The House Behind the Cedars/XXII
XXII
IMPERATIVE BUSINESS
One Wednesday morning, about six weeks after
his return home, Tryon received a letter from
Judge Straight with reference to the note left
with him at Patesville for collection. This
communication properly required an answer, which
might have been made in writing within the compass
of ten lines. No sooner, however, had Tryon
read the letter than he began to perceive reasons
why it should be answered in person. He had
left Patesville under extremely painful circumstances,
vowing that he would never return; and
yet now the barest pretext, by which no one could
have been deceived except willingly, was sufficient
to turn his footsteps thither again. He explained
to his mother--with a vagueness which she found
somewhat puzzling, but ascribed to her own feminine
obtuseness in matters of business--the reasons
that imperatively demanded his presence in
Patesville. With an early start he could drive
there in one day,--he had an excellent roadster,
a light buggy, and a recent rain had left the road
in good condition,--a day would suffice for the
transaction of his business, and the third day
would bring him home again. He set out on
his journey on Thursday morning, with this programme
very clearly outlined.
Tryon would not at first have admitted even to
himself that Rena's presence in Patesville had any
bearing whatever upon his projected visit. The
matter about which Judge Straight had written
might, it was clear, be viewed in several aspects.
The judge had written him concerning the one of
immediate importance. It would be much easier
to discuss the subject in all its bearings, and clean
up the whole matter, in one comprehensive personal
interview.
The importance of this business, then, seemed
very urgent for the first few hours of Tryon's
journey. Ordinarily a careful driver and merciful
to his beast, his eagerness to reach Patesville
increased gradually until it became necessary to
exercise some self-restraint in order not to urge
his faithful mare beyond her powers; and soon he
could no longer pretend obliviousness of the fact
that some attraction stronger than the whole
amount of Duncan McSwayne's note was urging
him irresistibly toward his destination. The old
town beyond the distant river, his heart told him
clamorously, held the object in all the world to
him most dear. Memory brought up in vivid detail
every moment of his brief and joyous courtship,
each tender word, each enchanting smile,
every fond caress. He lived his past happiness
over again down to the moment of that fatal
discovery. What horrible fate was it that had
involved him--nay, that had caught this sweet
delicate girl in such a blind alley? A wild hope
flashed across his mind: perhaps the ghastly story
might not be true; perhaps, after all, the girl was
no more a negro than she seemed. He had heard
sad stories of white children, born out of wedlock,
abandoned by sinful parents to the care or adoption
of colored women, who had reared them as
their own, the children's future basely sacrificed to
hide the parents' shame. He would confront this
reputed mother of his darling and wring the truth
from her. He was in a state of mind where any
sort of a fairy tale would have seemed reasonable.
He would almost have bribed some one to tell him
that the woman he had loved, the woman he still
loved (he felt a thrill of lawless pleasure in the
confession), was not the descendant of slaves,--
that he might marry her, and not have before his
eyes the gruesome fear that some one of their
children might show even the faintest mark of the
despised race.
At noon he halted at a convenient hamlet, fed
and watered his mare, and resumed his journey
after an hour's rest. By this time he had well-
nigh forgotten about the legal business that formed
the ostensible occasion for his journey, and was
conscious only of a wild desire to see the woman
whose image was beckoning him on to Patesville
as fast as his horse could take him.
At sundown he stopped again, about ten miles
from the town, and cared for his now tired beast.
He knew her capacity, however, and calculated
that she could stand the additional ten miles without
injury. The mare set out with reluctance,
but soon settled resignedly down into a steady jog.
Memory had hitherto assailed Tryon with the
vision of past joys. As he neared the town,
imagination attacked him with still more moving
images. He had left her, this sweet flower of
womankind--white or not, God had never made
a fairer!--he had seen her fall to the hard
pavement, with he knew not what resulting injury.
He had left her tender frame--the touch of her
finger-tips had made him thrill with happiness--
to be lifted by strange hands, while he with heartless
pride had driven deliberately away, without a
word of sorrow or regret. He had ignored her as
completely as though she had never existed. That
he had been deceived was true. But had he not
aided in his own deception? Had not Warwick
told him distinctly that they were of no family,
and was it not his own fault that he had not
followed up the clue thus given him? Had not Rena
compared herself to the child's nurse, and had
he not assured her that if she were the nurse, he
would marry her next day? The deception had
been due more to his own blindness than to any
lack of honesty on the part of Rena and her
brother. In the light of his present feelings they
seemed to have been absurdly outspoken. He
was glad that he had kept his discovery to himself.
He had considered himself very magnanimous
not to have exposed the fraud that was
being perpetrated upon society: it was with a very
comfortable feeling that he now realized that the
matter was as profound a secret as before.
"She ought to have been born white," he
muttered, adding weakly, "I would to God that I had
never found her out!"
Drawing near the bridge that crossed the river
to the town, he pictured to himself a pale girl,
with sorrowful, tear-stained eyes, pining away in
the old gray house behind the cedars for love of
him, dying, perhaps, of a broken heart. He would
hasten to her; he would dry her tears with kisses;
he would express sorrow for his cruelty.
The tired mare had crossed the bridge and was
slowly toiling up Front Street; she was near the
limit of her endurance, and Tryon did not urge
her.
They might talk the matter over, and if they
must part, part at least they would in peace and
friendship. If he could not marry her, he would
never marry any one else; it would be cruel for
him to seek happiness while she was denied it,
for, having once given her heart to him, she could
never, he was sure,--so instinctively fine was
her nature,--she could never love any one less
worthy than himself, and would therefore probably
never marry. He knew from a Clarence acquaintance,
who had written him a letter, that Rena had
not reappeared in that town.
If he should discover--the chance was one in
a thousand--that she was white; or if he should
find it too hard to leave her--ah, well! he was a
white man, one of a race born to command. He
would make her white; no one beyond the old
town would ever know the difference. If, perchance,
their secret should be disclosed, the world was
wide; a man of courage and ambition, inspired by
love, might make a career anywhere. Circumstances
made weak men; strong men mould circumstances
to do their bidding. He would not
let his darling die of grief, whatever the price
must be paid for her salvation. She was only a
few rods away from him now. In a moment he
would see her; he would take her tenderly in his
arms, and heart to heart they would mutually
forgive and forget, and, strengthened by their love,
would face the future boldly and bid the world do
its worst.