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Charles-Chesnutt-The-House-Behind-The-Cedars-1900-fiction.txt
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Charles-Chesnutt-The-House-Behind-The-Cedars-1900-fiction.txt
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THE HOUSE BEHIND THE CEDARS
BY
CHARLES W. CHESNUTT
1900
CONTENTS
I A STRANGER FROM SOUTH CAROLINA
II AN EVENING VISIT
III THE OLD JUDGE
IV DOWN THE RIVER
V THE TOURNAMENT
VI THE QUEEN OF LOVE AND BEAUTY
VII 'MID NEW SURROUNDINGS
VIII THE COURTSHIP
IX DOUBTS AND FEARS
X THE DREAM
XI A LETTER AND A JOURNEY
XII TRYON GOES TO PATESVILLE
XIII AN INJUDICIOUS PAYMENT
XIV A LOYAL FRIEND
XV MINE OWN PEOPLE
XVI THE BOTTOM FALLS OUT
XVII TWO LETTERS
XVIII UNDER THE OLD REGIME
XIX GOD MADE US ALL
XX DIGGING UP ROOTS
XXI A GILDED OPPORTUNITY
XXII IMPERATIVE BUSINESS
XXIII THE GUEST OF HONOR
XXIV SWING YOUR PARTNERS
XXV BALANCE ALL
XXVI THE SCHOOLHOUSE IN THE WOODS
XXVII AN INTERESTING ACQUAINTANCE
XXVIII THE LOST KNIFE
XXIX PLATO EARNS HALF A DOLLAR
XXX AN UNUSUAL HONOR
XXXI IN DEEP WATERS
XXXII THE POWER OF LOVE
XXXIII A MULE AND A CART
THE HOUSE BEHIND THE CEDARS
I
A STRANGER FROM SOUTH CAROLINA
Time touches all things with destroying hand; and if he seem now and
then to bestow the bloom of youth, the sap of spring, it is but a brief
mockery, to be surely and swiftly followed by the wrinkles of old age,
the dry leaves and bare branches of winter. And yet there are places
where Time seems to linger lovingly long after youth has departed, and
to which he seems loath to bring the evil day. Who has not known some
even-tempered old man or woman who seemed to have drunk of the fountain
of youth? Who has not seen somewhere an old town that, having long
since ceased to grow, yet held its own without perceptible decline?
Some such trite reflection--as apposite to the subject as most random
reflections are--passed through the mind of a young man who came out of
the front door of the Patesville Hotel about nine o'clock one fine
morning in spring, a few years after the Civil War, and started down
Front Street toward the market-house. Arriving at the town late the
previous evening, he had been driven up from the steamboat in a
carriage, from which he had been able to distinguish only the shadowy
outlines of the houses along the street; so that this morning walk was
his first opportunity to see the town by daylight. He was dressed in a
suit of linen duck--the day was warm--a panama straw hat, and patent
leather shoes. In appearance he was tall, dark, with straight, black,
lustrous hair, and very clean-cut, high-bred features. When he paused
by the clerk's desk on his way out, to light his cigar, the day clerk,
who had just come on duty, glanced at the register and read the last
entry:--
"'JOHN WARWICK, CLARENCE, SOUTH CAROLINA.'
"One of the South Ca'lina bigbugs, I reckon--probably in cotton, or
turpentine." The gentleman from South Carolina, walking down the
street, glanced about him with an eager look, in which curiosity and
affection were mingled with a touch of bitterness. He saw little that
was not familiar, or that he had not seen in his dreams a hundred times
during the past ten years. There had been some changes, it is true,
some melancholy changes, but scarcely anything by way of addition or
improvement to counterbalance them. Here and there blackened and
dismantled walls marked the place where handsome buildings once had
stood, for Sherman's march to the sea had left its mark upon the town.
The stores were mostly of brick, two stories high, joining one another
after the manner of cities. Some of the names on the signs were
familiar; others, including a number of Jewish names, were quite
unknown to him.
A two minutes' walk brought Warwick--the name he had registered under,
and as we shall call him--to the market-house, the central feature of
Patesville, from both the commercial and the picturesque points of
view. Standing foursquare in the heart of the town, at the
intersection of the two main streets, a "jog" at each street corner
left around the market-house a little public square, which at this hour
was well occupied by carts and wagons from the country and empty drays
awaiting hire. Warwick was unable to perceive much change in the
market-house. Perhaps the surface of the red brick, long unpainted,
had scaled off a little more here and there. There might have been a
slight accretion of the moss and lichen on the shingled roof. But the
tall tower, with its four-faced clock, rose as majestically and
uncompromisingly as though the land had never been subjugated. Was it
so irreconcilable, Warwick wondered, as still to peal out the curfew
bell, which at nine o'clock at night had clamorously warned all
negroes, slave or free, that it was unlawful for them to be abroad
after that hour, under penalty of imprisonment or whipping? Was the
old constable, whose chief business it had been to ring the bell, still
alive and exercising the functions of his office, and had age lessened
or increased the number of times that obliging citizens performed this
duty for him during his temporary absences in the company of convivial
spirits? A few moments later, Warwick saw a colored policeman in the
old constable's place--a stronger reminder than even the burned
buildings that war had left its mark upon the old town, with which Time
had dealt so tenderly.
The lower story of the market-house was open on all four of its sides
to the public square. Warwick passed through one of the wide brick
arches and traversed the building with a leisurely step. He looked in
vain into the stalls for the butcher who had sold fresh meat twice a
week, on market days, and he felt a genuine thrill of pleasure when he
recognized the red bandana turban of old Aunt Lyddy, the ancient negro
woman who had sold him gingerbread and fried fish, and told him weird
tales of witchcraft and conjuration, in the old days when, as an idle
boy, he had loafed about the market-house. He did not speak to her,
however, or give her any sign of recognition. He threw a glance toward
a certain corner where steps led to the town hall above. On this
stairway he had once seen a manacled free negro shot while being taken
upstairs for examination under a criminal charge. Warwick recalled
vividly how the shot had rung out. He could see again the livid look
of terror on the victim's face, the gathering crowd, the resulting
confusion. The murderer, he recalled, had been tried and sentenced to
imprisonment for life, but was pardoned by a merciful governor after
serving a year of his sentence. As Warwick was neither a prophet nor
the son of a prophet, he could not foresee that, thirty years later,
even this would seem an excessive punishment for so slight a
misdemeanor.
Leaving the market-house, Warwick turned to the left, and kept on his
course until he reached the next corner. After another turn to the
right, a dozen paces brought him in front of a small weather-beaten
frame building, from which projected a wooden sign-board bearing the
inscription:--
ARCHIBALD STRAIGHT,
LAWYER.
He turned the knob, but the door was locked. Retracing his steps past a
vacant lot, the young man entered a shop where a colored man was
employed in varnishing a coffin, which stood on two trestles in the
middle of the floor. Not at all impressed by the melancholy
suggestiveness of his task, he was whistling a lively air with great
gusto. Upon Warwick's entrance this effusion came to a sudden end, and
the coffin-maker assumed an air of professional gravity.
"Good-mawnin', suh," he said, lifting his cap politely.
"Good-morning," answered Warwick. "Can you tell me anything about
Judge Straight's office hours?"
"De ole jedge has be'n a little onreg'lar sence de wah, suh; but he
gin'ally gits roun' 'bout ten o'clock er so. He's be'n kin' er feeble
fer de las' few yeahs. An' I reckon," continued the undertaker
solemnly, his glance unconsciously seeking a row of fine caskets
standing against the wall,--"I reckon he'll soon be goin' de way er all
de earth. 'Man dat is bawn er 'oman hath but a sho't time ter lib, an'
is full er mis'ry. He cometh up an' is cut down lack as a flower.'
'De days er his life is three-sco' an' ten'--an' de ole jedge is libbed
mo' d'n dat, suh, by five yeahs, ter say de leas'."
"'Death,'" quoted Warwick, with whose mood the undertaker's remarks
were in tune, "'is the penalty that all must pay for the crime of
living.'"
"Dat 's a fac', suh, dat 's a fac'; so dey mus'--so dey mus'. An' den
all de dead has ter be buried. An' we does ou' sheer of it, suh, we
does ou' sheer. We conduc's de obs'quies er all de bes' w'ite folks er
de town, suh."
Warwick left the undertaker's shop and retraced his steps until he had
passed the lawyer's office, toward which he threw an affectionate
glance. A few rods farther led him past the old black Presbyterian
church, with its square tower, embowered in a stately grove; past the
Catholic church, with its many crosses, and a painted wooden figure of
St. James in a recess beneath the gable; and past the old Jefferson
House, once the leading hotel of the town, in front of which political
meetings had been held, and political speeches made, and political hard
cider drunk, in the days of "Tippecanoe and Tyler too."
The street down which Warwick had come intersected Front Street at a
sharp angle in front of the old hotel, forming a sort of flatiron block
at the junction, known as Liberty Point,--perhaps because slave
auctions were sometimes held there in the good old days. Just before
Warwick reached Liberty Point, a young woman came down Front Street
from the direction of the market-house. When their paths converged,
Warwick kept on down Front Street behind her, it having been already
his intention to walk in this direction.
Warwick's first glance had revealed the fact that the young woman was
strikingly handsome, with a stately beauty seldom encountered. As he
walked along behind her at a measured distance, he could not help
noting the details that made up this pleasing impression, for his mind
was singularly alive to beauty, in whatever embodiment. The girl's
figure, he perceived, was admirably proportioned; she was evidently at
the period when the angles of childhood were rounding into the
promising curves of adolescence. Her abundant hair, of a dark and
glossy brown, was neatly plaited and coiled above an ivory column that
rose straight from a pair of gently sloping shoulders, clearly outlined
beneath the light muslin frock that covered them. He could see that
she was tastefully, though not richly, dressed, and that she walked
with an elastic step that revealed a light heart and the vigor of
perfect health. Her face, of course, he could not analyze, since he
had caught only the one brief but convincing glimpse of it.
The young woman kept on down Front Street, Warwick maintaining his
distance a few rods behind her. They passed a factory, a warehouse or
two, and then, leaving the brick pavement, walked along on mother
earth, under a leafy arcade of spreading oaks and elms. Their way led
now through a residential portion of the town, which, as they advanced,
gradually declined from staid respectability to poverty, open and
unabashed. Warwick observed, as they passed through the respectable
quarter, that few people who met the girl greeted her, and that some
others whom she passed at gates or doorways gave her no sign of
recognition; from which he inferred that she was possibly a visitor in
the town and not well acquainted.
Their walk had continued not more than ten minutes when they crossed a
creek by a wooden bridge and came to a row of mean houses standing
flush with the street. At the door of one, an old black woman had
stooped to lift a large basket, piled high with laundered clothes. The
girl, as she passed, seized one end of the basket and helped the old
woman to raise it to her head, where it rested solidly on the cushion
of her head-kerchief. During this interlude, Warwick, though he had
slackened his pace measurably, had so nearly closed the gap between
himself and them as to hear the old woman say, with the dulcet negro
intonation:--
"T'anky', honey; de Lawd gwine bless you sho'. You wuz alluz a good
gal, and de Lawd love eve'ybody w'at he'p de po' ole nigger. You gwine
ter hab good luck all yo' bawn days."
"I hope you're a true prophet, Aunt Zilphy," laughed the girl in
response.
The sound of her voice gave Warwick a thrill. It was soft and sweet and
clear--quite in harmony with her appearance. That it had a faint
suggestiveness of the old woman's accent he hardly noticed, for the
current Southern speech, including his own, was rarely without a touch
of it. The corruption of the white people's speech was one
element--only one--of the negro's unconscious revenge for his own
debasement.
The houses they passed now grew scattering, and the quarter of the town
more neglected. Warwick felt himself wondering where the girl might be
going in a neighborhood so uninviting. When she stopped to pull a
half-naked negro child out of a mudhole and set him upon his feet, he
thought she might be some young lady from the upper part of the town,
bound on some errand of mercy, or going, perhaps, to visit an old
servant or look for a new one. Once she threw a backward glance at
Warwick, thus enabling him to catch a second glimpse of a singularly
pretty face. Perhaps the young woman found his presence in the
neighborhood as unaccountable as he had deemed hers; for, finding his
glance fixed upon her, she quickened her pace with an air of startled
timidity.
"A woman with such a figure," thought Warwick, "ought to be able to
face the world with the confidence of Phryne confronting her judges."
By this time Warwick was conscious that something more than mere grace
or beauty had attracted him with increasing force toward this young
woman. A suggestion, at first faint and elusive, of something
familiar, had grown stronger when he heard her voice, and became more
and more pronounced with each rod of their advance; and when she
stopped finally before a gate, and, opening it, went into a yard shut
off from the street by a row of dwarf cedars, Warwick had already
discounted in some measure the surprise he would have felt at seeing
her enter there had he not walked down Front Street behind her. There
was still sufficient unexpectedness about the act, however, to give him
a decided thrill of pleasure.
"It must be Rena," he murmured. "Who could have dreamed that she would
blossom out like that? It must surely be Rena!"
He walked slowly past the gate and peered through a narrow gap in the
cedar hedge. The girl was moving along a sanded walk, toward a gray,
unpainted house, with a steep roof, broken by dormer windows. The
trace of timidity he had observed in her had given place to the more
assured bearing of one who is upon his own ground. The garden walks
were bordered by long rows of jonquils, pinks, and carnations,
inclosing clumps of fragrant shrubs, lilies, and roses already in
bloom. Toward the middle of the garden stood two fine magnolia-trees,
with heavy, dark green, glistening leaves, while nearer the house two
mighty elms shaded a wide piazza, at one end of which a honeysuckle
vine, and at the other a Virginia creeper, running over a wooden
lattice, furnished additional shade and seclusion. On dark or wintry
days, the aspect of this garden must have been extremely sombre and
depressing, and it might well have seemed a fit place to hide some
guilty or disgraceful secret. But on the bright morning when Warwick
stood looking through the cedars, it seemed, with its green frame and
canopy and its bright carpet of flowers, an ideal retreat from the
fierce sunshine and the sultry heat of the approaching summer.
The girl stooped to pluck a rose, and as she bent over it, her profile
was clearly outlined. She held the flower to her face with a
long-drawn inhalation, then went up the steps, crossed the piazza,
opened the door without knocking, and entered the house with the air of
one thoroughly at home.
"Yes," said the young man to himself, "it's Rena, sure enough."
The house stood on a corner, around which the cedar hedge turned,
continuing along the side of the garden until it reached the line of
the front of the house. The piazza to a rear wing, at right angles to
the front of the house, was open to inspection from the side street,
which, to judge from its deserted look, seemed to be but little used.
Turning into this street and walking leisurely past the back yard,
which was only slightly screened from the street by a china-tree,
Warwick perceived the young woman standing on the piazza, facing an
elderly woman, who sat in a large rocking-chair, plying a pair of
knitting-needles on a half-finished stocking. Warwick's walk led him
within three feet of the side gate, which he felt an almost
irresistible impulse to enter. Every detail of the house and garden
was familiar; a thousand cords of memory and affection drew him
thither; but a stronger counter-motive prevailed. With a great effort
he restrained himself, and after a momentary pause, walked slowly on
past the house, with a backward glance, which he turned away when he
saw that it was observed.
Warwick's attention had been so fully absorbed by the house behind the
cedars and the women there, that he had scarcely noticed, on the other
side of the neglected by-street, two men working by a large open
window, in a low, rude building with a clapboarded roof, directly
opposite the back piazza occupied by the two women. Both the men were
busily engaged in shaping barrel-staves, each wielding a sharp-edged
drawing-knife on a piece of seasoned oak clasped tightly in a wooden
vise.
"I jes' wonder who dat man is, an' w'at he 's doin' on dis street,"
observed the younger of the two, with a suspicious air. He had noticed
the gentleman's involuntary pause and his interest in the opposite
house, and had stopped work for a moment to watch the stranger as he
went on down the street.
"Nev' min' 'bout dat man," said the elder one. "You 'ten' ter yo' wuk
an' finish dat bairl-stave. You spen's enti'ely too much er yo' time
stretchin' yo' neck atter other people. An' you need n' 'sturb yo'se'f
'bout dem folks 'cross de street, fer dey ain't yo' kin', an' you're
wastin' yo' time both'in' yo' min' wid 'em, er wid folks w'at comes on
de street on account of 'em. Look sha'p now, boy, er you'll git dat
stave trim' too much."
The younger man resumed his work, but still found time to throw a
slanting glance out of the window. The gentleman, he perceived, stood
for a moment on the rotting bridge across the old canal, and then
walked slowly ahead until he turned to the right into Back Street, a
few rods farther on.
II
AN EVENING VISIT
Toward evening of the same day, Warwick took his way down Front Street
in the gathering dusk. By the time night had spread its mantle over the
earth, he had reached the gate by which he had seen the girl of his
morning walk enter the cedar-bordered garden. He stopped at the gate
and glanced toward the house, which seemed dark and silent and deserted.
"It's more than likely," he thought, "that they are in the kitchen. I
reckon I'd better try the back door."
But as he drew cautiously near the corner, he saw a man's figure
outlined in the yellow light streaming from the open door of a small
house between Front Street and the cooper shop. Wishing, for reasons
of his own, to avoid observation, Warwick did not turn the corner, but
walked on down Front Street until he reached a point from which he
could see, at a long angle, a ray of light proceeding from the kitchen
window of the house behind the cedars.
"They are there," he muttered with a sigh of relief, for he had feared
they might be away. "I suspect I'll have to go to the front door,
after all. No one can see me through the trees."
He retraced his steps to the front gate, which he essayed to open.
There was apparently some defect in the latch, for it refused to work.
Warwick remembered the trick, and with a slight sense of amusement,
pushed his foot under the gate and gave it a hitch to the left, after
which it opened readily enough. He walked softly up the sanded path,
tiptoed up the steps and across the piazza, and rapped at the front
door, not too loudly, lest this too might attract the attention of the
man across the street. There was no response to his rap. He put his
ear to the door and heard voices within, and the muffled sound of
footsteps. After a moment he rapped again, a little louder than before.
There was an instant cessation of the sounds within. He rapped a third
time, to satisfy any lingering doubt in the minds of those who he felt
sure were listening in some trepidation. A moment later a ray of light
streamed through the keyhole.
"Who's there?" a woman's voice inquired somewhat sharply.
"A gentleman," answered Warwick, not holding it yet time to reveal
himself. "Does Mis' Molly Walden live here?"
"Yes," was the guarded answer. "I'm Mis' Walden. What's yo'r
business?"
"I have a message to you from your son John."
A key clicked in the lock. The door opened, and the elder of the two
women Warwick had seen upon the piazza stood in the doorway, peering
curiously and with signs of great excitement into the face of the
stranger.
"You 've got a message from my son, you say?" she asked with tremulous
agitation. "Is he sick, or in trouble?"
"No. He's well and doing well, and sends his love to you, and hopes
you've not forgotten him."
"Fergot him? No, God knows I ain't fergot him! But come in, sir, an'
tell me somethin' mo' about him."
Warwick went in, and as the woman closed the door after him, he threw a
glance round the room. On the wall, over the mantelpiece, hung a steel
engraving of General Jackson at the battle of New Orleans, and, on the
opposite wall, a framed fashion-plate from "Godey's Lady's Book." In
the middle of the room an octagonal centre-table with a single leg,
terminating in three sprawling feet, held a collection of curiously
shaped sea-shells. There was a great haircloth sofa, somewhat the worse
for wear, and a well-filled bookcase. The screen standing before the
fireplace was covered with Confederate bank-notes of various
denominations and designs, in which the heads of Jefferson Davis and
other Confederate leaders were conspicuous.
"Imperious Caesar, dead, and turned to clay,
Might stop a hole to keep the wind away,"
murmured the young man, as his eye fell upon this specimen of
decorative art.
The woman showed her visitor to a seat. She then sat down facing him
and looked at him closely. "When did you last see my son?" she asked.
"I've never met your son," he replied.
Her face fell. "Then the message comes through you from somebody else?"
"No, directly from your son."
She scanned his face with a puzzled look. This bearded young
gentleman, who spoke so politely and was dressed so well, surely--no,
it could not be! and yet--
Warwick was smiling at her through a mist of tears. An electric spark
of sympathy flashed between them. They rose as if moved by one
impulse, and were clasped in each other's arms.
"John, my John! It IS John!"
"Mother--my dear old mother!"
"I didn't think," she sobbed, "that I'd ever see you again."
He smoothed her hair and kissed her. "And are you glad to see me,
mother?"
"Am I glad to see you? It's like the dead comin' to life. I thought
I'd lost you forever, John, my son, my darlin' boy!" she answered,
hugging him strenuously.
"I couldn't live without seeing you, mother," he said. He meant it,
too, or thought he did, although he had not seen her for ten years.
"You've grown so tall, John, and are such a fine gentleman! And you
ARE a gentleman now, John, ain't you--sure enough? Nobody knows the
old story?"
"Well, mother, I've taken a man's chance in life, and have tried to
make the most of it; and I haven't felt under any obligation to spoil
it by raking up old stories that are best forgotten. There are the dear
old books: have they been read since I went away?"
"No, honey, there's be'n nobody to read 'em, excep' Rena, an' she don't
take to books quite like you did. But I've kep' 'em dusted clean, an'
kep' the moths an' the bugs out; for I hoped you'd come back some day,
an' knowed you'd like to find 'em all in their places, jus' like you
left 'em."
"That's mighty nice of you, mother. You could have done no more if you
had loved them for themselves. But where is Rena? I saw her on the
street to-day, but she didn't know me from Adam; nor did I guess it was
she until she opened the gate and came into the yard."
"I've be'n so glad to see you that I'd fergot about her," answered the
mother. "Rena, oh, Rena!"
The girl was not far away; she had been standing in the next room,
listening intently to every word of the conversation, and only kept
from coming in by a certain constraint that made a brother whom she had
not met for so many years seem almost as much a stranger as if he had
not been connected with her by any tie.
"Yes, mamma," she answered, coming forward.
"Rena, child, here's yo'r brother John, who's come back to see us.
Tell 'im howdy."
As she came forward, Warwick rose, put his arm around her waist, drew
her toward him, and kissed her affectionately, to her evident
embarrassment. She was a tall girl, but he towered above her in quite a
protecting fashion; and she thought with a thrill how fine it would be
to have such a brother as this in the town all the time. How proud she
would be, if she could but walk up the street with such a brother by
her side! She could then hold up her head before all the world,
oblivious to the glance of pity or contempt. She felt a very
pronounced respect for this tall gentleman who held her blushing face
between his hands and looked steadily into her eyes.
"You're the little sister I used to read stories to, and whom I
promised to come and see some day. Do you remember how you cried when
I went away?"
"It seems but yesterday," she answered. "I've still got the dime you
gave me."
He kissed her again, and then drew her down beside him on the sofa,
where he sat enthroned between the two loving and excited women. No
king could have received more sincere or delighted homage. He was a
man, come into a household of women,--a man of whom they were proud,
and to whom they looked up with fond reverence. For he was not only a
son,--a brother--but he represented to them the world from which
circumstances had shut them out, and to which distance lent even more
than its usual enchantment; and they felt nearer to this far-off world
because of the glory which Warwick reflected from it.
"You're a very pretty girl," said Warwick, regarding his sister
thoughtfully. "I followed you down Front Street this morning, and
scarcely took my eyes off you all the way; and yet I didn't know you,
and scarcely saw your face. You improve on acquaintance; to-night, I
find you handsomer still."
"Now, John," said his mother, expostulating mildly, "you'll spile her,
if you don't min'."
The girl was beaming with gratified vanity. What woman would not find
such praise sweet from almost any source, and how much more so from
this great man, who, from his exalted station in the world, must surely
know the things whereof he spoke! She believed every word of it; she
knew it very well indeed, but wished to hear it repeated and itemized
and emphasized.
"No, he won't, mamma," she asserted, "for he's flattering me. He talks
as if I was some rich young lady, who lives on the Hill,"--the Hill was
the aristocratic portion of the town,--"instead of a poor."
"Instead of a poor young girl, who has the hill to climb," replied her
brother, smoothing her hair with his hand. Her hair was long and
smooth and glossy, with a wave like the ripple of a summer breeze upon
the surface of still water. It was the girl's great pride, and had
been sedulously cared for. "What lovely hair! It has just the wave
that yours lacks, mother."
"Yes," was the regretful reply, "I've never be'n able to git that wave
out. But her hair's be'n took good care of, an' there ain't nary gal
in town that's got any finer."
"Don't worry about the wave, mother. It's just the fashionable ripple,
and becomes her immensely. I think my little Albert favors his Aunt
Rena somewhat."
"Your little Albert!" they cried. "You've got a child?"
"Oh, yes," he replied calmly, "a very fine baby boy."
They began to purr in proud contentment at this information, and made
minute inquiries about the age and weight and eyes and nose and other
important details of this precious infant. They inquired more coldly
about the child's mother, of whom they spoke with greater warmth when
they learned that she was dead. They hung breathless on Warwick's
words as he related briefly the story of his life since he had left,
years before, the house behind the cedars--how with a stout heart and
an abounding hope he had gone out into a seemingly hostile world, and
made fortune stand and deliver. His story had for the women the charm
of an escape from captivity, with all the thrill of a pirate's tale.
With the whole world before him, he had remained in the South, the land
of his fathers, where, he conceived, he had an inalienable birthright.
By some good chance he had escaped military service in the Confederate
army, and, in default of older and more experienced men, had
undertaken, during the rebellion, the management of a large estate,
which had been left in the hands of women and slaves. He had filled
the place so acceptably, and employed his leisure to such advantage,
that at the close of the war he found himself--he was modest enough to
think, too, in default of a better man--the husband of the orphan
daughter of the gentleman who had owned the plantation, and who had
lost his life upon the battlefield. Warwick's wife was of good family,
and in a more settled condition of society it would not have been easy
for a young man of no visible antecedents to win her hand. A year or
two later, he had taken the oath of allegiance, and had been admitted
to the South Carolina bar. Rich in his wife's right, he had been able
to practice his profession upon a high plane, without the worry of
sordid cares, and with marked success for one of his age.
"I suppose," he concluded, "that I have got along at the bar, as
elsewhere, owing to the lack of better men. Many of the good lawyers
were killed in the war, and most of the remainder were disqualified;
while I had the advantage of being alive, and of never having been in
arms against the government. People had to have lawyers, and they gave
me their business in preference to the carpet-baggers. Fortune, you
know, favors the available man."
His mother drank in with parted lips and glistening eyes the story of
his adventures and the record of his successes. As Rena listened, the
narrow walls that hemmed her in seemed to draw closer and closer, as
though they must crush her. Her brother watched her keenly. He had
been talking not only to inform the women, but with a deeper purpose,
conceived since his morning walk, and deepened as he had followed,
during his narrative, the changing expression of Rena's face and noted
her intense interest in his story, her pride in his successes, and the
occasional wistful look that indexed her self-pity so completely.
"An' I s'pose you're happy, John?" asked his mother.
"Well, mother, happiness is a relative term, and depends, I imagine,
upon how nearly we think we get what we think we want. I have had my
chance and haven't thrown it away, and I suppose I ought to be happy.
But then, I have lost my wife, whom I loved very dearly, and who loved
me just as much, and I'm troubled about my child."
"Why?" they demanded. "Is there anything the matter with him?"
"No, not exactly. He's well enough, as babies go, and has a good
enough nurse, as nurses go. But the nurse is ignorant, and not always
careful. A child needs some woman of its own blood to love it and look
after it intelligently."
Mis' Molly's eyes were filled with tearful yearning. She would have
given all the world to warm her son's child upon her bosom; but she
knew this could not be.
"Did your wife leave any kin?" she asked with an effort.
"No near kin; she was an only child."
"You'll be gettin' married again," suggested his mother.
"No," he replied; "I think not."
Warwick was still reading his sister's face, and saw the spark of hope
that gleamed in her expressive eye.
"If I had some relation of my own that I could take into the house with
me," he said reflectively, "the child might be healthier and happier,
and I should be much more at ease about him."
The mother looked from son to daughter with a dawning apprehension and
a sudden pallor. When she saw the yearning in Rena's eyes, she threw
herself at her son's feet.
"Oh, John," she cried despairingly, "don't take her away from me!
Don't take her, John, darlin', for it'd break my heart to lose her!"
Rena's arms were round her mother's neck, and Rena's voice was sounding
in her ears. "There, there, mamma! Never mind! I won't leave you,
mamma--dear old mamma! Your Rena'll stay with you always, and never,
never leave you."
John smoothed his mother's hair with a comforting touch, patted her
withered cheek soothingly, lifted her tenderly to her place by his
side, and put his arm about her.
"You love your children, mother?"
"They're all I've got," she sobbed, "an' they cos' me all I had. When
the las' one's gone, I'll want to go too, for I'll be all alone in the
world. Don't take Rena, John; for if you do, I'll never see her again,
an' I can't bear to think of it. How would you like to lose yo'r one
child?"
"Well, well, mother, we'll say no more about it. And now tell me all
about yourself, and about the neighbors, and how you got through the
war, and who's dead and who's married--and everything."
The change of subject restored in some degree Mis' Molly's equanimity,
and with returning calmness came a sense of other responsibilities.
"Good gracious, Rena!" she exclaimed. "John 's be'n in the house an
hour, and ain't had nothin' to eat yet! Go in the kitchen an' spread a
clean tablecloth, an' git out that 'tater pone, an' a pitcher o' that
las' kag o' persimmon beer, an' let John take a bite an' a sip."
Warwick smiled at the mention of these homely dainties. "I thought of
your sweet-potato pone at the hotel to-day, when I was at dinner, and
wondered if you'd have some in the house. There was never any like
yours; and I've forgotten the taste of persimmon beer entirely."
Rena left the room to carry out her hospitable commission. Warwick,
taking advantage of her absence, returned after a while to the former
subject.
"Of course, mother," he said calmly, "I wouldn't think of taking Rena
away against your wishes. A mother's claim upon her child is a high
and holy one. Of course she will have no chance here, where our story
is known. The war has wrought great changes, has put the bottom rail
on top, and all that--but it hasn't wiped THAT out. Nothing but death
can remove that stain, if it does not follow us even beyond the grave.
Here she must forever be--nobody! With me she might have got out into
the world; with her beauty she might have made a good marriage; and, if
I mistake not, she has sense as well as beauty."
"Yes," sighed the mother, "she's got good sense. She ain't as quick as
you was, an' don't read as many books, but she's keerful an'
painstakin', an' always tries to do what's right. She's be'n thinkin'
about goin' away somewhere an' tryin' to git a school to teach, er
somethin', sence the Yankees have started 'em everywhere for po' white
folks an' niggers too. But I don't like fer her to go too fur."
"With such beauty and brains," continued Warwick, "she could leave this
town and make a place for herself. The place is already made. She has
only to step into my carriage--after perhaps a little preparation--and
ride up the hill which I have had to climb so painfully. It would be a
great pleasure to me to see her at the top. But of course it is
impossible--a mere idle dream. YOUR claim comes first; her duty chains
her here."
"It would be so lonely without her," murmured the mother weakly, "an' I
love her so--my las' one!"
"No doubt--no doubt," returned Warwick, with a sympathetic sigh; "of
course you love her. It's not to be thought of for a moment. It's a
pity that she couldn't have a chance here--but how could she! I had
thought she might marry a gentleman, but I dare say she'll do as well
as the rest of her friends--as well as Mary B., for instance, who
married--Homer Pettifoot, did you say? Or maybe Billy Oxendine might
do for her. As long as she has never known any better, she'll probably
be as well satisfied as though she married a rich man, and lived in a
fine house, and kept a carriage and servants, and moved with the best
in the land."
The tortured mother could endure no more. The one thing she desired
above all others was her daughter's happiness. Her own life had not
been governed by the highest standards, but about her love for her
beautiful daughter there was no taint of selfishness. The life her son
had described had been to her always the ideal but unattainable life.
Circumstances, some beyond her control, and others for which she was
herself in a measure responsible, had put it forever and inconceivably
beyond her reach. It had been conquered by her son. It beckoned to
her daughter. The comparison of this free and noble life with the
sordid existence of those around her broke down the last barrier of
opposition.
"O Lord!" she moaned, "what shall I do with out her? It'll be lonely,
John--so lonely!"
"You'll have your home, mother," said Warwick tenderly, accepting the
implied surrender. "You'll have your friends and relatives, and the
knowledge that your children are happy. I'll let you hear from us
often, and no doubt you can see Rena now and then. But you must let
her go, mother,--it would be a sin against her to refuse."
"She may go," replied the mother brokenly. "I'll not stand in her
way--I've got sins enough to answer for already."
Warwick watched her pityingly. He had stirred her feelings to unwonted
depths, and his sympathy went out to her. If she had sinned, she had
been more sinned against than sinning, and it was not his part to judge
her. He had yielded to a sentimental weakness in deciding upon this
trip to Patesville. A matter of business had brought him within a
day's journey of the town, and an over-mastering impulse had compelled
him to seek the mother who had given him birth and the old town where
he had spent the earlier years of his life. No one would have
acknowledged sooner than he the folly of this visit. Men who have
elected to govern their lives by principles of abstract right and
reason, which happen, perhaps, to be at variance with what society
considers equally right and reasonable, should, for fear of
complications, be careful about descending from the lofty heights of
logic to the common level of impulse and affection. Many years before,
Warwick, when a lad of eighteen, had shaken the dust of the town from
his feet, and with it, he fondly thought, the blight of his
inheritance, and had achieved elsewhere a worthy career. But during
all these years of absence he had cherished a tender feeling for his
mother, and now again found himself in her house, amid the familiar
surroundings of his childhood. His visit had brought joy to his
mother's heart, and was now to bring its shrouded companion, sorrow.
His mother had lived her life, for good or ill. A wider door was open
to his sister--her mother must not bar the entrance.
"She may go," the mother repeated sadly, drying her tears. "I'll give
her up for her good."
"The table 's ready, mamma," said Rena, coming to the door.
The lunch was spread in the kitchen, a large unplastered room at the
rear, with a wide fireplace at one end. Only yesterday, it seemed to
Warwick, he had sprawled upon the hearth, turning sweet potatoes before
the fire, or roasting groundpeas in the ashes; or, more often, reading,
by the light of a blazing pine-knot or lump of resin, some volume from
the bookcase in the hall. From Bulwer's novel, he had read the story
of Warwick the Kingmaker, and upon leaving home had chosen it for his
own. He was a new man, but he had the blood of an old race, and he
would select for his own one of its worthy names. Overhead loomed the
same smoky beams, decorated with what might have been, from all
appearances, the same bunches of dried herbs, the same strings of
onions and red peppers. Over in the same corner stood the same
spinning-wheel, and through the open door of an adjoining room he saw
the old loom, where in childhood he had more than once thrown the
shuttle. The kitchen was different from the stately dining-room of the
old colonial mansion where he now lived; but it was homelike, and it
was familiar. The sight of it moved his heart, and he felt for the
moment a sort of a blind anger against the fate which made it necessary
that he should visit the home of his childhood, if at all, like a thief
in the night. But he realized, after a moment, that the thought was
pure sentiment, and that one who had gained so much ought not to
complain if he must give up a little. He who would climb the heights
of life must leave even the pleasantest valleys behind.
"Rena," asked her mother, "how'd you like to go an' pay yo'r brother
John a visit? I guess I might spare you for a little while."
The girl's eyes lighted up. She would not have gone if her mother had
wished her to stay, but she would always have regarded this as the lost
opportunity of her life.
"Are you sure you don't care, mamma?" she asked, hoping and yet
doubting.
"Oh, I'll manage to git along somehow or other. You can go an' stay
till you git homesick, an' then John'll let you come back home."
But Mis' Molly believed that she would never come back, except, like
her brother, under cover of the night. She must lose her daughter as
well as her son, and this should be the penance for her sin. That her
children must expiate as well the sins of their fathers, who had sinned
so lightly, after the manner of men, neither she nor they could
foresee, since they could not read the future.
The next boat by which Warwick could take his sister away left early in
the morning of the next day but one. He went back to his hotel with
the understanding that the morrow should be devoted to getting Rena
ready for her departure, and that Warwick would visit the household
again the following evening; for, as has been intimated, there were
several reasons why there should be no open relations between the fine
gentleman at the hotel and the women in the house behind the cedars,
who, while superior in blood and breeding to the people of the
neighborhood in which they lived, were yet under the shadow of some
cloud which clearly shut them out from the better society of the town.
Almost any resident could have given one or more of these reasons, of
which any one would have been sufficient to most of them; and to some
of them Warwick's mere presence in the town would have seemed a bold
and daring thing.
III
THE OLD JUDGE
On the morning following the visit to his mother, Warwick visited the
old judge's office. The judge was not in, but the door stood open, and
Warwick entered to await his return. There had been fewer changes in
the office, where he had spent many, many hours, than in the town
itself. The dust was a little thicker, the papers in the pigeon-holes
of the walnut desk were a little yellower, the cobwebs in the corners a
little more aggressive. The flies droned as drowsily and the murmur of
the brook below was just as audible. Warwick stood at the rear window
and looked out over a familiar view. Directly across the creek, on the
low ground beyond, might be seen the dilapidated stone foundation of
the house where once had lived Flora Macdonald, the Jacobite refugee,
the most romantic character of North Carolina history. Old Judge
Straight had had a tree cut away from the creek-side opposite his
window, so that this historic ruin might be visible from his office;
for the judge could trace the ties of blood that connected him
collaterally with this famous personage. His pamphlet on Flora
Macdonald, printed for private circulation, was highly prized by those
of his friends who were fortunate enough to obtain a copy. To the left
of the window a placid mill-pond spread its wide expanse, and to the
right the creek disappeared under a canopy of overhanging trees.
A footstep sounded in the doorway, and Warwick, turning, faced the old
judge. Time had left greater marks upon the lawyer than upon his
office. His hair was whiter, his stoop more pronounced; when he spoke
to Warwick, his voice had some of the shrillness of old age; and in his
hand, upon which the veins stood out prominently, a decided tremor was
perceptible.
"Good-morning, Judge Straight," said the young man, removing his hat
with the graceful Southern deference of the young for the old.
"Good-morning, sir," replied the judge with equal courtesy.
"You don't remember me, I imagine," suggested Warwick.
"Your face seems familiar," returned the judge cautiously, "but I
cannot for the moment recall your name. I shall be glad to have you
refresh my memory."
"I was John Walden, sir, when you knew me."
The judge's face still gave no answering light of recognition.
"Your old office-boy," continued the younger man.
"Ah, indeed, so you were!" rejoined the judge warmly, extending his
hand with great cordiality, and inspecting Warwick more closely through
his spectacles. "Let me see--you went away a few years before the war,
wasn't it?"
"Yes, sir, to South Carolina."
"Yes, yes, I remember now! I had been thinking it was to the North.
So many things have happened since then, that it taxes an old man's
memory to keep track of them all. Well, well! and how have you been
getting along?"
Warwick told his story in outline, much as he had given it to his
mother and sister, and the judge seemed very much interested.
"And you married into a good family?" he asked.
"Yes, sir."
"And have children?"
"One."
"And you are visiting your mother?"
"Not exactly. I have seen her, but I am stopping at a hotel."
"H'm! Are you staying long?"
"I leave to-morrow."
"It's well enough. I wouldn't stay too long. The people of a small
town are inquisitive about strangers, and some of them have long
memories. I remember we went over the law, which was in your favor; but
custom is stronger than law--in these matters custom IS law. It was a
great pity that your father did not make a will. Well, my boy, I wish
you continued good luck; I imagined you would make your way."
Warwick went away, and the old judge sat for a moment absorbed in
reflection. "Right and wrong," he mused, "must be eternal verities,
but our standards for measuring them vary with our latitude and our
epoch. We make our customs lightly; once made, like our sins, they
grip us in bands of steel; we become the creatures of our creations.
By one standard my old office-boy should never have been born. Yet he
is a son of Adam, and came into existence in the way ordained by God
from the beginning of the world. In equity he would seem to be entitled
to his chance in life; it might have been wiser, though, for him to
seek it farther afield than South Carolina. It was too near home, even
though the laws were with him."
IV
DOWN THE RIVER
Neither mother nor daughter slept a great deal during the night of
Warwick's first visit. Mis' Molly anointed her sacrifice with tears and
cried herself to sleep. Rena's emotions were more conflicting; she was
sorry to leave her mother, but glad to go with her brother. The mere
journey she was about to make was a great event for the two women to
contemplate, to say nothing of the golden vision that lay beyond, for
neither of them had ever been out of the town or its vicinity.
The next day was devoted to preparations for the journey. Rena's
slender wardrobe was made ready and packed in a large valise. Towards
sunset, Mis' Molly took off her apron, put on her slat-bonnet,--she was
ever the pink of neatness,--picked her way across the street, which was
muddy from a rain during the day, traversed the foot-bridge that
spanned the ditch in front of the cooper shop, and spoke first to the
elder of the two men working there.
"Good-evenin', Peter."
"Good-evenin', ma'm," responded the man briefly, and not relaxing at
all the energy with which he was trimming a barrel-stave.
Mis' Molly then accosted the younger workman, a dark-brown young man,
small in stature, but with a well-shaped head, an expressive forehead,
and features indicative of kindness, intelligence, humor, and
imagination. "Frank," she asked, "can I git you to do somethin' fer me