The House Behind the Cedars/XXIII
XXIII
THE GUEST OF HONOR
The evening of the party arrived. The house
had been thoroughly cleaned in preparation for the
event, and decorated with the choicest treasures of
the garden. By eight o'clock the guests had gathered.
They were all mulattoes,--all people of
mixed blood were called "mulattoes" in North
Carolina. There were dark mulattoes and bright
mulattoes. Mis' Molly's guests were mostly of the
bright class, most of them more than half white,
and few of them less. In Mis' Molly's small circle,
straight hair was the only palliative of a dark
complexion. Many of the guests would not have
been casually distinguishable from white people of
the poorer class. Others bore unmistakable traces
of Indian ancestry,--for Cherokee and Tuscarora
blood was quite widely diffused among the free
negroes of North Carolina, though well-nigh lost
sight of by the curious custom of the white people
to ignore anything but the negro blood in those
who were touched by its potent current. Very few
of those present had been slaves. The free colored
people of Patesville were numerous enough before
the war to have their own "society," and human
enough to despise those who did not possess
advantages equal to their own; and at this time they still
looked down upon those who had once been held in
bondage. The only black man present occupied a
chair which stood on a broad chest in one corner,
and extracted melody from a fiddle to which a
whole generation of the best people of Patesville
had danced and made merry. Uncle Needham
seldom played for colored gatherings, but made an
exception in Mis' Molly's case; she was not white,
but he knew her past; if she was not the rose,
she had at least been near the rose. When the
company had gathered, Mary B., as mistress of
ceremonies, whispered to Uncle Needham, who
tapped his violin sharply with the bow.
"Ladies an' gent'emens, take yo' pa'dners fer a
Fuhginny reel!"
Mr. Wain, as the guest of honor, opened the
ball with his hostess. He wore a broadcloth coat
and trousers, a heavy glittering chain across the
spacious front of his white waistcoat, and a large
red rose in his buttonhole. If his boots were
slightly run down at the heel, so trivial a detail
passed unnoticed in the general splendor of his
attire. Upon a close or hostile inspection there
would have been some features of his ostensibly
good-natured face--the shifty eye, the full and
slightly drooping lower lip--which might have
given a student of physiognomy food for reflection.
But whatever the latent defects of Wain's character,
he proved himself this evening a model of
geniality, presuming not at all upon his reputed
wealth, but winning golden opinions from those
who came to criticise, of whom, of course, there
were a few, the company being composed of human
beings.
When the dance began, Wain extended his
large, soft hand to Mary B., yellow, buxom, thirty,
with white and even teeth glistening behind her
full red lips. A younger sister of Mary B.'s was
paired with Billy Oxendine, a funny little tailor,
a great gossip, and therefore a favorite among the
women. Mis' Molly graciously consented, after
many protestations of lack of skill and want of
practice, to stand up opposite Homer Pettifoot,
Mary B.'s husband, a tall man, with a slight stoop,
a bald crown, and full, dreamy eyes,--a man of
much imagination and a large fund of anecdote.
Two other couples completed the set; others were
restrained by bashfulness or religious scruples,
which did not yield until later in the evening.
The perfumed air from the garden without and
the cut roses within mingled incongruously with the
alien odors of musk and hair oil, of which several
young barbers in the company were especially
redolent. There was a play of sparkling eyes and
glancing feet. Mary B. danced with the languorous
grace of an Eastern odalisque, Mis' Molly with
the mincing, hesitating step of one long out of
practice. Wain performed saltatory prodigies. This
was a golden opportunity for the display in which
his soul found delight. He introduced variations
hitherto unknown to the dance. His skill and
suppleness brought a glow of admiration into the
eyes of the women, and spread a cloud of jealousy
over the faces of several of the younger men, who
saw themselves eclipsed.
Rena had announced in advance her intention
to take no active part in the festivities. "I don't
feel like dancing, mamma--I shall never dance
again."
"Well, now, Rena," answered her mother, "of
co'se you're too dignified, sence you've be'n 'sociatin'
with white folks, to be hoppin' roun' an' kickin'
up like Ma'y B. an' these other yaller gals;
but of co'se, too, you can't slight the comp'ny
entirely, even ef it ain't jest exac'ly our party,--
you'll have to pay 'em some little attention, 'specially
Mr. Wain, sence you're goin' down yonder
with 'im."
Rena conscientiously did what she thought
politeness required. She went the round of the guests
in the early part of the evening and exchanged
greetings with them. To several requests for dances
she replied that she was not dancing. She did not
hold herself aloof because of pride; any instinctive
shrinking she might have felt by reason of her recent
association with persons of greater refinement
was offset by her still more newly awakened zeal
for humanity; they were her people, she must not
despise them. But the occasion suggested painful
memories of other and different scenes in
which she had lately participated. Once or twice
these memories were so vivid as almost to
overpower her. She slipped away from the company,
and kept in the background as much as possible
without seeming to slight any one.
The guests as well were dimly conscious of a
slight barrier between Mis' Molly's daughter and
themselves. The time she had spent apart from
these friends of her youth had rendered it impossible
for her ever to meet them again upon the plane
of common interests and common thoughts. It
was much as though one, having acquired the
vernacular of his native country, had lived in a foreign
land long enough to lose the language of his childhood
without acquiring fully that of his adopted
country. Miss Rowena Warwick could never again
become quite the Rena Walden who had left the
house behind the cedars no more than a year and
a half before. Upon this very difference were
based her noble aspirations for usefulness,--one
must stoop in order that one may lift others. Any
other young woman present would have been importuned
beyond her powers of resistance. Rena's
reserve was respected.
When supper was announced, somewhat early in
the evening, the dancers found seats in the hall or
on the front piazza. Aunt Zilphy, assisted by Mis'
Molly and Mary B., passed around the refreshments,
which consisted of fried chicken, buttered
biscuits, pound-cake, and eggnog. When the first
edge of appetite was taken off, the conversation
waxed animated. Homer Pettifoot related, with
minute detail, an old, threadbare hunting lie,
dating, in slightly differing forms, from the age of
Nimrod, about finding twenty-five partridges sitting
in a row on a rail, and killing them all with a
single buckshot, which passed through twenty-four
and lodged in the body of the twenty-fifth, from
which it was extracted and returned to the shot
pouch for future service.
This story was followed by a murmur of
incredulity--of course, the thing was possible, but
Homer's faculty for exaggeration was so well
known that any statement of his was viewed with
suspicion. Homer seemed hurt at this lack of
faith, and was disposed to argue the point, but
the sonorous voice of Mr. Wain on the other side
of the room cut short his protestations, in much
the same way that the rising sun extinguishes the
light of lesser luminaries.
"I wuz a member er de fus' legislatur' after de
wah," Wain was saying. "When I went up f'm
Sampson in de fall, I had to pass th'ough Smithfiel',
I got in town in de afternoon, an' put up at
de bes' hotel. De lan'lo'd did n' have no s'picion
but what I wuz a white man, an' he gimme a room,
an' I had supper an' breakfas', an' went on ter
Rolly nex' mornin'. W'en de session wuz over,
I come along back, an' w'en I got ter Smithfiel', I
driv' up ter de same hotel. I noticed, as soon as I
got dere, dat de place had run down consid'able--
dere wuz weeds growin' in de yard, de winders wuz
dirty, an' ev'ything roun' dere looked kinder lonesome
an' shif'less. De lan'lo'd met me at de do';
he looked mighty down in de mouth, an' sezee:--
"`Look a-here, w'at made you come an' stop at
my place widout tellin' me you wuz a black man?
Befo' you come th'ough dis town I had a fus'-class
business. But w'en folks found out dat a nigger
had put up here, business drapped right off,
an' I've had ter shet up my hotel. You oughter
be'shamed er yo'se'f fer ruinin' a po' man w'at
had n' never done no harm ter you. You've done
a mean, low-lived thing, an' a jes' God'll punish
you fer it.'
"De po' man acshully bust inter tears,"
continued Mr. Wain magnanimously, "an' I felt so
sorry fer 'im--he wuz a po' white man tryin' ter
git up in de worl'--dat I hauled out my purse
an' gin 'im ten dollars, an' he 'peared monst'ous
glad ter git it."
" How good-hearted! How kin'!" murmured
the ladies. "It done credit to yo' feelin's."
" Don't b'lieve a word er dem lies," muttered
one young man to another sarcastically. "He
could n' pass fer white, 'less'n it wuz a mighty dark
night."
Upon this glorious evening of his life, Mr.
Jefferson Wain had one distinctly hostile critic,
of whose presence he was blissfully unconscious.
Frank Fowler had not been invited to the party,--
his family did not go with Mary B.'s set. Rena
had suggested to her mother that he be invited,
but Mis' Molly had demurred on the ground that
it was not her party, and that she had no right to
issue invitations. It is quite likely that she would
have sought an invitation for Frank from Mary
B.; but Frank was black, and would not harmonize
with the rest of the company, who would not have
Mis' Molly's reasons for treating him well. She
had compromised the matter by stepping across the
way in the afternoon and suggesting that Frank
might come over and sit on the back porch and
look at the dancing and share in the supper.
Frank was not without a certain honest pride.
He was sensitive enough, too, not to care to go
where he was not wanted. He would have curtly
refused any such maimed invitation to any other
place. But would he not see Rena in her best
attire, and might she not perhaps, in passing, speak
a word to him?
"Thank y', Mis' Molly," he replied, "I'll
prob'ly come over."
"You're a big fool, boy," observed his father after
Mis' Molly had gone back across the street, "ter
be stickin' roun' dem yaller niggers 'cross de street,
an' slobb'rin' an' slav'rin' over 'em, an' hangin'
roun' deir back do' wuss 'n ef dey wuz w'ite folks.
I'd see 'em dead fus'!"
Frank himself resisted the temptation for half
an hour after the music began, but at length he
made his way across the street and stationed himself
at the window opening upon the back piazza.
When Rena was in the room, he had eyes for her
only, but when she was absent, he fixed his
attention mainly upon Wain. With jealous
clairvoyance he observed that Wain's eyes followed
Rena when she left the room, and lit up when she
returned. Frank had heard that Rena was going
away with this man, and he watched Wain closely,
liking him less the longer he looked at him. To
his fancy, Wain's style and skill were affectation,
his good-nature mere hypocrisy, and his glance at
Rena the eye of the hawk upon his quarry. He
had heard that Wain was unmarried, and he could
not see how, this being so, he could help wishing
Rena for a wife. Frank would have been content
to see her marry a white man, who would have
raised her to a plane worthy of her merits. In
this man's shifty eye he read the liar--his wealth
and standing were probably as false as his seeming
good-humor.
"Is that you, Frank?" said a soft voice near at
hand.
He looked up with a joyful thrill. Rena was
peering intently at him, as if trying to distinguish
his features in the darkness. It was a bright
moonlight night, but Frank stood in the shadow of
the piazza.
"Yas 'm, it's me, Miss Rena. Yo' mammy said
I could come over an' see you-all dance. You ain'
be'n out on de flo' at all, ter-night."
" No, Frank, I don't care for dancing. I shall
not dance to-night."
This answer was pleasing to Frank. If he could
not hope to dance with her, at least the men inside
--at least this snake in the grass from down the
country--should not have that privilege.
"But you must have some supper, Frank," said
Rena. "I'll bring it myself."
"No, Miss Rena, I don' keer fer nothin'--I
did n' come over ter eat--r'al'y I didn't."
"Nonsense, Frank, there's plenty of it. I have
no appetite, and you shall have my portion."
She brought him a slice of cake and a glass of
eggnog. When Mis' Molly, a minute later, came
out upon the piazza, Frank left the yard and
walked down the street toward the old canal. Rena
had spoken softly to him; she had fed him with
her own dainty hands. He might never hope that
she would see in him anything but a friend; but
he loved her, and he would watch over her and
protect her, wherever she might be. He did not
believe that she would ever marry the grinning
hypocrite masquerading back there in Mis' Molly's
parlor; but the man would bear watching.
Mis' Molly had come to call her daughter into
the house. "Rena," she said, "Mr. Wain wants
ter know if you won't dance just one dance with
him."
"Yas, Rena," pleaded Mary B., who followed
Miss Molly out to the piazza, "jes' one dance. I
don't think you're treatin' my comp'ny jes' right,
Cousin Rena."
"You're goin' down there with 'im," added her
mother, "an' it 'd be just as well to be on friendly
terms with 'im."
Wain himself had followed the women. "Sho'ly,
Miss Rena, you're gwine ter honah me wid one
dance? I'd go 'way f'm dis pa'ty sad at hea't ef
I had n' stood up oncet wid de young lady er de
house."
As Rena, weakly persuaded, placed her hand
on Wain's arm and entered the house, a buggy,
coming up Front Street, paused a moment at the
corner, and then turning slowly, drove quietly up
the nameless by-street, concealed by the intervening
cedars, until it reached a point from which the
occupant could view, through the open front window,
the interior of the parlor.