"I reached my decision on the basis of two circumstances," Theo continued, with a formality that would have made her smile if his plan was not potentially so disruptive. "First, you said you might find temporary work for me here."
"Yes. I think you'd make an excellent manager for Mont Royal's mill and mining operations. But I never had any intention of precipitating —"
"You didn't," he broke in. "I'm resigning chiefly because of the other circumstance." He stepped forward, blurting, "Last week —"
"Theo." She pointed. "Forgive me, but you're standing on the new Mont Royal."
"Oh, no! I'm so sorry —" He jumped back, let go of Marie-Louise's hand, and knelt to smooth the wrinkle his boot heel had left on the drawing. Prudence smiled. Madeline chided herself for fussiness; it was another sign of age.
"There. Is that all right?"
"Yes. No harm done. You mentioned a second circumstance affecting your decision."
He gulped and leaped: "I've located an Army chaplain in Savannah who is willing to marry us."
Marie-Louise didn't breathe. She grasped Theo's hand again and held it tightly. The four lamps around the room shed an uncompromising light on Madeline's lovely but lined face. "Even though Marie-Louise isn't of legal age?" she asked.
He nodded, tugging at his cravat and then his mustache. "Yes. The chaplain — well, he doesn't like rebs very much. I told him Mr. Main was in the Confederate Navy Department and that's all it took.
Madeline sat back, frowning. "You put me in a very hard position. I can't condone such defiance of Cooper. And Judith."
"We're not asking that you condone it —" Theo began.
"Only that you give us a day or two," Marie-Louise pleaded. "Just don't tell Papa until we're back. Theo will do it then."
"That will still make me a party to deceiving him."
"Say that you knew nothing about it," Theo responded.
"Marie-Louise disappeared and I knew nothing, about it?" He blushed, recognizing the foolishness of it. "No. I'd have to be prepared to assume my share of blame." She was silent a moment. "I don't think I want that."
Marie-Louise rushed to her, almost in tears. "If Theo speaks to Papa first, you know Papa will say no. He'll go on saying it till hell freezes."
"Marie-Louise," Theo said, stunned. Refined girls didn't say such things.
"Well, it's true. If you won't let us go, Aunt Madeline, we'll never be able to marry. Never."
Prudence went to comfort her; the young teacher was growing fatter, and tended to waddle. Madeline reflected on the situation, wondering why, now that the Klan seemed to have retreated in silence, and construction was about to start, this new problem had to be brought to her.
She wanted to stand by her refusal and spare herself another scene with Cooper. Then she remembered Orry describing what he'd put Brett and Billy through before the war, when he was uncertain about the wisdom of a Carolina girl marrying a Northern officer. He'd withheld his permission and kept them in torment when hardly anything else could have stopped them.
She studied the lovers. Did she have the right to deny them? Marie-Louise was right; Cooper would be unreasonable. But who was she to judge whether their love was genuine, mature, worthy of the permanent bond of marriage? Had her first burst of love for Orry been mature? No, far from it.
"Well, I'll probably rue it. But I am an incurable sentimentalist. I'll grant you forty-eight hours." Prudence clapped. "You may also have use of my elegant wagon for your bridal carriage," she added, wryly.
It's done. How they glowed with anticipation as they drove awayl I hope their love will sustain Theo when he goes, as he must, to face his father-in-law. I will ride out the inevitable storm somehow. Cooper's regard for me could sink no lower under any circumstances. ...
... Next day. At noon, two of our black men unloaded the first wagons of construction lumber. The lumber sits where I can see it as I pen this, neat stacks of yellow pine, rough-hewn and finished in our own mill. Perhaps we can celebrate next Christmas in the new house.
Oh, the world is set right again! ...
"I'll not have a Yankee soldier for a son-in-law," Cooper shouted at his wife after the young man spoke his rehearsed speech, took Cooper's abuse, and left, disappointed and noticeably pale. "I'll get the authorities on him. There is some legal way to undo it."
"There's no practical way," Judith said. "Your daughter spent two nights with him in Savannah."
"Madeline's to blame."
"No one's to blame. Young people fall in love."
"Not my only child, not with carpetbagging carrion." Saying that he'd spend the night in his office at the shipping company, he stormed out.
About one in the morning, a knock woke Judith. She found Cooper on the stoop. Two acquaintances had brought him home from the Mills House saloon bar, where he'd drunk bourbon whiskey most of the evening. He had then made insulting remarks to an Army major and probably would have attacked him if all the whiskey hadn't come heaving up suddenly.
The apologetic gentlemen carried Judith's limp and reeking husband upstairs. She followed with the lamp. She saw the gentlemen out, then undressed and washed Cooper, and sat by him until he woke, about half past two. His first words, after a few groans, stunned her:
"Let her lie in that dirty bed she's made with the Yankee. I'll not open the doors to this house to her, ever again."
She burst out crying, angry tears. "Cooper, this is too much. You're carrying your stupid partisanship to ridiculous lengths. I refuse to be separated from my own child. I'll see her whenever I wish."
"Not here," he yelled. "I'll give orders to the servants, and you'd better not defy them. I no longer have a daughter."
He flung the cover off and skidded across the polished floor to be sick in a basin. Judith bent her head in misery.
54
He sat in the chair at the rear of the third box, stage right. He chose the seat to avoid the spill of the stage lights. He didn't want her to see him until the moment he chose.
She lay on a divan upstage. The pillow used to smother her had fallen on the floor. Once he detected an unprofessional flicker of her eyelids. Her silver-blond hair, full to her shoulders, shone with the lovely luster he remembered. He felt no affection for her. His left hand, palm down, worked along his left thigh, as if the motion somehow could restore the severed muscle that had left him unable to leap nimbly in stage duels or perform romantic roles convincingly.
"Then you must speak of one that lov'd not wisely but too well —"
Trump's blackamoor make-up ran from the heat of the stage. It ran in distinct streaks, so that his face resembled zebra skin. Though he ranted to excess, the observer thought he did a generally creditable job. In fact, for a provincial effort, the production was quite good. Good, that is, in every respect but the performance of Trump's Desdemona. She was clearly having an off night.
The man in the box found himself unexpectedly entertaining the thought that Trump's Othello might be a passable importation for a three-week slot still open at the New Knickerbocker. With a new leading lady — Mrs. Parker would be in no shape to perform, ever again. He slipped his hand into his left pocket and reassuringly felt what New York toughs called a dock rat's drinking jewelry. Horseshoe nails, bent into finger rings.