"They're all I've got," she sobbed, "an' they cos' me all I had. When the las' one's gone, I'll want to go too, for I'll be all alone in the world.
Don't take Rena, John; for if you do, I'll never see her again, an' I can't bear to think of it. How would you like to lose yo'r one child?""Well, well, mother, we'll say no more about it. And now tell me all about yourself, and about the neighbors, and how you got through the war, and who's dead and who's married--and everything."The change of subject restored in some degree Mis' Molly's equanimity, and with returning calmness came a sense of other responsibilities.
"Good gracious, Rena!" she exclaimed.
"John 's be'n in the house an hour, and ain't had nothin' to eat yet! Go in the kitchen an' spread a clean tablecloth, an' git out that 'tater pone, an' a pitcher o' that las' kag o' persimmon beer, an' let John take a bite an' a sip."
Warwick smiled at the mention of these homely dainties. "I thought of your sweet-potato pone at the hotel to-day, when I was at dinner, and wondered if you'd have some in the house. There was never any like yours; and I've forgotten the taste of persimmon beer entirely."Rena left the room to carry out her hospitable commission. Warwick, taking advantage of her absence, returned after a while to the former subject.
"Of course, mother," he said calmly, "I wouldn't think of taking Rena away against your wishes. A mother's claim upon her child is a high and holy one. Of course she will have no chance here, where our story is known. The war has wrought great changes, has put the bottom rail on top, and all that--but it hasn't wiped THAT out.
Nothing but death can remove that stain, if it does not follow us even beyond the grave. Here she must forever be--nobody! With me she might have got out into the world; with her beauty she might have made a good marriage; and, if I mistake not, she has sense as well as beauty.""Yes," sighed the mother, "she's got good sense. She ain't as quick as you was, an' don't read as many books, but she's keerful an' painstakin', an' always tries to do what's right. She's be'n thinkin' about goin' away somewhere an' tryin' to git a school to teach, er somethin', sence the Yankees have started 'em everywhere for po' white folks an' niggers too. But I don't like fer her to go too fur.""With such beauty and brains," continued Warwick, "she could leave this town and make a place for herself. The place is already made.
She has only to step into my carriage--after perhaps a little preparation--and ride up the hill which I have had to climb so painfully. It would be a great pleasure to me to see her at the top.
But of course it is impossible--a mere idle dream.
YOUR claim comes first; her duty chains her here.""It would be so lonely without her," murmured the mother weakly, "an' I love her so--my las' one!"
"No doubt--no doubt," returned Warwick, with a sympathetic sigh; "of course you love her.
It's not to be thought of for a moment. It's a pity that she couldn't have a chance here--but how could she! I had thought she might marry a gentleman, but I dare say she'll do as well as the rest of her friends--as well as Mary B., for instance, who married--Homer Pettifoot, did you say? Or maybe Billy Oxendine might do for her.
As long as she has never known any better, she'll probably be as well satisfied as though she married a rich man, and lived in a fine house, and kept a carriage and servants, and moved with the best in the land."The tortured mother could endure no more.
The one thing she desired above all others was her daughter's happiness. Her own life had not been governed by the highest standards, but about her love for her beautiful daughter there was no taint of selfishness. The life her son had described had been to her always the ideal but unattainable life.
Circumstances, some beyond her control, and others for which she was herself in a measure responsible, had put it forever and inconceivably beyond her reach. It had been conquered by her son. It beckoned to her daughter. The comparison of this free and noble life with the sordid existence of those around her broke down the last barrier of opposition.
"O Lord!" she moaned, "what shall I do with out her? It'll be lonely, John--so lonely!""You'll have your home, mother," said Warwick tenderly, accepting the implied surrender.
"You'll have your friends and relatives, and the knowledge that your children are happy. I'll let you hear from us often, and no doubt you can see Rena now and then. But you must let her go, mother,--it would be a sin against her to refuse.""She may go," replied the mother brokenly.
