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Jules Verne - "Le Tour du Monde en 80 Jours"

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The House Behind The Cedars

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




" '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.

"You ain't gwine ter be gone long, is you, Miss
Rena?" he inquired, when Rena came out dressed
for the journey in her best frock, with broad white
collar and cuffs.

Rena did not know. She had been asking herself
the same question. All sorts of vague dreams
had floated through her mind during the last few
hours, as to what the future might bring forth.
But she detected the anxious note in Frank's voice,
and had no wish to give this faithful friend of the
family unnecessary pain.

"Oh, no, Frank, I reckon not. I'm supposed
to be just going on a short visit. My brother
has lost his wife, and wishes me to come and stay
with him awhile, and look after his little boy."

"I'm feared you'll lack it better dere, Miss
Rena," replied Frank sorrowfully, dropping his
mask of unconcern, "an' den you won't come
back, an' none er yo' frien's won't never see you
no mo'."

"You don't think, Frank," asked Rena severely,
"that I would leave my mother and my home and
all my friends, and NEVER come back again?"

"Why, no 'ndeed," interposed Mis' Molly
wistfully, as she hovered around her daughter, giving
her hair or her gown a touch here and there;
"she'll be so homesick in a month that she'll be
willin' to walk home."

"You would n' never hafter do dat, Miss Rena,"
returned Frank, with a disconsolate smile. "Ef
you ever wanter come home, an' can't git back no
other way, jes' let ME know, an' I'll take my mule
an' my kyart an' fetch you back, ef it's from de
een' er de worl'."

"Thank you, Frank, I believe you would," said
the girl kindly. "You're a true friend, Frank,
and I'll not forget you while I'm gone."

The idea of her beautiful daughter riding home
from the end of the world with Frank, in a cart,
behind a one-eyed mule, struck Mis' Molly as the
height of the ridiculous--she was in a state of
excitement where tears or laughter would have
come with equal ease--and she turned away to
hide her merriment. Her daughter was going to
live in a fine house, and marry a rich man, and
ride in her carriage. Of course a negro would
drive the carriage, but that was different from
riding with one in a cart.

When it was time to go, Mis' Molly and Rena
set out on foot for the river, which was only a
short distance away. Frank followed with the
valise. There was no gathering of friends to see
Rena off, as might have been the case under
different circumstances. Her departure had some of
the characteristics of a secret flight; it was as
important that her destination should not be known, as
it had been that her brother should conceal his
presence in the town.

Mis' Molly and Rena remained on the bank until
the steamer announced, with a raucous whistle,
its readiness to depart. Warwick was seen for a
moment on the upper deck, from which he greeted
them with a smile and a slight nod. He had bidden
his mother an affectionate farewell the evening
before. Rena gave her hand to Frank.

"Good-by, Frank," she said, with a kind smile;
"I hope you and mamma will be good friends
while I'm gone."

The whistle blew a second warning blast, and
the deck hands prepared to draw in the gang-
plank. Rena flew into her mother's arms, and
then, breaking away, hurried on board and retired
to her state-room, from which she did not emerge
during the journey. The window-blinds were
closed, darkening the room, and the stewardess
who came to ask if she should bring her some dinner
could not see her face distinctly, but perceived
enough to make her surmise that the young lady
had been weeping.

"Po' chile," murmured the sympathetic
colored woman, "I reckon some er her folks is dead,
er her sweetheart 's gone back on her, er e'se she's
had some kin' er bad luck er 'nuther. W'ite folks
has deir troubles jes' ez well ez black folks, an'
sometimes feels 'em mo', 'cause dey ain't ez use'
ter 'em."

Mis' Molly went back in sadness to the lonely
house behind the cedars, henceforth to be peopled
for her with only the memory of those she had
loved. She had paid with her heart's blood another
installment on the Shylock's bond exacted
by society for her own happiness of the past and
her children's prospects for the future.

The journey down the sluggish river to the
seaboard in the flat-bottomed, stern-wheel steamer
lasted all day and most of the night. During the
first half-day, the boat grounded now and then
upon a sand-bank, and the half-naked negro deck-
hands toiled with ropes and poles to release it.
Several times before Rena fell asleep that night,
the steamer would tie up at a landing, and by the
light of huge pine torches she watched the boat
hands send the yellow turpentine barrels down the
steep bank in a long string, or pass cord-wood on
board from hand to hand. The excited negroes,
their white teeth and eyeballs glistening in the
surrounding darkness to which their faces formed
no relief; the white officers in brown linen, shouting,
swearing, and gesticulating; the yellow, flickering
torchlight over all,--made up a scene of
which the weird interest would have appealed to a
more blase traveler than this girl upon her first
journey.

During the day, Warwick had taken his meals
in the dining-room, with the captain and the other
cabin passengers. It was learned that he was a
South Carolina lawyer, and not a carpet-bagger.
Such credentials were unimpeachable, and the
passengers found him a very agreeable traveling
companion. Apparently sound on the subject of
negroes, Yankees, and the righteousness of the
lost cause, he yet discussed these themes in a lofty
and impersonal manner that gave his words greater
weight than if he had seemed warped by a personal
grievance. His attitude, in fact, piqued the
curiosity of one or two of the passengers.

"Did your people lose any niggers?" asked
one of them.

"My father owned a hundred," he replied
grandly.

Their respect for his views was doubled. It is
easy to moralize about the misfortunes of others,
and to find good in the evil that they suffer;--
only a true philosopher could speak thus lightly of
his own losses.

When the steamer tied up at the wharf at
Wilmington, in the early morning, the young lawyer
and a veiled lady passenger drove in the same
carriage to a hotel. After they had breakfasted
in a private room, Warwick explained to his sister
the plan he had formed for her future. Henceforth
she must be known as Miss Warwick, dropping
the old name with the old life. He would
place her for a year in a boarding-school at
Charleston, after which she would take her place
as the mistress of his house. Having imparted
this information, he took his sister for a drive
through the town. There for the first time Rena
saw great ships, which, her brother told her, sailed
across the mighty ocean to distant lands, whose
flags he pointed out drooping lazily at the mast-
heads. The business portion of the town had "an
ancient and fishlike smell," and most of the trade
seemed to be in cotton and naval stores and
products of the sea. The wharves were piled high
with cotton bales, and there were acres of barrels
of resin and pitch and tar and spirits of turpentine.
The market, a long, low, wooden structure,
in the middle of the principal street, was filled
with a mass of people of all shades, from blue-
black to Saxon blonde, gabbling and gesticulating
over piles of oysters and clams and freshly caught
fish of varied hue. By ten o'clock the sun was
beating down so fiercely that the glitter of the
white, sandy streets dazzled and pained the eyes
unaccustomed to it, and Rena was glad to be
driven back to the hotel. The travelers left
together on an early afternoon train.

Thus for the time being was severed the last tie
that bound Rena to her narrow past, and for some
time to come the places and the people who had
known her once were to know her no more.

Some few weeks later, Mis' Molly called upon
old Judge Straight with reference to the taxes on
her property.

"Your son came in to see me the other day,"
he remarked. "He seems to have got along."

"Oh, yes, judge, he's done fine, John has; an'
he's took his sister away with him."

"Ah!" exclaimed the judge. Then after a
pause he added, "I hope she may do as well."

"Thank you, sir," she said, with a curtsy, as
she rose to go. "We've always knowed that you
were our friend and wished us well."

The judge looked after her as she walked away.
Her bearing had a touch of timidity, a shade of
affectation, and yet a certain pathetic dignity.

"It is a pity," he murmured, with a sigh, "that
men cannot select their mothers. My young friend
John has builded, whether wisely or not, very
well; but he has come back into the old life and
carried away a part of it, and I fear that this
addition will weaken the structure."


V

THE TOURNAMENT


The annual tournament of the Clarence Social
Club was about to begin. The county fairground,
where all was in readiness, sparkled with
the youth and beauty of the town, standing here
and there under the trees in animated groups, or
moving toward the seats from which the pageant
might be witnessed. A quarter of a mile of the
race track, to right and left of the judges' stand,
had been laid off for the lists. Opposite the
grand stand, which occupied a considerable part
of this distance, a dozen uprights had been erected
at measured intervals. Projecting several feet
over the track from each of these uprights was an
iron crossbar, from which an iron hook depended.
Between the uprights stout posts were planted,
of such a height that their tops could be easily
reached by a swinging sword-cut from a mounted
rider passing upon the track. The influence of
Walter Scott was strong upon the old South.
The South before the war was essentially feudal,
and Scott's novels of chivalry appealed forcefully
to the feudal heart. During the month preceding
the Clarence tournament, the local bookseller had
closed out his entire stock of "Ivanhoe," consisting
of five copies, and had taken orders for seven
copies more. The tournament scene in this popular
novel furnished the model after which these
bloodless imitations of the ancient passages-at-
arms were conducted, with such variations as were
required to adapt them to a different age and
civilization.

The best people gradually filled the grand
stand, while the poorer white and colored folks
found seats outside, upon what would now be
known as the "bleachers," or stood alongside the
lists. The knights, masquerading in fanciful
costumes, in which bright-colored garments, gilt
paper, and cardboard took the place of knightly
harness, were mounted on spirited horses. Most
of them were gathered at one end of the lists,
while others practiced their steeds upon the unoccupied
portion of the race track.

The judges entered the grand stand, and one
of them, after looking at his watch, gave a signal.
Immediately a herald, wearing a bright yellow
sash, blew a loud blast upon a bugle, and, big
with the importance of his office, galloped wildly
down the lists. An attendant on horseback busied
himself hanging upon each of the pendent hooks
an iron ring, of some two inches in diameter,
while another, on foot, placed on top of each of
the shorter posts a wooden ball some four inches
through.

"It's my first tournament," observed a lady
near the front of the grand stand, leaning over
and addressing John Warwick, who was seated in
the second row, in company with a very handsome
girl. "It is somewhat different from Ashby-de-
la-Zouch."

"It is the renaissance of chivalry, Mrs.
Newberry," replied the young lawyer, "and, like any
other renaissance, it must adapt itself to new times
and circumstances. For instance, when we build
a Greek portico, having no Pentelic marble near
at hand, we use a pine-tree, one of nature's columns,
which Grecian art at its best could only
copy and idealize. Our knights are not weighted
down with heavy armor, but much more appropriately
attired, for a day like this, in costumes
that recall the picturesqueness, without the discomfort,
of the old knightly harness. For an iron-
headed lance we use a wooden substitute, with
which we transfix rings instead of hearts; while
our trusty blades hew their way through wooden
blocks instead of through flesh and blood. It is
a South Carolina renaissance which has points of
advantage over the tournaments of the olden time."

"I'm afraid, Mr. Warwick," said the lady,
"that you're the least bit heretical about our
chivalry--or else you're a little too deep for me."

"The last would be impossible, Mrs. Newberry;
and I'm sure our chivalry has proved its valor on
many a hard-fought field. The spirit of a thing,
after all, is what counts; and what is lacking
here? We have the lists, the knights, the prancing
steeds, the trial of strength and skill. If our
knights do not run the physical risks of Ashby-
de-la-Zouch, they have all the mental stimulus.
Wounded vanity will take the place of wounded
limbs, and there will be broken hopes in lieu of
broken heads. How many hearts in yonder group
of gallant horsemen beat high with hope! How
many possible Queens of Love and Beauty are in
this group of fair faces that surround us!"

The lady was about to reply, when the bugle
sounded again, and the herald dashed swiftly back
upon his prancing steed to the waiting group of
riders. The horsemen formed three abreast, and
rode down the lists in orderly array. As they
passed the grand stand, each was conscious of the
battery of bright eyes turned upon him, and each
gave by his bearing some idea of his ability to
stand fire from such weapons. One horse pranced
proudly, another caracoled with grace. One rider
fidgeted nervously, another trembled and looked
the other way. Each horseman carried in his hand
a long wooden lance and wore at his side a cavalry
sabre, of which there were plenty to be had since
the war, at small expense. Several left the ranks
and drew up momentarily beside the grand stand,
where they took from fair hands a glove or a
flower, which was pinned upon the rider's breast
or fastened upon his hat--a ribbon or a veil, which
was tied about the lance like a pennon, but far
enough from the point not to interfere with the
usefulness of the weapon.

As the troop passed the lower end of the grand
stand, a horse, excited by the crowd, became
somewhat unmanageable, and in the effort to curb
him, the rider dropped his lance. The prancing
animal reared, brought one of his hoofs down upon
the fallen lance with considerable force, and sent a
broken piece of it flying over the railing opposite
the grand stand, into the middle of a group of
spectators standing there. The flying fragment
was dodged by those who saw it coming, but
brought up with a resounding thwack against the
head of a colored man in the second row, who
stood watching the grand stand with an eager and
curious gaze. He rubbed his head ruefully, and
made a good-natured response to the chaffing of
his neighbors, who, seeing no great harm done,
made witty and original remarks about the
advantage of being black upon occasions where one's
skull was exposed to danger. Finding that the
blow had drawn blood, the young man took out a
red bandana handkerchief and tied it around his
head, meantime letting his eye roam over the faces
in the grand stand, as though in search of some
one that he expected or hoped to find there.

The knights, having reached the end of the
lists, now turned and rode back in open order,
with such skillful horsemanship as to evoke a
storm of applause from the spectators. The ladies
in the grand stand waved their handkerchiefs
vigorously, and the men clapped their hands. The
beautiful girl seated by Warwick's side accidentally
let a little square of white lace-trimmed linen
slip from her hand. It fluttered lightly over the
railing, and, buoyed up by the air, settled slowly
toward the lists. A young rider in the approaching
rear rank saw the handkerchief fall, and darting
swiftly forward, caught it on the point of his
lance ere it touched the ground. He drew up his
horse and made a movement as though to extend
the handkerchief toward the lady, who was blushing
profusely at the attention she had attracted by
her carelessness. The rider hesitated a moment,
glanced interrogatively at Warwick, and receiving
a smile in return, tied the handkerchief around
the middle of his lance and quickly rejoined his
comrades at the head of the lists.

The young man with the bandage round his
head, on the benches across the lists, had forced
his way to the front row and was leaning against
the railing. His restless eye was attracted by
the falling handkerchief, and his face, hitherto
anxious, suddenly lit up with animation.

"Yas, suh, yas, suh, it's her!" he muttered
softly. "It's Miss Rena, sho's you bawn. She
looked lack a' angel befo', but now, up dere
'mongs' all dem rich, fine folks, she looks lack a
whole flock er angels. Dey ain' one er dem ladies
w'at could hol' a candle ter her. I wonder w'at
dat man's gwine ter do wid her handkercher? I
s'pose he's her gent'eman now. I wonder ef
she'd know me er speak ter me ef she seed me?
I reckon she would, spite er her gittin' up so in
de worl'; fer she wuz alluz good ter ev'ybody, an'
dat let even ME in," he concluded with a sigh.

"Who is the lady, Tryon?" asked one of the
young men, addressing the knight who had taken
the handkerchief.

"A Miss Warwick," replied the knight
pleasantly, "Miss Rowena Warwick, the lawyer's
sister."

"I didn't know he had a sister," rejoined the
first speaker. "I envy you your lady. There
are six Rebeccas and eight Rowenas of my own
acquaintance in the grand stand, but she throws
them all into the shade. She hasn't been here
long, surely; I haven't seen her before."

"She has been away at school; she came only
last night," returned the knight of the crimson
sash, briefly. He was already beginning to feel a
proprietary interest in the lady whose token he
wore, and did not care to discuss her with a casual
acquaintance.

The herald sounded the charge. A rider darted
out from the group and galloped over the course.
As he passed under each ring, he tried to catch it
on the point of his lance,--a feat which made
the management of the horse with the left hand
necessary, and required a true eye and a steady
arm. The rider captured three of the twelve
rings, knocked three others off the hooks, and
left six undisturbed. Turning at the end of the
lists, he took the lance with the reins in the left
hand and drew his sword with the right. He
then rode back over the course, cutting at the
wooden balls upon the posts. Of these he clove
one in twain, to use the parlance of chivalry, and
knocked two others off their supports. His
performance was greeted with a liberal measure of
applause, for which he bowed in smiling acknowledgment
as he took his place among the riders.

Again the herald's call sounded, and the tourney
went forward. Rider after rider, with varying
skill, essayed his fortune with lance and sword.
Some took a liberal proportion of the rings; others
merely knocked them over the boundaries, where
they were collected by agile little negro boys and
handed back to the attendants. A balking horse
caused the spectators much amusement and his
rider no little chagrin.

The lady who had dropped the handkerchief
kept her eye upon the knight who had bound it
round his lance. "Who is he, John?" she asked
the gentleman beside her.

"That, my dear Rowena, is my good friend and
client, George Tryon, of North Carolina. If he had
been a stranger, I should have said that he took a
liberty; but as things stand, we ought to regard it
as a compliment. The incident is quite in accord
with the customs of chivalry. If George were but
masked and you were veiled, we should have a
romantic situation,--you the mysterious damsel in
distress, he the unknown champion. The parallel,
my dear, might not be so hard to draw, even as
things are. But look, it is his turn now; I'll wager
that he makes a good run."

"I'll take you up on that, Mr. Warwick," said
Mrs. Newberry from behind, who seemed to have a
very keen ear for whatever Warwick said.

Rena's eyes were fastened on her knight, so that
she might lose no single one of his movements. As
he rode down the lists, more than one woman found
him pleasant to look upon. He was a tall, fair
young man, with gray eyes, and a frank, open face.
He wore a slight mustache, and when he smiled,
showed a set of white and even teeth. He was
mounted on a very handsome and spirited bay mare,
was clad in a picturesque costume, of which velvet
knee-breeches and a crimson scarf were the most
conspicuous features, and displayed a marked skill
in horsemanship. At the blast of the bugle his
horse started forward, and, after the first few rods,
settled into an even gallop. Tryon's lance, held
truly and at the right angle, captured the first ring,
then the second and third. His coolness and steadiness
seemed not at all disturbed by the applause
which followed, and one by one the remaining rings
slipped over the point of his lance, until at the end
he had taken every one of the twelve. Holding
the lance with its booty of captured rings in his
left hand, together with the bridle rein, he drew his
sabre with the right and rode back over the course.
His horse moved like clockwork, his eye was true
and his hand steady. Three of the wooden balls
fell from the posts, split fairly in the middle, while
from the fourth he sliced off a goodly piece and left
the remainder standing in its place.

This performance, by far the best up to this
point, and barely escaping perfection, elicited a
storm of applause. The rider was not so well
known to the townspeople as some of the other
participants, and his name passed from mouth to
mouth in answer to numerous inquiries. The girl
whose token he had worn also became an object of
renewed interest, because of the result to her in
case the knight should prove victor in the contest,
of which there could now scarcely be a doubt; for
but three riders remained, and it was very improbable
that any one of them would excel the last.
Wagers for the remainder of the tourney stood
anywhere from five, and even from ten to one, in
favor of the knight of the crimson sash, and when
the last course had been run, his backers were
jubilant. No one of those following him had displayed
anything like equal skill.

The herald now blew his bugle and declared the
tournament closed. The judges put their heads
together for a moment. The bugle sounded again,
and the herald announced in a loud voice that Sir
George Tryon, having taken the greatest number
of rings and split the largest number of balls, was
proclaimed victor in the tournament and entitled
to the flowery chaplet of victory.

Tryon, having bowed repeatedly in response to
the liberal applause, advanced to the judges' stand
and received the trophy from the hands of the chief
judge, who exhorted him to wear the garland worthily,
and to yield it only to a better man.

"It will be your privilege, Sir George,"
announced the judge, "as the chief reward of your
valor, to select from the assembled beauty of
Clarence the lady whom you wish to honor, to whom
we will all do homage as the Queen of Love and
Beauty."

Tryon took the wreath and bowed his thanks.
Then placing the trophy on the point of his lance,
he spoke earnestly for a moment to the herald, and
rode past the grand stand, from which there was
another outburst of applause. Returning upon his
tracks, the knight of the crimson sash paused before
the group where Warwick and his sister sat, and
lowered the wreath thrice before the lady whose
token he had won.

"Oyez! Oyez!" cried the herald; "Sir George
Tryon, the victor in the tournament, has chosen
Miss Rowena Warwick as the Queen of Love and
Beauty, and she will be crowned at the feast to-night
and receive the devoirs of all true knights."

The fair-ground was soon covered with scattered
groups of the spectators of the tournament. In
one group a vanquished knight explained in elaborate
detail why it was that he had failed to win the
wreath. More than one young woman wondered
why some one of the home young men could not
have taken the honors, or, if the stranger must win
them, why he could not have selected some belle of
the town as Queen of Love and Beauty instead
of this upstart girl who had blown into the town
over night, as one might say.

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