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Stewart Edward White - "The Riverman"

Charles Dickens - "To be Read at Dusk"

Emile Gaboriau - "Other People's Money"

E. Phillips Oppenheim - "The Kingdom of the Blind"

The House Behind The Cedars

C >> Charles W. Chesnutt >> The House Behind The Cedars




His reverie was broken by a slight noise from
the thicket at his left. "I wonder who dat is?"
he muttered. "It soun's mighty quare, ter say de
leas'."

He listened intently for a moment, but heard
nothing further. "It must 'a' be'n a rabbit er
somethin' scamp'in' th'ough de woods. G'long
dere, Caesar!"

As the mule stepped forward, the sound was
repeated. This time it was distinctly audible, the
long, low moan of some one in sickness or distress.

"Dat ain't no rabbit," said Frank to himself.
"Dere's somethin' wrong dere. Stan' here, Caesar,
till I look inter dis matter."

Pulling out from the branch, Frank sprang
from the saddle and pushed his way cautiously
through the outer edge of the thicket.

"Good Lawd!" he exclaimed with a start, "it's
a woman--a w'ite woman!"

The slender form of a young woman lay stretched
upon the ground in a small open space a few yards
in extent. Her face was turned away, and Frank
could see at first only a tangled mass of dark brown
hair, matted with twigs and leaves and cockleburs,
and hanging in wild profusion around her neck.

Frank stood for a moment irresolute, debating
the serious question whether he should investigate
further with a view to rendering assistance, or
whether he should put as great a distance as possible
between himself and this victim, as she might
easily be, of some violent crime, lest he should
himself be suspected of it--a not unlikely contingency,
if he were found in the neighborhood and
the woman should prove unable to describe her
assailant. While he hesitated, the figure moved
restlessly, and a voice murmured:--

"Mamma, oh, mamma!"

The voice thrilled Frank like an electric shock.
Trembling in every limb, he sprang forward toward
the prostrate figure. The woman turned her head,
and he saw that it was Rena. Her gown was torn
and dusty, and fringed with burs and briars.
When she had wandered forth, half delirious,
pursued by imaginary foes, she had not stopped to put
on her shoes, and her little feet were blistered and
swollen and bleeding. Frank knelt by her side
and lifted her head on his arm. He put his hand
upon her brow; it was burning with fever.

"Miss Rena! Rena! don't you know me?"

She turned her wild eyes on him suddenly.
"Yes, I know you, Jeff Wain. Go away from
me! Go away!"

Her voice rose to a scream; she struggled in
his grasp and struck at him fiercely with her
clenched fists. Her sleeve fell back and disclosed
the white scar made by his own hand so many
years before.

"You're a wicked man," she panted. "Don't
touch me! I hate you and despise you!"

Frank could only surmise how she had come
here, in such a condition. When she spoke of
Wain in this manner, he drew his own conclusions.
Some deadly villainy of Wain's had brought her
to this pass. Anger stirred his nature to the
depths, and found vent in curses on the author of
Rena's misfortunes.

"Damn him!" he groaned. "I'll have his
heart's blood fer dis, ter de las' drop!"

Rena now laughed and put up her arms
appealingly. "George," she cried, in melting tones,
"dear George, do you love me? How much do
you love me? Ah, you don't love me!" she
moaned; "I'm black; you don't love me; you
despise me!"

Her voice died away into a hopeless wail.
Frank knelt by her side, his faithful heart breaking
with pity, great tears rolling untouched down
his dusky cheeks.

"Oh, my honey, my darlin'," he sobbed, "Frank
loves you better 'n all de worl'."

Meantime the sun shone on as brightly as before,
the mocking-bird sang yet more joyously.
A gentle breeze sprang up and wafted the odor of
bay and jessamine past them on its wings. The
grand triumphal sweep of nature's onward march
recked nothing of life's little tragedies.

When the first burst of his grief was over,
Frank brought water from the branch, bathed
Rena's face and hands and feet, and forced a few
drops between her reluctant lips. He then pitched
the cartload of tubs, buckets, and piggins out into
the road, and gathering dried leaves and pine-
straw, spread them in the bottom of the cart. He
stooped, lifted her frail form in his arms, and laid
it on the leafy bed. Cutting a couple of hickory
withes, he arched them over the cart, and gathering
an armful of jessamine quickly wove it into
an awning to protect her from the sun. She was
quieter now, and seemed to fall asleep.

"Go ter sleep, honey," he murmured caressingly,
"go ter sleep, an' Frank'll take you home ter
yo' mammy!"

Toward noon he was met by a young white man,
who peered inquisitively into the canopied cart.

"Hello!" exclaimed the stranger, "who've you
got there?"

"A sick woman, suh."

"Why, she's white, as I'm a sinner!" he
cried, after a closer inspection. "Look a-here,
nigger, what are you doin' with this white woman?"

"She's not w'ite, boss,--she's a bright mulatter."

"Yas, mighty bright," continued the stranger
suspiciously. "Where are you goin' with her?"

"I'm takin' her ter Patesville, ter her mammy."

The stranger passed on. Toward evening Frank
heard hounds baying in the distance. A fox,
weary with running, brush drooping, crossed the
road ahead of the cart. Presently, the hounds
straggled across the road, followed by two or three
hunters on horseback, who stopped at sight of the
strangely canopied cart. They stared at the sick
girl and demanded who she was.

"I don't b'lieve she's black at all," declared
one, after Frank's brief explanation. "This nigger
has a bad eye,--he's up ter some sort of
devilment. What ails the girl?"

" 'Pears ter be some kind of a fever," replied
Frank; adding diplomatically, "I don't know
whether it's ketchin' er no--she's be'n out er
her head most er de time."

They drew off a little at this. "I reckon it's
all right," said the chief spokesman. The hounds
were baying clamorously in the distance. The
hunters followed the sound and disappeared m the
woods.

Frank drove all day and all night, stopping only
for brief periods of rest and refreshment. At
dawn, from the top of the long white hill, he
sighted the river bridge below. At sunrise he
rapped at Mis' Molly's door.


Upon rising at dawn, Tryon's first step, after
a hasty breakfast, was to turn back toward Clinton.
He had wasted half a day in following the
false scent on the Lillington road. It seemed,
after reflection, unlikely that a woman seriously
ill should have been able to walk any considerable
distance before her strength gave out. In her
delirium, too, she might have wandered in a wrong
direction, imagining any road to lead to Patesville.
It would be a good plan to drive back home,
continuing his inquiries meantime, and ascertain
whether or not she had been found by those who
were seeking her, including many whom Tryon's
inquiries had placed upon the alert. If she should
prove still missing, he would resume the journey
to Patesville and continue the search in that
direction. She had probably not wandered far from
the highroad; even in delirium she would be likely
to avoid the deep woods, with which her illness
was associated.

He had retraced more than half the distance
to Clinton when he overtook a covered wagon.
The driver, when questioned, said that he had met
a young negro with a mule, and a cart in which
lay a young woman, white to all appearance, but
claimed by the negro to be a colored girl who
had been taken sick on the road, and whom he
was conveying home to her mother at Patesville.
From a further description of the cart Tryon
recognized it as the one he had met the day before.
The woman could be no other than Rena. He
turned his mare and set out swiftly on the road to
Patesville.

If anything could have taken more complete
possession of George Tryon at twenty-three than
love successful and triumphant, it was love thwarted
and denied. Never in the few brief delirious
weeks of his courtship had he felt so strongly
drawn to the beautiful sister of the popular lawyer,
as he was now driven by an aching heart toward
the same woman stripped of every adventitions
advantage and placed, by custom, beyond the pale
of marriage with men of his own race. Custom
was tyranny. Love was the only law. Would
God have made hearts to so yearn for one another
if He had meant them to stay forever apart? If
this girl should die, it would be he who had killed
her, by his cruelty, no less surely than if with
his own hand he had struck her down. He had
been so dazzled by his own superiority, so blinded
by his own glory, that he had ruthlessly spurned
and spoiled the image of God in this fair creature,
whom he might have had for his own treasure,--
whom, please God, he would yet have, at any cost,
to love and cherish while they both should live.
There were difficulties--they had seemed insuperable,
but love would surmount them. Sacrifices
must be made, but if the world without love would
be nothing, then why not give up the world for
love? He would hasten to Patesville. He would
find her; he would tell her that he loved her, that
she was all the world to him, that he had come to
marry her, and take her away where they might
be happy together. He pictured to himself the
joy that would light up her face; he felt her soft
arms around his neck, her tremulous kisses upon
his lips. If she were ill, his love would woo her
back to health,--if disappointment and sorrow
had contributed to her illness, joy and gladness
should lead to her recovery.

He urged the mare forward; if she would but
keep up her present pace, he would reach Patesville
by nightfall.


Dr. Green had just gone down the garden path
to his buggy at the gate. Mis' Molly came out to
the back piazza, where Frank, weary and haggard,
sat on the steps with Homer Pettifoot and Billy
Oxendine, who, hearing of Rena's return, had
come around after their day's work.

"Rena wants to see you, Frank," said Mis'
Molly, with a sob.

He walked in softly, reverently, and stood by her
bedside. She turned her gentle eyes upon him
and put out her slender hand, which he took in his
own broad palm.

"Frank," she murmured, "my good friend--
my best friend--you loved me best of them all."

The tears rolled untouched down his cheeks.
"I'd 'a' died, fer you, Miss Rena," he said brokenly.

Mary B. threw open a window to make way for
the passing spirit, and the red and golden glory
of the setting sun, triumphantly ending his daily
course, flooded the narrow room with light.


Between sunset and dark a traveler, seated in a
dusty buggy drawn by a tired horse, crossed the
long river bridge and drove up Front Street.
Just as the buggy reached the gate in front of the
house behind the cedars, a woman was tying a
piece of crape upon the door-knob. Pale with
apprehension, Tryon sat as if petrified, until a
tall, side-whiskered mulatto came down the garden
walk to the front gate.

"Who's dead?" demanded Tryon hoarsely,
scarcely recognizing his own voice.

"A young cullud 'oman, sah," answered
Homer Pettifoot, touching his hat, "Mis' Molly
Walden's daughter Rena."

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