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SEVENOAKS
A Story of Today
by
J.G. HOLLAND
New York
Grosset & Dunlap
Publishers
Published by Arrangement with Charles Scribner's Sons
1875
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
Which tells about Sevenoaks, and how Miss Butterworth passed one of
her evenings
CHAPTER II.
Mr. Belcher carries his point at the town-meeting, and the poor are
knocked down to Thomas Buffum
CHAPTER III.
In which Jim Fenton is introduced to the reader and introduces himself to
Miss Butterworth
CHAPTER IV.
In which Jim Fenton applies for lodgings at Tom Buffum's boarding-house,
and finds his old friend
CHAPTER V.
In which Jim enlarges his accommodations and adopts a violent method
of securing boarders
CHAPTER VI.
In which Sevenoaks experiences a great commotion, and comes to the
conclusion that Benedict has met with foul play
CHAPTER VII.
In which Jim and Mike Conlin pass through a great trial and come out
victorious
CHAPTER VIII.
In which Mr. Belcher visits New York, and becomes the Proprietor of
"Palgrave's Folly."
CHAPTER IX.
Mrs. Talbot gives her little dinner party, and Mr. Belcher makes an
exceedingly pleasant acquaintance
CHAPTER X.
Which tells how a lawyer spent his vacation in camp, and took home a
specimen of game that he had never before found in the woods
CHAPTER XI.
Which records Mr. Belcher's connection with a great speculation and
brings to a close his residence in Sevenoaks
CHAPTER XII.
In which Jim enlarges his plans for a house, and completes his plans for
a house-keeper
CHAPTER XIII.
Which introduces several residents of Sevenoaks to the Metropolis and
a new character to the reader
CHAPTER XIV.
Which tells of a great public meeting in Sevenoaks, the burning in effigy
of Mr. Belcher, and that gentleman's interview with a reporter
CHAPTER XV.
Which tells about Mrs. Dillingham's Christmas and the New Year's
Reception at the Palgrave Mansion
CHAPTER XVI.
Which gives an account of a voluntary and an involuntary visit of Sam
Yates to Number Nine
CHAPTER XVII.
In which Jim constructs two happy-Davids, raises his hotel, and dismisses
Sam Yates
CHAPTER XVIII.
In which Mrs. Dillingham makes some important discoveries, but fails to
reveal them to the reader
CHAPTER XIX.
In which Mr. Belcher becomes President of the Crooked Valley Railroad,
with large "Terminal facilities," and makes an adventure into a
long-meditated crime
CHAPTER XX.
In which "the little woman" announces her engagement to Jim Fenton
and receives the congratulations of her friends
CHAPTER XXI.
In which Jim gets the furniture into his house, and Mike Conlin gets
another installment of advice into Jim
CHAPTER XXII.
In which Jim gets married, the new hotel receives its mistress, and
Benedict confers a power of attorney
CHAPTER XXIII.
In which Mr. Belcher expresses his determination to become a "founder,"
but drops his noun in fear of a little verb of the same name
CHAPTER XXIV.
Wherein the General leaps the bounds of law, finds himself in a new
world, and becomes the victim of his friends without knowing it
CHAPTER XXV.
In which the General goes through a great many trials, and meets at last
the one he has so long anticipated
CHAPTER XXVI.
In which the case of "Benedict _vs._ Belcher" finds itself in court, an
interesting question of identity is settled, and a mysterious
disappearance takes place
CHAPTER XXVII.
In which Phipps is not to be found, and the General is called upon to do
his own lying
CHAPTER XXVIII.
In which a heavenly witness appears who cannot be cross-examined, and
before which the defense utterly breaks down
CHAPTER XXIX.
Wherein Mr. Belcher, having exhibited his dirty record, shows a clean
pair of heels
CHAPTER XXX.
Which gives the history of an anniversary, presents a tableau, and drops
the curtain
CHAPTER I.
WHICH TELLS ABOUT SEVENOAKS, AND HOW MISS BUTTERWORTH PASSED ONE OF HER
EVENINGS.
Everybody has seen Sevenoaks, or a hundred towns so much like it, in
most particulars, that a description of any one of them would present it
to the imagination--a town strung upon a stream, like beads upon a
thread, or charms upon a chain. Sevenoaks was richer in chain than
charms, for its abundant water-power was only partially used. It
plunged, and roared, and played, and sparkled, because it had not half
enough to do. It leaped down three or four cataracts in passing through
the village; and, as it started from living springs far northward among
the woods and mountains, it never failed in its supplies.
Few of the people of Sevenoaks--thoughtless workers, mainly--either knew
or cared whence it came, or whither it went. They knew it as "The
Branch;" but Sevenoaks was so far from the trunk, down to which it sent
its sap, and from which it received no direct return, that no
significance was attached to its name. But it roared all day, and roared
all night, summer and winter alike, and the sound became a part of the
atmosphere. Resonance was one of the qualities of the oxygen which the
people breathed, so that if, at any midnight moment, the roar had been
suddenly hushed, they would have waked with a start and a sense of
suffocation, and leaped from their beds.
Among the charms that dangled from this liquid chain--depending from the
vest of a landscape which ended in a ruffle of woods toward the north,
overtopped by the head of a mountain--was a huge factory that had been
added to from time to time, as necessity demanded, until it had become
an imposing and not uncomely pile. Below this were two or three
dilapidated saw-mills, a grist-mill in daily use, and a fulling-mill--a
remnant of the old times when homespun went its pilgrimage to town--to
be fulled, colored, and dressed--from all the sparsely settled country
around.
On a little plateau by the side of The Branch was a row of stores and
dram-shops and butchers' establishments. Each had a sort of square,
false front, pierced by two staring windows and a door, that reminded
one of a lion _couchant_--very large in the face and very thin in the
flank. Then there were crowded in, near the mill, little rows of
one-story houses, occupied entirely by operatives, and owned by the
owner of the mill. All the inhabitants, not directly connected with the
mill, were as far away from it as they could go. Their houses were set
back upon either acclivity which rose from the gorge that the stream had
worn, dotting the hill-sides in every direction. There was a clumsy
town-hall, there were three or four churches, there was a high school
and a low tavern. It was, on the whole, a village of importance, but the
great mill was somehow its soul and center. A fair farming and grazing
country stretched back from it eastward and westward, and Sevenoaks was
its only home market.
It is not proposed, in this history, to tell where Sevenoaks was, and is
to-day. It may have been, or may be, in Maine, or New Hampshire, or
Vermont, or New York. It was in the northern part of one of these
States, and not far from the border of a wilderness, almost as deep and
silent as any that can be found beyond the western limit of settlement
and civilization. The red man had left it forever, but the bear, the
deer and the moose remained. The streams and lakes were full of trout;
otter and sable still attracted the trapper, and here and there a
lumberman lingered alone in his cabin, enamored of the solitude and the
wild pursuits to which a hardly gentler industry had introduced him.
Such lumber as could be drifted down the streams had long been cut and
driven out, and the woods were left to the hunter and his prey, and to
the incursions of sportsmen and seekers for health, to whom the rude
residents became guides, cooks, and servants of all work, for the sake
of occasional society, and that ever-serviceable consideration--money.
There were two establishments in Sevenoaks which stood so far away from
the stream that they could hardly be described as attached to it.
Northward, on the top of the bleakest hill in the region, stood the
Sevenoaks poor-house. In dimensions and population, it was utterly out
of proportion to the size of the town, for the people of Sevenoaks
seemed to degenerate into paupers with wonderful facility. There was one
man in the town who was known to be getting rich, while all the rest
grew poor. Even the keepers of the dram-shops, though they seemed to do
a thriving business, did not thrive. A great deal of work was done, but
people were paid very little for it. If a man tried to leave the town
for the purpose of improving his condition, there was always some
mortgage on his property, or some impossibility of selling what he had
for money, or his absolute dependence on each day's labor for each day's
bread, that stood in the way. One by one--sick, disabled, discouraged,
dead-beaten--they drifted into the poor-house, which, as the years went
on, grew into a shabby, double pile of buildings, between which ran a
county road.
This establishment was a county as well as a town institution, and,
theoretically, one group of its buildings was devoted to the reception
of county paupers, while the other was assigned to the poor of
Sevenoaks. Practically, the keeper of both mingled his boarders
indiscriminately, to suit his personal convenience.
The hill, as it climbed somewhat abruptly from the western bank of the
stream--it did this in the grand leisure of the old geologic
centuries--apparently got out of breath and sat down when its task was
half done. Where it sat, it left a beautiful plateau of five or six
acres, and from this it rose, and went on climbing, until it reached the
summit of its effort, and descended the other side. On the brow of this
plateau stood seven huge oaks which the chopper's axe, for some reason
or another, had spared; and the locality, in all the early years of
settlement, was known by the name of "The Seven Oaks." They formed a
notable landmark, and, at last, the old designation having been worn by
usage, the town was incorporated with the name of Sevenoaks, in a single
word.
On this plateau, the owner of the mill, Mr. Robert Belcher--himself an
exceptional product of the village--had built his residence--a large,
white, pretentious dwelling, surrounded and embellished by all the
appointments of wealth. The house was a huge cube, ornamented at its
corners and cornices with all possible flowers of a rude architecture,
reminding one of an elephant, that, in a fit of incontinent playfulness,
had indulged in antics characteristic of its clumsy bulk and brawn.
Outside were ample stables, a green-house, a Chinese pagoda that was
called "the summer-house," an exquisite garden and trees, among which
latter were carefully cherished the seven ancient oaks that had given
the town its name.
Robert Belcher was not a gentleman. He supposed himself to be one, but
he was mistaken. Gentlemen of wealth usually built a fine house; so Mr.
Belcher built one. Gentlemen kept horses, a groom and a coachman; Mr.
Belcher did the same. Gentlemen of wealth built green-houses for
themselves and kept a gardener; Mr. Belcher could do no less. He had no
gentlemanly tastes, to be sure, but he could buy or hire these for
money; so he bought and hired them; and when Robert Belcher walked
through his stables and jested with his men, or sauntered into his
green-house and about his grounds, he rubbed his heavy hands together,
and fancied that the costly things by which he had surrounded himself
were the insignia of a gentleman.
From his windows he could look down upon the village, all of which he
either owned or controlled. He owned the great mill; he owned the
water-privilege; he owned many of the dwellings, and held mortgages on
many others; he owned the churches, for all purposes practical to
himself; he owned the ministers--if not, then this was another mistake
that he had made. So long as it was true that they could not live
without him, he was content with his title. He patronized the church,
and the church was too weak to decline his ostentatious courtesy. He
humiliated every man who came into his presence, seeking a subscription
for a religious or charitable purpose, but his subscription was always
sought, and as regularly obtained. Humbly to seek his assistance for any
high purpose was a concession to his power, and to grant the assistance
sought was to establish an obligation. He was willing to pay for
personal influence and personal glory, and he often paid right royally.
Of course, Mr. Belcher's residence had a library; all gentlemen have
libraries. Mr. Belcher's did not contain many books, but it contained a
great deal of room for them. Here he spent his evenings, kept his papers
in a huge safe built into the wall, smoked, looked down on the twinkling
village and his huge mill, counted his gains and constructed his
schemes. Of Mrs. Belcher and the little Belchers, he saw but little. He
fed and dressed them well, as he did his horses. All gentlemen feed and
dress their dependents well. He was proud of his family as he saw them
riding in their carriage. They looked gay and comfortable, and were, as
he thought, objects of envy among the humbler folk of the town, all of
which reflected pleasantly upon himself.
On a late April evening, of a late spring in 18--, he was sitting in
his library, buried in a huge easy chair, thinking, smoking, scheming.
The shutters were closed, the lamps were lighted, and a hickory fire was
blazing upon the hearth. Around the rich man were spread the luxuries
which his wealth had bought--the velvet carpet, the elegant chairs, the
heavy library table, covered with costly appointments, pictures in broad
gold frames, and one article of furniture that he had not been
accustomed to see in a gentleman's library--an article that sprang out
of his own personal wants. This was an elegant pier-glass, into whose
depths he was accustomed to gaze in self-admiration. He was flashily
dressed in a heavy coat, buff waistcoat, and drab trousers. A gold chain
of fabulous weight hung around his neck and held his Jurgensen repeater.
He rose and walked his room, and rubbed his hands, as was his habit;
then paused before his mirror, admired his robust figure and large face,
brushed his hair back from his big brow, and walked on again. Finally,
he paused before his glass, and indulged in another habit peculiar to
himself.
"Robert Belcher," said he, addressing the image in the mirror, "you are
a brick! Yes, sir, you are a brick! You, Robert Belcher, sir, are an
almighty smart man. You've outwitted the whole of 'em. Look at me, sir!
Dare you tell me, sir, that I am not master of the situation? Ah! you
hesitate; it is well! They all come to me, every man of 'em It is 'Mr.
Belcher, will you be so good?' and 'Mr. Belcher, I hope you are very
well,' and 'Mr. Belcher, I want you to do better by me.' Ha! ha! ha! ha!
My name is Norval. It isn't? Say that again and I'll throttle you! Yes,
sir, I'll shake your rascally head off your shoulders! Down, down in the
dust, and beg my pardon! It is well; go! Get you gone, sir, and remember
not to beard the lion in his den!"
Exactly what this performance meant, it would be difficult to say. Mr.
Belcher, in his visits to the city, had frequented theaters and admired
the villains of the plays he had seen represented. He had noticed
figures upon the boards that reminded him of his own. His addresses to
his mirror afforded him an opportunity to exercise his gifts of
speech and action, and, at the same time, to give form to his
self-gratulations. They amused him; they ministered to his preposterous
vanity. He had no companions in the town, and the habit gave him a sense
of society, and helped to pass away his evenings. At the close of his
effort he sat down and lighted another cigar. Growing drowsy, he laid it
down on a little stand at his side, and settled back in his chair for a
nap. He had hardly shut his eyes when there came a rap upon his door.
"Come in!"
"Please, sir," said a scared-looking maid, opening the door just wide
enough to make room for her face.
"Well?" in a voice so sharp and harsh that the girl cringed.
"Please, sir, Miss Butterworth is at the door, and would like to see
you."
Now, Miss Butterworth was the one person in all Sevenoaks who was not
afraid of Robert Belcher. She had been at the public school with him
when they were children; she had known every circumstance of his
history; she was not dependent on him in any way, and she carried in her
head an honest and fearless tongue. She was an itinerant tailoress, and
having worked, first and last, in nearly every family in the town, she
knew the circumstances of them all, and knew too well the connection of
Robert Belcher with their troubles and reverses. In Mr. Belcher's
present condition of self-complacency and somnolency, she was not a
welcome visitor. Belligerent as he had been toward his own image in the
mirror, he shrank from meeting Keziah Butterworth, for he knew
instinctively that she had come with some burden of complaint.
"Come in," said Mr. Belcher to his servant, "and shut the door behind
you."
The girl came in, shut the door, and waited, leaning against it.
"Go," said her master in a low tone, "and tell Mrs. Belcher that I am
busy, and that she must choke her off. I can't see her to-night. I can't
see her."
The girl retired, and soon afterward Mrs. Belcher came, and reported
that she could do nothing with Miss Butterworth--that Miss Butterworth
was determined to see him before she left the house.
"Bring her in; I'll make short work with her."
As soon as Mrs. Belcher retired, her husband hurried to the mirror,
brushed his hair back fiercely, and then sat down to a pile of papers
that he always kept conveniently upon his library table.
"Come in," said Mr. Belcher, in his blandest tone, when Miss Butterworth
was conducted to his room.
"Ah! Keziah?" said Mr. Belcher, looking up with a smile, as if an
unexpected old friend had come to him.
"My name is Butterworth, and it's got a handle to it,' said that
bumptious lady, quickly.
"Well, but, Keziah, you know we used to--"
"My name is Butterworth, I tell you, and it's got a handle to it."
"Well, Miss Butterworth--happy to see you--hope you are well--take a
chair."
"Humph," exclaimed Miss Butterworth, dropping down upon the edge of a
large chair, whose back felt no pressure from her own during the
interview. The expression of Mr. Belcher's happiness in seeing her, and
his kind suggestion concerning her health, had overspread Miss
Butterworth's countenance with a derisive smile, and though she was
evidently moved to tell him that he lied, she had reasons for
restraining her tongue.
They formed a curious study, as they sat there together, during the
first embarrassing moments. The man had spent his life in schemes for
absorbing the products of the labor of others. He was cunning, brutal,
vain, showy, and essentially vulgar, from his head to his feet, in
every fiber of body and soul. The woman had earned with her own busy
hands every dollar of money she had ever possessed. She would not have
wronged a dog for her own personal advantage. Her black eyes, lean and
spirited face, her prematurely whitening locks, as they were exposed by
the backward fall of her old-fashioned, quilted hood, presented a
physiognomy at once piquant and prepossessing.
Robert Belcher knew that the woman before him was fearless and
incorruptible. He knew that she despised him--that bullying and
brow-beating would have no influence with her, that his ready badinage
would not avail, and that coaxing and soft words would be equally
useless. In her presence, he was shorn of all his weapons; and he never
felt so defenseless and ill at ease in his life.
As Miss Butterworth did not seem inclined to begin conversation, Mr.
Belcher hem'd and haw'd with affected nonchalance, and said:
"Ah!--to--what am I indebted for this visit. Miss--ah--Butterworth?"
"I'm thinking!" she replied sharply, looking into the fire, and pressing
her lips together.
There was nothing to be said to this, so Mr. Belcher looked doggedly at
her, and waited.
"I'm thinking of a man, and-he-was-a-man-every-inch-of-him, if there
ever was one, and a gentleman too, if-I-know-what-a-gentleman-is, who
came to this town ten years ago, from-nobody-knows-where; with a wife
that was an angel, if-there-is-any-such-thing-as-an-angel."
Here Miss Butterworth paused. She had laid her foundation, and proceeded
at her leisure.
"He knew more than any man in Sevenoaks, but he didn't know how to take
care of himself," she went on. "He was the most ingenious creature God
ever made, I do think, and his name was Paul Benedict."
Mr. Belcher grew pale and fidgeted in his chair.
"And his name was Paul Benedict. He invented something, and
then he took it to Robert Belcher, and he put it into his
mill, and-paid-him-just-as-little-for-it-as-he-could. And
then he invented something more, and-that-went-into-the-mill;
and then something more, and the patent was used by Mr.
Belcher for a song, and the man grew poorer and poorer,
while-Mr.-Belcher-grew-richer-and-richer-all-the-time. And
then he invented a gun, and then his little wife died,
and what with the expenses of doctors and funerals and
such things, and the money it took to get his patent,
which-I-begged-him-for-conscience'-sake-to-keep-out-of-Robert-Belcher's-hands,
he almost starved with his little boy, and had to go to Robert
Belcher for money."
"And get it," said Mr. Belcher.
"How much, now? A hundred little dollars for what was worth a hundred
thousand, unless-everybody-lies. The whole went in a day, and then he
went crazy."
"Well, you know I sent him to the asylum," responded Mr. Belcher.
"I know you did--yes, I know you did; and you tried to get him well
enough to sign a paper, which the doctor never would let him sign, and
which wouldn't have been worth a straw if he had signed it.
The-idea-of-getting-a-crazy-man-to-sign-a-paper!"
"Well, but I wanted some security for the money I had advanced," said
Mr. Belcher.
"No; you wanted legal possession of a property which would have made him
rich; that's what it was, and you didn't get it, and you never will get
it. He can't be cured, and he's been sent back, and is up at Tom
Buffum's now, and I've seen him to-day."
Miss Butterworth expected that this intelligence would stun Mr. Belcher,
but it did not.
The gratification of the man with the news was unmistakable. Paul
Benedict had no relatives or friends that he knew of. All his dealings
with him had been without witnesses. The only person living besides
Robert Belcher, who knew exactly what had passed between his victim and
himself, was hopelessly insane. The difference, to him, between
obtaining possession of a valuable invention of a sane or an insane man,
was the difference between paying money and paying none. In what way,
and with what profit, Mr. Belcher was availing himself of Paul
Benedict's last invention, no one in Sevenoaks knew; but all the town
knew that he was getting rich, apparently much faster than he ever was
before, and that, in a distant town, there was a manufactory of what was
known as "The Belcher Rifle."
Mr. Belcher concluded that he was still "master of the situation."
Benedict's testimony could not be taken in a court of justice. The town
itself was in his hands, so that it would institute no suit on
Benedict's behalf, now that he had come upon it for support; for the Tom
Buffum to whom Miss Butterworth had alluded was the keeper of the
poor-house, and was one of his own creatures.
Miss Butterworth had sufficient sagacity to comprehend the reasons for
Mr. Belcher's change of look and manner, and saw that her evening's
mission would prove fruitless; but her true woman's heart would not
permit her to relinquish her project.
"Is poor Benedict comfortable?" he inquired, in his old, off-hand way.
"Comfortable--yes, in the way that pigs are."
"Pigs are very comfortable, I believe, as a general thing," said Mr.
Belcher.
"Bob Belcher," said Miss Butterworth, the tears springing to her eyes in
spite of herself, and forgetting all the proprieties she had determined
to observe, "you are a brute. You know you are a brute. He is in a
little cell, no larger than--than--a pig-pen. There isn't a bit of
furniture in it. He sleeps on the straw, and in the straw, and under the
straw, and his victuals are poked at him as if he were a beast. He is a
poor, patient, emaciated wretch, and he sits on the floor all day, and
weaves the most beautiful things out of the straw he sits on, and Tom
Buffum's girls have got them in the house for ornaments. And he talks
about his rifle, and explains it, and explains it, and explains it, when
anybody will listen to him, and his clothes are all in rags, and that
little boy of his that they have in the house, and treat no better than
if he were a dog, knows he is there, and goes and looks at him, and
calls to him, and cries about him whenever he dares. And you sit here,
in your great house, with your carpets and chairs, that half smother
you, and your looking-glasses and your fine clothes, and don't start to
your feet when I tell you this. I tell you if God doesn't damn everybody
who is responsible for this wickedness, then there is no such thing as a
God."
Miss Butterworth was angry, and had grown more and more angry with every
word. She had brooded over the matter all the afternoon, and her pent-up
indignation had overflowed beyond control. She felt that she had spoken
truth which Robert Belcher ought to hear and to heed, yet she knew that
she had lost her hold upon him. Mr. Belcher listened with the greatest
coolness, while a half smile overspread his face.
"Don't you think I'm a pretty good-natured man to sit here," said he,
"and hear myself abused in this way, without getting angry?"
"No, I think you are a bad-natured man. I think you are the
hardest-hearted and worst man I ever saw. What in God's name has Paul
Benedict done, that he should be treated in this way? There are a dozen
there just like him, or worse. Is it a crime to lose one's reason? I
wish you could spend one night in Paul Benedict's room."
"Thank you. I prefer my present quarters."
"Yes, you look around on your present quarters, as you call 'em, and
think you'll always have 'em. You won't. Mark my words; you won't. Some
time you'll overreach yourself, and cheat yourself out of 'em. See if
you don't."
"It takes a smart man to cheat himself, Miss Butterworth," responded
Mr. Belcher, rubbing his hands.
"There is just where you're mistaken. It takes a fool."
Mr. Belcher laughed outright. Then, in a patronizing way, he said: "Miss
Butterworth, I have given you considerable time, and perhaps you'll be
kind enough to state your business. I'm a practical man, and I really
don't see anything that particularly concerns me in all this talk. Of
course, I'm sorry for Benedict and the rest of 'em, but Sevenoaks isn't
a very rich town, and it cannot afford to board its paupers at the
hotel, or to give them many luxuries."
Miss Butterworth was calm again. She knew that she had done her cause no
good, but was determined to finish her errand.
"Mr. Belcher, I'm a woman."
"I know it, Keziah."
"And my name is Butterworth."
"I know it."
"You do? Well, then, here is what I came to say to you. The town-meeting
comes to-morrow, and the town's poor are to be sold at auction, and to
pass into Tom Buffum's hands again, unless you prevent it. I can't make
a speech, and I can't vote. I never wanted to until now. You can do
both, and if you don't reform this business, and set Tom Buffum at doing
something else, and treat God's poor more like human beings, I shall get
out of Sevenoaks before it sinks; for sink it will if there is any hole
big enough to hold it."
"Well, I'll think of it," said Mr. Belcher, deliberately.
"Tell me you'll do it."
"I'm not used to doing things in a hurry. Mr. Buffum is a friend of
mine, and I've always regarded him as a very good man for the place. Of
course, if there's anything wrong it ought to be righted, but I think
you've exaggerated."
"No, you don't mean to do anything. I see it. Good-night," and she had
swept out of the door before he could say another word, or rise from his
chair.
She went down the hill into the village. The earth was stiffening with
the frost that lingered late in that latitude, and there were patches of
ice, across which she picked her way. There was a great moon overhead,
but just then all beautiful things, and all things that tended to lift
her thoughts upward, seemed a mockery. She reached the quiet home of
Rev. Solomon Snow.
"Who knows but he can be spurred up to do something?" she said to
herself.
There was only one way to ascertain--so she knocked at the door, and was
received so kindly by Mr. Snow and Mrs. Snow and the three Misses Snow,
that she sat down and unburdened herself--first, of course, as regarded
Mr. Robert Belcher, and second, as concerned the Benedicts, father and
son.
The position of Mr. Belcher was one which inspired the minister with
caution, but the atmosphere was freer in his house than in that of the
proprietor. The vocal engine whose wheels had slipped upon the track
with many a whirr, as she started her train in the great house on the
hill, found a down grade, and went off easily. Mr. Snow sat in his
arm-chair, his elbows resting on either support, the thumb and every
finger of each hand touching its twin at the point, and forming a kind
of gateway in front of his heart, which seemed to shut out or let in
conviction at his will. Mrs. Snow and the girls, whose admiration of
Miss Butterworth for having dared to invade Mr. Belcher's library was
unbounded, dropped their work, and listened with eager attention. Mr.
Snow opened the gate occasionally to let in a statement, but for the
most part kept it closed. The judicial attitude, the imperturbable
spectacles, the long, pale face and white cravat did not prevent Miss
Butterworth from "freeing her mind;" and when she finished the task, a
good deal had been made of the case of the insane paupers of Sevenoaks,
and there was very little left of Mr. Robert Belcher and Mr. Thomas
Buffum.
At the close of her account of what she had seen at the poor-house, and
what had passed between her and the great proprietor, Mr. Snow cast his
eyes up to the ceiling, pursed his lips, and somewhere in the
profundities of his nature, or in some celestial laboratory, unseen by
any eyes but his own, prepared his judgments.
"Cases of this kind," said he, at last, to his excited visitor, whose
eyes glowed like coals as she looked into his impassive face, "are to be
treated with great prudence. We are obliged to take things as they air.
Personally (with a rising inflection and a benevolent smile), I should
rejoice to see the insane poor clothed and in their right mind."
"Let us clothe 'em, then, anyway," interjected Miss Butterworth,
impatiently. "And, as for being in their right mind, that's more than
can be said of those that have the care of 'em."
"Personally--Miss Butterworth, excuse me--I should rejoice to see them
clothed and in their right mind, but the age of miracles is past. We
have to deal with the facts of to-day--with things as they air. It is
possible, nay, for aught I know, it may be highly probable, that in
other towns pauperism may fare better than it does with us. It is to be
remembered that Sevenoaks is itself poor, and its poverty becomes one of
the factors of the problem which you have propounded to us. The town of
Buxton, our neighbor over here, pays taxes, let us say, of seven mills
on the dollar; we pay seven mills on the dollar. Buxton is rich; we are
poor. Buxton has few paupers; we have many. Consequently, Buxton may
maintain its paupers in what may almost be regarded as a state of
affluence. It may go as far as feather-beds and winter fires for the
aged; nay, it may advance to some economical form of teeth-brushes, and
still demand no more sacrifice from its people than is constantly
demanded of us to maintain our poor in a humbler way. Then there are
certain prudential considerations--certain, I might almost say, moral
considerations--which are to be taken into account. It will never do, in
a town like ours, to make pauperism attractive--to make our pauper
establishments comfortable asylums for idleness. It must, in some way,
be made to seem a hardship to go to the poor-house."
"Well, Sevenoaks has taken care of that with a vengeance," burst out
Miss Butterworth.
"Excuse me, Miss Butterworth; let me repeat, that it must be made to
seem a hardship to go to the poor-house. Let us say that we have
accomplished this very desirable result. So far, so good. Give our
system whatever credit may belong to it, and still let us frankly
acknowledge that we have suffering left that ought to be alleviated. How
much? In what way? Here we come into contact with another class of
facts. Paupers have less of sickness and death among them than any-other
class in the community. There are paupers in our establishment that have
been there for twenty-five years--a fact which, if it proves anything,
proves that a large proportion of the wants of our present civilization
are not only artificial in their origin, but harmful in their
gratifications. Our poor are compelled to go back nearer to nature--to
old mother nature--and they certainly get a degree of compensation for
it. It increases the expenses of the town, to be sure."
"Suppose we inquire of them," struck in Miss Butterworth again, "and
find out whether they would not rather be treated better and die
earlier."
"Paupers are hardly in a position to be consulted in that way,"
responded Mr. Snow, "and the alternative is one which, considering their
moral condition, they would have no right to entertain."
Miss Butterworth had sat through this rather desultory disquisition with
what patience she could command, breaking in upon it impulsively at
various points, and seen that it was drifting nowhere--at least, that it
was not drifting toward the object of her wishes. Then she took up the
burden of talk, and carried it on in her very direct way.
"All you say is well enough, I suppose," she began, "but I don't stop to
reason about it, and I don't wish to. Here is a lot of human beings
that are treated like brutes--sold every year to the lowest bidder, to
be kept. They go hungry, and naked, and cold. They are in the hands of a
man who has no more blood in his heart than there is in a turnip, and we
pretend to be Christians, and go to church, and coddle ourselves with
comforts, and pay no more attention to them than we should if their
souls had gone where their money went. I tell you it's a sin and a
shame, and I know it. I feel it. And there's a gentleman among 'em, and
his little boy, and they must be taken out of that place, or treated
better in it. I've made up my mind to that, and if the men of Sevenoaks
don't straighten matters on that horrible old hill, then they're just no
men at all."
Mr. Snow smiled a calm, self-respectful smile, that said, as plainly as
words could say: "Oh! I know women: they are amiably impulsive, but
impracticable."
"Have you ever been there?" inquired Miss Butterworth, sharply.
"Yes, I've been there."
"And conscience forbid!" broke in Mrs. Snow, "that he should go again,
and bring home what he brought home that time. It took me the longest
time to get them out of the house!"
"Mrs. Snow! my dear! you forget that we have a stranger present."
"Well, I don't forget those strangers, anyway!"
The three Misses Snow tittered, and looked at one another, but were
immediately solemnized by a glance from their father.
Mrs. Snow, having found her tongue--a characteristically lively and
emphatic one--went on to say:--
"I think Miss Butterworth is right. It's a burning shame, and you ought
to go to the meeting to-morrow, and put it down."
"Easily said, my dear," responded Mr. Snow, "but you forget that Mr.
Belcher is Buffum's friend, and that it is impossible to carry any
measure against him in Sevenoaks. I grant that it ought not to be so. I
wish it were otherwise; but we must take things as they air."
"To take things as they air," was a cardinal aphorism in Mr. Snow's
budget of wisdom. It was a good starting-point for any range of
reasoning, and exceedingly useful to a man of limited intellect and
little moral courage. The real truth of the case had dawned upon Miss
Butterworth, and it had rankled in the breast of Mrs. Snow from the
beginning of his pointless talk. He was afraid of offending Robert
Belcher, for not only did his church need repairing, but his salary was
in arrears, and the wolf that had chased so many up the long hill to
what was popularly known as Tom Buffum's Boarding House he had heard
many a night, while his family was sleeping, howling with menace in the
distance.
Mrs. Snow rebelled, in every part of her nature, against the power which
had cowed her reverend companion. There is nothing that so goads a
spirited woman to madness as the realization that any man controls her
husband. He may be subservient to her--a cuckold even--but to be mated
with a man whose soul is neither his own nor wholly hers, is to her the
torment of torments.
"I wish Robert Belcher was hanged," said Mrs. Snow, spitefully.
"Amen! and my name is Butterworth," responded that lady, making sure
that there should be no mistake as to the responsibility for the
utterance.
"Why, mother!" exclaimed the three hisses Snow, in wonder.
"And drawn and quartered!" added Mrs. Snow, emphatically.
"Amen, again!" responded Miss Butterworth.
"Mrs. Snow! my dear! You forget that you are a Christian pastor's wife,
and that there is a stranger present."
"No, that is just what I don't forget," said Mrs. Snow. "I see a
Christian pastor afraid of a man of the world, who cares no more about
Christianity than he does about a pair of old shoes, and who patronizes
it for the sake of shutting its mouth against him. It makes me angry,
and makes me wish I were a man; and you ought to go to that meeting
to-morrow, as a Christian pastor, and put down this shame and
wickedness. You have influence, if you will use it. All the people want
is a leader, and some one to tell them the truth."
"Yes, father, I'm sure you have a _great_ deal of influence," said the
elder Miss Snow.
"A great _deal_ of influence," responded the next in years.
"Yes, indeed," echoed the youngest.
Mr. Snow established the bridge again, by bringing his fingers
together,--whether to keep out the flattery that thus came like a subtle
balm to his heart, or to keep in the self-complacency which had been
engendered, was not apparent.
He smiled, looking benevolently out upon the group, and said: "Oh, you
women are so hasty, so hasty, so hasty! I had not said that I would not
interfere. Indeed, I had pretty much made up my mind to do so. But I
wanted you in advance to see things as they air. It may be that
something can be done, and it certainly will be a great satisfaction to
me if I can be the humble instrument for the accomplishment of a
reform."
"And you will go to the meeting? and you will speak?" said Miss
Butterworth, eagerly.
"Yes!" and Mr. Snow looked straight into Miss Butterworth's tearful
eyes, and smiled.
"The Lord add His blessing, and to His name be all the praise!
Good-night!" said Miss Butterworth, rising and making for the door.
"Dear," said Mrs. Snow, springing and catching her by the arm, "don't
you think you ought to put on something more? It's very chilly
to-night."
"Not a rag. I'm hot. I believe I should roast if I had on a feather
more."
"Wouldn't you like Mr. Snow to go home with you? He can go just as well
as not," insisted Mrs. Snow.
"Certainly, just as well as not," repeated the elder Miss Snow, followed
by the second with: "as well as not," and by the third with: "and be
glad to do it."
"No--no--no--no"--to each. "I can get along better without him, and I
don't mean to give him a chance to take back what he has said."
Miss Butterworth ran down the steps, the whole family standing in the
open door, with Mr. Snow, in his glasses, behind his good-natured,
cackling flock, thoroughly glad that his protective services were deemed
of so small value by the brave little tailoress.
Then Miss Butterworth could see the moon and the stars. Then she could
see how beautiful the night was. Then she became conscious of the
everlasting roar of the cataracts, and of the wreaths of mist that they
sent up into the crisp evening air. To the fear of anything in
Sevenoaks, in the day or in the night, she was a stranger; so, with a
light heart, talking and humming to herself, she went by the silent
mill, the noisy dram-shops, and, with her benevolent spirit full of hope
and purpose, reached the house where, in a humble hired room she had
garnered all her treasures, including the bed and the linen which she
had prepared years before for an event that never took place.
"The Lord add His blessing, and to His name be all the praise," she
said, as she extinguished the candle, laughing in spite of herself, to
think how she had blurted out the prayer and the ascription in the face
of Solomon Snow.
"Well, he's a broken reed--a broken reed--but I hope Mrs. Snow will tie
something to him--or starch him--or--something--to make him stand
straight for once," and then she went to sleep, and dreamed of fighting
with Robert Belcher all night.