"No, directly from your son."
She scanned his face with a puzzled look. This bearded young
gentleman, who spoke so politely and was dressed so well, surely--no,
it could not be! and yet--
Warwick was smiling at her through a mist of tears. An electric spark
of sympathy flashed between them. They rose as if moved by one
impulse, and were clasped in each other's arms.
"John, my John! It IS John!"
"Mother--my dear old mother!"
"I didn't think," she sobbed, "that I'd ever see you again."
He smoothed her hair and kissed her. "And are you glad to see me,
mother?"
"Am I glad to see you? It's like the dead comin' to life. I thought
I'd lost you forever, John, my son, my darlin' boy!" she answered,
hugging him strenuously.
"I couldn't live without seeing you, mother," he said. He meant it,
too, or thought he did, although he had not seen her for ten years.
"You've grown so tall, John, and are such a fine gentleman! And you
ARE a gentleman now, John, ain't you--sure enough? Nobody knows the
old story?"
"Well, mother, I've taken a man's chance in life, and have tried to
make the most of it; and I haven't felt under any obligation to spoil
it by raking up old stories that are best forgotten. There are the dear
old books: have they been read since I went away?"
"No, honey, there's be'n nobody to read 'em, excep' Rena, an' she don't
take to books quite like you did. But I've kep' 'em dusted clean, an'
kep' the moths an' the bugs out; for I hoped you'd come back some day,
an' knowed you'd like to find 'em all in their places, jus' like you
left 'em."
"That's mighty nice of you, mother. You could have done no more if you
had loved them for themselves. But where is Rena? I saw her on the
street to-day, but she didn't know me from Adam; nor did I guess it was
she until she opened the gate and came into the yard."
"I've be'n so glad to see you that I'd fergot about her," answered the
mother. "Rena, oh, Rena!"
The girl was not far away; she had been standing in the next room,
listening intently to every word of the conversation, and only kept
from coming in by a certain constraint that made a brother whom she had
not met for so many years seem almost as much a stranger as if he had
not been connected with her by any tie.
"Yes, mamma," she answered, coming forward.
"Rena, child, here's yo'r brother John, who's come back to see us.
Tell 'im howdy."
As she came forward, Warwick rose, put his arm around her waist, drew
her toward him, and kissed her affectionately, to her evident
embarrassment. She was a tall girl, but he towered above her in quite a
protecting fashion; and she thought with a thrill how fine it would be
to have such a brother as this in the town all the time. How proud she
would be, if she could but walk up the street with such a brother by
her side! She could then hold up her head before all the world,
oblivious to the glance of pity or contempt. She felt a very
pronounced respect for this tall gentleman who held her blushing face
between his hands and looked steadily into her eyes.
"You're the little sister I used to read stories to, and whom I
promised to come and see some day. Do you remember how you cried when
I went away?"
"It seems but yesterday," she answered. "I've still got the dime you
gave me."
He kissed her again, and then drew her down beside him on the sofa,
where he sat enthroned between the two loving and excited women. No
king could have received more sincere or delighted homage. He was a
man, come into a household of women,--a man of whom they were proud,
and to whom they looked up with fond reverence. For he was not only a
son,--a brother--but he represented to them the world from which
circumstances had shut them out, and to which distance lent even more
than its usual enchantment; and they felt nearer to this far-off world
because of the glory which Warwick reflected from it.
"You're a very pretty girl," said Warwick, regarding his sister
thoughtfully. "I followed you down Front Street this morning, and
scarcely took my eyes off you all the way; and yet I didn't know you,
and scarcely saw your face. You improve on acquaintance; to-night, I
find you handsomer still."
"Now, John," said his mother, expostulating mildly, "you'll spile her,
if you don't min'."
The girl was beaming with gratified vanity. What woman would not find
such praise sweet from almost any source, and how much more so from
this great man, who, from his exalted station in the world, must surely
know the things whereof he spoke! She believed every word of it; she
knew it very well indeed, but wished to hear it repeated and itemized
and emphasized.
"No, he won't, mamma," she asserted, "for he's flattering me. He talks
as if I was some rich young lady, who lives on the Hill,"--the Hill was
the aristocratic portion of the town,--"instead of a poor."
"Instead of a poor young girl, who has the hill to climb," replied her
brother, smoothing her hair with his hand. Her hair was long and
smooth and glossy, with a wave like the ripple of a summer breeze upon
the surface of still water. It was the girl's great pride, and had
been sedulously cared for. "What lovely hair! It has just the wave
that yours lacks, mother."
"Yes," was the regretful reply, "I've never be'n able to git that wave
out. But her hair's be'n took good care of, an' there ain't nary gal
in town that's got any finer."
"Don't worry about the wave, mother. It's just the fashionable ripple,
and becomes her immensely. I think my little Albert favors his Aunt
Rena somewhat."
"Your little Albert!" they cried. "You've got a child?"
"Oh, yes," he replied calmly, "a very fine baby boy."
They began to purr in proud contentment at this information, and made
minute inquiries about the age and weight and eyes and nose and other
important details of this precious infant. They inquired more coldly
about the child's mother, of whom they spoke with greater warmth when
they learned that she was dead. They hung breathless on Warwick's
words as he related briefly the story of his life since he had left,
years before, the house behind the cedars--how with a stout heart and
an abounding hope he had gone out into a seemingly hostile world, and
made fortune stand and deliver. His story had for the women the charm
of an escape from captivity, with all the thrill of a pirate's tale.
With the whole world before him, he had remained in the South, the land
of his fathers, where, he conceived, he had an inalienable birthright.
By some good chance he had escaped military service in the Confederate
army, and, in default of older and more experienced men, had
undertaken, during the rebellion, the management of a large estate,
which had been left in the hands of women and slaves. He had filled
the place so acceptably, and employed his leisure to such advantage,
that at the close of the war he found himself--he was modest enough to
think, too, in default of a better man--the husband of the orphan
daughter of the gentleman who had owned the plantation, and who had
lost his life upon the battlefield. Warwick's wife was of good family,
and in a more settled condition of society it would not have been easy
for a young man of no visible antecedents to win her hand. A year or
two later, he had taken the oath of allegiance, and had been admitted
to the South Carolina bar. Rich in his wife's right, he had been able
to practice his profession upon a high plane, without the worry of
sordid cares, and with marked success for one of his age.
"I suppose," he concluded, "that I have got along at the bar, as
elsewhere, owing to the lack of better men. Many of the good lawyers
were killed in the war, and most of the remainder were disqualified;
while I had the advantage of being alive, and of never having been in
arms against the government. People had to have lawyers, and they gave
me their business in preference to the carpet-baggers. Fortune, you
know, favors the available man."
His mother drank in with parted lips and glistening eyes the story of
his adventures and the record of his successes. As Rena listened, the
narrow walls that hemmed her in seemed to draw closer and closer, as
though they must crush her. Her brother watched her keenly. He had
been talking not only to inform the women, but with a deeper purpose,
conceived since his morning walk, and deepened as he had followed,
during his narrative, the changing expression of Rena's face and noted
her intense interest in his story, her pride in his successes, and the
occasional wistful look that indexed her self-pity so completely.
"An' I s'pose you're happy, John?" asked his mother.
"Well, mother, happiness is a relative term, and depends, I imagine,
upon how nearly we think we get what we think we want. I have had my
chance and haven't thrown it away, and I suppose I ought to be happy.
But then, I have lost my wife, whom I loved very dearly, and who loved
me just as much, and I'm troubled about my child."
"Why?" they demanded. "Is there anything the matter with him?"
"No, not exactly. He's well enough, as babies go, and has a good
enough nurse, as nurses go. But the nurse is ignorant, and not always
careful. A child needs some woman of its own blood to love it and look
after it intelligently."
Mis' Molly's eyes were filled with tearful yearning. She would have
given all the world to warm her son's child upon her bosom; but she
knew this could not be.
"Did your wife leave any kin?" she asked with an effort.
"No near kin; she was an only child."
"You'll be gettin' married again," suggested his mother.
"No," he replied; "I think not."
Warwick was still reading his sister's face, and saw the spark of hope
that gleamed in her expressive eye.
"If I had some relation of my own that I could take into the house with
me," he said reflectively, "the child might be healthier and happier,
and I should be much more at ease about him."
The mother looked from son to daughter with a dawning apprehension and
a sudden pallor. When she saw the yearning in Rena's eyes, she threw
herself at her son's feet.
"Oh, John," she cried despairingly, "don't take her away from me!
Don't take her, John, darlin', for it'd break my heart to lose her!"
Rena's arms were round her mother's neck, and Rena's voice was sounding
in her ears. "There, there, mamma! Never mind! I won't leave you,
mamma--dear old mamma! Your Rena'll stay with you always, and never,
never leave you."
John smoothed his mother's hair with a comforting touch, patted her
withered cheek soothingly, lifted her tenderly to her place by his
side, and put his arm about her.
"You love your children, mother?"
"They're all I've got," she sobbed, "an' they cos' me all I had. When
the las' one's gone, I'll want to go too, for I'll be all alone in the
world. Don't take Rena, John; for if you do, I'll never see her again,
an' I can't bear to think of it. How would you like to lose yo'r one
child?"
"Well, well, mother, we'll say no more about it. And now tell me all
about yourself, and about the neighbors, and how you got through the
war, and who's dead and who's married--and everything."
The change of subject restored in some degree Mis' Molly's equanimity,
and with returning calmness came a sense of other responsibilities.
"Good gracious, Rena!" she exclaimed. "John 's be'n in the house an
hour, and ain't had nothin' to eat yet! Go in the kitchen an' spread a
clean tablecloth, an' git out that 'tater pone, an' a pitcher o' that
las' kag o' persimmon beer, an' let John take a bite an' a sip."
Warwick smiled at the mention of these homely dainties. "I thought of
your sweet-potato pone at the hotel to-day, when I was at dinner, and
wondered if you'd have some in the house. There was never any like
yours; and I've forgotten the taste of persimmon beer entirely."
Rena left the room to carry out her hospitable commission. Warwick,
taking advantage of her absence, returned after a while to the former
subject.
"Of course, mother," he said calmly, "I wouldn't think of taking Rena
away against your wishes. A mother's claim upon her child is a high
and holy one. Of course she will have no chance here, where our story
is known. The war has wrought great changes, has put the bottom rail
on top, and all that--but it hasn't wiped THAT out. Nothing but death
can remove that stain, if it does not follow us even beyond the grave.
Here she must forever be--nobody! With me she might have got out into
the world; with her beauty she might have made a good marriage; and, if
I mistake not, she has sense as well as beauty."
"Yes," sighed the mother, "she's got good sense. She ain't as quick as
you was, an' don't read as many books, but she's keerful an'
painstakin', an' always tries to do what's right. She's be'n thinkin'
about goin' away somewhere an' tryin' to git a school to teach, er
somethin', sence the Yankees have started 'em everywhere for po' white
folks an' niggers too. But I don't like fer her to go too fur."
"With such beauty and brains," continued Warwick, "she could leave this
town and make a place for herself. The place is already made. She has
only to step into my carriage--after perhaps a little preparation--and
ride up the hill which I have had to climb so painfully. It would be a
great pleasure to me to see her at the top. But of course it is
impossible--a mere idle dream. YOUR claim comes first; her duty chains
her here."
"It would be so lonely without her," murmured the mother weakly, "an' I
love her so--my las' one!"
"No doubt--no doubt," returned Warwick, with a sympathetic sigh; "of
course you love her. It's not to be thought of for a moment. It's a
pity that she couldn't have a chance here--but how could she! I had
thought she might marry a gentleman, but I dare say she'll do as well
as the rest of her friends--as well as Mary B., for instance, who
married--Homer Pettifoot, did you say? Or maybe Billy Oxendine might
do for her. As long as she has never known any better, she'll probably
be as well satisfied as though she married a rich man, and lived in a
fine house, and kept a carriage and servants, and moved with the best
in the land."
The tortured mother could endure no more. The one thing she desired
above all others was her daughter's happiness. Her own life had not
been governed by the highest standards, but about her love for her
beautiful daughter there was no taint of selfishness. The life her son
had described had been to her always the ideal but unattainable life.
Circumstances, some beyond her control, and others for which she was
herself in a measure responsible, had put it forever and inconceivably
beyond her reach. It had been conquered by her son. It beckoned to
her daughter. The comparison of this free and noble life with the
sordid existence of those around her broke down the last barrier of
opposition.
"O Lord!" she moaned, "what shall I do with out her? It'll be lonely,
John--so lonely!"
"You'll have your home, mother," said Warwick tenderly, accepting the
implied surrender. "You'll have your friends and relatives, and the
knowledge that your children are happy. I'll let you hear from us
often, and no doubt you can see Rena now and then. But you must let
her go, mother,--it would be a sin against her to refuse."
"She may go," replied the mother brokenly. "I'll not stand in her
way--I've got sins enough to answer for already."
Warwick watched her pityingly. He had stirred her feelings to unwonted
depths, and his sympathy went out to her. If she had sinned, she had
been more sinned against than sinning, and it was not his part to judge
her. He had yielded to a sentimental weakness in deciding upon this
trip to Patesville. A matter of business had brought him within a
day's journey of the town, and an over-mastering impulse had compelled
him to seek the mother who had given him birth and the old town where
he had spent the earlier years of his life. No one would have
acknowledged sooner than he the folly of this visit. Men who have
elected to govern their lives by principles of abstract right and
reason, which happen, perhaps, to be at variance with what society
considers equally right and reasonable, should, for fear of
complications, be careful about descending from the lofty heights of
logic to the common level of impulse and affection. Many years before,
Warwick, when a lad of eighteen, had shaken the dust of the town from
his feet, and with it, he fondly thought, the blight of his
inheritance, and had achieved elsewhere a worthy career. But during
all these years of absence he had cherished a tender feeling for his
mother, and now again found himself in her house, amid the familiar
surroundings of his childhood. His visit had brought joy to his
mother's heart, and was now to bring its shrouded companion, sorrow.
His mother had lived her life, for good or ill. A wider door was open
to his sister--her mother must not bar the entrance.
"She may go," the mother repeated sadly, drying her tears. "I'll give
her up for her good."
"The table 's ready, mamma," said Rena, coming to the door.
The lunch was spread in the kitchen, a large unplastered room at the
rear, with a wide fireplace at one end. Only yesterday, it seemed to
Warwick, he had sprawled upon the hearth, turning sweet potatoes before
the fire, or roasting groundpeas in the ashes; or, more often, reading,
by the light of a blazing pine-knot or lump of resin, some volume from
the bookcase in the hall. From Bulwer's novel, he had read the story
of Warwick the Kingmaker, and upon leaving home had chosen it for his
own. He was a new man, but he had the blood of an old race, and he
would select for his own one of its worthy names. Overhead loomed the
same smoky beams, decorated with what might have been, from all
appearances, the same bunches of dried herbs, the same strings of
onions and red peppers. Over in the same corner stood the same
spinning-wheel, and through the open door of an adjoining room he saw
the old loom, where in childhood he had more than once thrown the
shuttle. The kitchen was different from the stately dining-room of the
old colonial mansion where he now lived; but it was homelike, and it
was familiar. The sight of it moved his heart, and he felt for the
moment a sort of a blind anger against the fate which made it necessary
that he should visit the home of his childhood, if at all, like a thief
in the night. But he realized, after a moment, that the thought was
pure sentiment, and that one who had gained so much ought not to
complain if he must give up a little. He who would climb the heights
of life must leave even the pleasantest valleys behind.
"Rena," asked her mother, "how'd you like to go an' pay yo'r brother
John a visit? I guess I might spare you for a little while."
The girl's eyes lighted up. She would not have gone if her mother had
wished her to stay, but she would always have regarded this as the lost
opportunity of her life.
"Are you sure you don't care, mamma?" she asked, hoping and yet
doubting.
"Oh, I'll manage to git along somehow or other. You can go an' stay
till you git homesick, an' then John'll let you come back home."
But Mis' Molly believed that she would never come back, except, like
her brother, under cover of the night. She must lose her daughter as
well as her son, and this should be the penance for her sin. That her
children must expiate as well the sins of their fathers, who had sinned
so lightly, after the manner of men, neither she nor they could
foresee, since they could not read the future.
The next boat by which Warwick could take his sister away left early in
the morning of the next day but one. He went back to his hotel with
the understanding that the morrow should be devoted to getting Rena
ready for her departure, and that Warwick would visit the household
again the following evening; for, as has been intimated, there were
several reasons why there should be no open relations between the fine
gentleman at the hotel and the women in the house behind the cedars,
who, while superior in blood and breeding to the people of the
neighborhood in which they lived, were yet under the shadow of some
cloud which clearly shut them out from the better society of the town.
Almost any resident could have given one or more of these reasons, of
which any one would have been sufficient to most of them; and to some
of them Warwick's mere presence in the town would have seemed a bold
and daring thing.