hall lay unbroken on the doorstep. Molly and Unity had disappeared. A little in yellow lamplight, chiefly in silver moonlight the porch lay deserted and quiet before the murmuring oaks, above the fair downward sweep of gra.s.s and flowers. ”It is long,” said Cleave, ”since I have been here. The day after the tournament--”
”Yes.”
He came nearer. ”Judith, was it so hard to forgive--that tournament? You had both crowns, after all.”
”I do not know,” said Judith, ”what you mean.”
”Do you remember--do you remember last Christmas when, going to Lauderdale, I pa.s.sed you on your way to Silver Hill?”
”Yes, I remember.”
”I was on my way to Lauderdale, not to see Fauquier, but to see you. I wished to ask you a question--I wished to make certain. And then you pa.s.sed me going to Silver Hill, and I said, 'It is certainly so.' I have believed it to be so. I believe it now. And yet I ask you to-night--Judith--”
”You ask me what?” said Judith. ”Here is Mr. Stafford.”
Maury Stafford came into the silver s.p.a.ce before the house, glanced upward, and mounted the steps. ”I walked as far as the gate with Breckinridge. He tells me, Mr. Cleave, that he is of your Company of Volunteers.”
”Yes.”