University of Virginia Library

2. II
AN EVENING VISIT

TOWARD evening of the same day, Warwick took his way down Front Street in the gathering dusk. By the time night had spread its mantle over the earth, he had reached the gate by which he had seen the girl of his morning walk enter the cedar-bordered garden. He stopped at the gate and glanced toward the house, which seemed dark and silent and deserted.

“It+'s more than likely,” he thought, “that they are in the kitchen. I reckon I+'d better try the back door.”

But as he drew cautiously near the corner, he saw a man's figure outlined in the yellow light streaming from the open door of a small house between Front Street and the cooper shop. Wishing, for reasons of his own, to avoid observation, Warwick did not turn the corner, but walked on down Front Street until he reached a point from which he could see, at a long angle, a ray of light proceeding from the kitchen window of the house behind the cedars.

“They are there,” he muttered with a sigh of relief, for he had feared they might be away. “I suspect I+'ll have to go to the front door, after all. No one can see me through the trees.”

He retraced his steps to the front gate, which he essayed to open. There was apparently some defect in the latch, for it refused to work. Warwick remembered the trick, and with a slight sense of amusement, pushed his foot under the gate and gave it a hitch to the left, after which it opened readily enough. He walked softly up the sanded path, tiptoed up the steps and across the piazza, and rapped at the front door, not too loudly, lest this too might attract the attention of the man across the street. There was no response to his rap. He put his ear to the door and heard voices within, and the muffled sound of footsteps. After a moment he rapped again, a little louder than before.

There was an instant cessation of the sounds within. He rapped a third time, to satisfy any lingering doubt in the minds of those who he felt sure were listening in some trepidation. A moment later a ray of light streamed through the keyhole.

“Who+'s there?” a woman's voice inquired somewhat sharply.

“A gentleman,” answered Warwick, not holding it yet time to reveal himself. “Does Mis' Molly Walden live here?”

“Yes,” was the guarded answer. “I+'m Mis' Walden. What+'s yo'r business?”

“I have a message to you from your son John.”

A key clicked in the lock. The door opened,

and the elder of the two women Warwick had seen upon the piazza stood in the doorway, peering curiously and with signs of great excitement into the face of the stranger.

“You 've got a message from my son, you say?” she asked with tremulous agitation. “Is he sick, or in trouble?”

“No. He+'s well and doing well, and sends his love to you, and hopes you+'ve not forgotten him.”

“Fergot him? No, God knows I ain't fergot him! But come in, sir, an' tell me somethin' mo' about him.”

Warwick went in, and as the woman closed the door after him, he threw a glance round the room. On the wall, over the mantelpiece, hung a steel engraving of General Jackson at the battle of New Orleans, and, on the opposite wall, a framed fashion-plate from “Godey's Lady's Book.” In the middle of the room an octagonal centre-table with a single leg, terminating in three sprawling feet, held a collection of curiously shaped sea-shells. There was a great haircloth sofa, somewhat the worse for wear, and a well-filled bookcase. The screen standing before the fireplace was covered with Confederate bank-notes of various denominations and designs, in which the heads of Jefferson Davis and other Confederate leaders were conspicuous. “Imperious Cæsar, dead, and turned to clay, Might stop a hole to keep the wind away,”

murmured the young man, as his eye fell upon this specimen of decorative art.

The woman showed her visitor to a seat. She then sat down facing him and looked at him closely. “When did you last see my son?” she asked.

“I+'ve never met your son,” he replied.

Her face fell. “Then the message comes through you from somebody else?”

“No, directly from your son.”

She scanned his face with a puzzled look. This bearded young gentleman, who spoke so politely and was dressed so well, surely—no, it could not be! and yet—

Warwick was smiling at her through a mist of tears. An electric spark of sympathy flashed between them. They rose as if moved by one impulse, and were clasped in each other's arms.

“John, my John! It *is John!”

“Mother—my dear old mother!”

“I 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 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 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, 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 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 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 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 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 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 *that out. Nothing bat 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 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, 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.