One Wednesday morning, about six weeks after his return home, Tryon
received a letter from Judge Straight with reference to the note left
with him at Patesville for collection. This communication properly
required an answer, which might have been made in writing within the
compass of ten lines. No sooner, however, had Tryon read the letter
than he began to perceive reasons why it should be answered in person.
He had left Patesville under extremely painful circumstances, vowing
that he would never return; and yet now the barest pretext, by which no
one could have been deceived except willingly, was sufficient to turn
his footsteps thither again. He explained to his mother--with a
vagueness which she found somewhat puzzling, but ascribed to her own
feminine obtuseness in matters of business--the reasons that
imperatively demanded his presence in Patesville. With an early start
he could drive there in one day,--he had an excellent roadster, a light
buggy, and a recent rain had left the road in good condition,--a day
would suffice for the transaction of his business, and the third day
would bring him home again. He set out on his journey on Thursday
morning, with this programme very clearly outlined.
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 about which Judge Straight had written might, it was
clear, be viewed in several aspects. The judge had written him
concerning the one of immediate importance. It would be much easier to
discuss the subject in all its bearings, and clean up the whole matter,
in one comprehensive personal interview.
The importance of this business, then, seemed very urgent for the first
few hours of Tryon's journey. Ordinarily a 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
irresistibly toward his destination. The old town beyond the distant
river, his heart told him clamorously, held the object in all the world
to him most dear. Memory brought up in vivid detail every moment of
his brief and joyous courtship, each tender word, each enchanting
smile, every fond caress. He lived his past happiness over again down
to the moment of that fatal discovery. What horrible fate was it that
had involved him--nay, that had caught this sweet delicate girl in such
a blind alley? A wild hope flashed across his mind: perhaps the
ghastly story might not be true; perhaps, after all, the girl was no
more a negro than she seemed. He had heard sad stories of white
children, born out of wedlock, abandoned by sinful parents to the care
or adoption of colored women, who had reared them as their own, the
children's future basely sacrificed to hide the parents' shame. He
would confront this reputed mother of his darling and wring the truth
from her. He was in a state of mind where any sort of a fairy tale
would have seemed reasonable. He would almost have bribed some one to
tell him that the woman he had loved, the woman he still loved (he felt
a thrill of lawless pleasure in the confession), was not the descendant
of slaves,--that he might marry her, and not have before his eyes the
gruesome fear that some one of their children might show even the
faintest mark of the despised race.
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 from the town, and cared
for his now tired beast. He knew her capacity, however, and calculated
that she could stand the additional ten miles without injury. The mare
set out with reluctance, but soon settled resignedly down into a steady
jog.
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 finger-tips had made him thrill with
happiness--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 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. He
was glad that he had kept his discovery to himself. He had considered
himself very magnanimous not to have exposed the fraud that was being
perpetrated upon society: it was with a very comfortable feeling that
he now realized that the matter was as profound a secret as before.
"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 crossed the river to the town, he pictured
to himself a pale girl, with sorrowful, tear-stained eyes, pining away
in the old gray house behind the cedars for love of him, dying,
perhaps, of a broken heart. He would hasten to her; he would dry her
tears with kisses; he would express sorrow for his cruelty.
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 once given her heart to
him, she could never, he was sure,--so instinctively fine was her
nature,--she could never love any one less worthy than himself, and
would therefore probably never marry. He knew from a Clarence
acquaintance, who had written him a letter, that Rena had not
reappeared in that town.
If he should discover--the chance was one in a thousand--that she was
white; or if he should find it too hard to leave her--ah, well! he was
a white man, one of a race born to command. He would make her white;
no one beyond the old town would ever know the difference. If,
perchance, their secret should be disclosed, the world was wide; a man
of courage and ambition, inspired by love, might make a career
anywhere. Circumstances made weak men; strong men mould circumstances
to do their bidding. He would not let his darling die of grief,
whatever the price must be paid for her salvation. She was only a few
rods away from him now. In a moment he would see her; he would take
her tenderly in his arms, and heart to heart they would mutually
forgive and forget, and, strengthened by their love, would face the
future boldly and bid the world do its worst.