"That may be noble, but it does very little to further someone's education."
"I'm sorry you're angry. Perhaps I'm wrong, but those are my views. I'll do all I can to supply what you need as soon as we sell the first rice crop."
"Bother. I see nothing wrong in asking a small donation from a very rich man who —"
"No," Madeline said, though she wondered bitterly how she could ever fulfill the dream of building a new Mont Royal when she couldn't buy even the smallest necessities for its school. "We'll find some other way, I promise."
Prudence gave Madeline a bleak look. The two women returned to the whitewashed house in silence. It was an hour before they made up. Madeline spoke first, though Prudence was clearly just as eager. Even so, Madeline felt the emptiness of her promise as she lay in bed that night, sleepless with worry.
Who against all hope believed in hope. Prudence might still be that sort of person. She was not.
30
Late on a showery Saturday in that same month, a horse-drawn cab took Virgilia to a small brick house on South B Street, behind the Capitol. She looked matronly, and somber in contrast to the color in the front yard, where snowy blossoms shed by two dogwoods dusted deep yellow daffodils. A mock orange tree sweetened the air in a way that was appropriate to a season of renewed hope.
Virgilia's face was drawn, even severe. She rang the bell and exchanged a warm embrace with Lydia Smith, the housekeeper. She followed Lydia to the parlor, where her friend waited with silver tea things.
"Thad —" She caught her breath. He looked white, far older than when she last saw him, months ago. He rose from his chair with great effort.
Lydia tied back draperies to let in more of the gray light, but that did nothing to improve Stevens's appearance. The housekeeper excused herself. Stevens sat down again. Over the patter of rain, Virgilia heard his labored breathing.
"Sorry to have taken so long to accept your invitation,'' she said. "I usually work every Saturday. Today Miss Tiverton's nephew drove down from Baltimore for a visit. He excused me for the afternoon."
"How is the old woman? You've been her companion for — how long now?"
'Ten months." Virgilia added cream to her hot tea and sipped. "Her ninetieth birthday falls next Tuesday. Physically, she has tremendous stamina. But her mind —" A shrug said the rest.
"What do you do for her?"
"Sit with her, mostly. Keep her tidy. Clean her up when I must." In response to Stevens's grimace, she said, "It isn't that bad. I had worse duty in the field hospitals during the war."
"You're putting a good face on it. Now tell me how you really feel about it."
A weary sigh. "I hate it. The monotony is terrible. In the nurse corps, I got used to helping people recover, but Miss Tiverton will never recover. I'm nothing more than a caretaker. I suppose I can't be particular. Jobs for single women are scarce. This was all I could find."
"Perhaps we can do something about that." He was about to say more, but his silver teaspoon slipped from his hand. He leaned down to pick it up, and suddenly clutched his back. He straightened slowly. "My God, Virgilia, it's hell growing old."
"You don't look well, Thad."
"The climate in this town aggravates my asthma. I have trouble breathing, and my head hurts most of the time. No doubt some of the headache comes from warring with that fool in the White House." Virgilia followed this struggle in the Star but felt far removed from it in Miss Tiverton's vast, silent house out in Georgetown.
The congressman leaned toward her, his wig slightly off center, as usual, and they fell to discussing recent events. She expressed her scorn for Secretary Seward's seven-million-dollar folly, the purchase from Russia of the worthless, icebound Alaskan territory. Stevens couldn't confirm or deny rumors that Jefferson Davis would soon be let out of Fortress Monroe, after payment of enormous bail, to await trial.
They soon came back to the struggle between the Congressional Republicans and the President. To further curb Mr. Johnson's power, bills had been passed prohibiting him from direct command of the Army. Any orders now had to be transmitted by General Grant, who was more sympathetic to the Radicals; some were even saying he'd be their candidate for President a year hence. A second bill, the Tenure of Office Act, challenged the President even more directly. He couldn't remove any cabinet official without consent of the Senate.
"Our most pressing problem remains the South," Stevens went on. "Those damned aristocrats in the Dixie legislatures refuse to call the state conventions demanded by the Reconstruction Act. We've put through a second supplementary bill empowering the district military commanders to set up machinery for registering voters, so we can get on with the job. Johnson balks and argues and tries to thwart us at every step. He doesn't understand the fundamental issue."
"Which is —"
"Equality. Equality! Every man has an equal right to justice, honesty, and fair play with every other man, and the law should secure him those rights. The same law that condemns or acquits an African should condemn or acquit a white man. That's the law of God, and it ought to be of the law of the land, but those Southerners choke on the idea, and Johnson repudiates it. And he is supposed to be on our side! I tell you, Virgilia" — he had grown so agitated he spilled tea from the cup he was holding — "I am pushed to desperation by that man. He is obstructionist to the point of being criminal. There is only one remedy."
"What's that?"
"Depose him."
Her dark eyes widened in the watery gloom. "Do you mean impeach him?"
"Yes."
"On what grounds?"
The hawkish old face at last showed a smile. "Oh, we'll find those. Ben Butler and some others are searching. None too soon, either. Andrew Johnson is the most dangerous president in the history of the republic."
Dangerous, or merely obstinate about yielding power to the Congress? Virgilia didn't ask the question of her friend. She found herself surprisingly unconcerned about the whole matter. Prisoned in the Georgetown mansion caring for Miss Tiverton, she no longer felt any connection with important causes.
"All the key members of the Senate agree about impeachment," Stevens continued. "Sam Stout agrees ..."
The sentence trailed off. He was probing. Calmly, she said, "I wouldn't know, Thad. I no longer see him."
"So I heard." There was a pause. "Sam feels his voting base is secure now. Consequently, he's announced his intention to divorce Emily and marry some music-hall tart."
"Her last name's Canary." It sounded like unimportant conversation. But her hands trembled; the news had stunned her. "I wish him well." She really wished him in hell.
Stevens studied her. "You aren't at all content with your present situation, are you?"
"No. I'm not the crusader I was ten years ago, but as I said, I feel very isolated, very useless caring for one elderly woman who will never improve."
"Do you have contact with your family?"
Virgiha avoided his eye. "No. I'm afraid they — they wouldn't welcome it." Sometimes, late at night, she longed for it so deeply it brought tears. That too was probably the result of aging, of softening, and growing away from the entrapments of unbridled emotion.
"Well, my dear, I asked you here not only to see you, but also to discuss a possible change of employment. A position you might find more satisfying because you would be helping the most innocent victims of those damned rebels. Children."
For the second time, he'd stunned her. "What children do you mean?"
"Let me show you. Are you busy tomorrow?"