The House Behind the Cedars

by Charles W. Chesnutt

  “And a lot of others ‘poor white’ and shiftless,” smiled Warwick.

  “He made us, too,” continued Rena, intent upon her own thought, “and He must have had a reason for it. Perhaps He meant us to bring the others together in his own good time. A man may make a new place for himself—a woman is born and bound to hers. God must have meant me to stay here, or He would not have sent me back. I shall accept things as they are. Why should I seek the society of people whose friendship—and love—one little word can turn to scorn? I was right, John; I ought to have told him. Suppose he had married me and then had found it out?”

  To Rena’s argument of divine foreordination Warwick attached no weight whatever. He had seen God’s heel planted for four long years upon the land which had nourished slavery. Had God ordained the crime that the punishment might follow? It would have been easier for Omnipotence to prevent the crime. The experience of his sister had stirred up a certain bitterness against white people—a feeling which he had put aside years ago, with his dark blood, but which sprang anew into life when the fact of his own origin was brought home to him so forcibly through his sister’s misfortune. His sworn friend and promised brother-in-law had thrown him over promptly, upon the discovery of the hidden drop of dark blood. How many others of his friends would do the same, if they but knew of it? He had begun to feel a little of the spiritual estrangement from his associates that he had noticed in Rena during her life at Clarence. The fact that several persons knew his secret had spoiled the fine flavor of perfect security hitherto marking his position. George Tryon was a man of honor among white men, and had deigned to extend the protection of his honor to Warwick as a man, though no longer as a friend; to Rena as a woman, but not as a wife. Tryon, however, was only human, and who could tell when their paths in life might cross again, or what future temptation Tryon might feel to use a damaging secret to their disadvantage ? Warwick had cherished certain ambitions, but these he must now put behind him. In the obscurity of private life, his past would be of little moment; in the glare of a political career, one’s antecedents are public property, and too great a reserve in regard to one’s past is regarded as a confession of something discreditable. Frank, too, knew the secret—a good, faithful fellow, even where there was no obligation of fidelity; he ought to do something for Frank to show their appreciation of his conduct. But what assurance was there that Frank would always be discreet about the affairs of others? Judge Straight knew the whole story, and old men are sometimes garrulous. Dr. Green suspected the secret; he had a wife and daughters. If old Judge Straight could have known Warwick’s thoughts, he would have realized the fulfillment of his prophecy. Warwick, who had builded so well for himself, had weakened the structure of his own life by trying to share his good fortune with his sister.

  “Listen, Rena,” he said, with a sudden impulse, “we’ll go to the North or West—I’ll go with you—far away from the South and the Southern people, and start life over again. It will be easier for you, it will not be hard for me—I am young, and have means. There are no strong ties to bind me to the South. I would have a larger outlook elsewhere. ”

  “And what about our mother?” asked Rena.

  It would be necessary to leave her behind, they both perceived clearly enough, unless they were prepared to surrender the advantage of their whiteness and drop back to the lower rank. The mother bore the mark of the Ethiopian—not pronouncedly, but distinctly; neither would Mis’ Molly, in all probability, care to leave home and friends and the graves of her loved ones. She had no mental resources to supply the place of these; she was, moreover, too old to be transplanted; she would not fit into Warwick’s scheme for a new life.

  “I left her once,” said Rena, “and it brought pain and sorrow to all three of us. She is not strong, and I will not leave her here to die alone. This shall be my home while she lives, and if I leave it again, it shall be for only a short time, to go where I can write to her freely, and hear from her often. Don’t worry about me, John,—I shall do very well.”

  Warwick sighed. He was sincerely sorry to leave his sister, and yet he saw that for the time being her resolution was not to be shaken. He must bide his time. Perhaps, in a few months, she would tire of the old life. His door would be always open to her, and he would charge himself with her future.

  “Well, then,” he said, concluding the argument, “we’ll say no more about it for the present. I’ll write to you later. I was afraid that you might not care to go back just now, and so I brought your trunk along with me.”

  He gave his mother the baggage-check. She took it across to Frank, who, during the day, brought the trunk from the depot. Mis’ Molly offered to pay him for the service, but he would accept nothing.

  “Lawd, no, Mis’ Molly; I did n’ hafter go out’n my way ter git dat trunk. I had a load er sperrit-bairls ter haul ter de still, an’ de depot wuz right on my way back. It’d be robbin’ you ter take pay fer a little thing lack dat.”

  “My son John’s here,” said Mis’ Molly, “an’ he wants to see you. Come into the settin’-room. We don’t want folks to know he’s in town; but you know all our secrets, an’ we can trust you like one er the family.”

  “I’m glad to see you again, Frank,” said Warwick, extending his hand and clasping Frank’s warmly. “You’ve grown up since I saw you last, but it seems you are still our good friend.”

  “Our very good friend,” interjected Rena.

  Frank threw her a grateful glance. “Yas, suh,” he said, looking Warwick over with a friendly eye, “an’ you is growed some, too. I seed you, you know, down dere where you live; but I did n’ let on, fer you an’ Mis’ Rena wuz w‘ite as anybody; an’ eve’ybody said you wuz good ter cullud folks, an’ he‘ped ’em in deir lawsuits an’ one way er ‘nuther, an’ I wuz jes’ plum’ glad ter see you gettin’ ’long so fine, dat I wuz, certain sho’, an’ no mistake about it.”

  “Thank you, Frank, and I want you to understand how much I appreciate”—

  “How much we all appreciate,” corrected Rena.

  “Yes, how much we all appreciate, and how grateful we all are for your kindness to mother for so many years. I know from her and from my sister how good you’ve been to them.”

  “Lawd, suh!” returned Frank deprecatingly, “you’re makin’ a mountain out’n a molehill. I ain’t done nuthin’ ter speak of—not half ez much ez I would ‘a’ done. I wuz glad ter do w’at little I could, fer frien’ship’s sake.”

  “We value your friendship, Frank, and we’ll not forget it.”

  “No, Frank,” added Rena, “we will never forget it, and you shall always be our good friend.”

  Frank left the room and crossed the street with swelling heart. He would have given his life for Rena. A kind word was doubly sweet from her lips; no service would be too great to pay for her friendship.

  When Frank went out to the stable next morning to feed his mule, his eyes opened wide with astonishment. In place of the decrepit, one-eyed army mule he had put up the night before, a fat, sleek specimen of vigorous mulehood greeted his arrival with the sonorous hehaw of lusty youth. Hanging on a peg near by was a set of fine new harness, and standing under the adjoining shed, as he perceived, a handsome new cart.

  “Well, well!” exclaimed Frank; “ef I did n’ mos’ know whar dis mule, an’ dis kyart, an’ dis harness come from, I’d ‘low dere’d be’n witchcraf’ er cunjin’ wukkin’ here. But, oh my, dat is a fine mule!—I mos’ wush I could keep ’im.”

  He crossed the road to the house behind the cedars, and found Mis’ Molly in the kitchen. “Mis’ Molly,” he protested, “I ain’t done nuthin’ ter deserve dat mule. W‘at little I done fer you wa’n’t done fer pay. I’d ruther not keep dem things.”

  “Fer goodness’ sake, Frank!” exclaimed his neighbor, with a well-simulated air of mystification, “what are you talkin’ about?”

  “You knows w’at I’m talkin’ about, Mis’ Molly; you knows well ernuff I’m talkin’ about dat fi
ne mule an’ kyart an’ harness over dere in my stable.”

  “How should I know anything about ’em?” she asked.

  “Now, Mis’ Molly! You folks is jes’ tryin’ ter fool me, an’ make me take somethin’ fer nuthin’. I lef’ my ole mule an’ kyart an’ harness in de stable las’ night, an’ dis mawnin’ dey’re gone, an’ new ones in deir place. Co’se you knows whar dey come from!”

  “Well, now, Frank, sence you mention it, I did see a witch flyin’ roun’ here las’ night on a broomstick, an’ it ‘peared ter me she lit on yo’r barn, an’ I s’pose she turned yo’r old things into new ones. I wouldn’t bother my mind about it if I was you, for she may turn ‘em back any night, you know; an’ you might as well have the use of ’em in the mean while.”

  “Dat’s all foolishness, Mis’ Molly, an’ I’m gwine ter fetch dat mule right over here an’ tell yo’ son ter gimme my ole one back.”

  “My son’s gone,” she replied, “an’ I don’t know nothin’ about yo’r old mule. And what would I do with a mule, anyhow? I ain’t got no barn to put him in.”

  “I suspect you don’t care much for us after all, Frank,” said Rena reproachfully—she had come in while they were talking.

  “You meet with a piece of good luck, and you’re afraid of it, lest it might have come from us.”

  “Now, Miss Rena, you oughtn’t ter say dat,” expostulated Frank, his reluctance yielding immediately. “I’ll keep de mule an’ de kyart an’ de harness—fac‘, I’ll have ter keep ’em, ‘cause I ain’t got no others. But dey’re gwine ter be yo’n ez much ez mine. W’enever you wants anything hauled, er wants yo’ lot ploughed, er anything—dat’s yo’ mule, an’ I’m yo’ man an’ yo’ mammy’s. ”

  So Frank went back to the stable, where he feasted his eyes on his new possessions, fed and watered the mule, and curried and brushed his coat until it shone like a looking-glass.

  “Now dat,” remarked Peter, at the breakfast-table, when informed of the transaction, “is somethin’ lack rale w’ite folks.”

  No real white person had ever given Peter a mule or a cart. He had rendered one of them unpaid service for half a lifetime, and had paid for the other half; and some of them owed him substantial sums for work performed. But “to him that hath shall be given”—Warwick paid for the mule, and the real white folks got most of the credit.

  XX

  Digging Up Roots

  When the first great shock of his discovery wore off, the fact of Rena’s origin lost to Tryon some of its initial repugnance—indeed, the repugnance was not to the woman at all, as their past relations were evidence, but merely to the thought of her as a wife. It could hardly have failed to occur to so reasonable a man as Tryon that Rena’s case could scarcely be unique. Surely in the past centuries of free manners and easy morals that had prevailed in remote parts of the South, there must have been many white persons whose origin would not have borne too microscopic an investigation. Family trees not seldom have a crooked branch; or, to use a more apposite figure, many a flock has its black sheep. Being a man of lively imagination, Tryon soon found himself putting all sorts of hypothetical questions about a matter which he had already definitely determined. If he had married Rena in ignorance of her secret, and had learned it afterwards, would he have put her aside? If, knowing her history, he had nevertheless married her, and she had subsequently displayed some trait of character that would suggest the negro, could he have forgotten or forgiven the taint? Could he still have held her in love and honor? If not, could he have given her the outward seeming of affection, or could he have been more than coldly tolerant? He was glad that he had been spared this ordeal. With an effort he put the whole matter definitely and conclusively aside, as he had done a hundred times already.

  Returning to his home, after an absence of several months in South Carolina, it was quite apparent to his mother’s watchful eye that he was in serious trouble. He was absent-minded, monosyllabic, sighed deeply and often, and could not always conceal the traces of secret tears. For Tryon was young, and possessed of a sensitive soul—a source of happiness or misery, as the Fates decree. To those thus dowered, the heights of rapture are accessible, the abysses of despair yawn threateningly; only the dull monotony of contentment is denied.

  Mrs. Tryon vainly sought by every gentle art a woman knows to win her son’s confidence. “What is the matter, George, dear?” she would ask, stroking his hot brow with her small, cool hand as he sat moodily nursing his grief. “Tell your mother, George. Who else could comfort you so well as she?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing, mother,—nothing at all,” he would reply, with a forced attempt at lightness. “It’s only your fond imagination, you best of mothers.”

  It was Mrs. Tryon’s turn to sigh and shed a clandestine tear. Until her son had gone away on this trip to South Carolina, he had kept no secrets from her: his heart had been an open book, of which she knew every page; now, some painful story was inscribed therein which he meant she should not read. If she could have abdicated her empire to Blanche Leary or have shared it with her, she would have yielded gracefully; but very palpably some other influence than Blanche’s had driven joy from her son’s countenance and lightness from his heart.

  Miss Blanche Leary, whom Tryon found in the house upon his return, was a demure, pretty little blonde, with an amiable disposition, a talent for society, and a pronounced fondness for George Tryon. A poor girl, of an excellent family impoverished by the war, she was distantly related to Mrs. Tryon, had for a long time enjoyed that lady’s favor, and was her choice for George’s wife when he should be old enough to marry. A woman less interested than Miss Leary would have perceived that there was something wrong with Tryon. Miss Leary had no doubt that there was a woman at the bottom of it,—for about what else should youth worry but love? or if one’s love affairs run smoothly, why should one worry about anything at all? Miss Leary, in the nineteen years of her mundane existence, had not been without mild experiences of the heart, and had hovered for some time on the verge of disappointment with respect to Tryon himself. A sensitive pride would have driven more than one woman away at the sight of the man of her preference sighing like a furnace for some absent fair one. But Mrs. Tryon was so cordial, and insisted so strenuously upon her remaining, that Blanche’s love, which was strong, conquered her pride, which was no more than a reasonable young woman ought to have who sets success above mere sentiment. She remained in the house and bided her opportunity. If George practically ignored her for a time, she did not throw herself at all in his way. She went on a visit to some girls in the neighborhood and remained away a week, hoping that she might be missed. Tryon expressed no regret at her departure and no particular satisfaction upon her return. If the house was duller in her absence, he was but dimly conscious of the difference. He was still fighting a battle in which a susceptible heart and a reasonable mind had locked horns in a well-nigh hopeless conflict. Reason, common-sense, the instinctive ready-made judgments of his training and environment,—the deep-seated prejudices of race and caste,—commanded him to dismiss Rena from his thoughts. His stubborn heart simply would not let go.

  XXI

  A Gilded Opportunity

  Although the whole fabric of Rena’s new life toppled and fell with her lover’s defection, her sympathies, broadened by culture and still more by her recent emotional experience, did not shrink, as would have been the case with a more selfish soul, to the mere limits of her personal sorrow, great as this seemed at the moment. She had learned to love, and when the love of one man failed her, she turned to humanity, as a stream obstructed in its course overflows the adjacent country. Her early training had not directed her thoughts to the darker people with whose fate her own was bound up so closely, but rather away from them. She had been taught to despise them because they were not so white as she was, and had been slaves while she was free. Her life in her brother’s home, by removing her from immediate contact with them, had given her a different point of view,—one wh
ich emphasized their shortcomings, and thereby made vastly clearer to her the gulf that separated them from the new world in which she lived; so that when misfortune threw her back upon them, the reaction brought her nearer than before. Where once she had seemed able to escape from them, they were now, it appeared, her inalienable race. Thus doubly equipped, she was able to view them at once with the mental eye of an outsider and the sympathy of a sister: she could see their faults, and judge them charitably; she knew and appreciated their good qualities. With her quickened intelligence she could perceive how great was their need and how small their opportunity; and with this illumination came the desire to contribute to their help. She had not the breadth or culture to see in all its ramifications the great problem which still puzzles statesmen and philosophers; but she was conscious of the wish, and of the power, in a small way, to do something for the advancement of those who had just set their feet upon the ladder of progress.

  This new-born desire to be of service to her re-discovered people was not long without an opportunity for expression. Yet the Fates willed that her future should be but another link in a connected chain: she was to be as powerless to put aside her recent past as she had been to escape from the influence of her earlier life. There are sordid souls that eat and drink and breed and die, and imagine they have lived. But Rena’s life since her great awakening had been that of the emotions, and her temperament made of it a continuous life. Her successive states of consciousness were not detachable, but united to form a single if not an entirely harmonious whole. To her sensitive spirit today was born of yesterday, to-morrow would be but the offspring of to-day.

  One day, along toward noon, her mother received a visit from Mary B. Pettifoot, a second cousin, who lived on Back Street, only a short distance from the house behind the cedars. Rena had gone out, so that the visitor found Mis’ Molly alone.