WHICH GIVES THE HISTORY OF AN ANNIVERSARY, PRESENTS A TABLEAU, AND DROPS
THE CURTAIN.
Three months after Mr. Belcher's escape, the great world hardly
remembered that such a man as he had ever lived. Other rascals took his
place, and absorbed the public attention, having failed to learn--what
even their betters were slow to apprehend--that every strong, active,
bad man is systematically engaged in creating and shaping the
instruments for his own destruction. Men continued to be dazzled by
their own success, until they could see neither the truth and right that
lay along their way, nor the tragic end that awaited them.
The execution in satisfaction of the judgment obtained against Mr.
Belcher was promptly issued and levied; claimants and creditors of
various sorts took all that the execution left; Mrs. Belcher and her
children went to their friends in the country; the Sevenoaks property
was bought for Mr. Benedict, and a thousand lives were adjusted to the
new circumstances; but narrative palls when its details are anticipated.
Let us pass them, regarding them simply as memories coming up--sometimes
faintly, sometimes freshly--from the swiftly retiring years, and close
the book, as we began it, with a picture.
Sevenoaks looks, in its main features, as it looked when the reader
first saw it. The river rolls through it with the old song that the
dwellers upon its banks have heard through all these changing years. The
workmen and workwomen come and go in the mill, in their daily round of
duty, as they did when Phipps, and the gray trotters, and the great
proprietor were daily visions of the streets. The little tailoress
returns twice a year with her thrifty husband, to revisit her old
friends; and she brings at last a little one, which she shows with great
pride. Sevenoaks has become a summer thoroughfare to the woods, where
Jim receives the city-folk in incredible numbers.
We look in upon the village on a certain summer evening, at five years'
remove from the first occupation of the Belcher mansion by Mr. Benedict.
The mist above the falls cools the air and bathes the trees as it did
when Robert Belcher looked upon it as the incense which rose to his
lordly enterprise. The nestling cottages, the busy shops, the
fresh-looking spires, the distant woods, the more distant mountain, the
old Seven Oaks upon the Western plateau and the beautiful residence
behind them, are the same to-day that they were when we first looked
upon them; but a new life and a new influence inform them all. Nature
holds her unvarying frame, but the life upon the canvas is what we paint
from year to year. The river sings to vice as it sings to virtue. The
birds carol the same, whether selfishness or love be listening. The
great mountains rejoice in the sun, or drape their brows in clouds,
irrespective of the eyes that regard them.
This one fact remains good in Sevenoaks, and the world over. The man who
holds the financial power and the social throne of a town, makes that
town, in a good degree, what he is. If he is virtuous, noble, unselfish,
good, the elements beneath him shape themselves, consciously or
unconsciously, to his character. Vice shrinks into disgrace, or flies to
more congenial haunts. The greed for gold which grasps and over-reaches,
becomes ashamed, or changes to neighborly helpfulness. The discontent
that springs up in the shadow of an unprincipled and boastful worldly
success, dies; and men become happy in the toil that wins a comfortable
shelter and daily bread, when he to whom all look up, looks down upon
them with friendly and sympathetic eyes, and holds his wealth and power
in service of their good.
Paul Benedict is now the proprietor of Sevenoaks; and from the happy day
in which he, with his sister and child, came to the occupation of the
mansion which his old persecutor had built for himself, the fortunes and
character of the town have mended. Even the poor-house has grown more
comfortable in its apartments and administration, while year by year its
population has decreased. Through these first years, the quiet man has
moved around his mill and his garden, his mind teeming with suggestions,
and filling with new interest in their work the dull brains that had
been worn deep and dry with routine. All eyes turn upon him with
affection. He is their brother as well as their master.
In the great house, there is a happy woman. She has found something to
love and something to do. These were all she needed to make her
supremely self-respectful, happy, and, in the best degree, womanly.
Willful, ambitious, sacrificing her young affections to gold at the
first, and wasting years in idleness and unworthy intrigue, for the lack
of affection and the absence of motive to usefulness and industry, she
has found, at last, the secret of her woman's life, and has accepted it
with genuine gratitude. In ministering to her brother and her brother's
child, now a stalwart lad, in watching with untiring eyes and helping
with ready wit the unused proprietor in his new circumstances, and in
assisting the poor around her, she finds her days full of toil and
significance, and her nights brief with grateful sleep. She is the great
lady of the village, holding high consideration from her relationship to
the proprietor, and bestowing importance upon him by her revelation of
his origin and his city associations.
The special summer evening to which we allude is one which has long been
looked forward to by all the people in whom our story has made the
reader sympathetically interested. It is an anniversary--the fifth since
the new family took up their residence in the grand house. Mr. and Mrs.
Balfour with their boy are there. Sam Yates is there--now the agent of
the mill--a trusty, prosperous man; and by a process of which we have
had no opportunity to note the details, he has transformed Miss Snow
into Mrs. Yates. The matter was concluded some years ago, and they seem
quite wonted to each other. The Rev. Mr. Snow, grown thinner and grayer,
and a great deal happier, is there with his wife and his two unmarried
daughters. He finds it easier to "take things as they air," than
formerly, and, by his old bridge, holds them against all comers. And who
is this, and who are these? Jim Fenton, very much smoothed exteriorly,
but jolly, acute, outspoken, peculiar as ever. He walks around the
garden with a boy on his shoulder. The "little feller" that originally
appeared in Mr. Benedict's plans of the new hotel is now in his
hands--veritable flesh and blood; and "the little woman," sitting with
Mrs. Snow, while Mrs. Dillingham directs the arrangement of the banquet
that is being spread in the pagoda, watches the pair, and exclaims:
"Look at them! now isn't it ridiculous?"
The warm sun hides himself behind the western hill, though still an hour
above his setting. The roar of the falling river rises to their ears,
the sound of the factory bell echoes among the hills, and the crowd of
grimy workmen and workwomen pours forth, darkening the one street that
leads from the mill, and dissipating itself among the waiting cottages.
All is tranquillity and beauty, while the party gather to their out-door
feast.
It is hardly a merry company, though a very happy one. It is the latest
issue of a tragedy in which all have borne more or less important parts.
The most thoughtless of them cannot but feel that a more powerful hand
than their own has shaped their lives and determined their destinies.
The boys are called in, and the company gather to their banquet, amid
conversation and laughter.
Mr. Balfour turns to Jim and says: "How does this compare with Number
Nine, Jim? Isn't this better than the woods?"
Jim has been surveying the preparations with a critical and
professional eye, for professional purposes. The hotel-keeper keeps
himself constantly open to suggestions, and the table before him
suggests so much, that his own establishment seems very humble and
imperfect.
"I ben thinkin' about it," Jim responds. "When a man has got all he
wants, he's brung up standin' at the end of his road. If thar ain't
comfort then, then there ain't no comfort. When he's got more nor he
wants, then he's got by comfort, and runnin' away from it. I hearn the
women talk about churnin' by, so that the butter never comes, an' a man
as has more money nor he wants churns by his comfort, an' spends his
life swashin' with his dasher, and wonderin' where his butter is. Old
Belcher's butter never come, but he worked away till his churn blowed
up, an' he went up with it."
"So you think our good friend Mr. Benedict has got so much that he has
left comfort behind," says Mr. Balfour with a laugh.
"I should be afeard he had, if he could reelize it was all his'n, but he
can't. He hain't got no more comfort here, no way, nor he used to have
in the woods." Then Jim leans over to Mr. Balfour's ear, and says: "It's
the woman as does it. It's purty to look at, but it's too pertickler for
comfort."
Mr. Balfour sees that he and Jim are observed, and so speaks louder.
"There is one thing," he says: "that I have learned in the course of
this business. It does not lie very deep, but it is at least worth
speaking of. I have learned how infinitely more interesting and
picturesque vulgar poverty is than vulgar riches. One can find more
poetry in a log cabin than in all that wealth ever crowded into
Palgrave's Folly. If poor men and poor women, honest and patient
workers, could only apprehend the poetical aspects of their own lives
and conditions, instead of imagining that wealth holds a monopoly of the
poetry of life, they would see that they have the best of it, and are
really enviable people."
Jim knows, of course, that his old cabin in the woods is in Mr.
Balfour's mind, and feels himself called upon to say something in
response. "If so be as ye're 'ludin' at me," says he, "I'm much obleeged
to ye, but I perfer a hotel to a log cabin, pertickler with a little
woman and a little feller in it, Paul B., by name."
"That's all right, Jim," says Mr. Balfour, "but I don't call that vulgar
wealth which is won slowly, by honest industry. A man who has more money
than he has brains, and makes his surroundings the advertisement of his
possessions, rather than the expression of his culture, is a vulgar man,
or a man of vulgar wealth."
"Did ye ever think," says Jim, "that riches rots or keeps accordin' to
their natur?--rots or keeps," he goes on, "accordin' to what goes into
'em when a man is gitten' 'em together? Blood isn't a purty thing to mix
with money, an' I perfer mine dry. A golden sweetin' grows quick an'
makes a big show, but ye can't keep it through the winter."
"That's true, Jim," responds Mr. Balfour. "Wealth takes into itself the
qualities by which it is won. Gathered by crime or fraud, and gathered
in haste, it becomes a curse to those who hold it, and falls into ruin
by its own corruptions. Acquired by honest toil, manly frugality,
patient endurance, and patient waiting, it is full of good, and holds
together by a force within itself."
"Poor Mrs. Belcher!" exclaims Mrs. Dillingham, as the reflection comes
to her that that amiable lady was once the mistress of the beautiful
establishment over which she has been called upon to preside.
"They say she is living nicely," says Mr. Snow, "and that somebody sends
her money, though she does not know where it comes from. It is supposed
that her husband saved something, and keeps himself out of sight, while
he looks after his family."
Mr. Benedict and Mrs. Dillingham exchange significant glances. Jim is a
witness of the act, and knows what it means. He leans over to Mr.
Benedict, and says: "When I seen sheet-lightnin', I know there's a
shower where it comes from. Ye can't fool me about ma'am Belcher's
money."
"You will not tell anybody, Jim," says Mr. Benedict, in a low tone.
"Nobody but the little woman," responds Jim; and then, seeing that his
"little feller," in the distance, is draining a cup with more than
becoming leisure, he shouts down the table: "Paul B! Paul B! Ye can't
git that mug on to yer head with the brim in yer mouth. It isn't yer
size, an' it doesn't look purty on ye."
"I should like to know where the old rascal is," says Mrs. Snow, going
back to the suggestion that Mr. Belcher was supplying his family with
money.
"Well, I can tell ye," replies Jim. "I've been a keepin' it in for this
very meetin'."
"Oh Jim!" exclaim half a dozen voices, which means: "we are dying to
hear all about it."
"Well," says Jim, "there was a feller as come to my hotel a month ago,
and says he: 'Jim, did ye ever know what had become of old Belcher?'
'No,' says I, 'I only knowed he cut a big stick, an' slid.' 'Well,' says
he, 'I seen 'im a month ago, with whiskers enough on 'is ugly face to
set up a barberry-bush.' Says I, 'Where did ye seen 'im?' 'Where do ye
guess', says he?' 'Swoppin' a blind hoss', says I, 'fur a decent one,
an' gettin' boot.' 'No,' says he, 'guess agin.' 'Preachin' at a
camp-meetin',' says I, 'an' passin' round a hat arter it.' 'No,' says
he, 'I seen 'im jest where he belonged. He was tendin' a little bar, on
a S'n' Lor'nce steamboat. He was settin' on a big stool in the middle of
'is bottles, where he could reach 'em all without droppin' from his
roost, an' when his customers was out he was a peekin' into a little
lookin'-glass, as stood aside of 'im, an' a combin' out his baird.'
'That settles it,' says I, 'you've seen 'im, an no mistake.' 'Then,'
says he, 'I called 'im 'General,' an' he looked kind a skeered, an' says
'e to me, 'Mum's the word! Crooked Valley an' Air Line is played out,
an' I'm workin' up a corner in Salt River,'--laughin', an' offerin' to
treat.'
"I wonder how he came in such a place as that," says Mrs. Snow.
"That's the funniest part on't," responds Jim. "He found an old friend
on the boat, as was much of a gentleman,--an old friend as was dressed
within an inch of his life, an' sold the tickets."
"Phipps!" "Phipps!" shout half a dozen voices, and a boisterous laugh
goes around the group.
"Ye've guessed right the fust time," Jim continues, "an' the
gentlemanlest clerk, an' the poplarest man as ever writ names in a book,
an' made change on a counter, with no end o' rings an' hankercher-pins,
an' presents of silver mugs, an' rampin' resolootions of admirin'
passingers. An' there the two fellers be, a sailin' up an' down the
S'n.' Lor'nce, as happy as two clams in high water, workin' up corners
in their wages, an' playin' into one another's hands like a pair of
pickpockets; and what do ye think old Belcher said about Phipps?"
"What did he say?" comes from every side.
"Well, I can't tell percisely," responds Jim. "Fust he said it was
proverdential, as Phipps run away when he did; an' then he put in
somethin' that sounded as if it come from a book,--somethin' about
tunin' the wind to the sheared ram."
Jim is very doubtful about his quotation, and actually blushes scarlet
under the fire of laughter that greets him from every quarter.
"I'm glad if it 'muses ye," says Jim, "but it wasn't anything better nor
that, considerin' the man as took it to himself."
"Jim, you'll be obliged to read up," says "the little woman," who still
stands by her early resolutions to take her husband for what he is, and
enjoy his peculiarities with her neighbors.
"I be as I be," he responds. "I can keep a hotel, an' make money on it,
an' pervide for my own, but when it comes to books ye can trip me with a
feather."
The little banquet draws to a close, and now two or three inquire
together for Mr. Yates. He has mysteriously disappeared! The children
have already left the table, and Paul B. is romping with a great show of
equine spirit about the garden paths, astride of a stick. Jim is looking
at him in undisguised admiration. "I do believe," he exclaims, "that the
little feller thinks he's a hoss, with a neck more nor three feet long.
See 'im bend it over agin the check-rein he's got in his mind! Hear 'im
squeal! Now look out for his heels!"
At this moment, there rises upon the still evening air a confused murmur
of many voices. All but the children pause and listen. "What is coming?"
"Who is coming?" "What is it?" break from the lips of the listeners.
Only Mrs. Yates looks intelligent, and she holds her tongue, and keeps
her seat. The sound comes nearer, and breaks into greater confusion. It
is laughter, and merry conversation, and the jar of tramping feet. Mr.
Benedict suspects what it is, and goes off among his vines, in a state
of painful unconcern! The boys run out to the brow of the hill, and come
back in great excitement, to announce that the whole town is thronging
up toward the house. Then all, as if apprehending the nature of the
visit, gather about their table again, that being the place where their
visitors will expect to find them.
At length, Sam. Yates comes in sight, around the corner of the mansion,
followed closely by all the operatives of the mill, dressed in their
holiday attire. Mrs. Dillingham has found her brother, and with her hand
upon his arm she goes out to meet his visitors. They have come to crown
the feast, and signalize the anniversary, by bringing their
congratulations to the proprietor, and the beautiful lady who presides
over his house. There is a great deal of awkwardness among the young
men, and tittering and blushing among the young women, with side play
of jest and coquetry, as they form themselves in a line, preparatory to
something formal, which presently appears.
Mr. Yates, the agent of the mill, who has consented to be the spokesman
of the occasion, stands in front, and faces Mr. Benedict and Mrs.
Dillingham.
"Mr. Benedict," says he, "this demonstration in your honor is not one
originated by myself, but, in some way, these good people who serve you
learned that you were to have a formal celebration of this anniversary,
and they have asked me to assist them in expressing the honor in which
they hold you, and the sympathy with which they enter into your
rejoicing. We all know your history. Many of those who now stand before
you, remember your wrongs and your misfortunes; and there is not one who
does not rejoice that you have received that which your own genius won
in the hands of another. There is not one who does not rejoice that the
evil influence of this house is departed, and that one now occupies it
who thoroughly respects and honors the manhood and womanhood that labor
in his service. We are glad to acknowledge you as our master, because we
know that we can regard you as our friend. Your predecessor despised
poverty--even the poverty into which he was born--and forgot, in the
first moment of his success, that he had ever been poor, while your own
bitter experiences have made you brotherly. On behalf of all those who
now stand before you, let me thank you for your sympathy, for your
practical efforts to give us a share in the results of your prosperity,
and for the purifying influences which go out from this dwelling into
all our humble homes. We give you our congratulations on this
anniversary, and hope for happy returns of the day, until, among the
inevitable changes of the future, we all yield our places to those who
are to succeed us."
Mr. Benedict's eyes are full of tears. He does not turn, however, to Mr.
Balfour, for help. The consciousness of power, and, more than this, the
consciousness of universal sympathy, give him self-possession and the
power of expression.
"Mr. Yates," says Mr. Benedict, "when you call me master, you give me
pain. When you speak of me as your brother, and the brother of all those
whom you represent, you pay me the most grateful compliment that I have
ever received. It is impossible for me to regard myself as anything but
the creature and the instrument of a loving Providence. It is by no
power of my own, no skill of my own, no providence of my own, that I
have been carried through the startling changes of my life. The power
that has placed me where I am, is the power in which, during all my
years of adversity, I firmly trusted. It was that power which brought me
my friends--friends to whose good will and efficient service I owe my
wealth and my ability to make life profitable and pleasant to you. Fully
believing this, I can in no way regard myself as my own, or indulge in
pride and vain glory. You are all my brothers and sisters, and the dear
Father of us all has placed the power in my hands to do you good. In the
patient and persistent execution of this stewardship lies the duty of my
life. I thank you all for your good will. I thank you all for this
opportunity to meet you, and to say to you the words which have for five
years been in my heart, waiting to be spoken. Come to me always with
your troubles. Tell me always what I can do for you, to make your way
easier. Help me to make this village a prosperous, virtuous and happy
one--a model for all its neighbors. And now I wish to take you all by
the hand, in pledge of our mutual friendship and of our devotion to each
other."
Mr. Benedict steps forward with Mrs. Dillingham, and both shake hands
with Mr. Yates. One after another--some shyly, some confidently--the
operatives come up and repeat the process, until all have pressed the
proprietor's hand, and have received a pleasant greeting and a cordial
word from his sister, of whom the girls are strangely afraid. There is a
moment of awkward delay, as they start on their homeward way, and then
they gather in a group upon the brow of the hill, and the evening air
resounds with "three cheers" for Mr. Benedict. The hum of voices begins
again, the tramp of a hundred feet passes down the hill, and our little
party are left to themselves.
They do not linger long. The Snows take their leave. Mr. and Mrs. Yates
retire, with a lingering "good-night," but the Balfours and the Fentons
are guests of the house. They go in, and the lamps are lighted, while
the "little feller--Paul B. by name"--is carried on his happy father's
shoulder to his bed up stairs.
Finally, Jim comes down, having seen his pet asleep, and finds the
company talking about Talbot. He and his pretty, worldly wife, finding
themselves somewhat too intimately associated with the bad fame of
Robert Belcher, had retired to a country seat on the Hudson--a nest
which they feathered well with the profits of the old connection.
And now, as they take leave of each other for the night, and shake hands
in token of their good-will, and their satisfaction with the pleasures
of the evening, Jim says: "Mr. Benedict, that was a good speech o'
yourn. It struck me favorble an' s'prised me some considable. I'd no
idee ye could spread so afore folks. I shouldn't wonder if ye was right
about Proverdence. It seems kind o' queer that somebody or somethin'
should be takin keer o' you an' me, but I vow I don't see how it's all
ben did, if so be as nobody nor nothin' has took keer o' me, an' you
too. It seems reasomble that somethin's ben to work all the time that I
hain't seed. The trouble with me is that I can't understand how a bein'
as turns out worlds as if they was nothin' more nor snow-balls would
think o' stoppin' to pay 'tention to sech a feller as Jim Fenton."
"You are larger than a sparrow, Jim," says Mr. Benedict with a smile.
"That's so."
"Larger than a hair."
Jim puts up his hand, brushes down the stiff crop that crowns his head,
and responds with a comical smile, "I don' know 'bout that."
Jim pauses as if about to make some further remark, thinks better of it,
and then, putting his big arm around his little wife, leads her off, up
stairs.
The lights of the great house go out one after another, the cataracts
sing the inmates to sleep, the summer moon witches with the mist, the
great, sweet heaven bends over the dreaming town, and there we leave our
friends at rest, to take up the burden of their lives again upon the
happy morrow, beyond our feeble following, but still under the loving
eye and guiding hand to which we confidently and gratefully commit them.