The House Behind the Cedars | Page 3

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THE HOUSE BEHIND THE CEDARS
BY CHARLES W. CHESNUTT

CONTENTS
I A STRANGER FROM SOUTH CAROLINA II AN EVENING
VISIT III THE OLD JUDGE IV DOWN THE RIVER V THE
TOURNAMENT VI THE QUEEN OF LOVE AND BEAUTY VII
'MID NEW SURROUNDINGS VIII THE COURTSHIP IX DOUBTS
AND FEARS X THE DREAM XI A LETTER AND A JOURNEY XII
TRYON GOES TO PATESVILLE XIII AN INJUDICIOUS
PAYMENT XIV A LOYAL FRIEND XV MINE OWN PEOPLE XVI
THE BOTTOM FALLS OUT XVII TWO LETTERS XVIII UNDER
THE OLD REGIME XIX GOD MADE US ALL XX DIGGING UP
ROOTS XXI A GILDED OPPORTUNITY XXII IMPERATIVE
BUSINESS XXIII THE GUEST OF HONOR XXIV SWING YOUR
PARTNERS XXV BALANCE ALL XXVI THE SCHOOLHOUSE IN

THE WOODS XXVII AN INTERESTING ACQUAINTANCE
XXVIII THE LOST KNIFE XXIX PLATO EARNS HALF A
DOLLAR XXX AN UNUSUAL HONOR XXXI IN DEEP WATERS
XXXII THE POWER OF LOVE XXXIII A MULE AND A CART

THE HOUSE BEHIND THE CEDARS
I
A STRANGER FROM SOUTH CAROLINA
Time touches all things with destroying hand; and if he seem now and
then to bestow the bloom of youth, the sap of spring, it is but a brief
mockery, to be surely and swiftly followed by the wrinkles of old age,
the dry leaves and bare branches of winter. And yet there are places
where Time seems to linger lovingly long after youth has departed, and
to which he seems loath to bring the evil day. Who has not known
some even-tempered old man or woman who seemed to have drunk of
the fountain of youth? Who has not seen somewhere an old town that,
having long since ceased to grow, yet held its own without perceptible
decline?
Some such trite reflection--as apposite to the subject as most random
reflections are--passed through the mind of a young man who came out
of the front door of the Patesville Hotel about nine o'clock one fine
morning in spring, a few years after the Civil War, and started down
Front Street toward the market-house. Arriving at the town late the
previous evening, he had been driven up from the steamboat in a
carriage, from which he had been able to distinguish only the shadowy
outlines of the houses along the street; so that this morning walk was
his first opportunity to see the town by daylight. He was dressed in a
suit of linen duck--the day was warm--a panama straw hat, and patent
leather shoes. In appearance he was tall, dark, with straight, black,
lustrous hair, and very clean-cut, high-bred features. When he paused
by the clerk's desk on his way out, to light his cigar, the day clerk, who
had just come on duty, glanced at the register and read the last entry:--

"`JOHN WARWICK, CLARENCE, SOUTH CAROLINA.'
"One of the South Ca'lina bigbugs, I reckon --probably in cotton, or
turpentine." The gentleman from South Carolina, walking down the
street, glanced about him with an eager look, in which curiosity and
affection were mingled with a touch of bitterness. He saw little that was
not familiar, or that he had not seen in his dreams a hundred times
during the past ten years. There had been some changes, it is true, some
melancholy changes, but scarcely anything by way of addition or
improvement to counterbalance them. Here and there blackened and
dismantled walls marked the place where handsome buildings once had
stood, for Sherman's march to the sea had left its mark upon the town.
The stores were mostly of brick, two stories high, joining one another
after the manner of cities. Some of the names on the signs were familiar;
others, including a number of Jewish names, were quite unknown to
him.
A two minutes' walk brought Warwick--the name he had registered
under, and as we shall call him--to the market-house, the central feature
of Patesville, from both the commercial and the picturesque points of
view. Standing foursquare in the heart of the town,