The House Behind the Cedars

by Charles W. Chesnutt

  The mother looked from son to daughter with a dawning apprehension and a sudden pallor. When she saw the yearning in Rena’s eyes, she threw herself at her son’s feet.

  “Oh, John,” she cried despairingly, “don’t take her away from me! Don’t take her, John, darlin’, for it’d break my heart to lose her!”

  Rena’s arms were round her mother’s neck, and Rena’s voice was sounding in her ears. “There, there, mamma! Never mind! I won’t leave you, mamma—dear old mamma! Your Rena’ll stay with you always, and never, never leave you.”

  John smoothed his mother’s hair with a comforting touch, patted her withered cheek soothingly, lifted her tenderly to her place by his side, and put his arm about her.

  “You love your children, mother?”

  “They’re all I’ve got,” she sobbed, “an’ they cos’ me all I had. When the las’ one’s gone, I’ll want to go too, for I’ll be all alone in the world. Don’t take Rena, John; for if you do, I’ll never see her again, an’ I can’t bear to think of it. How would you like to lose yo’r one child?”

  “Well, well, mother, we’ll say no more about it. And now tell me all about yourself, and about the neighbors, and how you got through the war, and who’s dead and who’s married—and everything.”

  The change of subject restored in some degree Mis’ Molly’s equanimity, and with returning calmness came a sense of other responsibilities.

  “Good gracious, Rena!” she exclaimed. “John’s be’n in the house an hour, and ain’t had nothin’ to eat yet! Go in the kitchen an’ spread a clean tablecloth, an’ git out that ’tater pone, an’ a pitcher o’ that las’ kag o’ persimmon beer, an’ let John take a bite an’ a sip.”

  Warwick smiled at the mention of these homely dainties. “I thought of your sweet-potato pone at the hotel to-day, when I was at dinner, and wondered if you’d have some in the house. There was never any like yours; and I’ve forgotten the taste of persimmon beer entirely.”

  Rena left the room to carry out her hospitable commission. Warwick, taking advantage of her absence, returned after a while to the former subject.

  “Of course, mother,” he said calmly, “I wouldn’t think of taking Rena away against your wishes. A mother’s claim upon her child is a high and holy one. Of course she will have no chance here, where our story is known. The war has wrought great changes, has put the bottom rail on top, and all that—but it hasn’t wiped that out. Nothing but death can remove that stain, if it does not follow us even beyond the grave. Here she must forever be—nobody! With me she might have got out into the world; with her beauty she might have made a good marriage; and, if I mistake not, she has sense as well as beauty.”

  “Yes,” sighed the mother, “she’s got good sense. She ain’t as quick as you was, an’ don’t read as many books, but she’s keerful an’ painstakin‘, an’ always tries to do what’s right. She’s be’n thinkin’ about goin’ away somewhere an’ tryin’ to git a school to teach, er somethin’, sence the Yankees have started ’em everywhere for po’ white folks an’ niggers too. But I don’t like fer her to go too fur.”

  “With such beauty and brains,” continued Warwick, “she could leave this town and make a place for herself. The place is already made. She has only to step into my carriage—after perhaps a little preparation—and ride up the hill which I have had to climb so painfully. It would be a great pleasure to me to see her at the top. But of course it is impossible—a mere idle dream. Your claim comes first; her duty chains her here.”

  “It would be so lonely without her,” murmured the mother weakly, “an’ I love her so—my las’ one!”

  “No doubt—no doubt,” returned Warwick, with a sympathetic sigh; “of course you love her. It’s not to be thought of for a moment. It’s a pity that she couldn’t have a chance here—but how could she? I had thought she might marry a gentleman; but I dare say she’ll do as well as the rest of her friends—as well as Mary B., for instance, who married—Homer Pettifoot, did you say? Or maybe Billy Oxendine might do for her. As long as she has never known any better, she’ll probably be as well satisfied as though she married a rich man, and lived in a fine house, and kept a carriage and servants, and moved with the best in the land.”

  The tortured mother could endure no more. The one thing she desired above all others was her daughter’s happiness. Her own life had not been governed by the highest standards, but about her love for her beautiful daughter there was no taint of selfishness. The life her son had described had been to her always the ideal but unattainable life. Circumstances, some beyond her control, and others for which she was herself in a measure responsible, had put it forever and inconceivably beyond her reach. It had been conquered by her son. It beckoned to her daughter. The comparison of this free and noble life with the sordid existence of those around her broke down the last barrier of opposition.

  “O Lord!” she moaned, “what shall I do 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 overmastering impulse had compelled him to seek the mother who had given him birth and the old town where he had spent the earlier years of his life. No one would have acknowledged sooner than he the folly of this visit. Men who have elected to govern their lives by principles of abstract right and reason, which happen, perhaps, to be at variance with what society considers equally right and reasonable, should, for fear of complications, be careful about descending from the lofty heights of logic to the common level of impulse and affection. Many years before, Warwick, when a lad of eighteen, had shaken the dust of the town from his feet, and with it, he fondly thought, the blight of his inheritance, and had achieved elsewhere a worthy career. But during all these years of absence he had cherished a tender feeling for his mother, and now again found himself in her house, amid the familiar surroundings of his childhood. His visit had brought joy to his mother’s heart, and was now to bring its shrouded companion, sorrow. His mother had lived her life, for good or ill. A wider door was open to his sister—her mother must not bar the entrance.

  “She may go,” the mother repeated sadly, drying her tears. “I’ll give her up for her good.”

  “The table’s ready, mamma,” said Rena, coming to the door.

  The lunch was spread in the kitchen, a large unplastered room at the rear, with a wide fireplace at one end. Only yesterday, it seemed to Warwick, he had sprawled upon the hearth, turning sweet potatoes before the fire, or roasting groundpeas in the ashes; or, more often, reading, by the light of a blazing pine-knot or lump of resin, some volume from the bookcase in the hall. From Bulwer’s novel, he had read the story of Warwick the Kingmaker, and upon leaving home had chosen it for his own. He was a new man, but he had the blood of an old race, and he would select for his own one of its worthy names. Overhead loomed the same smoky beams, decorated with what might have been, from all appearances, the same bunches of dried herbs, the same strings of onions and red peppers. Over in the same corner stood the same spinning-wheel, and through the open door of an adjoining room he saw the old loom, where in childhood he had more than once thrown the shuttle. The kitchen was different from the stately dining-room of the old colonial mansion where he now lived; but it was homelike, and it
was familiar. The sight of it moved his heart, and he felt for the moment a sort of a blind anger against the fate which made it necessary that he should visit the home of his childhood, if at all, like a thief in the night. But he realized, after a moment, that the thought was pure sentiment, and that one who had gained so much ought not to complain if he must give up a little. He who would climb the heights of life must leave even the pleasantest valleys behind.

  “Rena,” asked her mother, “how’d you like to go an’ pay yo’r brother John a visit? I guess I might spare you for a little while. ”

  The girl’s eyes lighted up. She would not have gone if her mother had wished her to stay, but she would always have regarded this as the lost opportunity of her life.

  “Are you sure you don’t care, mamma?” she asked, hoping and yet doubting.

  “Oh, I’ll manage to git along somehow or other. You can go an’ stay till you git homesick, an’ then John’ll let you come back home. ”

  But Mis’ Molly believed that she would never come back, except, like her brother, under cover of the night. She must lose her daughter as well as her son, and this should be the penance for her sin. That her children must expiate as well the sins of their fathers, who had sinned so lightly, after the manner of men, neither she nor they could foresee, since they could not read the future.

  The next boat by which Warwick could take his sister away left early in the morning of the next day but one. He went back to his hotel with the understanding that the morrow should be devoted to getting Rena ready for her departure, and that Warwick would visit the household again the following evening; for, as has been intimated, there were several reasons why there should be no open relations between the fine gentleman at the hotel and the women in the house behind the cedars, who, while superior in blood and breeding to the people of the neighborhood in which they lived, were yet under the shadow of some cloud which clearly shut them out from the better society of the town. Almost any resident could have given one or more of these reasons, of which any one would have been sufficient to most of them; and to some of them Warwick’s mere presence in the town would have seemed a bold and daring thing.

  III

  The Old Judge

  On the morning following the visit to his mother, Warwick visited the old judge’s office. The judge was not in, but the door stood open, and Warwick entered to await his return. There had been fewer changes in the office, where he had spent many, many hours, than in the town itself. The dust was a little thicker, the papers in the pigeon-holes of the walnut desk were a little yellower, the cobwebs in the corners a little more aggressive. The flies droned as drowsily and the murmur of the brook below was just as audible. Warwick stood at the rear window and looked out over a familiar view. Directly across the creek, on the low ground beyond, might be seen the dilapidated stone foundation of the house where once had lived Flora Macdonald, the Jacobite refugee, the most romantic character of North Carolina history. Old Judge Straight had had a tree cut away from the creek-side opposite his window, so that this historic ruin might be visible from his office; for the judge could trace the ties of blood that connected him collaterally with this famous personage. His pamphlet on Flora Macdonald, printed for private circulation, was highly prized by those of his friends who were fortunate enough to obtain a copy. To the left of the window a placid mill-pond spread its wide expanse, and to the right the creek disappeared under a canopy of overhanging trees.

  A footstep sounded in the doorway, and Warwick, turning, faced the old judge. Time had left greater marks upon the lawyer than upon his office. His hair was whiter, his stoop more pronounced ; when he spoke to Warwick, his voice had some of the shrillness of old age; and in his hand, upon which the veins stood out prominently, a decided tremor was perceptible.

  “Good-morning, Judge Straight,” said the young man, removing his hat with the graceful Southern deference of the young for the old.

  “Good-morning, sir,” replied the judge with equal courtesy.

  “You don’t remember me, I imagine,” suggested Warwick.

  “Your face seems familiar,” returned the judge cautiously,

  “but I cannot for the moment recall your name. I shall be glad to have you refresh my memory.”

  “I was John Walden, sir, when you knew me.”

  The judge’s face still gave no answering light of recognition. “Your old office-boy,” continued the younger man.

  “Ah, indeed, so you were!” rejoined the judge warmly, extending his hand with great cordiality, and inspecting Warwick more closely through his spectacles. “Let me see—you went away a few years before the war, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir, to South Carolina.”

  “Yes, yes, I remember now! I had been thinking it was to the North. So many things have happened since then, that it taxes an old man’s memory to keep track of them all. Well, well! and how have you been getting along?”

  Warwick told his story in outline, much as he had given it to his mother and sister, and the judge seemed very much interested.

  “And you married into a good family?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And have children?”

  “One.”

  “And you are visiting your mother?”

  “Not exactly. I have seen her, but I am stopping at a hotel.”

  “H’m! Are you staying long?”

  “I leave to-morrow.”

  “It’s well enough. I wouldn’t stay too long. The people of a small town are inquisitive about strangers, and some of them have long memories. I remember we went over the law, which was in your favor; but custom is stronger than law—in these matters custom is law. It was a great pity that your father did not make a will. Well, my boy, I wish you continued good luck; I imagined you would make your way.”

  Warwick went away, and the old judge sat for a moment absorbed in reflection. “Right and wrong,” he mused, “must be eternal verities, but our standards for measuring them vary with our latitude and our epoch. We make our customs lightly; once made, like our sins, they grip us in bands of steel; we become the creatures of our creations. By one standard my old office-boy should never have been born. Yet he is a son of Adam, and came into existence in the way ordained by God from the beginning of the world. In equity he would seem to be entitled to his chance in life; it might have been wiser, though, for him to seek it farther afield than South Carolina. It was too near home, even though the laws were with him.”

  IV

  Down the River

  Neither mother nor daughter slept a great deal during the night of Warwick’s first visit. Mis’ Molly anointed her sacrifice with tears and cried herself to sleep. Rena’s emotions were more conflicting; she was sorry to leave her mother, but glad to go with her brother. The mere journey she was about to make was a great event for the two women to contemplate, to say nothing of the golden vision that lay beyond, for neither of them had ever been out of the town or its vicinity.

  The next day was devoted to preparations for the journey. Rena’s slender wardrobe was made ready and packed in a large valise. Towards sunset, Mis’ Molly took off her apron, put on her slat-bonnet,—she was ever the pink of neatness,—picked her way across the street, which was muddy from a rain during the day, traversed the foot-bridge that spanned the ditch in front of the cooper shop, and spoke first to the elder of the two men working there.

  “Good-evenin’, Peter.”

  “Good-evenin‘, ma’m,” responded the man briefly, and not relaxing at all the energy with which he was trimming a barrel-stave.

  Mis’ Molly then accosted the younger workman, a dark-brown young man, small in stature, but with a well-shaped head, an expressive forehead, and features indicative of kindness, intelligence, humor, and imagination. “Frank,” she asked, “can I git you to do somethin’ fer me 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‘r kyart. It ain’t very heavy. Of co’se I’ll pay you fer yo’r 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 recalled to his duty by a sharp word from his father.

  “ ‘Ten’ ter yo’ wuk, boy, ’ten’ ter yo’ wuk. You’re wastin’ yo’ time—wastin’ yo’ time!”

  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.