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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 t
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
"'JOHN WARWICK, CLARENCE, SOUTH CAROLINA.'
"One of the South Ca'lina big bugs, I reckon.P
A two-minutes' walk brought Warwick—the name he had registered under,
and as we shall call him
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 bandanna
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
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 demeanor.
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 signboard bearing the inscription:—
ARCHIBALD STRAIGHT,
LAWYER.
He turned the knob, but the door was locked. Retracing his steps a short distancepast a vacant lotseparated from the lawyer's office by a vacant lot. In the shopWhenUponentered
"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 men
"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 brick 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
The street down which Warwick had come intersected Front Street at a sharp
angle in front of the old hotel, forming a sort of flat-iron 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 the woman
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 young woman
The young woman continued her waywalk
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.
the girl
"T'ank'y, 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 the girl's
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 mudhole and set him upon his feet, he thought she might be some
young lady from the upper part of
"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 unexpectedness about the act, however, to give him a decided thrill of pleasure.
"It must be Rena," he murmured. "Who could have dreamt
He walked away 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. Towards 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 somb
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 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 backyard, 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 chords 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
"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 notice 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 down the street.
"Nev' min' 'bout day 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. En
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.
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
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."
"Forgot him? No, God knows I ain't forgot 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 around 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 Magazine." 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.
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 did n'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 could n'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
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 have n'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, and 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 did n'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
"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 did n'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
"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 a 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, "child two years old."
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
"I suppose," he concluded, "that I have got along at the bar as elsewhere
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's 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 have n'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 would n'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 has n't wiped thatout. 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 isdid n't
"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
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, of course, that she could n'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,
"O Lord!" she moaned, "what shall I do without 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
"She may go," the mother repeated sadly, drying her tears. "I 'll give her up for her good."
"The table's ready, mother
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
"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 peopleresidents
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
creekside 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,
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, was n'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."
"Hm! Are you staying long?"
"I leave to-morrow."
"It 's well enough. I would n'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
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."
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 footbridge 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 soon in the mo'nin'?"
"Yas'm, I reckon so," replied the young man, resting his hatchet on the chopping block. "W'at is it, Mis' Molly?"
"My daughter 's goin' away on the boat, an' I 'lowed you would n' min' totin' her kyarpet bag down to the w'arf, onless you 'd ruther haul it down on yo' kyart. It ain't very heavy. Of co'se I'll pay you fer yo' trouble."
"Thank'y', ma'm," he replied. He knew that she would not pay him, for the simple reason that he would not accept pay for such a service. "Is she gwine fur?" he asked, with a sorrowful look, which he could not entirely disguise.
"As fur as Wilmin'ton an' beyon'. She 'll be visitin' her brother John, who lives in—another State, an' wants her to come an' see him."
"Yas 'm, I 'll come. I won' need de kyart—I 'll tote de bag. 'Bout w'at time shill I come over?"
"Well, 'long 'bout seven o'clock or half pas'. She 's goin' on the 'Old North State,' an' it leaves at eight."
Frank stood looking after Mis' Molly as she picked her way across the street,
until he was
"'Ten ter yo' wuk, boy, 'ten ter yo' wuk. You er
Yes, he was wasting his time. The beautiful young girl across the street could never be anything to him. But he had saved her life once, and had dreamed that he might render her again some signal service that might win her friendship, and convince her of his humble devotion. For Frank was not proud. A smile, which Peter would have regarded as condescending to a free man, who, since the war, was as good as anybody else; a kind word, which Peter would have considered offensively patronizing; a piece of Mis' Molly's famous potato-pone from Rena's hands,—a bone to a dog, Peter called it once;—were ample rewards for the thousand and one small services Frank had rendered the two women who lived in the house behind the cedars.
Frank went over in the morning a little ahead of the appointed time, and waited on the back piazza until his services were required.
"You ain't gwine ter be gone long, is you, Miss Rena?" he inquired, when Rena came out dressed for the journey in her best frock, with broad white collar and cuffs.
Rena did not know. She had been asking herself the same question. All sorts
of vague dreams had floated through her mind during the last few
"Oh, no, Frank, I reckon not. I 'm supposed to be just going on a short visit. My brother has lost his wife, and wishes me to come and stay with him a little while, and look after his little boy."
"I'm feared you'll lack it better dere, Miss Rena," replied Frank sorrowfully, dropping his mask of unconcern, "an' den you won't come back, an' none er yo' frien's won't never see you no mo'."
"You don't think, Frank," asked Rena severely, "that I would leave my mother
and my home and all my friends, and never come back again?"
"Why, no 'ndeed," interposed Mis' Molly wistfully, as she hovered around her daughter, giving her hair or her gown a touch here and there; "she 'll be so homesick in a month that she 'll be willin' to walk home."
"You would n' never hafter do dat, Miss Rena," returned Frank, with a
disconsolate smile. "Ef you ever wanter come home, an' can't git back no
other way, jes' let me know, an' I 'll take my mule
an' my kyart an' fetch you back, ef it 's from de een' er de worl'."
"Thank you, Frank, I believe you would," said the girl kindly. "You 're a true friend, Frank, and I 'll not forget you while I 'm gone."
The idea of her beautiful daughter riding home from the end of the world with
Frank
When it was time to go, Mis' Molly and Rena set out on foot for the river, which was only a short distance away. Frank followed with the valise. There was no gathering of friends to see Rena off, as might have been the case under different circumstances. Her departure had some of the characteristics of a secret flight; it was as important that her destination should not be known, as it had been that her brother should conceal his presence in the town.
Mis' Molly and Rena remained on the bank until the steamer announced, with a raucous whistle, its readiness to depart. Warwick was seen for a moment on the upper deck, from which he greeted them with a smile and a slight nod. He had bidden his mother an affectionate farewell the evening before. Rena gave her hand to Frank.
"Good-by, Frank," she said with a kind smile; "I hope you and mammy
The whistle blew a second warning blast, and the deck hands prepared to draw in the gangplank. Rena flew into her mother's arms, and then, breaking away, hurried on board and retired to her stateroom, from which she did not emerge during the journey. The window-blinds were closed, darkening the room, and the stewardess who came to ask if she should bring her some dinner could not see her face distinctly, but perceived enough to make her surmise that the young lady had been weeping.
"Po' chile," murmured the sympathetic colored woman, "I reckon some er her folks is dead, er her sweetheart 's gone back on her, er e'se she 's had some kin' er bad luck er 'nuther. W'ite folks has deir troubles, jes' ez well ez black folks, an' sometimes feels 'em mo', 'cause dey ain't ez use' ter 'em."
Mis' Molly went back in sadness to the lonely house behind the cedars, henceforth to be peopled for her with only the memory of those she had loved. She had paid with her heart's blood another installment on the Shylock's bond exacted by society for her own happiness of the past and her children's prospects for the future.
The journey down the sluggish river to the seaboard in the flat-bottom,blasé traveler than this girl
upon her first journey.
During the day Warwick had taken his meals in the dining-room, with the captain and the other cabin passengers. It was learned that he was a South Carolina lawyer, and not a carpet-bagger. Such credentials were unimpeachable, and the passengers found him a very agreeable traveling companion. Apparently sound on the subject of negroes, Yankees, and the righteousness of the lost cause, he yet discussed these themes in a lofty and impersonal manner that gave his words greater weight than if he had seemed warped by a personal grievance. His attitude, in fact, piqued the curiosity of one or two of the passengers.
"Did your people lose any niggers?" asked one of them.
"My father owned a hundred," he replied grandly.
Their respect for his views was doubled. It is easy to moralize about the misfortunes of others, and to find good in the evil that they suffer;—only a true philosopher could speak thus lightly of his own losses.
When the steamer tied up at the wharf at Wilmington in the early morning,
the young lawyer and a veiled lady passenger drove in the same carriage to a
hotel. After they had breakfasted in a private room, Warwick explained to
his sister the plan he had formed for her future. Henceforth she must be
known as Miss Warwick, dropping the old name with the old life. He would
place her for a year in a boarding school at Charleston, after which she
would take her place as the mistress of his house. Having imparted this
information, he took his sister for a drive through the town. There for the
first time Rena saw great ships, which, her brother told her, sailed across
the mighty ocean to distant lands, whose flags he pointed out drooping
lazily at the mastheads. The business portion of the town had "an ancient
and fishlike smell," and most of the trade seemed to be in cotton and naval
stores and products of the sea. The wharves were piled high with cotton
bales, and there were acres of barrels of resin and pitch and tar and
spirits of turpentine. The market, a long, low, wooden structure, in the
middle of the principal street, was filled with a mass of people of all
shades, from blue-black to Saxon blonde, gabbling and gesticulating
Thus for the time being was severed the last tie that bound Rena to her
narrow past, and for some time to come the places and the people who
Some few weeks later, Mis' Molly called upon old Judge Straight with reference to the taxes on her property.
"Your son came in to see me the other day," he remarked. "He seems to have got along."
"Oh, yes, judge, he 's done fine,
"Ah!" exclaimed the judge. Then after a pause he added, "I hope she may do as well."
"Thank you, sir," she said, with a curtsc
The judge looked after her as she walked away. Her bearing had a touch of
timidity, a touch
"It is a pity," he murmured, with a sigh,
THE annual tournament of the Clarence Social Club
was about to begin. The county fairground, where all was in readiness,
sparkled with the youth and beauty of the town, standing here and there
under the trees in animated groups, or moving toward the seats from which
the pageant might be witnessed. A quarter of a mile of the race track, to
right and left of the judges' stand, had been laid off for the lists.
Opposite the grand stand, which occupied a considerable part of this
distance, a dozen uprights had been erected at measured intervals.
Projecting several feet over the track from each of these uprights was an
iron crossbar, from which an iron hook depended. Between the uprights stout barsplaced
The best people gradually filled the grand stand, while the poorer white and colored folks found seats outside, upon what would now be known as the "bleachers," or stood alongside the lists. The knights, masquerading in fanciful costumes, in which bright colored garments, gilt paper, and cardboard took the place of knightly harness, were mounted on spirited horses. Most of them were gathered at one end of the lists, while others practiced their steeds upon the unoccupied portion of the race track.
The judges entered the grand stand, and one of them, after looking at his watch, gave a signal. Immediately a herald, wearing a bright yellow sash, blew a loud blast upon a bugle, and, big with the importance of his office, galloped wildly down the lists. An attendant on horseback busied himself hanging upon each of the pendent hooks an iron ring, of some two inches in diameter, while another, on foot, placed on top of each of the shorter posts a wooden ball some four inches through.
"It 's my first tournament," observed a lady
"It is the renaissance of chivalry, Mrs. Newberry," replied the young lawyer,
"and, like any other renaissance, it must adapt itself to new times and
circumstances. For instance, when we build a Greek portico, having no
Pentelic marble near at hand, we use a pine tree, one of nature's columns,
which Grecian art at its best could only copy and idealize. Our knights are
not weighted down with heavy armor,are arrayed
"I 'm afraid, Mr. Warwick," said the lady "that you 're the least bit heretical about our chivalry—or else you 're a little too deep for me."
"The last would be impossible, Mrs. Newberry; and I 'm sure our chivalry has
proved its valor on many a hard-fought field. The spirit of a thing,
The lady was about to reply
As the troop passed the lower end of the grand stand, a horse, excited by the crowd, became somewhat unmanageable, and in the effort to curb him the rider dropped his lance. The prancing animal reared, brought one of his hoofs down upon the fallen lance with considerable force and sent a broken piece of it flying over the railing opposite the grand stand, into the middle of a group of spectators standing there. The flying fragment was dodged by those who saw it coming, but brought up with a resounding thwack against the head of a colored man in the second row, who stood watching the grand stand with an eager and curious glance. He rubbed his head ruefully, and made a good-natured response to the chaffing of his neighbors, who, seeing no great harm done, made witty and original remarks about the advantage of being black upon occasions where one's skull was exposed to danger. Finding that the blow had drawn blood, the young man took out a red bandanna handkerchief and tied it around his head, meantime letting his eye roam over the faces in the grand stand, as though in search of some one that he expected or hoped to find there.
Meantime tA
The young man with the bandage round his head, on the benches across the lists, had forced his way to the front row and was leaning against the railing. His restless eye was attracted by the falling handkerchief, and his face, hitherto anxious, suddenly lit up with animation.
"Yas, suh, yas, suh, it 's her!" he muttered softly. "It 's Miss Lme in," he concluded with a sigh.
"Who is the lady, Tryon?" asked one of the young men, addressing the knight who had taken the handkerchief.
"A Miss Warwick," replied the knight pleasantly.
"I did n't know he had a sister," rejoined the first speaker. "I envy you your lady. There are six Rebeccas and eight Rowenas of my own acquaintance in the grand stand, but she throws them all into the shade. She has n't been here long, surely; I have n't seen her before."
"She has been away at school; she came only last night," returned the knight
of the crimson sash
The herald sounded the charge. A rider darted out from the group and galloped
over the course. As he passed under each ring, he tried to catch it on the
point of his lance—a feat which made the management of the horse with
the left hand necessary, and whichposts
Again the herald's call sounded, and the tourney went forward. Rider after rider, with varying skill, essayed his fortune with lance and sword. Some took a liberal proportion of the rings; others merely knocked them over the boundaries, where they were collected by agile little negro boys and handed back to the attendants. A balking horse caused the spectators much amusement and his rider no little chagrin.
The lady who had dropped the handkerchief kept her eye upon the knight who had bound it round his lance. "Who is he, John?" she asked the gentleman beside her.
"That, my dear Rowena, is my good friend and client, George Tryon of North
Carolina. If he had been a stranger, I should have said that he took a
liberty; but as things stand we ought to regard it as a compliment. The
incident is quite in accord with the customs of chivalry. If George were but
masked and you were veiled, we should have a romantic situation,—you
the mysterious damsel in
.
"I 'll take you up on that, Mr. Warwick," said Mrs. Newberry from behind, who seemed to have a very keen ear for whatever Warwick said.
Rena's eyes were fastened on her knight, so that she might lose no single one
of his movements. As he rode down the lists more than one woman found him
pleasant to look upon. He was a tall, fair young man, with gray eyes, and a
frank, open face. He wore a slight mustache, and when he smiled showed a
set of white and even teeth. He was mounted on a very handsome and spirited
bay mare, was clad in a picturesque costume, of which velvet knee-breeches
and a crimson scarf were the most conspicuous features, and displayed a
marked skill in horsemanship. At the blast of the bugle his horse started
forward, and, after the first few rods, settled into an even gallop. Tryon's
lance, held truly and at the right angle, captured the first ring, then the
second and third. His coolness and steadiness seemed not at all disturbed by
the applause which followed, and one by one the remaining rings slipped over
the point of his lance, until at the end he had taken every one of the
twelve. Holding the lance with its booty of captured rings in his left hand,
together with the bridle rein, he drew his sabre with the right and rode
back over the course. His horse moved like clockwork, his eye was true
This performance, by far the best up to this point, and barely escaping
perfection, elicited a storm of applause. The rider was not so well known to
the townspeople as some of the other participants, and his name passed from
mouth to mouth in answer to numerous inquiries. The girl whose token he had
worn also became an object of renewed interest, because of the result to her
in case the knight should prove victor in the contest, of which there could
now scarcely be a doubt; for but three riders remained, and it was very
improbable that any one of them would excel the last. Wagers for the
remainder of the tourney stood anywhere from five, and even from ten
The herald now blew his bugle and declared the tournament closed. The judges
put their heads together for a moment. The bugle sounded again and the
herald announced in a loud voice that Sir George Tryon, having taken the
greatest number of rings and split the largest number of balls, was
proclaimed victor in the tournament and entitled to the laurel wreath
Tryon, having bowed repeatedly in response to
"It will be your privilege, Sir George," announced the judge, "as the chief reward of your valor, to select from the assembled beauty of Clarence the lady whom you wish to honor, to whom we will all do allegiance as the Queen of Love and Beauty."
Tryon took the wreath and bowed his thanks. Then placing the trophy on the point of his lance, he spoke earnestly for a moment to the herald, and rode past the grand stand, from which there was another outburst of applause. Returning upon his tracks, the knight of the crimson sash paused before the group where Warwick and his sister sat, and lowered the wreath thrice before the lady whose token he had won.
"Oyez! Oyez!" cried the herald, "Sir George Tryon, the victor in the tournament, has chosen Miss Rowena Warwick as the Queen of Love and Beauty, and she will be crowned at the feast to-night and receive the devoirs of all true knights."
The fairground was soon covered with scattered groups of the spectators of
the tournament. In one group a vanquished knight explained in elaborate
detail why it was that he had failed to win the wreath. More than one young
woman wondered why some one of the home young men could not have taken the
honors, or, if the stranger must win
Warwick and his sister, standing under a spreading elm, held a little court of their own. A dozen gentlemen and several ladies had sought an introduction before Tryon came up.
"I suppose John would have a right to call me out, Miss Warwick," said Tryon,
when he had been formally introduced and had shaken hands with Warwick's
sister, "for taking liberties with the property and name of a lady to whom I
had not had an introduction; but I know John so well that you seemed like an
old acquaintance; and when I saw you, and recalled your name, which your
brother had mentioned more than once, I felt instinctively that you ought to
be the queen. I entered my name only yesterday, merely to swell the number
and make the occasion more interesting. These fellows have been practicing
for a month, and I had no hope of winning. I should have been satisfied,
indeed, if I had
Rena, for it was our Patesville acquaintance fresh
"We 'll forgive you, George," replied Warwick, "if you 'll come home to luncheon with us."
"I 'm mighty sorry—awfully sorry," returned Tryon with evident regret,
"but I have another engagement, which I can scarcely break, even fors
"She is entirely free," replied Warwick. "Come as early as you like, and I 'll talk to you until she 's ready."
Tryon bowed himself away, and after a number of gentlemen and a few ladies
had paid their respects to the Queen of Love and Beauty, and received an
introduction to her, Warwick signaled to the servant who had his carriage in
charge, and was soon driving homeward with his sister. No one of the party
noticed a young negro, with a handkerchief bound around his head, who
followed them
"Well, Rena," said Warwick, when they found themselves alone, "you have
arrived. Your det into society is a little more
spectacular than I should have wished, but we must rise to the occasion and
make the most of it. You are winning the first fruits of your opportunity.
You are the most envied woman in Clarence at this particular moment, and,
unless I am mistaken, will be the most admired at the ball to-night."
SHORTLY after luncheon Rena had a visitor in the person of Mrs. Newberry, a vivacious young widow of the town, who proffered her services to instruct Rena in the etiquette of the annual ball.
"Now, my dear," said Mrs. Newberry, "the first thing to do is to get your coronation robe ready. It simply means a gown with a long train. You have a lovely white waist. Get right into my buggy, and we'll go down town to get the cloth, take it over to Mrs. Marshall's, and have her run you up a skirt this afternoon."
Rena placed herself unreservedly in the hands of Mrs. Newberry, who
introduced her to the best dressmaker of the town, a woman of much
experience in such affairs, who improvised during the afternoon a coronation
Tryon escorted Rena to the ball, which was held in the principal public hall of the town, and attended by all the best people. The champion still wore the costume of the morning, in place of evening dress, save that long stockings and dancing pumps had taken the place of riding boots.
Rena went through the ordeal very creditably. Her shyness was palpable, but
it was saved from awkwardness by her native grace and good sense. She made
up in modesty what she lacked in aplomb. Her months in school had not
eradicated a certain self-consciousness born of her secret. The brain-cells
never lose the impressions of youth, and Rena's Patesville life was not far
enough behind hergainfrom
"You're doing splendidly, my dear," said Mrs. Newberry, who had constituted herself Rena's chaperone.
"I trust your Gracious Majesty is pleased with the homage of your devoted subjects," said Tryon, who spent much of his time by her side and kept up the character of knight in his speech and manner.
"Very much," replied the Queen of Love and Beauty, with a somewhat tired
smile. It was pleasant, but she would be glad, she
thought, when it was all over.
"Keep up your courage," whispered her brother. "You are not only queen, but
the belle of the ball. I am proud of you
Rena felt immensely relieved when the hour arrived at which she could take
her departure, which was to be the signal for the breaking-up of the ball.
She was driven home in Tyron's carriage,
t the thought of her mother a
"Good-night, fair Queen!" exclaimed Tryon, breaking into her reverie as the carriage rolled up to the doorstep, "and let your loyal subject kiss your hand in token of his fealty. May your Majesty never abdicate her throne, and may she ever count me her humble servant and devoted knight."
"And now, sister," said Warwick, when Tryon had been driven away, "now that
the masquerade is over, let us have our
He put his arm around her and gave her a kiss and a brotherly hug.
"It is a dream," she murmured sleepily, "only a dream. I am Cinderella before the clock has struck. Good-night, dear John."
"Good-night, Rowena."
WARWICK'S residence was situated in the outskirts
of the town. It was a fine old plantation house built in colonial times,
with a stately colonnade, wide verandas, and long windows with Venetian
blinds. It was painted white, and stood back several rods from the street,
in a charming setting of palmettoes, magnolias, and flowering shrubs. Rena
had always thought her mother's house large, but now it seemed cramped and
narrow, in comparison with this roomy mansion. The furniture was
old-fashioned and massive. The great brass andirons on the wide hearth stood
like sentinels proclaiming and guarding the dignity of the family. The
spreading antlers on the wall testified to a mighty hunter in some past
generation. The portraits of Warwick's wife's ancestors—high-featured,
proud men and women, dressed in the fashions of a bygone age, looked down
from tarnished gilt frames. It was all very novel to her, and very
impressive. When she ate off china, with silver knives and forks that had
come down as heirlooms, escaping somehow the ravages and exigencies of the
war time,—Warwick told
The household consisted of her brother and herself, a cook, a coachman, a
nurse, and her brother's little son AlfredAlfred
"Dat chile sutt'nly do lub Miss Rena, an'
"I ain't frettin', honey," laughed the nurse good-naturedly. She was not at all jealous. She had the same wages as before, and her labors were materially lightened by the aunt's attention to the child. This gave Mimy much more time to flirt with Tom the coachman.
It was a source of gratification to Warwick that his sister seemed to adapt
herself so easily to the new conditions. Her graceful movements, the quiet
elegance with which she wore even the simplest gown, the easy
authoritativeness with which she directed the servants, were to him proofs
of superior quality, and he felt correspondingly proud of her. His feeling
for her was something more than brotherly love—he was quite conscious
that there were degrees in brotherly love, and that if she had been homely
or stupid he would never have disturbed her in the stagnant live of the
house behind the cedars. There had come to him from some source, down the
stream of time, a rill of the Greek sense of proportion, of fitness, of
beauty, which is indeed but proportion embodied, the perfect adaptation of
means to ends. He had perceived, more clearly than she could have
appreciated it at that time, the undeveloped elements of discord between
Rena and her former life. He had imagined her lending grace and charm to his
own household. Still another motive, a purely psychological one, had more
or
IN a few weeks the echoes of the tournament died
away, and Rena's life settled down into a pleasant routine, which she found
much more comfortable than her recent spectacular prominence. Her queenship,
while not entirely forgiven by the ladies of the town, had gained for her a
temporary social prominence. Among her own sex, Mrs. Newberry proved a warm
and enthusiastic friend. Rumor whispered that the lively young widow would
not be unwilling to console Warwick in the loneliness of the old colonial
mansion to which his sister was a most excellent medium of approach. Whether
this was true or not it is unnecessary to inquire, for it is no part of this
story, except as perhaps indicating why Mrs. Newberry played the part of the
female friend, without whom no woman is ever launched successfully in a
small and conservative society. Her brother's standing gave her the right of
social entry; the tournament opened wide the door, and Mrs. Newberry
performed the ceremony of introduction. Rena had many visitors during the
month following the tournament, and
George Tryon had come to Clarence a few months before upon business connected
with the settlement of his grandfather's estate. A rather complicated
litigation had grown up around the affair, various phases of which had kept
Tryon almost constantly in the town. He had placed matters in Warwick's
hands, and had formed a decided friendship for his attorney, for whom he
felt a frank admiration. Tryon was only twenty-three, and his friend's
additional five years, supplemented by a certain professional gravity,
commanded a great deal of respect from the younger man. When Tryon had known
Warwick for a week, he had been ready to swear by him. Indeed, Warwick was a
man for a week, he had been ready to swear by him. Indeed, Warwick was a man
for whom most people formed a liking at first sight. To this power of
attraction he owed most of his success—first with Judge Straight of
Patesville, then with the lawyer whose office he had entered at Clarence, with
the woman who became his wife, and with the clients for whom he transacted
business. Tryon would have maintained against all comers that Warwick was
the finest fellow in the world. When he met Warwick's sister, the foundation
for admiration had already been laid. If Rena had proved to be a maiden lady
of uncertain age and doubtful heeenoughHe had felt, therefore,
With Rena's advent, however, he had seen life through different glasses. His
heart had thrilled at first sight of this tall girl, with the ivory
complexion, the rippling brown hair, and the He had felt that it was
To Rena this brief month's courtship came as a new education. Tnot only crowned her
queen, and honored her above all the ladies in town; but since then he had
waited assiduously upon her, had spoken softly to her, had looked at her
with shining eyes, and had sought to
Tryon first told his love for Rena one summer evening on their way home from church. They were walking in the moonlight along the quiet street, which, but for their presence, seemed quite deserted.
"Miss Warwick—Rowena," he said, clasping with his right hand the hand that rested on his left arm, "I love you! Do you—love me?"
To Rena this simple avowal came with much greater force than a more formal
declaration could have had. It appealed to her own simple nature. Indeed,
few women at such a moment
They walked on past the house, along the country road into which the street soon merged. When they returned, an hour later, they found Warwick seated on the piazza, in a rocking-chair, smoking a fragrant cigar.
"Well, children," he observed with mock severity, "you are late in getting home from the church. The sermon must have been extremely long."
"We have been attending an after-meeting," replied Tryon joyfully, "and have been discussing an old text: 'Little children, love one another,' and its corollary, 'It is not good for man to live alone.' John, I am the happiest man alive. Your sister has promised to marry me. I should like to shake my brother's hand."
Never does one feel so strongly the universal brotherhood of man as when one loves some other fellow's sister. Warwick sprang from his chair and clasped Tryon's extended hand with real emotion. He knew of no man whom he would have preferred to Tryon as a husband for his sister.
"My dear George—my dear sister," he exclaimed, "I am very, very glad. I wish you every happiness. My sister is the most fortunate of women."
"And I am the luckiest of men," cried Tryon.
"I wish you every happiness," repeated Warwick; adding with a touch of
solemnity, as a certain
Thus placed upon the footing of an accepted lover, Tryon's visits to the house became more frequent. He wished to fix a time for the marriage, but at this point Rena developed a strange reluctance.
"Can we not love one another for a while?" she asked. "To be engaged is a pleasure that comes but once; it would be a pity to cut it too short."
"It is a pleasure that I would cheerfully dispense with," he replied, "for the certainty of possession. I want you all to myself, and all the time. Things might happen. If I should die, for instance, before I married you"—
"Oh, don't suppose such awful things," she cried, putting her hand over his mouth.
He held it there and kissed it until she pulled it away.
"I should consider," he resumed, completing the sentence, "that my life had been a failure."
"If I should die," she murmured, "I should die happy in the knowledge that you had loved me."
"In three weeks," he went on, "I shall have finished my business in Clarence, and there will be but one thing to keep me here. When shall it be? I must take you home with me."
"I will let you know," she replied with a troubled sigh, "in a week from to-day."
"I 'll call your attention to the subject every day
Rena's shrinking from the irrevocable step of marriage was due to a simple
and yet complex cause. Stated baldly, it was consciousness of her secret;
the complexity arose out of the various ways in which it seemed to bear upon
her future. Our lives are so bound up with those of our fellow-men that the
slightest deviationnormal course
"Would he have loved me at all," she asked herself, "if he had known the story of my past? Or, having loved me, could he blame me now for what I cannot help?"
There were two shoals in the channel of her life, upon either of which her
happiness might go to
""
But would her lover still love her if he knew all? She had read some of the
novels in the bookcase in her mother's hall, and others at boarding school.
She had read that love was a conqueror, that neither life nor death nor
creed nor caste could stay his triumphant course. Her secret was no legal
bar to their
"He says that he loves me He does love me.
e
"I think a man might love me for myself," she murmured pathetically, "and if he loved me truly, that he would marry me. If he would not marry me, then it would be because he did n't love me. I 'll tell George my secret. If he leaves me, then he does not love me."
But this resolution vanished into thin air before it was fully formulated.
The secret was not hers alone; it involved her brother's position, to whom
she owed everything, and in less degree the futn
RENA'S heart was too heavy with these misgivings for her to keep them to herself. On the morning after the conversation with Tryon in which she had promised him an answer within a week, she went into her brother's study, where he usually spent an hour after breakfast before going to his office. He looked up amiably from the book before him and read trouble in her face.
"Well, Rena, dear," he asked with a smile, "what 's the matter? Is there
anything you want—money or what? I should like to have Aladdin's
lamp—though I
He had found her very backward in asking for things that she needed. Generous with his means, he thought nothing too good for her. Her success had gratified his pride and justified his course in taking her under his protection.
"Thank you, John. You give me already more than I need. It is something else,
John. George wants me to say when I will marry him. I am afraid to marry
him, without telling him. If he should find out afterwards, he might cast me
off, or
should find it out; or, if I should
die without his having learned it, I should not rest easy in my grave for
thinking of what he would have done if he had found it
out."
Warwick's smile gave place to a grave expression at this somewhat
comprehensive statement. He rose and closed the door carefully, lest some
one of the servants might overhear the conversation. More liberally endowed
than Rena with imagination, and not without a vein of sentiment, he had
nevertheless a practical side that outweighed them both. With him, the
problem that oppressed his sister had been in the main a matter of argument,
of self-conviction. Once persuaded that he had certain rights, or ought to
have them, by virtue of the laws of nature, in defiance of the customs of
mankind, he had promptly sought to enjoy them. This he had been able to do
by simply concealing his antecedents, and making the most of his
opportunities, with no troublesome qualms of conscience whatever. But he had
already perceived, in their brief intercourse, that Rena's emotions, while
less easily stirred, touched a deeper note than his, and dwelt upon it with
greater intensity than if they had been spread over the larger field to
which a more ready sympathy would have supplied so many points of
access;—hers was a deep and silent current flowing between the narrow
walls of a self-contained life, his the spreading river that ran
"How long have these weighty thoughts been troubling your small head?" he asked with assumed lightness.
"Since he asked me last night to name our wedding day."
"My dear child," continued Warwick, "you take too tragic a view of life.
Marriage is a reciprocal arrangement, by which the contracting parties give
love for love, care for keeping, faith for faith. It is a matter of the
future, not of the past. What a poor soul it is that has not some secret
chamber, sacred to itself; where one can file away the things others have no
right to know, as well as things that one himself would fain forget 'Let the dead past bury its dead.'.sinful
"But would he marry me if he knew?" she persisted.
Warwick paused for reflection. He would have preferred to argue the question
in a general way, but felt the necessity of satisfying her scruples, as far
as might be. He had liked Tryon from the very beginning of their
acquaintance. In all their intercourse, which had been very close for
several months, he had been impressed by the young man's intellectual honestystraightforwardness,sunny temperonequestion
"My dear sister," he replied, "why should he know? We have n't asked him for his pedigree; we don't care to know it. If he cares for ours he should ask for it, and it would then be time enough to raise the question. You love him, I imagine, and wish to make him happy?"
It is the highest wish of the woman who loves. The enamored man seeks his own happiness; the loving woman finds no sacrifice too great for the loved one. The fiction of chivalry made man serve woman; the fact of human nature makes woman happiest when serving where she loves.
"Yes, oh, yes," Rena exclaimed with fervor, clasping her hands unconsciously.
"I 'm afraid
"Well, then," said Warwick, "suppose we should tell him our secret and put
ourselves in his power, and that he should then conclude that he could n't
marry you? Do you imagine he would be any happier than he is now, or than if
he e
Ah, no! she could not think so. One could not tear love out of one 's heart without pain and suffering.
There was a knock at the door. Warwick opened it to the nurse, who stood with little Albert in her arms.
"Please, suh," said the girl with a curtsy, "de baby 's be'n cryin' an' frettin' fer Miss Rena, an' I 'lowed she mought want me ter fetch 'im, ef it would n't 'sturb her."
"Give me the darling," exclaimed Rena, coming forward and taking the child from the nurse. "It wants its auntie. Come to its auntie, bless its little heart!"
Little Albert crowed with pleasure and put up his pretty mouth for a kiss. Warwick found the sight a pleasant one. If he could but quiet his sister 's troublesome scruples, he might ere long see her fondling beautiful children of her own. Even if Rena were willing to risk her happiness, and he to endanger his position, by a quixotic frankness, the future of his child must not be compromised.
"You would n't want to make George unhappy,"
Whyany
He kissed the baby and left Rena to he own reflections, to which his
presentation of the case had given a new turn. It had never before occurred
to her to regard silence in the light of self-sacrifice. It had seemed a
sort of sin; her brother's argument made
Tryon himself furnished the opening for Warwick's proposed examination. The younger man could not long remain silent upon the subject uppermost in his mind. "I am anxious, John," he said, "to have Rowena name the happiest day of my life—our wedding day. When the trial in Edgecombe County is finished, I shall have no further business here, and shall be ready to leave for home. I should like to take my bride with me, and surprise my mother."
Mothers, thought Warwick, are likely to prove inquisitive about their sons' wives, especially when taken unawares in matters of such importance. This seemed a good time to test the liberality of Tryon's views, and to put forward a shield for his sister's protection.
"Are you sure, George, that your mother will find the surprise agreeable when you bring home a bride of whom you know so little and your mother nothing at all?"
Tryon had felt that it would be best to surprise his mother. She would need
only to see Rena to approve of her, but she was so far prejudiced in favor
of Blanche Leary that it would be wisest to present the argument after
having announced the irrevocable conclusion. Rena his best
"I think you ought to know, George," continued Warwick, without waiting for a reply to his question, "that my sister and I are not of an old family, or a rich family, or a distinguished family; that she can bring you nothing but herself; that we have no connections of which you could boast, and no relatives to whom we should be glad to introduce you. You must take us for ourselves alone—we are new people."
"My dear John," replied the young man warmly, "there is a great deal of
nonsense about families. If a man is noble and brave and strong, if a woman
is beautiful and good and true, what matters it about his or her ancestry?
If an
"It makes me glad to hear you speak in that way," returned Warwick, delighted by the young man's breadth and earnestness.
"Oh, I mean every word of it," replied Tryon. "Ancestors, indeed, for Rowena!
I will tell you a family secret, John, to prove how little I care for
ancestors. My maternal
Warwick felt much relieved at this avowal. His own statement had not touched
the vital point involved; it had been at the best but a half-truth; but
Tryon's magnanimity would doubtless protect Rena from any close inquiry concerning her
past. It even occurred to Warwick for a moment, that he might safely
disclose the secret to Tryon; but an appreciation of certain facts of history and certain
traits of human nature constrained him to put the momentary thought aside.
It was a great
"Well, Rena," he said to his sister when he went home at noon: "I 've sounded George."
"What did he say?" she asked eagerly.
"I told him we were people of no family, and that we had no relatives that we were proud of. He said he loved you for yourself, and would never ask you about your ancestry."
"Oh, I am so glad!" exclaimed Rena joyfully. This report left her very happy
for about three hours, or until she began to analyze carefully her brother's
account of what had been said. Warwick's statement had not been
specific—he had not told Tryon the thing.
George's reply, in turn, had been a mere generality. The concrete fact that
oppressed her remained unrevealed, and her doubt was still unsatisfied.
Rena was occupied with this thought when her love next came to see her. Tryon came up the sanded walk from the gate and spoke pleasantly to the nurse, a good-looking yellow girl who was seated on the front steps, playing with little Albert. He took the boy from her arms, and she went to call Miss Warwick.
Rena came out, followed by the nurse, who offered to take the child.
"Never mind, Mimy, leave him with me," said Tryon.
The nurse walked discreetly over into the garden, remaining within call, but beyond the hearing of conversation in an ordinary tone.
"Rena, darling," said her lover, "when shall it be? Surely you won't ask me to wait a week. Why, that 's a lifetime!"
Reba was struck by a brilliant idea. She would test her lover. Love was a very powerful force; she had found it the greatest, grandest, sweetest thing in the world. Tryon had said that he loved her; he had said scarcely anything else for several weeks, surely nothing else worth remembering. She would test his love by a hypothetical question.
"You say you love me," she said, glancing at him a with a sad thoughtfulness in her large dark eyes. "How much do you love me?"
"I love you all one can love. True love has no degrees; it is all or nothing!"
"Would you love me," she asked, with an air of coquetry that masked her concern, pointing toward the girl in the shrubbery, "if I were Albert's nurse yonder?"
"If you were Albert's nurse," he replied with a joyous laugh, "he would have to find another within a week, for within a week we should be married."
The answer seemed to fit the question, but in fact Tryon's mind and Rena's
did not meet. That two intelligent persons should each attach a different
meaning to so simple a form of words as Rena's question
"And now, darling," pleaded Tryon, "will you not fix the day that shall make me happy? I shall be ready to go away in three weeks. Will you go with me?"
"Yes," she answered in a tumult of joy. She would never need to tell him her secret now. It would make no difference with him, so far as she was concerned; and she had no right to reveal her brother's secret. She was willing to bury the past in forgetfulness, now that she knew it would have no interest for her lover.
THE marriage was set
On the twentieth of the month Warwick set out with Tryon for the county seat
of the adjoining county, to try one of the lawsuits which had
"This week will seem like a year," said Tryon ruefully, the evening before their departure, "but I 'll write you every day, and shall expect a letter as often."
"The mail goes only twice a week, George," replied Rena.
"Then I shall have three letters in each mail."
Warwick and Tryon were to set out in the cool of morning, after an early breakfast. Rena was up at daybreak that she might preside at the breakfast table and bid the travelers good-by.
"John," said Rena to her brother in the morning, "I dreamed last night that mother was ill."
"Dreams, you know, Rena," answered Warwick lightly, "go by contraries. Yours undoubtedly signifies that our mother, God bless her simple soul! is at the present moment enjoying her usual perfect health. She was never sick in her life."
For a few months after leaving Patesville with her brother, Rena had suffered
tortures of homesickness; those who have felt it know the pang. The
severance of old ties had been abrupt and complete. At the school where her
brother had taken her, there had been nothing to relieve the strangeness of
her surroundings—no schoolmate from her own town, no relative or
friend of the
Warwick had made provision for an occasional letter from Patesville, by
leaving with his mother a number of envelopes directed to his address. She
could have her letters written, inclose them in these envelopes, and deposit
them in the post-office with her own hand. Thus the place of
The night after Warwick and Tryon had ridden away, Rena dreamed again that
her mother was ill. Better taught people than she, in regions more
enlightened than the South Carolina of that epoch, are disturbed at times by
dreams. Mis' Molly had a profound faith in them. If God, in ancient times,
had spoken to men in visions of the night, what easier way could there be
for him to convey his meaning to people of all ages? Science, which has
shattered many an idol, and destroyed many a delusion, has made
The first repetition of a dream was decisive of nothing, for two dreams meant no more than one. The power of the second lay in the suspense, the uncertainty to which it gave rise. Two doubled the chance of a third. The day following this second dream was an anxious one for Rena. She could not for an instant dismiss her mother from her thoughts, which were filled too with a certain self-reproach. She had left her mother alone; if her mother were really ill, there was no one at home to tend her with loving care. This feeling grew in force until by nightfall Rena had become very unhappy, and went to bed with the most dismal forebodings. In this state of mind, it is not surprising that she now dreamed that her mother was lying at the point of death, and that she cried out with heart-rendering pathos:—
"Rena, my darlin', why did you forsake yo'' ole
The stress of subconscious emotion engendered by the dream was powerful
enough to wake Rena, and her mother's utterance seemed to come to her with
the force of a fateful warning and a great reproach. Her mother was sick and
needed her, and would die if she did come. She felt that she must see her
mother—it would be almost
After breakfast she went into the business part of town and inquired at what time a train would leave that would take her toward Patesville. Since she had come away from the town, a railroad had been opened by which the long river voyage might be avoided, and, making allowance for slow trains and irregular connections, the town of Patesville could be reached by an all-rail route in about twelve hours. Calling at the post-office for the family mail, she found there a letter from her mother, which she tore open in great excitement. It was written in an unpracticed hand and badly spelled, and was in effect as follows:—
My DEAR DAUGHTER,—I take my pen in hand to
let you know that I am not very well. I have had a kind of misery in my side
for two weeks, with palpitations of the heart, and I have been in bed for
three days. I 'm feeling mighty poorly, but Dr. Green says that I 'll get over
it in a few days. Old Aunt Zilphy is staying with me, and looking after
things tolerably well. I hope this will find you and John enjoying good
health. Give my love to John, and I hope the lord will bless him and you
too. Cousin Billy Oxendine has had a rising on his neck, and has had to have
it lanced. Mary B. has another young one, a boy this time. Old man Tom
Johnson was killed last week while trying to whip black Jim Brown, who lived
down
Frank comes over every day or two and asks about you. He says to tell you that he don't believe you are coming back any more, but you are to remember him, and that foolishness he said about bringing you back from the end of the world with his mule and cart. He 's very good to me, and brings over shavings and kindling wood, and made me a new well-bucket for nothing. It 's a comfort to talk to him about you, though I have n't told him where you are living.
I hope this will find you and John both well, and doing well. I should like to see you, but if it 's the Lord's will that I should n't, I shall be thankful anyway that you have done what was the best for yourselves and your children, and that I have given you up for your own good.
Your affectionate mother,
MARY WALDEN.
Rena shed tears over this simple letter, which
Returning home, she wrote a letter to Warwick inclosing their mother's
letter, and stating that she had dreamed an alarming dream for three nights
in succession; that she had left the house in charge of the servants and
gone s
To her lover she wrote that she had been called away to visit a sickn
WAR has been called the court of last resort. A
lawsuit may with equal aptness be compared to a battle—the parallel
might be drawn very closely all along the line. First we have the casus belli, the cause of action; then the various
protocols and proclamations and general orders, by way of pleas, demurrers,
and motions; then the preliminary skirmishes at the trial table; and then
the final struggle, in which might is come
The lawsuit which Warwick and Tryon had gone to try did not, however, reach
this ultimate stage, but, after a three days' engagement, resulted in a
treaty of peace. The case was compromised and settled, and Tryon and Warwick
set out on their homeward drive. They stopped at a farmhouse at noon, and
while at table saw the stagecoach from the town they had just left, bound
for their own destination. In the mailbag under the driver's seat were
Rena's two letters; they had
They reached Clarence at four o'clock. Warwick got down from the buggy at his office. Tryon drove on to his hotel to make a hasty toilet before visiting his sweetheart.
Warwick glanced at his mail, tore open the envelope addressed in his sister's handwriting, and read the contents with something like dismay. SHe had gone away on the eve of her wedding, her lover knew not where, to be gone no one knew how long, on a mission which could not be frankly disclosed. A dim foreboding of disaster flashed across his mind. He thrust the letter into his pocket, with others yet unopened, and started toward his home. Reaching the gate he paused a moment and then walked on past the house. Tryon would probably be there in a few minutes, and he did not care to meet him without first having had the opportunity for some moments of reflection. He must fix upon some line of action in this emergency.
Meanwhile Tryon had reached his hotel and
s
final.
Tryon went on opening his letters. There were several bills and circulars, and then a letter from his mother, of which he broke the seal:—
MY DEAREST GEORGE,—This leaves us well.
Blanche is still with me, and we are impatiently
On your way home, if it does not keep you away from us too long, would it not
be well for you to come by way of Patesville, and find out whether there is
any prospect of onagainst,
If you go to Patesville, call on my cousin Dr. Ed. Green, and tell him who you are. Give him my love. I have n't seen him for twenty years. He used to be very fond of the ladies, a very gallant man. He can direct you to a good lawyer, no doubt. Hoping to see you soon,
Your loving mother,
ELIZABETH TRYON.
P.S. Blanche joins me in love to you.
This affectionate and motherly letter did not give Tryon unalloyed satisfaction. He was glad to hear that his mother was well, but he had hoped that Blanche Leary might have finished her visit by this time. The reasonable inference from the letter was that Blanche meant to await his return. Her presence would spoil the fine romantic flavor of the surprise he had planned for his mother; it would never do to expose his bride to an unannounced meeting with the woman whom he had tacitly rejected. There would be one advantage in such a meeting: the comparison of the two women would be so much in Rena's favor that his mother could not hesitate for a moment between them. The situation, however, would have elements of constraint, and he did not care to expose either Rena or Blanche to any disagreeable contingency. It would be better to take his wife on a wedding trip, and notify his mother, before he returned home, of his marriage. In the extremely improbable case that she should disapprove his choice after having seen his wife, the ice would at least have been broken before his arrival at home.
"By Jove!" he exclaimed suddenly, striking his knee with his hand, "why
should n't I run up to Patesville while Rena 's gone? I can leave here at
five o'clock, and get there some time to-morrow morning. I can transact my
business during the day, and get back the day after to-morrow; for Rena
might return ahead of time, just as we did, and
He put Rena's letter into his breast pocket, and turning to his trunk took from it a handful of papers relating to the claim in reference to which he was going to Patesville. These he thrust into the same pocket with Rena's letter; he wished to read both letter and papers while on the train. It would be a pleasure merely to hold the letter before his eyes and look at the lines traced by her hand. The papers he wished to study, for the more practical purpose of examining into the merits of his claim against the estate of Duncan McSwayne.
When Warwick reached home he inquired if Mr. Tryon had called.
"No, suh," answered the nurse, to whom he had put the question; "he ain't
be'n here yet
Warwick was surprised and much disturbed.
"De baby 's be'n cryin' for Miss Rena," suggested the nurse, "an' I s'pec' he 'd like to see you, suh. Shall I fetch 'im?"
"Yes, bring him to me."
He took the child in his arms and went out upon the piazza. Several porch
pillows lay invitingly near. He pushed them toward the steps with his foot,
sat down upon one, and placed little Albert
He tore the envelope open anxiously, read the note, smiled a sickly smile, and clenched the paper in his hand unconsciously. There was nothing he could do. The train had gone; there was no telegraph to Patesville, and no letter could leave Clarence for twenty-four hours. The best laid schemes go wrong at times—the staunchest ships are sometimes wrecked, or skirt the breakers perilously. Life is a sea, full of strange currents and uncharted reefs—whoever leaves the traveled path must run the danger of destruction. Warwick was a lawyer, however, and accustomed to balance probabilities.
"He may easily be in Patesville a day or two without meeting her. She will spend most of her time at mother's bedside, and he will be occupied with his own affairs."
If Tryon should meet her—well, he was very much in love, and he had spoken very nobly of birth and blood. Warwick would have preferred, nevertheless, that Tryon 's theories should not be put to this particular test. Rena's scruples had so far been successfully combatted; the question would be opened again and the situation unnecessarily complicated if Tryon should meet Rena in Patesville.
"Will he or will he not?" he asked himself. He took a coin from his pocket and spun it upon the floor. "Heads, he sees her; tails, he does not."
The coin spun swiftly and steadily, leaving upon the eye the impression of a
revolving sphere. Little Albert, left for a moment to his own devices, had
crept behind his father and was watching the whirling coinfell..
TRYON arrived in the early morning and put up at the Patesville Hotel, a very comfortable inn. After a bath, breakfast, and a visit to the barber shop, he inquired of the hotel clerk the way to the office of Dr. Green, his mother's cousin.
"On the corner, sir," answered the clerk, "by the market-house, just over the drug-store. The doctor drove past here only half an hour ago. You 'll probably catch him in his office."
Tryon found the office without difficulty. He climbed the stair, but found no one in except a young colored man seated in the outer office, who rose promptly as Tryon entered.
"No, suh," replied the man to Tryon's question, "he ain't hyuh now. He 's gone out to see a patient, suh, but he 'll be back soon. Won't you set down in de private office an' wait fer 'im, suh?"
Tryon had not slept well during his journey, and felt somewhat fatigued.
Through the open door of the private office
"Yes," he answered, "I 'll wait."
He went intoinnertestified
Tryon mechanically counted the slabs of gingerbread on the nearest
market-stall, and calculated the cubical contents of several of the meagre
loads of wood. Having exhausted the view, he turned to the table at his
elbow and picked up a medical journal, in which he read first an account of
a marvelous surgical operation. Turning the leaves idly, he came upon an
article by a Southern writer, upon the perennial race problem that has vexed
the country for a century. The writer maintained that owing to a special
tendency of the negro blood, racescarce
When Tryon had finished the article, which seemed to him a well-considered
argument, albeit a trifle bombastic, he threw the book upon the table.
Finding the arm
"Is Dr. Green in? No? Ask him, when he comes in
Tryon was in that state of somnolence in which one may dream and yet be aware that one is dreaming—the state where one, during a dream, dreams that one pinches one's self to be sure that one is not dreaming. He was therefore aware of a ringing quality about the words he had just heard that did not comport with the shadowy converse of a dream—an incongruity in the remark, too, which marred the harmony of the vision. The shock was sufficient to disturb Tryon's slumber, and he struggled slowly back to consciousness. When fully awake, he thought he heard a light footfall descending the stairs.
"Was there some one here?" he inquired of the attendant in the outer office, who was visible through the open door.
"Yas, suh," replied the boy, "a young cullud 'oman wuz in ju
Tryon felt a momentary touch of annoyance that a negro woman should have
intruded herself into his dream at its most interesting point.
A moment later the doctor came bustling in,—a plump, rosy man of fifty or more, with a frank, open countenance and an air of genial good nature. Such a doctor, Tryon fancied, ought to enjoy a wide popularity. His mere presence would suggest life and hope and energy.
"My dear boy," exclaimed the doctor cordially, after Tryon had introduced
himself, "I 'm delighted to meet you—or any one of the old blood. Your
mother and I were sweethearts, long ago, when we both wore pinafores, and
went to see our grandfather at Christmas; and I met her more than once, and
paid her more than one compliment after she had grown to be a fine yonare
"The man you want to see," he added later in the conversation, "is old Judge
Straight. He 's getting somewhat stiff in the joints, but he knows more law,
and more about the McSwayne estate,
""
"There was a freshet here a few weeks ago," said the doctor
"Jedge Straight ain't in de office jes' now, suh," reported the doctor's man Dave, from the head of the stairs.
"Did you ask when he 'd be back?"
"Well, now, go back and inquire.
'trifling scoundrel
Dave returned more promptly than from his first trip. "Jedge Straight 's dere now, suh," he said. "He 's done come in."
"I 'll take you right around and introduce you," said the doctor, running on
pleasantly, like a babbling brook. "I don't know whether the judge ever met
your mother or not, but he knows a
They found Judge Straight in his office. He was seated by the rear window,
and had fallen into a gentle doze—the air of Patesville was conducive
to slumber. A visitor from some bu
"No," replied the judge, in answer to a question by Dr. Green, "I never met his mother; I was a generation ahead of her. I was at school with her father, however, fifty years ago—fifty years ago! No doubt that seems to you a long time, young gentleman?"
"It is a long time, sir," replied Tryon. "I must live more than twice as long as I have in order to cover it."
"A long time, and a troubled time," sighed the judge. "I could wish that I
might see this
"But our
"Doctuh Green," he said, "I fuhgot ter tell you, suh, dat dat young w
"Ah, yes, and you 've just remembered it! I 'm afraid you 're entirely too forgetful for a doctor's office. You forgot about old Mrs. Latimer the other day, and when I got there she had almost choked to death. Now get back to the office, and remember, the next time you forget anything, I 'll hire another boy; remember that!
"gotthereher
"I should think you would discharge him, sir," suggested Tryon.
"What would be the use?" rejoined the doctor.
"All negroes are alike, except that now and then there 's a pretty woman along the border-line. Take this patient of mine, for instance,—I 'll call on her after dinner, her case is not serious,—thirty years ago she would have made any man turn his head to look at her. You know who I mean, don't you, judge?"
"Yes. I think so," said the judge promptly. "I 've transacted a little business for her now and then."
"I don't know whether you 've seen the daughter or not,
"She was a very handsome woman, Ed," replied the judge
"You mean you would have tried. But as I was saying, this girl is a beauty; I
reckon we might guess where she got some of it, eh, Judge? Human nature is
human nature, but it 's a d—
She 'll probably marry a Yankee,
"I quite agree with you, Ed," remarked the judge dryly, "that the mother had better look closely after the daughter."
"Ah, no, judge," replied the other, with a flattered smile, "my admiration for beauty is purely abstract. Twenty-five years ago, when I was younger"—
"When you were young," corrected the judge.
"When you and I were younger," continued the doctor ingeniously, "twenty-five years ago, I could not have answered for myself. But I would advise the girl to stay at the North, if she can. She 's certainly out of place around here."
Tryon found the subject a little tiresome, and the doctor's enthusiasm not at
all contagious. He could not possibly have been interested in a colored
girl, under any circumstances, and he was engaged to be married to the most
beautiful white woman on earth. To mention a negro woman in the same room
where he was thinking of her
"You 'll find everything there, sir,—the note, the contract, and some correspondence that will give you the hang of the thing. Will you be able to look over them to-day? I should like," he added a little nervously, "to go back to-morrow."
"What!" exclaimed Dr. Green vivaciously, "insult our town by staying only one day? It won't be long enough to get acquainted with our young ladies. Patesville girls are famous for their beauty. But perhaps there's a loadstone in South Carolina to draw you back? Ah, you change color! To my mind there's nothing finer than the ingenuous blush of youth. But we 'll spare you if you 'll answer one question—is it serious?"
"I 'm to be married in two weeks, sir," answered Tryon. The statement sounded very pleasant, in spite of the slight embarrassment caused by the inquiry.
"Good boy!" rejoined the doctor, taking his arm familiarly—they were both standing now. "You ought to have married a Patesville girl, but you people down towards the eastern counties seldom come this way, and we are evidently too late to catch you."
"I 'll look your papers over this morning," said the judge, "and when I come
from dinner will stop at the court house and examine the records
"Now, George," exclaimed the doctor, "we 'll go back to the office for a spell, and then I 'll take you home with me to luncheon."
Tryon hesitated.
"Oh, you must come! Mrs. Green would never forgive me if I didn't bring you. Strangers are rare birds in our society, and when they come we make them welcome. Our enemies may overturn our institutions, and try to put the bottom rail on top, but they cannot destroy our Southern hospitality. There are so many carpet-baggers and other social vermin creeping into the South, with the Yankees trying to force the niggers on us, that it 's a genuine pleasure to get acquainted with another real Southern gentleman, whom one can invite into one's house without fear of contamination, and before whom one can express his feelings freely and be sure of perfect sympathy."
When Judge Straight's visitors had departed, he took up the papers which had been laid loosely on the table as they were taken out of Tryon's breast pocket, and commenced their perusal. There was a note for five hundred dollars, many years overdue, but not yet outlawed by lapse of time; a contract covering the transaction out of which the note had grown; and several letters and copies of letters modifying the terms of the contract. The judge had glanced over most of the papers, and was getting well into the merits of the case, when he unfolded a letter which read as follows:—
MY DEAREST GEORGE,—I am going away for about a week, to visit the bedside of an old friend, who is very ill, and may not live Do not be alarmed about me, for I shall very likely be back by the time you are.
Yours lovingly,
ROWENA WARWICK.
The judge was unable to connect this letter with the transaction which formed
the subject of his
the
"It is the Walden woman's daughter, as sure as fate! Her name is Rena. Her brother goes by the name of Warwick. She has come to visit her sick mother. My young client, Green's relation, is her lover—is engaged to marry her—is in town, and is likely to meet her!"
The judge was so absorbed in the situation thus suggested, that he laid the
papers down and let his mind run for a moment upon the curious problem presented. The judge was
quite aware that two races had not dwelt together, side by side, for nearly
three hundred years, without mingling their blood in greater or less degree;
he was old enough, and had seen curious things enough, to know that in this
mingling the current had not always flowed in one direction. Certain old
decisions with which he was familiar; old scandals that had crept along
obscure channels; old facts that had come to the knowledge of an old
practitioner, who held in the
Such people were, for the most part, merely on the ragged edge of the white
world, seldom rising above the level of overseers, or slave catchers, or
sheriff's officers, who could usually be relied upon to resent the drop of
black blood that tainted them, and with the zeal of the proselyte to visit
their hatred of it upon the unfortunate blacks that fell into their hands.
One curse of waswasisupon theauction block
"Well, here we are again, as the clown in the circus remarks," murmured the
judge, laying Rena's letter down upon the desk. "Ten years ago, in a moment of sentimental weakness and of quixotic
loyalty to the memory of an old friend,—
out of
The judge was a man of imagination; he had read many books and had personally outgrown many prejudices. He let his mind run on the various phases of the situation.
"If he finds her out, would he by any possibility marry her?"
"It is not likely," he answered himself. "If he made the discovery here, the facts would probably leak out in the town. It is something that a man might do in secret, but only a hero or a fool would do openly."
The judge sighed as he contemplated another possibility. He had lived for
seventy years under the old régime. The young man was a gentleman—so
had been the girl's father. Conditions were changed, but human nature was
the same. Would the young man's love turn to disgust and repulsion, or would
it merely sink from the level of worship to that of desire ? Would the girl,
denied marriage,
If the judge had had sons and daughters of his own, he might not have done what he now proceeded to do. But the old man's attitude toward society was chiefly that of an observer, and the narrow stream of sentiment left in his heart chose to flow toward the weaker party in this unequal conflict,—a young woman fighting for love and opportunity against the ranked forces of society, against immemorial tradition, against pride of family and of race.
"It may be the unwisest thing I ever did," he said to himself, turning to his desk and taking up a quill pen, "and may result in more harm than good; but I was always from childhood in sympathy with the under dog. There is certainly as much reason in my helping the girl as the boy, for being a woman, she is less able to help herself."
He dipped his pen into the ink and wrote the following lines:—
MADAM,—If you value your daughter's happiness, keep her at home for the next day or two.
This note he dried by sprinkling it with sand from a box near at hand, signed with his own name, and, with a fine courtesy, addressed to "Mrs. Molly Walden." Having first carefully sealed it in an envelope, he stepped to the open door and spied, playing marbles on the street near by, a group of negro boys, one of whom the judge called by name.
"Here, Billy," he said, handing the boy the note, "take this to Mis' Molly
Walden. Do you know where she lives—
"Yas, suh, I knows de place."
"Make haste, now. When you come back and tell me what she says, I 'll give you
ten cents. On second thoughts, I shall be gone to lunch, so here 's your
money," he added, handing the lad the bit of soiled paper by which the
United States G
Just here, however, the judge made his mistake. Very few mortals can spare
the spring of hope, the motive force of expectation. The boy kept the note
in his hand, winked at his companions, who had gathered as near as their awe
of the judge would permit, and started down the street. As soon as the judge
had disappeared, Billy beckoned to his friends, who speedily overtook him.
When
"Laws a massy!" she exclaimed weakly, "what is it?"
"It 's a lettuh, ma'm," answered the boy, whose expanding nostrils had caught a pleasant odor from the kitchen, and who was therefore in no hurry to go away.
"Who 's it fur?" she asked.
"It 's fuh you, ma'm," replied the lad.
"An' who 's it from?" she inquired, turning the letter
"F'm ole Jedge Straight, ma'm. He tole me ter fetch it ter you. Is you got a roasted 'tater you could gimme, ma'm?"
"Shorely, chile. I'll have Aunt Zilphy fetch
She called to Aunt Zilphy, who soon came hobbling out of the kitchen with a
large square of made
The boy took the gratuity, thanked her, and turned to go. Mis' Molly looked again atscanningsaid audiblymurmured
"Yas 'm," answered the messenger, turning and looking back.
"Can you read writin'?"
"No 'm."
"All right. Never mind."
She laid the letter carefully on the chimney-piece of the kitchen. "I reckon it 's somethin' mo' 'bout the taxes," she thought, "or may be somebody wants to buy one er my lots. Rena 'll be back terreckly, an' she kin read it an' find out. I glad my child'en have be'n to school. They never could have got where they are now if they had n't."
MENTION has been made of certain addressed envelopes
which John Warwick, on the occasion of his visit to Patesville, had left
with his illiterate mother, by the use of which she might communicate with
her children from time to time. On one occasion, Mis' Molly, having procuredto bepicked up
For a whole year Frank had yearned for a smile or a kind word from the only woman in the world. Peter, his father, had rallied him somewhat upon his moodiness after Rena's departure.
"Now 's de time, boy, fer you ter be lookin' roun' fer some nice gal or yo' own color, w'at 'll 'preciate you, an' won't be 'shamed er you. You er wastin' time, boy, wastin' time, shootin' at a mark outer yo' range."
But Frank was silent under his father's persiflage, and after a while
Asoonalmost
Frank had surmised that Rena would be present on such an occasion. He had
more than guessed, too, that she must be looked for among the white people
rather than among the black. Hence the interest with which he had scanned
the grand stand. The result has already been recounted. He had recognized
her sweet face; he had seen her enthroned among the proudest and best. He
had witnessed and gloried in her triumph. He had seen her cheek flushed with
pleasure, her eyes lit up with smiles. He had followed her carriage, had
made the acquaintance of Mimy the nurse, and had learned all about the
family. When finally he left the neighborhood to return to Patesville, he
had learned of Tryon's attentions, and had heard the servants' gossip with
reference to the marriage,
makingrevealingknown
"I would n' want ter skeer her," he mused, "er make her feel bad, an' dat's w'at I 'd mos' lackly do ef she seed me. She 'll be better off wid me out'n de road. She 'll marry dat rich w'ite gent'eman,—he won't never know de diffe'nce,—an' be a w'ite lady, ez she would 'a' be'n, ef some ole witch had n' changed her in her cradle. But maybe some time she 'll 'member de little nigger w'at use' ter nuss her w'en she wuz a chile, an' fished her out'n de ole canal, an' would 'a' died fer her ef it would 'a' done any good."
Very generously too, and with a fine delicacy, he said nothing to Mis' Molly
of his having seen her daughter, lest she might be disquieted by the
knowledge that he shared the family secret,—no great mystery now, this
pitiful secret, but more far-reaching in its consequences than any
blood-curdling
sIfhif
upon the altar ofto theirwould
When Rena came back unexpectedly at the behest of her dream, Frank heard
again the music of her voice, felt the joy of her presence and the benison
of her smile. There was Halonewas aware ofguessed
On the third day of Rena's presence in Patesville, Frank was driving up Front Street in the early afternoon, when he nearly fell off his cart in astonishment as he saw seated in Dr. Green's buggy, which was standing in front of the Patesville Hotel, the young gentleman who had won the prize at the tournament, and who, as he had learned, was to marry Rena. Frank was quite certain that she did not know of Tryon's presence in the town. Frank had been over to Mis' Molly's in the morning and had offered his services to the sick woman, who had rapidly become convalescent upon her daughter's return. Mis' Molly had spoken of some camphor that she needed. Frank had volunteered to get it. Rena had thanked him, and had spoken of going to the drug-store during the afternoon. It was her intention to leave Patesville on the following day.
"Ef dat man sees her in dis town," said Frank
he 's here, an' I 'll bet he don't know she 's here."
Then Frank was assailed by a very strong temptation. If, as he surmised, the joint presence of the two lovers in Patesville was a mere coincidence, a meeting between them would probably result in the discovery of Rena's secret.
"If she 's found out," argued the tempter, "she'll come back to her mother, and you can see her every day."
But Frank's love was not of the selfish kind. He put temptation aside, and
applied the whip to the back of his mule with a vigor that astonished the
animal and spurred
"Is Miss Rena here?" he demanded breathlessly.
"No, Frank; she went up town 'bout an hour ago to see the doctor an' git me some camphor gum."
Frank uttered a groan, rushed from the house, sprang into the cart, and
goaded the terrified mule into a galtookhe had consumed in reaching
"I wonder what in the worl 's the matter with Frank," mused Mis' Molly in vague alarm. "Ef he had n't be'n in such a hurry, I 'd 'a' axed him to read Judge Straight's letter. But Rena 'll be home soon."
When Frank reached the doctor's office, he saw Tryon seated in the doctor's buggy, which was standing by the window of the drug-store. Frank ran upstairs and asked the doctor's man if Miss Walden had been there.
"Yas," replied Dave, "she wuz here a little w'ile ago, an' said she wuz gwine
downstairs ter de drug-sto'. I would n' be s'prise,
THE drive by which Dr. Green took Tryon to his own
house led up Front Street about a mile, to the most aristocratic portion of
the town, situated on the hill known as Haymount, or, more briefly, "The
Hill." The Hill had lost some of its former glory, however, for the blight
of a four years' war was everywhere. After reaching the top of this wooded
eminence the road skirted for some little distance the brow of the hill.
Below them lay the picturesque old town, a mass of vivid green, dotted here
and there with gray roofs that rose above the tree tops. Two long ribbons of
streets stretched away from the Hill to the faint red line that marked the
high bluff beyond the river at the farther side of the town. The
market-house tower and the slender spires of half a dozen churches were
sharply outlined against the green background. The face of the clock was
visible, but the hours could have been read only by eyes of phenomenal
sharpness. Around them stretched ruined walls, dismantled towers, and
crumbling earthworks—footprints of the god of war, one of whose
temples had crowned this height. For many years before the warglory
The front of Dr. Green's spacious brick house, which occupied an ideally
picturesque site, was overgrown by a network of clinging vines, contrasting
most agreeably with the mellow red background of the wallsflowers
Mrs. Green greeted Tryon cordially. He did not have the doctor's memory with
which to fill out dominance
The Patesville people were not exceptional in the weaknesses and meannesses which are common to all mankind, but for some of the finer social qualities they were conspicuously above the average. Kindness, hospitality, loyalty, a chivalrous deference to women,—all these things might be found in large measure by those who saw Patesville with the eyes of its best citizens, and accepted their standards of politics, religion, manners, and morals.
The doctor, after the introductions, excused himself for a moment. Mrs. Green soon left Tryon with the young ladies and went to look after luncheon. Her first errand, however, was to find the doctor.
"Is he well off, Ed?" she asked her husband.
"Lots of land, and plenty of money, if he is ever able to collect it. He has inherited two estates."
"He 's a good-looking fellow," she mused. "Is he married?"
"There you go again," replied her husband, shaking his forefinger at her in mock reproach. "To a woman with marriageable daughters all roads lead to matrimony, the centre of a woman's universe. All men must be sized up by their matrimonial availability. No, he is n't married."
"That 's nice," she rejoined reflectively." I
"He 's not married," rejoined the doctor slyly, "but the next best thing—he 's engaged."
"Come to think of it," said the lady, "I 'm afraid we would n't have the room to spare, and the girls would hardly have time to entertain him. But we 'll have him up several times. I like his looks. I wish you had sent me word he was coming; I 'd have had a better luncheon."
"Make him a salad," rejoined the doctor, "and get out a bottle of the best claret. Thank God, the Yankees did n't get into my wine cellar! The young man must be treated with genuine Southern hospitality,—even if he were a Mormon and married ten times over."
"Indeed, he would not, Ed,—the idea! I 'm ashamed of you. Hurry back to the parlor and talk to him. The girls may want to primp a little before luncheon; we don't have a young man every day."
"Beauty unadorned," replied the doctor, "is adorned the most. My profession qualifies me to speak upon the subject. They are the two handsomest young women in Patesville, and the daughters of the most beautiful"—
"Don't you dare to say the word," interrupted Mrs. Green, with placid good nature. "I shall never grow old while I am living with a big boy like you. But I must go and make the salad."
At dinner the conversation ran on the family
"I was offered a thousand acres the other day at twenty-five cents an
acre," remarked the doctor. "The owner is so land-poor that he can't pay the
taxes. They have taken our negroes and our liberties. It may be better for
our grandchildren that the negroes are free, but it 's confoundedly hard on
us to take them without paying for them. They may exalt our slaves over us
temporarily, but they have not broken our spirit and cannot take away
"With all my heart, sir," replied Tryon, who felt in this company a thrill of that pleasure which accompanies conscious superiority,—"with all my heart, sir, if the ladies will permit me."
"We will join you," they replied. The toast was drunk with great enthusiasm.
"And now, my dear George," exclaimed the doctor, "to change one good subject for another, tell us who is the favored lady?"
"A Miss Rowena Warwick, sir," replied Tryon, vividly conscious of four pairs of eyes fixed upon him, but, apart from the momentary embarrassment, welcoming the subject as the one he would most like to speak upon.
"A good, strong old English name," observed the doctor.
"The heroine of Ivanhoe!" exclaimed Miss Harriet.
"Warwick the Kingmaker!" said Miss Mary. "Is she tall and fair, and dignified and stately?"
"She is tall, dark rather than fair, and full of tender grace and sweet humility."
"She should have been named Rebecca instead of Rowena," rejoined Miss Mary, who was well up in her Scott.
"Tell us something about her people?" asked Mrs. Green,—to which inquiry the young ladies looked assent.
In this meeting of the elect of his own class and kin Warwick felt a certain
strong illumination upon the value of birth and blood. Finding Rena among
people of the best social standing, the subsequent intimation that she was a
girl of no family had seemed a small matter to one so much in love.
Nevertheless, in his present company he felt a 41
"Her brother is the most prominent lawyer of Clarence. They live in a fine old family mansion, and are among the best people of the town."
"Quite right, my boy," assented the doctor. "None but the best are good
enough for the best. You must bring her to Patesville some day. But bless my
life!" he exclaimed, looking at his watch;
"I think I had better go with you, sir. I shall have to see Judge Straight."
"Very well. But you must come back to supper, and we 'll have a few friends in to meet you. You must see some of the best people."
The doctor's buggy was waiting at the gate. As they were passing the hotel on their drive down town, the clerk came out to the curbstone and called to the doctor.
"There 's a lady
"I suppose I 'll have to. Will you wait for me here, George, or will you drive down to the office? I can walk the rest of the way."
"I think I 'll wait here, doctor," answered Tryon. "I 'll step up to my room a moment. I 'll be back by the time you 're ready."
It was a while they were standing before the hotel, before alighting from the
buggy, that Frank
Tryon went up to his room, returned after a while, and
"Anything wanted, Dave?" asked the doctor.
"Dat young 'oman's be'n heah ag'in, suh, an' wants ter see you bad. She 's in
de drugstore dere now, suh. Bless Gawd!" he added to himself fervently, "I
'membered dat. Dis yer recommemb'ance er mine is gwine ter git me inter
trouble ef I doan
The doctor sprang from the buggy with an agility remarkable in a man of sixty. "Just keep your seat, George," he said to Tryon, "until I have spoken to the young woman, and then we 'll go across to Straight's. Or, if you 'll drive along a little farther, you can see the girl through the window. She 's worth the trouble if you like a pretty face."
Tryon liked one pretty face; moreover, tinted beauty had never appealed to him. More to show a proper regard for what interested the doctor than from any curiosity of his own, he drove forward a few feet, until the side of the buggy was opposite the drugstore window, and then looked in.
Between the colored glass bottles in the window he could see a young woman, a
tall and slender girl,
She moved slightly; it was Rena's movement. Surely he knew the gown, and the style of the hair-dressing! She rested her hand lightly on the back of a chair. The ring that glittered on her finger could be none other than his own.
The doctor bowed. The girl nodded in response, and, turning, left the store. Tryon leaned forward from the buggy-seat and kept his eye fixed on the figure that moved across the floor of the drugstore. As she came out she turned her face casually toward the buggy, and there could no longer by any doubt as to her identity.
When Rena's eyes fell upon the young man in the buggy, she saw a face as pale
as death, with startling eyes in which love, which once had reigned there,
had now given place to astonishment and horror. She stood a moment as if
turned to
moved a stone
THE first effect of Tryon's discovery of Rena's parentageupon
Returning to the doctor's office,
His emotions were varied and stormy. At first he could see nothing but the
fraud thatof which hepractice upon himthought
But reasoning thus was not without effect upon a mind by nature reasonable
above the average. Tryon's race impulse and social prejudice had carried him
too far, and the swing of the mental pendulum brought his thoughts rapidly
back in the opposite direction. Tossing uneasily on the bed, where he had
thrown himself down without undressing, the air of the room oppressed him,
and he threw open the window. The cool night air calmed his throbbing
pulses. The moonlight, streaming through the window, flooded the room with a
soft light, in which he seemed to see Rena standing before him, as she had
appeared that afternoon, gazing at him with eyes that implored charity and
forgiveness. He burst into tears,—bitter tears, that strained his
heartstrings. He was only a youth. She was his first love, and he
melancholy recompense
The town clock—which so long as it was wound up regularly recked
nothing of love or hate, joy or sorrow—solemnly tolled out the hour of
midnight and sounded the knell of his lost love. Lost she was, as though she
had never been, as she had indeed no right to be. He resolutely determined
to banish her image from his mind. See her again he could not; it would be
painful to them both; it could be productive of no good to either. He had
felt the power and charm of love, and no ordinary shock could have loosened
its hold; but this catastrophe, which had so rudely swept away the
groundwork of his passion, had stirred into new life all the slumbering
pride of race and ancestry which characterized his caste. How much of this
sensitive superiority was essential and how much accidental; how much of it
was due to the ever-suggested comparison with a servile race; how much of it
was ignorance and self-conceitmerelylowly,
The clock struck the hour of two. With a shiver he closed the window,
undressed by the moonlight, drew down the shade, and went to bed. He fell
into an unquiet slumber, and dreamed again of Rena. He must learn to control
his waking thoughts; his dreams could not be curbed. In that realm Rena's
image was for many a day to remain supreme. He dreamed of her sweet smile,
her soft touch, her gentle voice. In all her
become
He rose, dressed himself, went down to breakfast, then entered the writing-room and penned a letter, which after reading it over he tore into small pieces and threw into the waste-basket. A second shared the same fate. Giving up the task, he left the hotel and walked down to Dr. Green's office.
"Is the doctor in?" he asked of the colored attendant.
"No, suh," replied the man; "he's gone ter see de young culle
Tryon sat down at the doctor's desk and hastily scrawled a note, stating that business compelled his immediate departure. He thanked the doctor for courtesies extended, and left his regards for the ladies. Returning to the hotel, he paid his bill and took a hack for the wharf, from which a boat was due to leave at nine o'clock.
As the hack drove down Front Street Tryon noted idly the houses that lined
the street. When he reached the sordid district in the lower part of
"Can you tell me who lives there?" Tryon asked, pointing to the house.
"A culle
The vivid impression he received of this house, and the spect
Warwick awaited events with some calmness and some philosophy,—he could
hardly have had the one without the other; and it required much philosophy
to make him wait a week in patience for information upon a subject in which
he was so vitally interested. The delay pointed to disaster. Bad news being
expected, delay at least put off the evil day. At the end of the week he
received
THE BOTTOM FALLS OUT
MY DEAR SON,—Frank is writing this letter for me. I am not well, but, thank the Lord, I am better than I was.
Rena has had a heap of trouble on account of me and my sickness. If I could of dreamt that I was going to do so much harm, I would of died and gone to meet my God without writing one word to spoil my girl's chances in life; but I did n't know what was going to happen, and I hope the Lord will forgive me.
Frank knows all about it, and so I am having him write this letter for me, as Rena is not well enough yet. Frank has been very good to me and to Rena. He was down to your place and saw Rena there, and never said a word about it to nobody, not even to me, because he did n't want to do Rena no harm. Frank is the best friend I have got in town, because he does so much for me and don't want nothing in return. (He tells me not to put this in about him, but I want you to know it.)
And now about Rena. She has come to see me, and I got better right away, for
it was longing for her as much as anything else that made me sick, and I was
mighty mizzable. When she had been here three days and was going back the
next day, she
lshe
I am writing you this letter because I know you will be worrying about Rena
not coming back. If it was n't for Frank I hardly know how I could write to
you. Frank is not going to say nothing about Rena's passing for white and
meeting this
THE BOTTOM FALLS OUT
All the rest of the connection are well. I have just been in to see how Rena is. She is feeling some better, I think, and says give you her love and she will write you a letter in a few days, as soon as she is well enough. She bust out crying while she was talking, but I reckon that is better than being out of her head. I hope this may find you well, and that this man of Rena's won't say nor do nothing down there to hurt you. He has not wrote to Rena nor sent her no word. I reckon he is very mad.
Your affectionate mother,
MARY WALDEN.
This letter, while confirming Warwick's fears, relieved his suspense. He at least knew the worst, unless there should be something still more disturbing in Tryon's letter, which he now proceeded to open, and which ran as follows:
JOHN WARWICK, ESQ.
DEAR SIR,—When I inform you, as you are
doubtless informed ere the receipt of this, that I saw your sister in
Patesville last week and learned the nature of those antecedents of yours
and hers at which you hinted so obscurely in recent conversation, you will
not be surprised to learn that I take this opportunity of renouncing any
pretensions to Miss Warwick's hand, and request you to convey this message
to her, since it was through you that I formed her acquaintance. I think
perhaps that few white men would think it necessary to make an explanation
under the circumstances, and I do not know that I need say more than that no
one, considering the circumstances under which
I need scarcely assure you that I shall say nothing about this affair, and
that I shall keep your secret as though it were my own. Personally I shall
never be able to think of you as other than
THE BOTTOM FALLS OUT
Yours very truly,
GEORGE TRYON.
Warwick could not know that this formal epistle was the last of a dozen that Tryon had written and destroyed during the week since the meeting in Patesville—hot, blistering letters, cold, cutting letters, scornful, crushing letters. Though none of them was sent, except this last, they had furnished a safety-valve for his emotions, and had left him in a state of mind that permitted him to write the foregoing.
And now, while Rena is recoving from her illness, and Tryon from his love, and fate is shuffling the cards for another deal, a few words may be said about the past life of the people who lived in the rear of the flower-garden, in the quaint old house beyond the cedars, and how their lives were mingled with those of the men and women around them and others that were gone. For connected with our kind we must be; if not by our virtues, then by our vices—if not by our services, at least by our needs.
FOR many years before the civil war there had lived,
in the old house behind the cedars, a free colored woman who went by the
name of Molly Walden—her rightful name, for her parents were freed
Molly's free birth carried with it certain advantages, even in the South
before the war. Though degraded from its high estate, and shorn of its
TWO LETTERSgreat
His widow and surviving children lived on for a little while at the house he
had owned, just outside of the town, on one of the main traveled roads. By
tn
A gentleman drove by one day, stopped at
theeTWO LETTERStherefore
Several years before the war, when Mis' Molly's daughter Rena was a few years old, death had suddenly removed the source of their prosperity.
The household was small
tkTWO LETTERS
Molly had lost one child, and his grave was visible from the kitchen window,
under a small clump of cedars in the rear of the two-acre lot. For even in
the towns many a household had its private cemetery in thew
In 1855 Mis' Molly's remaining son had grown into a tall, slender lad of
fifteen, with his father's patrician features and his mother's Indian hair,
and no external sign to mark him off from the white boys on the street. He
soon came to know, however, that there was a difference. He was informed one
day that he was black. He denied the proposition and thrashed the child who
made it. The scene was repeated the next day, with a variation,—he was
himself thrashed by a larger boy. When he had been beaten five or six times,
he ceased to argue the point, though to himself he never admitted the
charge. His playmates might call him black; the mirror proved that God,
the
In the "hall" or parlor of his mother's house stood a quaintly carved black
walnut bookcase, containing a small but remarkable collection of books,
which had at one time been used, in his hours of retreat and relaxation from
business and politics, by the distinguished gentleman who did not give his
name to Mis' Molly's children,—to whom it would have been a valuable
heritage, could they have had the right to bear it. Among the books were a
volume of Fielding's complete works, in fine print, set in double columns; a
set of Bulwer's novels; a collection of everything that Walter Scott—
the literary idol of the South—had ever written; Beaumont and
Fletcher's plays, cheek by jowl with
the history of the virtuous Clarissa Harlowe; the Spectator and Tristram Shandy, Robinson Crusoe and the
Arabian Nights. On these secluded shelves Roderick Random, Don Quixote, and
Gil Blas for a long time ceased their wanderings, the Pilgrim's Progress was
suspended, Milton's mighty harmonies were dumb, and Shakespeare reigned over
a silent kingdom. An illustrated Bible, with a wonderful Apochrypha, was
flanked on one side by Volney's "Ruin of Empire" and on the other by Paine's
"Age of Reason," for the collector of the books had been a man of catholic
taste as well as of inquiring mind, and no one who could have
TWO LETTERSafter
When John Walden was yet a small boy he had learned all that could be taught
by the faded mulatto teacher in the long, shiny black frock coat, whom local
public opinion permitted to teach a handful of free colored children for a
pittance barely enough to keep soul and body together. When the boy had
learned to read he discovered the library, which for several years had been
without a reader, and found in it the portal of a new world, peopled with
strange and marvelous beings. Lying prone upon the floor of the shaded front
piazza, behind the fragrant garden, he followed the fortunes of Tom Jones
and Sophia; he wept over the fate of Eugene Aram; he penetrated with Richard
the Lion-heart into Saladin's tent, with Gil Blas into the robbers' cave; he
flew through the air on the magic carpet or the enchanted horse, or tied
with Sindbad to the roc's leg. Sometimes
—which has much to be proud of,
and much to answer for—
Near the corner of Mackenzie Street, just one block north of the Patesville
market-house, there had stood for many years before the war, on the verge of
the steep bank of Beaver Creek, a small frame office building, the front of
which was level with the street, while the rear rested on long brick
pillars founded on the solid rock at the edge of the brawling stream below.
Here for nearly half a century Archibald Straight had transacted legal
business for the best people of Northumberland County. Full many a lawsuit
had he won, lost, or settled; many a spendthrift had he saved from ruin, and
not a few families from disgrace. Several times honored by election to the
bench, he had so dispensed justice tempered with mercy as to win the hearts
of all good citizens, and especially those of the poor, the oppressed, and
the socially disinherited. The rights of the humblest negro, few as they
might be, were as sacred to him as those of the proudest aristocrat, and he
had
TWO LETTERSby
One day Judge Straight was sitting in his office reading a recently published pamphlet,—presenting an elaborate pro-slavery argument, based upon the hopeless intellectual inferiority of the negro, and the physical and moral degeneration of mulattoes, who combined the worst qualities of their two ancestral races,—when a barefooted boy walked into the office, straw hat in hand, came boldly up to the desk at which the old judge was sitting, and said as the judge looked up through his gold-rimmed glasses,—
"Sir, I want to be a lawyer!"
"God bless me!" exclaimed the judge. "It is a singular desire, from a singular source, and expressed in a singular way. Who the devil are you, sir, that wish so strange a thing as to become a lawyer—everybody's servant?"
"And everybody's master, sir," replied the lad stoutly.
"That is a matter of opinion, and open to argument," rejoined the judge, amused and secretly flattered by this tribute to his profession, "though there may be a grain of truth in what you say. But what is your name, Mr. Would-be-lawyer?"
"John Walden, sir," answered the lad.
"John Walden?—Walden?" mused the judge. "What Walden can that be? Do you belong in town?"
"Yes, sir."
"Humph! I can't imagine who you are. It's plain that you are a lad of good blood, and yet I don't know whose son you can be. What is your father's name?"
The lad hesitated, and flushed crimson.
The old gentleman noted his hesitation. "It is a wise son," he thought, "that knows his own father. He is a bright lad, and will have this question put to him more than once. I'll see how he will answer it,"
The boy maintained an awkward silence, while the old judge eyed him keenly.
"My father's dead," he said at length, in a low
TWO LETTERS
"God bless my soul!" exclaimed the judge in genuine surprise at this answer;
"and you want to be a lawyer!" The situation was so much worse than he had
suspected that even an old practitioner, case-hardened by years of life at
the trial table and on the bench, was startled for a moment into a comical
sort of consternation, so apparent that a lad less stout-hearted would have
turned tail
"Yes, sir. Why not?" responded the boy, trembling a little at the knees, but stoutly holding his ground.
"He wants to be a lawyer, and he asks me why not!" muttered the judge,
apparently to himself. He rose from his chair, walked across the room, and
threw open a window. The cool morning air brought with it the babbling of
the stream below and the murmur of the mill near by. He glanced across the
creek to the ruined foundation of an old house on the low ground beyond the
creek. Turning from the window, he looked back at the boy, who had remained
standing between
boyladboyboy
"Archie, I'm coming in to have you draw my will. There are some children for whom I would like to make ample provision. I can't give them anything else, but money will make them free of the world."
The judge's friend had died suddenly before carrying out this good intention.
The judge had
TWO LETTERShis friend'stheir father's
As he kept on looking at the boy, who began at length to grow somewhat embarrassed under this keen scrutiny, the judge's mind reverted to certain laws and judicial decisions that he had looked up once or twice in his lifetime. Even the law, the instrument by which tyranny riveted the chains upon its victims, had revolted now and then against the senseless and unnatural prejudice by which a race ascribing its superiority to right of blood, permitted a mere suspicion of servile blood to outweigh a vast preponderance of its own.
"Why, indeed, should he not be a lawyer, or
"I am white," replied the lad, turning back his sleeve and holding out his
arm,
The old lawyer shook his head, and fixed his eyes upon the lad with a slightly quizzical smile. "You are black," he said, "and you are not free. You cannot travel without your papers; you cannot secure accommodations at an inn; you could not vote if you were of age; you cannot be out after nine o'clock without a permit. If a white man struck you, you could not return the blow, and you could not testify against him in a court of justice. You are black, my lad, and you are not free. Did you ever hear of the Dred Scott decision, delivered by the great, wise, and learned Judge Taney?"
"No, sir," answered the boy.
"It is too long to read," rejoined the judge, taking up the pamphlet he had
laid down upon the lad's entrance, "but it says in substance, as quoted by
this author, that negroes are beings 'of inferior order, and altogether
unfit to associate with the white race, either in social or political
TWO LETTERS
"It may all be true," replied the boy, "but it don't apply to me. It says 'the negro.' A negro is black; I am white, and not black."
"Black as ink, my lad," returned the lawyer, shaking his head." 'One touch of nature makes the whole world kin,' says the poet. Somewhere, sometime, you had a black ancestor. One drop of black blood makes the whole man black."
"Why should n't it be the other way, if the white blood is so much superior?" inquired the lad.
"Because it is more convenient as it is—and more profitable."
"It is not right," maintained the lad.
"God bless me!" exclaimed the old gentleman, "he is invading the field of
ethics! He will be questioning the righteousness of slavery next.case
"I had thought," said the lad, "that I might pass for white. There are white people darker than I am."
"Ah, well, that is another matter; but"—
The judge stopped for a moment, struck by the absurdity of his arguing such a question with a mulatto boy. He really must be falling into premature dotage. The proper thing would be to rebuke the lad for his presumption and advise him to learn to take care of horses, or make boots, or lay bricks. But again he saw his old friend in the lad's face, and again he looked in vain for any sign of negro blood. The least earmark would have turned the scale, but he could not find it.
"That is another matter," he repeated. "Here you have started as black, and must remain so. But if you wish to move away, and sink your past into oblivion, the case might be different. Let us see what the law is; you might not need it if you went far enough, but it is well enough to be within it—liberty is sweeter when founded securely on the law."
He took down a volume bound in legal calf and glanced through it. "The color line is drawn in North Carolina at four generations removed from the negro; there have been judicial decisions to that effect. I imagine that would cover your case. But let us see what South Carolina may say about it," he continued, taking another book. "I think the law is even more liberal there. Ah, this is the place:—
"'The term mulattoTWO LETTERS
"Then I need not be black?" the boy said
"No," replied the lawyer, "you need not be black, away from Patesville. You
have the somewhat unusual privilege, it seems, of choosing between two
races, and if you are a lad of spirit, as I think you are, it will not take
you long to make your choice. As you have all the features of a white man,
you would, at least in South Carolina, have simply to assume the place and
exercise the privileges of a white man. You might, of course, do the same
thing anywhere, as long as no one knew your origin. But the matter has been
adjudicated there in several cases, and on the whole I think South Carolina
is the place,
"From this time on," said the boy, "I am white."
"Softly, softly, my Caucasian fellow citizen,"
"And I can learn to be a lawyer, sir?" asked the boy
"It seems to me that you ought to be reasonably content for one day with what you have learned already. You cannot be a lawyer until you are white, in position as well as in theory, nor until you are twenty-one years old. I need an office boy. If you are willing to come into my office, sweep it, keep my books dusted, and stay here when I am out, I do not care. To the rest of the town you will be my servant, and still a negro. If you choose to read my books when no one is about and be white in your own private opinion I have no objection. When you have made up your mind to go away, perhaps what you have read may help you. But mum's the word! If I hear a whisper of this from any other source, out you go neck and crop! I am willing to help you make a man of yourself, but it can only be done under the rose."
For two years John Walden openly swept the office and surreptitiously read
the law books of old Judge Straight. When he was eighteen he asked his
mother for a sum of money, kissed her good-by, and went out into the world.
When his TWO LETTERS
"Nev' min', sis," he said soothingly. "Be a good little gal, an' some o' these days I'll come back to see you and bring you somethin' fine."
In after years, when Mis' Molly was asked what had become of her son, she would reply with sad complacency,—
"He's gone over on the other side."
As we have seen, he came back ten years later.
Many years before, when Mis' Molly, then a very young woman, had taken up her
residence in the house behind the cedars, the gentleman heretofore referred
to had built a cabin on the opposite corner, in which he had installed a
trusted slave by the name of Peter Fowleron conditionwith the provisionperformservices
Peter's son Frank had grown up with little Rena. He was several years older
than she, and when Rena was a small child Mis' Molly had often confided her
to his care, and he had watched over her and kept her from harm. When Frank
become old enough to go to work in the cooper shop, Rena, then six or seven,
had often gone across to play among the clean white shavings. Once Frank
while learning the trade had let slip a sharp steel tool, which flying
toward Rena had grazed
TWO LETTERS
He never spoke to her of love,—indeed he never thought of his passion
in such a light. There would have been no legal barrier to their union; there would have been no frightful menace to white
supremacy in the marriage of the negro and the octoroon: the drop of dark
blood bridged the chasm. But Frank knew that she did not love him, and had
not hoped that she might. His was one of those rare souls that can give with
small hope of return. When he had made the scar upon her arm by the same
token she had branded him her slave forever; when he had saved her from a
watery grave he had given his life to her. There are depths of fidelity and
devotion in
RENA was convalescent from a two-weeks' illness when her brother came to see her. He arrived at Patesville by an early morning train before the town was awake, and walked unnoticed from the station to his mother's house. His meeting with his sister was not without emotion: he embraced her tenderly, and Rena became for a few minutes a very Niobe of grief.
"Oh, it was cruel, cruel!" she sobbed. "I shall never get over it."
"I know it, my dear," replied Warwick soothingly,—"I know it, and I'm to blame for it. If I had never taken you away from here, you would have escaped this painful experience. But do not despair; all is not lost. Tryon will not marry you, as I hoped he might, while I feared the contrary; but he is a gentleman, and will be silent. Come back and try again."
"No, John. I could n't go through it a second time. I managed very well
before, when I thought our secret was unknown; but now I could never be sure. It would be borne on every wind, for aught I knew, and every rustling leaf might
He spoke of my beauty, my
grace, my sweetness! I looked into his eyes and believed him. And yet he
left me without a word! What would I do in Clarence now? I came away engaged
to be married, with even the day set; I should go back forsaken and discredited;
even the servants would pity me."
"Little Albert is pining for you," suggested Warwick. "We could make some explanation that would spare your feelings."
"Ah, do not tempt me, John! I love the child, and am grieved to leave him. I'm grateful, too, John, for what you have done for me. I am not sorry that I tried it. It opened my eyes, and I would rather die of knowledge than live in ignorance. But I could not go through it again, John ; I am not strong enough. I could do you no good ; I have made you trouble enough already. Get a mother for Albert—Mrs. Newberry would marry you, secret and all, and would be good to the child. Forget me, John, and take care of yourself. Your friend has found you out through me—he may have told a dozen people. You think he will be silent;—I thought he loved me, and he left me without a word, and with a look that told me how he hated and despised me. I would not have believed it—even of a white man."
"You do him an injustice," said her brother, producing Tryon's letter. "He did not get off unscathed. He sent you a message."
She turned her face away, but listened while he read the letter. "He did not
love me," she cried angrily, when he had finished, "or he would not have
cast me off—he would not have looked at me so. The law would have let
him marry me. I lookedlookedhim
"Yes, Rena, there is; and the world is wide enough for you to get along without Tryon."
"For a day or two," she went on, "I hoped he might come back. But the horror oflooknot have. He might have loved me and have left me—he could not
have loved me and looked at me so!"
She was weeping hysterically. There was little he could say to comfort her. Presently she dried her tears. Warwick was reluctant to leave her in Patesville. Her childish happiness had been that of ignorance; she could never be happy there again. She had flowered in the sunlight; she must not pine away in the shade.
"If you won't come back with me, Rena, I'll
get
"No," she replied firmly,"I shall never marry any man, and I'll not leave mother again. God is against it; I'll stay with my own people."
"God has nothing to do with it," retorted Warwick. "God is
"God made us all," continued Rena dreamily, "and for some good purpose, though we may not always see it. He made some people white, and strong, and masterful, and—heartless. He made others black and homely,and poor and weak"—
"And a lot of others 'poor-white' and shiftless," smiled Warwick.
"He made us too," continued Rena, intent upon her own thought, "and he must have had a reason for it. Perhaps he meant us to bring the others together in his good time. A man may make a new place for himself—a woman is born and bound to hers. God must have meant me to stay here, or he would not have sent me back. I shall accept things as they are. Why should I seek the society of people whose friendship—and love—one little word can turn to scorn? I was right, John; I ought to have told him. Suppose he had married me and then had found it out?"
To Rena's argument of divine foreordination Warwick attached no weight. He
had seen God's heel planted for four long years upon the land which had
nourished slavery. Had God ordained the crime that the punishment might
follow? It would have been easier for omnipotence to prevent the crime. The
experience of his sister had stirred up a certain bitterness against white
people—a feeling which he had put aside years ago, with his dark
blood, but which sprang anew into life when the fact of his own origin was
brought home to him so forcibly through his sister's misfortune. His sworn
friend and promised brother-in-law had thrown him over promptly, upon the
discovery of the hidden drop of dark blood. How many others of his friends
would do the same if they but knew of it? He had begun to feel a little of
the spiritual aloofness from his associates that he had noticed in Rena
during her life at Clarence. The fact that several persons knew his secret
had spoiled the fine flavor of perfect security hitherto marking his
position. George Tryon was a man of honor among white men, and had deigned
to extend the protection of his honor to Warwick as a man , though no longer
as a friend; to Rena as a woman, but not as a wife. Tryon, however, was
only human, and who could tell when their paths in life might cross again,
or what future temptation Tryon might feel to use a damaging secret to their
disadvantage? Warwick had cherished certain ambitions, but these he must now put
behind him. In the obscurity of
silenceFrank forit
"Listen, Rena," he said with a sudden impulse, "we'll go to the North or West—I'll go with you—far away from the South and the Southern people, and start life over again. It will be easier for you, it will not be hard for me—I am young, and have means. There are no strong ties to bind me to the South. I would have a larger outlook elsewhere."
It would be necessary to leave her behind, they both perceived clearly
enough, unless they were prepared to surrender the advantage of their
whiteness and drop back to the lower rank. The mother bore the mark of the
Ethiopian—not pronouncedly,
UNDER THE OLD REGIME
"I left her once," said Rena, "and it brought pain and sorrow to all three of
us. She is not strong, and I will not leave her here to die alone. This
shall be my home while she lives, and if I leave it again, it shall be for
only a short time, to go where I can write to her freely, and her from her
often. Doo
Warwick sighed. He was sincerely sorry to leave his sister, and yet he saw that for the time being her resolution was not to be shaken. He must bide his time. Perhaps, in a few months, she would tire of the old life. His door would always be open to her, and he would charge himself with her future.
"Well, then," he said, concluding the argument, "we'll say no more about it for the present. I'll write to you later. I was afraid that you might not care to go back just now, and so I brought your trunk along with me."
He gave his mother the baggage check. She took it across to Frank, who, during the day, brought the trunk from the depot. Mis' Molly offered to pay him for the service, but he would accept nothing.
"Lawd, no, Mis' Molly; I did n' hafter go out'n my way ter git dat trunk. I had a load er sperrit-bairls ter haul ter de still, an' de depot wuz right on my way back. It'd be robbin' you ter take pay fer a little thing lack dat."
"My son John's here," said Mis' Molly "an' he wants to see you. Come into the settin'-room. We don't want folks to know he's in town; but you know all our secrets, an, we can trust you like one er the family."
"I'm glad to see you again, Frank," said Warwick, extending his hand and clasping Frank's warmly. "You've grown up since I saw you last, but it seems you are still our good friend."
"Our very good friend," interjected Rena.
Frank threw her a grateful glance. "Yas, suh," he said, looking Warwick over
with a friendly eye, "an' you is growed some, too. I seed you, you know,
down dere where you live; but I did n' let on, fer you an' Mis' Rena wuz
w'ite as anybody; an,
"Thank you, Frank, and I want you to understand how much I appreciate"—
"How much we all appreciate," corrected Rena.
"Yes, how much we all appreciate, and how grateful we all are for your kindness to mother for so many years. I know from her and from my sister how good you've been to them."
"Lawd, suh!" returned Frank deprecatingly, "you er
"We value your friendship, Frank, and we'll not forget it."
"No, Frank," added Rena, "we will never forget it, and you shall always be our good friend."
Frank left the room and crossed the street with swelling heart. He would have given his life for Rena. A kind word was doubly sweet from her lips; no service would be too great to pay for her friendship.
When Frank went out to the stable next morning to feed his mule, his eyes opened wide with astonishment. In place of the decrepit, one-eyed army mule he had put up the night before, a fat, sleek specimen of vigorous mulehood greeted his arrival with the sonorous hehaw of lusty youth. Hanging on a peg near by was a set of fine new harness, and standing under the adorning shed, as he perceived, a handsome new cart.
"Well, well!" exclaimed Frank; "ef I did n' mos' know whar dis mule, an' dis kyart, an' dis harness come from, I'd 'low dere 'd be'n witchcraf' er cunjin' wukkin' here. But, oh my, dat is a fine mule!—I mos' wush I could keep 'im."
He crossed the road to the house behind the cedars, and found Mis' Molly in the kitchen.
"Mis' Molly," he protested, "I ain't done nuthin' ter deserve dat mule. W'at little I done fer you wa'n't done fer pay. I'd ruther not keep dem things."
"Fer goodness sake, Frank!" exclaimed Mis'Molly
"You knows w'at I'm talkin' erMis'er, an' kyart, an' harness,
"How should I know anything about 'em?" Mis' Molly
"Now, Mis' Molly! You folks is jes' tryin' ter fool me, an' make me take
somethin' fer nuthin'. I lef' my ole mule an' kyart an' harness in de stable
las' night, an' dis mawninNow, Mis' Molly,
"Well now, Frank, sence you mention it, I did see a witch flyin' roun' here
las' night on a broomstick, an' it 'peared to
"Dat's all foolishness, Mis' Molly, an' I'm gwine ter fetch dat mule right over here an' tell yo' son ter gimme my ole one back."
"My son's gone," Mis' MollyUNDER THE OLD REGIME
"I'm afraid
"Now, Miss Rena, you ought n't ter say day," expostulated Frank, his
reluctance yielding immediately. "I'll keep de mule an' de kyart an' de
harness—fac', I'll haf
So Frank went back to the stable, where he feasted his eyes on his new possessions, fed and watered the mule, and curried and brushed his coat until it shone like a looking-glass.
"Now dat," remarked Peter, at the breakfast-table, when informed of the transaction, "is somethin' like rale w'ite folks."
No real white person had ever given Peter a mule or a cart. He had rendered
one of them unpaid service for half a lifetime, and had paid for the other
half; auit
WHEN the first great shock of his discovery wore
off, the fact of Rena's origin lost to Tryon some of its initial
repugnance—indeed, the repugnance was not to the woman at all, as
their past relations were evidence, but merely to the womanbe more nearly literalGOD MADE US ALL
Returning to his home, after an absence of several months in South Carolina, it was quite apparent to his mother's watchful eye that he was in serious trouble. He was absent-minded, monosyllabic, sighed deeply and often, and could not always conceal the traces of secret tears. For Tryon was young, and possessed of a sensitive soul—a source of happiness or misery as the Fates decree. To those thus dowered, the heights of rapture are accessible, the abysses of despair yawn threateningly; only the dull monotony of contentment is denied.
Mrs. Tryon vainly sought by every gentle art a woman knows to win her son's confidence. "What is the matter, George, dear?" she would ask, stroking his hot brow with her small, cool hand as he sat moodily nursing his grief. "Tell your mother, George. Who else could comfort you so well as she?"
"Oh, it's nothi
It was Mrs. Tryon's turn to sigh and shed
secret
Miss Blanche Leary, whom Tryon found in the house upon his return, was a
demure, pretty little blonde, with an amiable disposition, a talent for
society, and a pronounced fondness for George Tyron. A poor girl, of an
excellent family impoverished by the war, she was distantly related to Mrs.
Tryon, had for a long time enjoyed that lady's favor, and was her choice for
George's wife when he should be old enough to marry. A woman less interested
than Miss Leary would have perceived that there was something wrong with
Tryon. Miss Leary had no doubt that there was a woman at the bottom of
it,—for about what else should youth worry but love? or if one's love
affairs run smoothly, why should one worry about anything at all? Miss
Leary, in the nineteen years of her mundane existence, had not been without
mild experiences of the heart, and had hovered for some time on the verge of
disappointment with respect
ALTHOUGH the whole fabric of Rena's new life
toppled and fell with her lover's defection, her sympathies, broadened by
culture and still more by her recent emotional experience, did not shrink, as
would have been the case with a more selfish soul, to the mere limits of her
personal sorrow, great as this seemed at the moment. She had learned to
love, and when the love of one man failed her, she turned to humanity, as a
stream obstructed in its course overflows the adjacent country. Her early
training had not turned..lyDIGGING UP ROOTSt"see
This new-born desire to be of service to her rediscovered people was not long
without an opportunity for expression. Yet the f
One morning Mis' Mollyher second
cousin,
"I heared you say, cousin Molly," said Mary B. (no one ever knew what the B.
in Mary's name stood for,—it was a mere ornamental flourish), "that
Rena was talkin' 'bout teachin' school. I've got a good chance fer her, ef
she keers ter take it. My cousin Jeff Wain 'rived in town this mo'nin', f'm
'way down in Sampson County, ter git a teacher fer the nigger school in his
deestric'. I s'pose he mought 'a' got one f'm 'roun' Newbern, er Goldsboro,
er some er them places Een
"I seed a ruther nice-lookin'early, from down to'ds the
river,..
"Did he have on a linen duster?" asked Mary B.
"Yas, an' 'peared to be a very well sot up man," replied Mis' Molly, "'bout thirty-five years old, I should reckon."
"That wuz him," assented Mary B. "He's got a fine hoss an' buggy, an' a gol' watch an' chain, an' a big plantation, an' lots er hosses an' mules an' cows an' hawgs. He rais' fifty bales er cotton las' year, an' he's be'n ter the legislatur'."
"My gracious!" exclaimed Mis' Molly, struck
DIGGING UP ROOTS
"No,—single. You mought 'low it was quare that he should n' be married at his age; but he was crossed in love oncet,"—Mary B. heaved a self-conscious sigh,—"an' has stayed single ever sence. That wuz ten years ago, but as some husban's long-lived, an' there ain' no mo' chance fer 'im now than there wuz then, I reckon' some nice gal mought stan' a good show er ketchin' 'im, ef she'd play her kyards right."
To Mis' Molly this was news of considerable importance. She had not thought a
great deal of Rena's plan to teach; she considered it lowering for Rena,
after having been white, to go among the negroes any more than was
unavoidable. This opportunity, however, meant more than mere employment for
her daughter. She had felt Rena's disappointment keenlyone
"You'd better fetch him roun' to see me, Ma'y B.," she said, "an' let's see what he looks like. I'm pertic'lar 'bout my gal. She says she ain't goin' to marry nobody; but of co'se we know that's all foolishness."
"I'll fetch him roun' this evenin' 'bout three o'clock," said the visitor,
rising. "I mus' hurry back now an' keep him comp'ny. Tell Rena ter put on
her bes' bib an' tucker; for Mr. Wain is pertic'le
When Mary B.DIGGING UP ROOTSapproached the house
ly
Mis' Molly's impression of Wain was favorable. His complexion was of a light brown—not quite so fair as Mis' Molly would have preferred; but any deficiency in this regard, or in the matter of the stranger's features, which, while not unpleasing, leaned toward the broad mulatto type, were more than compensated in her eyes by very straight black hair, and, as soon appeared, a great facility of complimentary speech. On his introduction Mr. Wain bowed low, assuming an air of great admiration, and expressed his extreme delight in making the acquaintance of so distinguished-looking a lady.
"You're flatt'rin' me, Mr. Wain," returned Mis' Molly with a gratified smile. "But you want to meet my daughter befo' you commence th'owin' bokays. Excuse my leavin' you—I'll go an' fetch her."
She returned in a moment followed by Rena.
Rena bowed gracefully. Wain stared a moment in genuine astonishment, and then
bent himself nearly double, keeping his eyes fixed meanwhile upon Rena's
face. He had expected to see a pretty yellow girl, but had been prepared for
no such radiant vision of beauty as this which
"Does—does you mean ter say, Mis' Walden, dat—dat this young lady is yo' own daughter?" he stammered, rallying his forces for action.
"Why not, Mr. Wain?" asked Mis' Molly, bridling with mock resentment. "Do you mean to 'low that she wuz changed in her cradle, er is she too good-lookin' to be my daughter?"
"My deah Mis' Walden! it 'ud be wastin' wo'ds fer me ter say dat daer
"Yas," rejoined Mis' Molly with animation, "they ain't many years between us. I wuz ruther young myself when she wuz bo'n."
"An' mo'over," Wain went on, "it takes me a minute er so ter git my min' use'
ter thinkin' er Mis' Rena as a cullud young lady. I mought 'a' seed her a
hund'ed times, an' I'd 'a' never drep
"Yas, Mr. Wain," replied Mis' Molly complacently, "all three er my child'en
wuz white, an' one of 'em has be'n on the other side fer many long years.
Rena has bee
"She's jes' de lady I'm lookin' fer, ter teach ou' school," rejoined Wain, with emphasis. "Wid her schoolin' an' my riccommen', she kin git a fus'-class ce'tifikit an' draw fo'ty dollars a month; an' a lady er her color kin keep a lot er little niggers straighter 'n a darker lady could. We jus' got ter have her ter teach ou' school—ef we kin git her."
Rena's interest in the prospect of employment at her chosen work was so great that she paid little attention to Wain's compliments. Mis' Molly led Mary B. away to the kitchen on some pretext and left Rena to entertain the gentleman. She questioned him eagerly about the school, and he gave the most glowing accounts of the elegant schoolhouse, the bright pupils, and the congenial society of the neighborhood. He spoke almost entirely in superlatives, and, after making due allowance for what Rena perceived to be a temperamental tendency to exaggeration, she concluded that she would find in the school a worthy field of usefulness, and in this polite and good-natured though somewhat wordy man a coadjutor upon whom she could rely in her first efforts; for she was not over-confident of her powers, which seemed to grow less as the way opened for their exercise.
"Do you think I 'm competent to teach the school?" she asked of the visitor after stating some of her qualifications.
"Oh, dere 's no doubt about it, Mis' Rena," replied Wain, who listened with an
air of great wisdom, though secretly aware that he was too ignorant of
letters to form a judgment; "you kin teach de school all right, an' could ef
you did n't know half ez much. You won't have no trouble managin' de chil
"Then," said Rena, "I 'll undertake it and do my best. I 'm sure you 'll not be too exacting."
"Yo' bes', Mis' Rena, 'll be de bes' dey is. Don' you worry ner fret. Dem niggers won't have no other teacher after dey 've once laid eyes on you: I 'll guarantee dat. Dere won't be no trouble, not a bit."
"Well, cousin Molly," said Mary B. to Mis' Molly in the kitchen, "how does the plan strike you?"
Ef Rena 's satisfied, I am," relied Mis' Molly. "But you 'd better say nothin' about ketchin' a beau or any such foolishness, er else she 'd be just as likely not to go nigh Sampson County."
"Befo' cousin Jeff goes back," confided Mary B., "I 'd like ter give 'im a
party, but my house
"Shorely, Ma'y B. I 'm int'rested in Mr. Wain on Rena's account, an' it 's as little as I kin do to let you use my house an' help you git things ready."
The date of the party was set for Thursday night, as Wain was to leave
Patesville on Friday morning, taking with him the new teacher. The party
would serve the double purpose of a compliment to the guest and a farewell
to Rena, and it might prove the precursor, the mother secrete
One Wednesday
morning,ABOUTTryon'sto hisheTryonone dayenotehadunder vowedthat he would never returnto Patesville. Six weeks had elapsed since his departure from the town andA MATTER OFthird day would bring him home again. He set out
on his journey
Tryon would not at first have admitted even to himself that Rena's presence
in Patesville had any bearing whatever upon his projected visit. The matter
concerning
The importance of this business, then, seemed very urgent for the first few
hours of Tryon's journey. Ordinarily a very careful driver and merciful to
his beast, his eagerness to reach Patesville increased gradually until it
became necessary to exercise some self-restraint in order not to urge his
faithful mare beyond her powers; and soon he could no longer pretend
obliviousness of the fact that some attraction stronger than the whole
amount of Duncan McSwayne's note was urging him irresistibility towards
save
At noon he halted at a convenient hamlet, fed and watered his mare, and resumed his journey after an hour's rest. By this time he had well-nigh forgotten about the legal business that formed the ostensible occasion for his journey, and was conscious only of a wild desire to see the woman whose image was beckoning him on to Patesville as fast as his horse could take him.
At sundown he stopped again about ten miles
A MATTER OF
Memory had hitherto assailed Tryon with the vision of past joys. As he neared
the town imagination attacked him with still more moving images. He had left
her, this sweet flower of womankind—white or not, God had never made a
fairer!—he had seen her fall to the hard pavement, with he knew not
what resulting injury. He had left her tender frame—the touch of her
fingers had once thrilled every one of his nerves— to be lifted by
strange hands, while he with heartless pride had driven deliberately away,
without a word of sorrow or regret. He had ignored her as completely as
though she had never existed. That he had been deceived was true. But had he
not aided in his own deception? Had not Warwick told him distinctly that
they were of no family, and was it not his own fault that he had not
followed up the clue thus given him? Had not Rena compared herself to the
child's nurse, and had he not assured her that if she were the nurse he
would marry her the next day? The deception had been due more to his own
blindness than to any lack of honesty on the part of Rena and her brother.
In the light of his
present feelings they seemed to have been absurdly outspoken.
"She ought to have been born white," he muttered, adding weakly, "I would to God that I had never found her out!"
Drawing near the bridge that led across
The tired mare had crossed the bridge and was slowly toiling up Front Street; she was near the limit of her endurance, and Tryon did not urge her.
They might talk the matter over, and if they must part, part at least they
would in peace and friendship. If he could not marry her, he would never
marry any one else; it would be cruel for him to seek happiness while she
was denied it, for, having given her heart to him, she could never, he was
sure,—so intensely loyal
If he should findA MATTER OFcoveredmust
THE evening of the party arrived. The house had been
thoroughly cleaned in preparation for the event, and decorated with the
choicest treasures of the garden. By eight o'clock the guests had gathered.
They were all mulattoes—all people of mixed blood were called
"mulattoes" in North Carolina. There were dark mulattoes and bright
mulattoes. Mis' Molly's guests were mostly of the bright class, most of them
more than half white, and few of them less. In Mis' Molly's small circle,
straight hair was the only palliative of a dark complexion. Many of the guests
would not have been casually distinguishable from white people of the poorer
class. Others bore unmistakable traces of Indian ancestry,—for Cherokee
and Tuscarora blood was quite widely diffused among the free negroes of
North Carolina, though well-nigh lost sight of by the curious custom of the
white people to ignores
l looked down upon those w
"Ladies an' gent'emens, take yo' pa'dners fer a Fuhginny reel!"
Mr. Wain, as the guest of honor, opened the ball with his hostess. He wore a
broadcloth coat and trousers, and
spannedwhileadorned
When the dance began, Wain extended his large soft hand to Mary B., yellow, buxom, thirty, with white and even teeth, glistening behind her full red lips. A younger sister of Mary B.'s was paired with Billy Oxendine, a funny little tailor, a great gossip, and therefore a favorite among the women. Mis' Molly graciously consented, after many protestations of lack of skill and want of practice, to stand up opposite Homer Pettifoot, Mary B.'s husband, a tall man with a slight stoop, a bald crown, and full, dreamy eyes—a man of much imagination and a large fund of anecdote. Two other couples completed the set; others were restrained by bashfulness or religious scruples which did not yield until later in the evening.
The perfumed air from the garden without and the cut roses within mingled
incongruously with the alien odors of musk and hair oil, of which several
young barbers in the company were especially redolent. There was a play of
sparkling eyes and glancing feet. Mary B. danced with the languorous grace
of an e
Rena had announced in advance her intention to take no active part in the festivities. "I don't feel like dancing, mamma— I shall never dance again."
"Well, now, Rena," answered her mother, "of co'se you 're too dignified, sence you 've be'n 'sociatin' with white folks, to be hoppin' roun' an' kickin' up like Ma'y B. an' these other yaller gals; but of co'se, too, you can't slight the comp'ny entirely, even ef it ain't jest exac'ly our party—you 'll have to pay 'em some little attention, 'specially Mr. Wain, sence you 're goin' down yonder with 'im."
Rena conscientiously did what she thought politeness required. She went the
round of the guests in the early part of the evening and exchanged greetings
with them. To several requests for dances she replied that she was not
dancing. She did not hold herself aloof because of pride; any instinctive
shrinking she might have felt by reasons of her recent exclusive association with persons
of greater refinement was offset by her still more recently
The guests themselvesyear
When supper was announced, somewhat early in the evening, the dancers found
seats in the hall or on the front piazza. Aunt Zilphy, assisted by Mis'
Molly and Mary B., passed around the refreshments, which consisted of fried
chicken, buttered biscuits, pound-cake, and eggnog. When the first edge of
appetite was taken off, the conversation waxed animated. Homer Pettifoot
related, with
various
This story was followed by a murmur of incredulity—of course, the thing was possible, but Homer's faculty for exaggeration was so well known that any statement of his was viewed with suspicion. Homer seemed hurt at this lack of faith, and was disposed to argue the point; but the sonorous voice of Mr. Wain on the other side of the room cut short his protestations, in much the same way that rising sun extinguishes the light of lesser luminaries.
"I wuz a member er de fus' legistlatur' after de wah," Wain was saying. "When
I went up f'm Sampson in de fall, I had to pass th'ough Smithfiel'. I got in
town in de afternoon, an' put up at de bes' hotel. De lan'lo'd did n' have
no s'picion but what I wuz a white man, an' he gimme a room, an' I had
supper an' breakfas', an' went on ter Rolly nex' mornin'. W'en de session
wuz over, I come along back, an' w'en I got ter Smithfiel' I driv' up ter de
same hotel. I noticed, as soon as I got dere, dat de place had run down
consid'able—dere wuz weeds growin' in de yard, de winders wuz dirty,
an' ev'ything roun' dere looked kinder
"'Look a'
"De po' man acshully bu'st
"How good-hearted! How kin'!" murmured the ladies. "It done credit to yo' feelin's."
"Don't b'lieve a word er dem lies," muttered one young man to another sarcastically. "He could n' pass fer white, 'less'n it wuz a mighty dark night."
Upon this glorious evening of his life, Mr. Jefferson Wain had one distinctly
hostile critic of whose presence he was blissfully unconscious. Frank Fuller
had not been invited to the party,—his family did not go with Mary
B.'s set. Rena had suggested to her mother that he be invited, but Mis'
Molly had demurred on the ground that it was not her party and that she had
no right to
Frank was not without a certain honest pride. He was sensitive enough, too, not to care to go where he was not wanted. He would have curtly refused any such maimed invitation to any other place. But would he not see Rena in her best attire, and might she not perhaps, in passing, speak a word to him?
"Thank y', Mis' Molly," he replied, "I 'll prob'ly come over."
"You er'rewhiteyallerraleh
Frank himself resisted the temptation for half an hour after the music began,
but at length he made his way across the street and stationed himself at the
window opening upon the back piazza. When Rena was in the room, he had eyes
for her only, but when she was absent, he fixed his attention mainly upon
Wain. With jealous -nature
"Is that you, Frank?" said a soft voice near at hand.
He looked up with a joyful thrill. Rena was peering intently at him, as if trying to distinguish his features in the darkness. It was a bright moonlight night, but Frank stood in the shadow of the piazza.
"Yas 'm, it 's me, Miss Rena. Yo' mammy said I could come over an' see you
"No, Frank, I don't care for dancing. I shall not dance to-night."
This answer was pleasing to Frank. If he could not hope to dance with her, at least the men inside,—at least this snake in the grass from down the country—should not have that privilege.
"But you must have some supper, Frank," said Rena. "I 'll bring it myself."
"No, Miss Rena, I don' keer fer nothin'—I did n' come over ter eat—r'al'y I did n't."
"Nonsense, Frank, there 's plenty of it. I have no appetite, and you shall have my portion."
She brought him a slice of cake and a glass of eggnog. When he heard Mis' Molly calling Rena a minute later, hepiazzaShe—her drop of black blood gave him that right—
Mis' Molly had come to call her daughter into the house. "Rena," she said, "Mr. Wain wants ter know if you won't dance just one dance with him."
"Yas, Rena," pleaded Mary B., who followed Miss Molly out to the piazza, "jes' one dance. I don't think you 're treatin' my comp'ny jes' right, cousin Rena."
"You 're goin' down there with 'im," added her mother, "an' it 'd be je
Wain himself had followed the woman. "Sho'ly,
As Rena, weakly persuaded, placed her hand on Wain's arm and entered the house, a buggy, coming up Front Street, paused a moment at the corner, and then turning slowly, drove quietly up the nameless by-street, concealed by the intervening cedars, until it reached a point from which the occupant could view, through the open front window, the interior of the parlor.
MOVED by tenderness and thoughts of self-sacrifice,
which had occupied his mind to the momentary exclusion of all else, Tryon had
scarcely noticed, as he drew nearsounds
He drew rein at the corner. Shocked surprise, a nascent anger, a vague alarm, an insistent curiosity, urged him nearer. Turning the mare into the side street and keeping close to the fence, he drove ahead in the shadow of the cedars until he reached a gap through which he could see into the open door and windows of the brightly lighted hall.
There was evidently a ball in progress. The fiddle was squeaking merrily to a
tune that he remembered well—it was associated with one of
To the middle of the floor, in full view through an open window, advanced the woman who all day long had been the burden of his thoughts—not pale with grief and hollow-eyed with weeping, but flushed with pleasure, around her waist the arm of a burly, grinning mulatto whose face was offensively familiar to Tryon.
With a muttered curse of concentrated bitterness, Tryon struck the mare a
sharp blow with the whip. The sensitive creature, spirited even in her great
weariness, resented the lash and started off with the bit in her teeth.
Perceiving that it would be difficult to turn in the narrow streetdanger ofside
Meantime Rena was passing through a trying ordeal. After the first few bars
of the fiddler plunged into a well-known dance tuneas the tune to which, as Queen of Love and Beauty, she had opened
the dance at her entrance into the world of life and love, for it was there
she had met George Tryon. The combination of music and movement brought up
the scene with great distinctness. Tryon, peering angrily through the
cedars, had not been more conscious than she was
f
have—
When Tryon lay awake in the early morning,
"Oh, mother," she whispered, as they stood wrapped in a close embrace, "I 'm afraid to leave you. I left you once, and it turned out so miserably."
"It 'll turn out better this time, honey," replied her mother soothingly. "Good-by, child. Take care of yo'self an' yo' money, and write to yo' mammy."
One kiss all round, and Rena was lifted into the buggy. Wain seized the
reins, and under his skillful touch the pretty
"Good-by ter Patesville! good-by folkses all!" he cried with a wave of his disengaged hand.
"Good-by mother—good-by all!" cried Rena, as with tears in her heart and a brave smile on her face she left her home behind her for the second time.
When they had crossed the river bridge the travelers came to a long stretch
of rising ground, from the summit of which they could look back over the
white sandy road for nearly a mile. Neither Rena nor her companion saw Frank 226 THE HOUSE BEHIND THE CEDARSclimbhillbird
The buggy paused at the top of the hill, and Frank, shading his eyes with his
hand, thought he could see her turn and look behind. Look back, dear child,
towards your home and those who love you! For who knows any
THE road to Sampson County lay for the most part over the pine-clad sandhills,—an alternation of gentle rises and gradual descents, with now and then a swamp of greater or less extent. Long stretches of the highway led through the virgin forest, for miles unbroken by a clearing or sign of human habitation.
They traveled slowly, with frequent pauses in shady places, for the weather
was hot. The journey, made leisurely, required more than a day, and might
with slight effort be prolonged into two. They stopped for the night at a
small village, where Wain found lodging for Rena with an acquaintance of
his, and for himself with another, while a third took charge of the horse,
the accommodation for travelers being limited. Rena's appearance and manners
were the subject of much comment. It was necessary to eq
They resumed their journey somewhat late in the morning. Rena would willingly
have hastened, for she was anxious to plunge into her new work; but Wain
seemed disposed to prolong the pleasant drive, and beguiled the way for a
time with stories of wonderful things he had done and strange experiences of
a somewhat checkered career. He was shrewd enough to avoid any subject which
would offend a modest young woman, but too obtuse to perceive that much of
what he said would not commend him to a person of refinement. He did not say a great deal about
Toward the end of the second day, while nearing their destination, the travelers passed a large white house standing back from the road at the foot of a lane. Around it grew wide-spreading trees and well-kept shrubbery. The fences were in good repair. Behind the house and across the road stretched extensive fields of cotton and waving corn. They had passed no other place that showed such signs of thrift and prosperity.
"Oh, what a lovely place!" exclaimed Rena. "That is yours, is n't it?"
"No; we ain't got to my house yet," he answered. "Dat house b'longs ter de riches' people roun' here. Dat house is over in de nex' county. We 're right close to de line now."
Shortly afterwards they turned off from the main road
"De main road," explained Wain, "goes on to Clinton, 'bout five miles er mo'
away. Dis road
Wain lived in an old plantation house, somewhat dilapidated and surrounded by
an air of neglect and shiftlessness, but still preserving a remnant of
dignity in its outlines and comfort in its interior arrangements. Rena was
assigned a large room on the second floor. She was somewhat surprised at the
make-up of the household. Wain's mother—an old woman, much darker than
her son—kept
.He had lost his wife,whom, as he informed Rena sadly,
he had lost a couple of years
before.
"Yas, Mis' Rena," he sighed, "de Lawd give her, an' de Lawd tuck her away.
Blessed be de name er de Lawd." He accompanied this sententious quotation
with a wicked look from between
The following morning Wain drove her in his buggy over to the county town,
where she took the teacher's examination. She was given a seat in a room
with a number of other candidates for certificates, but the fact leaking out
from some remark of Wain's that she was a colored girl, objection was
"You have the satisfaction," he said, "of receiving the only first-grade certificate issued to-day. You might teach a higher grade of pupils than you will find at Sandy Run, but let us hope that you may in time raise them to your own level."
"Which I doubt very much," he muttered to himself as she went away with Wain. "What a pity that such a woman should be a nigger! If she were anything to me, though, I should hate to trust her anywhere near that saddle-colored scoundrel. He's a thoroughly bad lot, and will bear watching."
Rena, however, was serenely ignorant of any danger from the accommodating Wain. Absorbed in her own thoughts and plans, she had not sought to look beneath the surface of his somewhat overdone politeness. In a few days she began her work as teacher, and sought to forget in the service of others the dull sorrow that still gnawed at her heart.
BLANCHE LEARY, closely observant of Tryon's moods,
marked a decided change in his manner after his return from tl cast.
More than once, during the second week after his return, he went out riding
with her; she was a graceful horse woman, perfectly at home in the saddle,
and looked well
"He is comparing me with some other girl," she thoughtLADIES CHANGE"I wonder
who the other is, and what was the trouble?"
Miss Leary exerted all her powers to interest and amuse the man she had set
out to win, and who seemed nearer than ever before. Tryon, to his pleased
surprise, discovered in her mind depths that he had never suspected. She
displayed a singular affinity for the tastes that were his—he could
not tell how carefully she had studied them. The old wound, recently
reopened, seemed to be healing rapidly, under conditions more conducive than
before to perfect recovery. No longer indeed was he pursued by the picture
of Rena discovered and unmasked—this he had definitely banished from
the realm of sentiment to that of reason. The haunting image of Rena loving
and beloved, amid the harmonious surroundings of her brother's home, was not
so readily displaced. Nevertheless he reached in several weeks a point
from which he could consider her as one thinks of a dear one removed by the
hand of death, or smitten by some incurable ailment of mind or body.
Erelong, he fondly believed, the recovery would be so far complete that he
could consign to the tomb of pleasant memories even the most thrillingpleasantest
"George," said Mrs. Tryon one morning while her son was in a cheerful mood,
"I 'm sending Blanche over to Major McLeod's to do an errand for me. Would
you mind driving her over? The road may be rough after the storm last night,
and
as
"Why, yes, mother, I 'll be glad to drive Blanche over. I want to see the major myself."
They were soon bowling along between the pines, behind the handsome mare that had carried Tryon so well at the Clarence tournament. Presently he drew up sharply.
"A tree has fallen squarely across the road," he exclaimed. "We shall have to
turn back a little wav
They drove back a quarter of a mile and turned into a byroad leading to the
right through the woods. The solemn stillnesssolemn
"Blanche," he said, looking at her kindly.
"Yes, George?" Her voice was very gentle, and slightly tremulous. Could she have divined his thought? Love is a great clairvoyant.
"Blanche, dear, I"—
A clatter of voices broke upon the stillness of
LADIES CHANGEdd
"What a funny little darkey!" exclaimed Miss Leary, pointing to a diminutive
lad who was walking on his hands, with his feet
"Hoddy, Mars Geo'ge!" he exclaimed, bobbing
"Hello, Plato," replied the young man, "what are you doing here?"
"Gwine ter school, Mars Geo'ge," replied the
oa
"Wat you callin' dat w'ite man marster fur?" whispered a tall yellow boy to
the acrobat addressed as Plato. "You don' b'long ter him no mo'; youer
Tryon threw a small coin to Plato, and holding another in his hand
suggestively, smiled toward the tall yellow boy, who looked regretfully at
the coin, but stood his ground; he would call no man master
During this little colloquy Miss Leary had kept her face turned toward the school-house.
"What a pretty girl!" she exclaimed. "There," she added, as Tryon turned his head toward her, "you are too late. She has retired into her castle. Oh, Plato!"
"Yas, Missis," replied Plato, who was prancing round the buggy in great glee, on the strength of his acquaintance with the white folks.
"Is your teacher white?"
"No, ma'm, she ain't w'ite; she 's black. She looks lack she 's w'ite, but she 's black."
Tryon had not seen the teacher's face, but the incident had jarred the old wound; Miss Leary's description of the teacher, together with Plato's characterization, had stirred lightly sleeping memories. He was more or less abstracted during the remainder of the drive, and did not recur to the conversation that had been interrupted by coming upon the school-house.
The teacher, glancing for a moment through the open door of the school-house,
had seen a handsome young lady staring at her,—Miss Leary had a
curiously intent look when she was interested in anything, with no intention
whatever to be rude,—and beyond the lady the back and shoulder of a
man whose face was turned the other way. Somewhere t did not like to be stared at, so sheand the carriage drove on before she had had an opportunity to identify the vague resemblance to something she had known.
Miss Leary had missed by a hair's breadth the psychological moment, and felt some resentment towards the little negroes who had interrupted her lover's train of thought. Negroes have caused a great deal of trouble among white people. How deeply the shadow of the Ethiopian had fallen upon her own happiness Miss Leary of course could not guess.
A FEW days later, Rena looked out of the window near her desk and saw a low basket phaeton, drawn by a sorrel pony, driven sharply into the clearing and drawn up beside an oak sapling. The occupant of the phaeton, a tall, handsome, well preserved lady in middle life, with slightly gray hair, alighted briskly from the phaeton, tied the pony to the sapling with a hitching-strap, and advanced to the school-house door.
Rena wondered who the lady might be. She had a benevolent aspect, however, and came forward to the desk with a smile, not at all embarrassed by the wide-eyed inspection of the entire school.
"How do you do?" she said, extending her hand to the teacher. "I live in the neighborhood and am interested in the people—a good many of them once belonged to me. I heard something of your school and thought I should like to make your acquaintance."
"It is very kind of you indeed," murmured Rena respectfully.
"Yes," continued the lady, "I am not one of
"The school may take the morning recess now," announced the teacher. The pupils filed out in an orderly manner, most of them stationing themselves about the grounds in such places as would keep the teacher and the white lady in view. Very few white persons approved of the colored schools; no other white person had ever visited this one.
"Are you really colored?" asked the lady, when the children had withdrawn.
A year and a half earlier Rena would have met the question by some display of self-consciousness. Now she replied simply and directly.
"Yes, ma'am, I am colored."
The lady, who had been studying her as closely as good manners would permit, sighed regretfully.
"Well, it 's a shame. No one would ever think it. If you chose to conceal it, no one would ever be the wiser. What is your name, child, and where were you brought up? You must have a romantic history."
Rena gave her name and a few facts in regard to her past. The lady was so
much interested, and put so many and such searching questions,
y
in concealing
"I shall attend it," declared the lady positively. "I 'm sure you are doing
Was it the name, or some subtle resemblance in speech or feature that
recalled Tryon's image to Rena's mind? It was not so far away—the
image of the loving Tryon—that any powerful
,
was not clear to hershe did not recall
"And where are you staying, my dear?" asked the good lady.
"I 'm boarding at Mrs. Wain's," answered Rena.
"Mrs. Wain's?"
"Yes, they live in the old Campbell place."
"Oh, yes—Aunt Nancy. She 's a good enough woman, but we don't think much of her son Jeff. He married my Amanda after the war—she used to belong to me, and ought to have known better. He abused her most shamefully, and had to be threatened with the law. She left him a year or so ago and went away; I have n't seen her lately. Well, good-by, child; I 'm coming to your exhibition. If you ever pass my house come in and see me."
The good lady had talked for half an hour, had brought a beam of lightshe
Rena saw Plato untying the pony as the lady climbed into the phaeton.
"Who was the lady, Plato?" asked the teacher when the
"Dat 'uz my ole mist'iss, ma'm," returned Plato proudly,—"ole Miss
"Miss
"Mis' 'Liza Tryon. I use' ˇ
RENA had found her task not a difficult one so far
as discipline was concerned. Her pupils were of a docile race, and school to
them had all the charm of novelty. The teacher commanded some awe because
she was a stranger, and moreevidence of their own sensespalpable fact of the teacher's whitenessthe
At the time when she learned that Tryon lived occasionallynow and then
"Dese child'en," he would observe sonorously in the presence of the school, "oughter be monst'ous glad ter have de chance er settin' under yo' instruction, Miss Rena. I 'm sho' eve'body in dis neighbo'hood 'preciates de priv'lege er havin' you in ou' mids'."
Though slightly embarrassing to the teacher, these public demonstrations were
endurable so long as they could be regarded as mere official appreciation of
her work. Sincerely in earnest about thetask she had undertaken,its depthsplaced
But Rena was no philosopher, either sad or cheerful. She could not even have
replied to this argument
When Wain's attentions became obviously personal, Rena's new vestal instinct
took alarm, and she began to apprehend his character more clearly. She had
long ago learned that his pretensions to wealth were a sham. He was nominal
owner of a large plantation, it is true; but the land was worn out, and
mortgaged to the limit of its security value. His
Her clear eye when once set to take Wain's measure soon fathomed his shallow,
selfish soul, and detected, or at least divined, behind his mask of
good-nature a lurking brutality which filled her with vague alarmterrorshuddered
"My son Jeff," old Mrs. Wain would say, "is de bes' man you ever seed. His
fus' wife had de easies' time an' the happies' time er ary woman in
gits'wiure
Rena had thought Wain rather harsh with his household, except in her
immediate presence. His mother and sister seemed more or less afraid of him,
and the children at times anxious often anxiousseemed
One day he timed his visit to the schoolhouse so as to walk home with Rena
through the woods. When Rena
Wain with difficulty hid a scowl behind a smiling front. When they had gone a little distance along the road through the woods he clapped his hand upon his pocket.
"I declare ter goodness," he exclaimed, "ef I ain't dropped my pocket-knife! I thought I felt somethin' slip th'ough dat hole in my pocket jes' by the big pine stump in the schoolhouse ya'd. Jinny, chile, run back an' hunt fer my knife, an' I 'll give yer five cents ef yer find it. Me an' Miss Rena 'll walk on slow 'tel you ketches us."
Rena did not dare to object, though she was afraid to be alone with this man.
If she hadtakeShe was not left long in suspense.
Speechless with fear and indignation, she tore herself from his grasp with
totally unexpected force, and fled incontinently along the forest path.
Wain—who, to do him some justice, had merely meant to declare his
passion in what he had hoped might prove a not unacceptable
fashion—followed in some alarm, expostulating and apologizing as he
went. But he was heavy and Rena was light, and fear lent wings to her feet.
He followed her until he saw her enter the house of Deacon Jonson, the
father of several of her pupils, after which he sneaked uneasily homeward,
somewhat apprehensive of the consequences of his abrupt wooing, which was
evidently open to an unfavorable construction. When an hour later Rena sent
one of the Johnson children for some of her things, with a message
explaining that the teacher had been invited to spend a few days at Deacon
Johnson's, Wain felt a pronounced measure of relief. For an hour or two
no
sooner hadwhen
Right upon the heels of the perturbation caused by Wain's conduct, came the discoveryRena discoveredPlacedwhich
TRYON'S first feeling, when his mother at the
dinner table gave an account of her visit to the se
been
guilty of a sincommitted a crime,
Of this state of mind Tryon gave no visible manifestation beyond a certain taciturnity, so much at variance with his recent liveliness that the ladies could not fail to notice it. No effort upon the part of either was able to affect his mood, and they both resigned themselves to await his lordship's pleasure to be companionable.
For a day or two, Tryon sedulously kept away from the neighborhood of the schoolhouse at Sandy Eun. He really had business which would have taken him in that direction, but made a detour of five miles rather than go near his abandoned and discredited sweetheart.
But George Tryon was wisely distrustful of his own impulses. Driving one day along the road to Clinton, he overhauled a diminutive black figure trudging along the road, occasionally turning a handspring by way of diversion.
"Hello, Plato," called Tryon, "do you want a lift?"
"Hoddy, Mars Geo'ge. Kin I ride wid you?"
"Jump up."
Plato mounted into the buggy with the agility to be expected from one
teachers
"Does she go to church or anywhere else with Jeff Wain, Plato?
"No, suh, she don' go nowhar wid nobody excep'n' ole Elder Johnson er Mis' Johnson, an' de child'en. She use' ter stop at Mis' Wain's, but she 's stayin' wid Elder Johnson now. She alluz makes some er de child'en go home wid er f'm school," said Plato, proud to find in Mars Geo'ge an appreciative listener, "sometimes one an' sometimes anudder. I 's be'n home wid 'er twice, an' it'll be my tu'n ag'in befo' long."
"Plato," remarked Tryon
"Yas, Mars Geo'ge, ef you says I shill."
"Do you see this fifty-cent piece?" Tryon displayed a small piece of paper money, crisp and green in its newness.
"Yas, Mars Geo'ge," replied Plato, fixing his eyes respectfully on the
"I am going to give this to you, Plato." Plato's eyes opened wide as saucers. "Me, Mars Geo'ge?" he asked in amazement.
"Yes, Plato. I 'm going to write a letter while I'm in town, and want you to take it. Meet me here in half an hour, and I'll give you the letter. Meantime, keep your mouth shut."
"Yas, Mars Geo'ge," replied Plato with a grin that distended that organ
unduly. That he did not keep it shut may be inferred from the fact that
within the next half hour he had eaten and drunk fifty cents
Tryon placed a letter in Plato's hand, still sticky with molasses
candy,—he had inclosed it in a second cover by way of protection.
"Give that letter," he said, "to your teacher; don't say a word about it to
a living soul; bring me an answer, and give it into my own hand, and yI'll give you
Tryon was quite aware that by a surreptitious correspondence he ran some risk
of compromising Rena. But he had felt, as soon as he had indulged his first
opportunity to talk of her, an irresistible impulse to see her, to
upon her
for her mail
posted
and who
l
The letter handed by Tryon to Plato, and by the latter delivered with due secrecy and precaution, ran as follows:—
DEAR MISS WARWICK,—You may think it strange
that I should address you after what has passed between us; but learning
from my mother of your presence in the neighborhood, I am constrained to
believe that you do not find my proximity embarrassing, and I cannot resist
the wish to meet you at least once more, and talk over the circumstances of
our former friendship. From a
Respectfully yours,
G. T.
The next day but one Tryon received through the mail the following reply to his letter:—
GEORGE TRYON, ESQ.,—
DEAR SIR:
I have requested your messenger to say that I will answer your letter by
mail, which I shall now proceed to do. I will
As to our past relations, they were ended by your own act. I quite freely
As to a future interview, I do not see what good it would do either of us.
You are white, and you have given me to understand that I am black. I accept
the classification, however unfair, and the consequences, however unjust,
one of which is that we cannot meet in the same parlor, in the same church,
at the same table, or anywhere, in social intercourse; upon a steamboat we
would not sit at the same table; we could not walk together on the street,
or meet publicly anywhere and converse, without unkind remark. As a white
man, this might not mean a great deal to you; as a woman, shut out already
by my color from much that makes life livable
give up any wishfeasible
of
such
ty
his
loyal
whose charms
No, Mr. Tryon, our romance is ended, and better so. We could never have been
happy. I have found a work in which I may be of service to others who seem to
I
had
ROWENA WALDEN.
TO Rena's high-strung and sensitive nature, already
under very great tension from her past experience, the ordeal of the next
few days was a severe one. On the one hand, Jeff Wain's infatuation had
rapidly increased, in view of her speedy departure. From Mrs. Tryon's remark
about Wain's wife Amanda, and from things Rena had since learned, she had
every reason to believe that this wife was living, and that Wain must be
aware of the fact. In the light of this knowledge, Wain's former conduct
took on a blacker significance than, upon reflection, she had charitably
clothed it with after the first flush of indignation. That he had not given
up his design to make love to her was quite apparent, and, with Amanda
alive, his attentions, always offensive since she had gathered their import,
became in her eyes the expression of a villainous purpose, of which she
could not speak to others, and from which she felt safe only so long as she
took proper precautions against it. In a week her school would be over, and
then she would get Elder Johnson, or somerecent
illness,in
, snakelike
The knowledge of Tryon's presence in the vicinity had been almost as much as
Rena could bear. To it must be added the consciousness that he, too, was
pursuing her, to what end she could not tell. After his letter to her
brother, and the feeling therein displayed, she found it necessary to crush
once or twice a wild hope that, her secret being still unknown save to a
friendly few, he might return and claim her. Now, such an outcome would be
impossible. He had become engaged to another woman,—this in itself
would be enough to keep him from her, if it were not an index of a vastly
more serious barrier, a proof that he had never loved her. If he had loved
her truly, he
had heretofore
But this heaping up of cares strained her endurance to the breaking-point.
Toward the middle of the last week, she knew that she had almost reached the
limit, and she
"Miss Rena," said Plato to her on Tuesday, "ain't it 'bout time I wuz gwine home wid you ag'in?"
"You may go with me to-morrow, Plato," answered the teacher.
After school Plato met an anxious-eyed young
"Well, Plato, what news?"
"I 's gwine ter see her home ter-morrer, Mars Geo'ge."
"To-morrow!" replied Tryon; "how very unfortunate! I wanted you to go to town to-morrow to take an important message for me. I'm sorry, Plato—you might have earned another dollar."
To lie is a disgraceful thing, and yet there are times when, to a lover's mind, love dwarfs all ordinary laws. Plato scratched his head disconsolately, but suddenly a bright thought struck him.
"Can't I go ter town fer you atter I've seed her home, Mars Geo'ge?"
"N
"Den I'll haf
"No, Plato," rejoined Tryon, shaking his head, "I should n't want to deprive
you of so great a pleasure." Tryon was entirely sincere in this
characterization of Plato's chance; he would have given many a dollar to be
sure of Plato's place and Plato's welcome. Rena's letter had re-inflamed his
smouldering passion; only opposition was needed to fan it to a white heat.
Wherein lay the great superiority of his position, if he was denied the
was
conscious of a certainfelt, too, a
strangemarry him
f
"I think, Plato, that I see an easier way out of the difficulty. Your teacher, I imagine, merely wants some one to see her safely home. Don't you think, if you should go part of the way, that I might take your place for the rest, while you did my errand?"
"Why, sho'ly, Mars Geo'ge, you could take keer er her better 'n I could—better 'n anybody could—co'se you could!"
Mars Georrrrrrrrrr
"Very well, Plato. I think we can arrange it so that you can kill the two
rabbits at one shot. Suppose that we go over the road that she will take to
go home."
They soon arrived at the schoolhouse. School had been out an hour, and the clearing was deserted. Plato led the way by the road through the woods to a point where, amid somewhat thick underbrush, another path intersected the road they were following.
"Now, Plato," said Tryon, pausing here, "this would be a good spot for you to
leave the teacher and for me to take your place. This path leads to the main
road, and will take you to town very quickly. I should n't say anything to
the teacher about it at all; but when you and she get hereagain the next day
home
"All right, Mars Geo'ge, I ain't gwine ter say no mo' d'n ef de cat had my tongue."
RENAwas unusually fatigued at the close of her
school on Wednesday afternoon. She had been troubled all day with a
headache, which, beginning with a dull pain, had gradually increased in
intensity until every nerve seemed throbbing like a trip-hammer. The pupils
seemed
Her beauty, her whiteness
N
l-ing
Plato, bright-eyed and alert, was waiting in the school-yard until the teacher should be ready to start. Having warned away several smaller children who had hung around after school as though to share his prerogative of accompanying the teacher, Plato had swung himself into the low branches of an oak at the edge of the clearing, from which he was hanging by his legs, head downward. He dropped from this reposeful attitude when the teacher appeared at the door, and took his place at her side.
A premonition of impending trouble caused the teacher to hesitate. She wished that she had kept more of the pupils behind. Something whispered that danger lurked in the road she customarily followed. Plato seemed insignificantly small and weak, and she felt miserably unable to cope with any difficult or untoward situation.
"Plato," she suggested, "I think we'll go round the other way to-night, if you don't mind."
Visions of Mars George disappointed, of a dollar unearned and unspent, flitted through the narrow brain which some one, with the irony of ignorance or of knowledge, had mocked with the name of a great philosopher. Plato was not an untruthful lad, but he seldom had the opportunity to earn a dollar. His imagination, spurred on by the instinct of self-interest, rose to the emergency.
"I's feared you mought git snake-bit gwine roun' dat way, Miss Rena. My brer Jim kill't a water-moccasin down dere yistiddy 'bout ten feet long."
Rena had a horror of snakes, with which the swamp by which the other road ran
was infested. Snakes were a vivid reality; her presentiment was probably a
mere depression of spirits due to her condition of nervous exhaustion. A
cloud had come up and threatened rain, and the wind was rising ominously.
The old way was the shorter; she wanted above all things to get to Elder
Johnson,
She plunged into the path and hastened forward so as to reach home before the
approaching storm. So completely was she absorbed in her own thoughts that
she scarcely noticed that Plato himself seemed preoccupied. Instead of
capering along like a playful kitten or puppy, he walked by her side
unusually silent. When they had gone a
"Plato!" she called, "Plato!"
There was no response, save the soughing of the wind through the swaying treetops. She stepped hastily forward, wondering if this were some childish prank. If so, it was badly timed, and she would let Plato feel the weight of her displeasure.
Her forward step had brought her to the junction of the two paths, where she
paused doubtfully. The path
lead
What should she do? There was no sign of Plato—for o
The problem was too much for her overwrought brain. She turned and fled. A
wiser instinct might have led her forward. In the two conflicting dangers
she might have found safety. The road after all was a public way. Any number
of persons might meet there accidentthe
situationthings.
If she had fled to Tryon for
protection, Wain would have had her reputation fairly at his mercy. Wain
himself had done nothing of which complaint could be made to
others. To turn to Tryon for protection before Wain had some
overt act manifested ‸ the
The storm increased in violence. The air grew darker and darker. It was near evening, the clouds were dense, the thick woods increased the gloom. Suddenly a blinding flash of lightning pierced the darkness, followed by a sharp clap of thunder. There was a crash of falling timber. Terror-stricken, Rena flew forward through the forest, the underbrush growing closer and closer as she advanced. Suddenly the earth gave way beneath her feet and she sank into a concealed morass. By clasping the trunk of a neighboring sapling she extricated herself with an effort, and realized with a horrible certainty that she was lost in the swamp.
Turning, she tried to retrace her steps. A flash of lightning penetrated the
gloom around her, and barring her path she saw thata huge black snake,—harmless enough, in
fact, but to her excited imagination frightful in appearance.—barred her pathway.. With a wild shriek she
turned again, staggered forward a few yards, stumbled over a projecting
root, and fell heavily to the earth.
When Rena had disappeared in the underbrush, Tryon and Wain had each
instinctively set out in
one another
each otherpick
Rena not appearing at supper-time nor for an hour later, the elder, somewhat
anxious, made inquiries about the neighborhood, and finding his guest at no
place where she might be expected to stop, became somewhat alarmed. Wain's
house was the last to which he went. He some
N
m
for
such a case at such an hour
Rena's illness, however, was more deeply seated than her friends could suppose
called during the dayprobably
AFTER Tryon's failure to obtain an interview with
Rena through Plato's connivance, he decided upon a different course of
procedure. In a few days her school term would be finished. He was not less
desirous to see her, was indeed as much more eager as opposition would be
likely to make a very young man who was accustomed to having his own way,
and whose heart, as he had discovered, was more deeply and permanently
involved than he had imagined. His present plan was to wait until the end of
the school; then, when she
e
duty done
work
completed—he must see her face to
face.
The first of his three days of waiting had passed, when, about ten o'clock on
the morning of the
"Well, Plato," he asked, "why are you absent from the classic shades of the academy to-day?"
"Hoddy, Mars Geo'ge. Wat wuz dat you say?"
"Why are you not at school to-day?"
"Ain' got no teacher, Mars Geo'ge. Teacher's gone!"
"Gone!" exclaimed Tryon, with a sudden leap of the heart. "Gone where? What do you mean?"
"Teacher got los' in de swamp, night befo' las', 'cause Plato wa'n't dere ter show her de way out'n de woods. Elder Johnson foun' 'er wid dawgs and tawches, an' fotch her home an' put her ter bed. No school yistiddy. She wuz out'n her haid las' night, an' dis mawnin' she wuz gone."
"Gone where?"
"Dey doa
Leaving Plato abruptly,in the
middle of his explanation Tryon hasteneddrove
rapidly
"Good-morning," he said, nodding unconsciously, with the careless politeness of a gentleman to his inferiors. "I'm Mr. Tryon. I have come to inquire about the sick teacher."
"Why, suh," the woman replied respectfully, "she got los' in de woods night
befo' las', an' she wuz out'n her min' most er de time yistiddy. Las' night
she must,
,
"Has any search been made for her?"
"Yas, suh, my husban' an' de child'en has been huntin' roun' all de mawnin', an' he 's gone ter borry a hoss now ter go fu'ther. But Lawd knows dey ain' no tellin' whar she 'd go, 'less'n she got her min' back sence she lef."
Tryon's mare was in good condition. He had money in his pocket and nothing to interfere with his movements. He set out immediately on the road to Patesville, keeping a lookout by the road-side, and stopping each person he met to inquire if a young woman, apparently ill, had been seen traveling along the road on foot. No one had met such a traveler. When he had gone two or three miles, he drove through a shallow branch that crossed the road. The splashing of his horse's hoofs in the water prevented him from hearing a low groan that came from the woods by the road-side.
He drove on, making inquiries at each farmhouse and of everymet
At noon he stopped at a farmhouse and swallowed a hasty meal. His inquiries
here elicited no information, and he was just leaving when a young man came
in late to dinner and stated, in response to the usual question, that he had
met, some two hours before, a young woman who answered Tryon' s description,
on the Lillington road.
Tryon thanked his informant and hastened to the Lillington road. Stopping as
before to inquire, he followed the woman for several hours, each mile of the
distance taking him farther away from Patesville. From time to time he heard
of the woman. Toward nightfall he found her. She was white enough, with the
sallowness of the sandhill poor-white. She was a
the search
his
quest
FRANK FOWLER'S heart was filled with longing for a
sight of Rena's face. When she had gone away first, on the ill-fated trip to
South Carolina, her absence had left an aching void in his life; he had
missed her cheerful smile, her pleasant words, her grat
seemed
f
in the clouds
them
Rena and
himself
When Rena had departed for Sampson County, Frank had reconciled himself
for
the mother
"Yas, Frank," she concluded, "it'll be her own fault ef she don't become a
lady of propp
Frank did not find this news reassuring. He believed that Wain was a liar and a scoundrel. He had nothing more than his intuitions upon which to found this belief, but it was none the less firm. If his estimate of the man's character were correct, then his wealth might be a fiction, pure and simple. If so, the truth should be known to Mis' Molly, so that instead of encouraging a marriage with Wain, she would see him in his true light, and interpose to rescue her daughter from his importunities. A day or two after this conversation, Frank met in the town a negro from Sampson County, made his acquaintance, and inquired if he knew a man by the name of Jeff Wain.
"Oh, Jeff Wain!" returned the countryman slightingly; "yas, I knows 'im, an'
don' know no good of 'im. One er dese yer biggity, braggin'
niggers—talks lack he own de whole county, an' ain't wuth no mo'
n
This was alarming information. Wain had passed in the town as a single man,
and Frank had had no hint that he had ever been married. There was something
wrong somewhere. Frank determined that he would find out the truth and, if
possible, do something to protect Rena against the obviously evil designs of
the man who had taken her away. The barrel factory had so affected the
cooper's trade that Peter and Frank had turned their attention more or less
to the manufacture of small woodenware for domestic use. Frank's mule was
eating off its own head, as the saying goes. It required but little effort
to persuade Peter that Frank
In a few days Frank had his stock prepared, and set out on the road to
Sampson County. He went about thirty miles the first day, and camped by the
roadside for the night.
He
ed
285-boringandfrom the swamp seemed
The mule drank long and lazily, while over Frank stole thoughts in harmony with the peaceful scene,—thoughts of Rena, young and beautiful, her friendly smile, her pensive dark eyes. He would soon see her now, and if she had any cause for fear or unhappiness, he would place himself at her service—for a day, a week, a month, a year, a lifetime, if need be.
His reverie was broken by a slight noise from the thicket at his left. "I wonder who dat is?" he muttered. "It soun's mighty quare, ter say de leas'."
He listened intently for a moment, but heard nothing further. "It must 'a'
be'n a rabbit er sump'n
As the mule stepped forward, the sound was repeated. This time it was distinctly audible, the long, low moan of some one in sickness or distress.
"Dat ain't no rabbit," said Frank to himself. "Dere 's sump'n
o
As the cart pulled
286 THE HOUSE BEHIND THE CEDARS
"Good Lawd!" he exclaimed with a start, "it's a woman—a w'ite woman!"
The slender form of a young woman lay stretched upon the ground in a small
open space a few yards in extent. Her face was turned away, and Frank could
see at first only a tangled mass of dark brown haircon
.
Frank stood for a moment irresolute, debating the serious question whether he should investigate further with a view to rendering assistance, or whether he should put as great a distance as possible between himself and this victim, as she might easily be, of some violent crime, lest he should himself be suspected of it—a not unlikely contingency, if he were found in the neighborhood and the woman should prove unable to describe her assailant. While he hesitated, the figure moved restlessly, and a voice murmured:—
"Mother
mother
The voice thrilled Frank like an electric shock. Trembling in every limb, he
sprang forward toward the prostrate figure. The woman turned her head, and
he saw that it was Rena. Her gown was torn and dusty, and fringed with burs
and briars. When she had wandered forth, half delirious, pursued by
imaginary foes,
"Miss Rena! Rena! don't you know me?"
She turned her wild eyes on him suddenly. "Yes, I know you, Jeff Wain. Go away from me! Go away!"
Her voice rose to a scream; she struggled in his grasp and struck at him
fiercely with her clenched fist
"You a
Frank could only surmise how she had come here, in such a condition. When she spoke of Wain in this manner, he drew his own conclusions. Some deadly villainy of Wain's had brought her to this pass. Anger stirred his nature to the depths, and found vent in curses on the author of Rena's misfortunes.
"Damn him!" he groaned. "I'll hev
dis, ter dethis, to the
Rena now laughed and put up her arms
Her voice died away into a hopeless wail. Frank knelt by her side, his faithful heart breaking with pity, great tears rolling untouced down his dusky cheeks.
"Oh, my honey, my darlin'," he sobbed, "Frank loves you better 'n all de
worl'."
When the first burst of his grief was over, Frank brought water from the
branch, bathed Rena's face and hands and feet, and forced a little
-
anded
which he
"Go ter sleep, honey," he murmured caressingly, "go ter sleep, an' Frank'll take you home ter yo' mammy!"
Rso farany considerable
distanceany
bright mulatto
smitten
before
Frank
decorated
a nigger
Dr. Green had just gone down the garden path to his buggy at the gate. Mis'
Molly came out to the back piazza, where Frank, weary and haggard, sat
"Rena wants to see you, Frank," said Mis' Molly, with a sob.
He walked in softly, reverently, and stood by her bedside. She turned her gentle eyes upon him and put out her slender hand, which he took in his own broad palm.
"Frank," she murmured, "my good friend—my best friend—you loved me best of them all."
The tears rolled untouched down his cheeks. "I'd,
Mary B. threw open a window in the back
part
of the room,
Between sunset and dark a traveler, seated in a dusty buggy drawn by a tired
horse, crossed the long river bridge and drove up Front Street. Just as the
buggy reached the gate in front of the house behind the cedars, a woman was
tying a piece of crea'
"Who's dead?" askedhardly
"A young coloredw