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.
" '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."
