A	>>	B	>>	C	>>	D	>>	E
F	>>	G	>>	H	>>	I	>>	J
K	>>	L	>>	M	>>	N	>>	O
P	>>	R	>>	S	>>	T	>>	U
V	>>	W	>>			X	>>	Z

Jack London - "Smoke Bellew"

Charles Dickens - "A Child's History of England"

E. Charles Vivian - "A History of Aeronautics"

Burroughs - "The Monster Men, by Edgar Rice Burroughs"

The House Behind The Cedars

C >> Charles W. Chesnutt >> The House Behind The Cedars




"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 circum stances
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.



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.

Copyright (c) 2007. fullstories.net. All rights reserved.