The House Behind the Cedars | Page 4

at the intersection of
the two main streets, a "jog" at each street corner left around the
market-house a little public square, which at this hour was well
occupied by carts and wagons from the country and empty drays
awaiting hire. Warwick was unable to perceive much change in the
market-house. Perhaps the surface of the red brick, long unpainted, had
scaled off a little more here and there. There might have been a slight
accretion of the moss and lichen on the shingled roof. But the tall tower,
with its four- faced clock, rose as majestically and uncompromisingly
as though the land had never been subjugated. Was it so irreconcilable,
Warwick wondered, as still to peal out the curfew bell, which at nine
o'clock at night had clamorously warned all negroes, slave or free, that
it was unlawful for them to be abroad after that hour, under penalty of
imprisonment or whipping? Was the old constable, whose chief
business it had been to ring the bell, still alive and exercising the
functions of his office, and had age lessened or increased the number of
times that obliging citizens performed this duty for him during his

temporary absences in the company of convivial spirits? A few
moments later, Warwick saw a colored policeman in the old constable's
place--a stronger reminder than even the burned buildings that war had
left its mark upon the old town, with which Time had dealt so tenderly.
The lower story of the market-house was open on all four of its sides to
the public square. Warwick passed through one of the wide brick
arches and traversed the building with a leisurely step. He looked in
vain into the stalls for the butcher who had sold fresh meat twice a
week, on market days, and he felt a genuine thrill of pleasure when he
recognized the red bandana turban of old Aunt Lyddy, the ancient
negro woman who had sold him gingerbread and fried fish, and told
him weird tales of witchcraft and conjuration, in the old days when, as
an idle boy, he had loafed about the market-house. He did not speak to
her, however, or give her any sign of recognition. He threw a glance
toward a certain corner where steps led to the town hall above. On this
stairway he had once seen a manacled free negro shot while being
taken upstairs for examination under a criminal charge. Warwick
recalled vividly how the shot had rung out. He could see again the livid
look of terror on the victim's face, the gathering crowd, the resulting
confusion. The murderer, he recalled, had been tried and sentenced to
imprisonment for life, but was pardoned by a merciful governor after
serving a year of his sentence. As Warwick was neither a prophet nor
the son of a prophet, he could not foresee that, thirty years later, even
this would seem an excessive punishment for so slight a misdemeanor.
Leaving the market-house, Warwick turned to the left, and kept on his
course until he reached the next corner. After another turn to the right, a
dozen paces brought him in front of a small weather-beaten frame
building, from which projected a wooden sign-board bearing the
inscription:--
ARCHIBALD STRAIGHT, LAWYER.
He turned the knob, but the door was locked. Retracing his steps past a
vacant lot, the young man entered a shop where a colored man was
employed in varnishing a coffin, which stood on two trestles in the
middle of the floor. Not at all impressed by the melancholy

suggestiveness of his task, he was whistling a lively air with great gusto.
Upon Warwick's entrance this effusion came to a sudden end, and the
coffin-maker assumed an air of professional gravity.
"Good-mawnin', suh," he said, lifting his cap politely.
"Good-morning," answered Warwick. "Can you tell me anything about
Judge Straight's office hours?"
"De ole jedge has be'n a little onreg'lar sence de wah, suh; but he
gin'ally gits roun' 'bout ten o'clock er so. He's be'n kin' er feeble fer de
las' few yeahs. An' I reckon," continued the undertaker solemnly, his
glance unconsciously seeking a row of fine caskets standing against the
wall,--"I reckon he'll soon be goin' de way er all de earth. `Man dat is
bawn er 'oman hath but a sho't time ter lib, an' is full er mis'ry. He
cometh up an' is cut down lack as a flower.' `De days er his life is
three-sco' an' ten'--an' de ole jedge is libbed mo' d'n dat, suh, by five
yeahs, ter say de leas'."
"`Death,'" quoted Warwick, with whose mood the undertaker's remarks
were in tune, "`is the penalty that all must pay for the crime of living.'"
"Dat 's a fac', suh, dat 's a fac'; so dey mus'-- so dey mus'. An'