The town-hall had never looked finer. The platform at the end of it
was backed by a showy draping of flags; at intervals along the walls
were festoons of flags; the gallery fronts were clothed in flags; the
supporting columns were swathed in flags; all this was to impress the
stranger, for he would be there in considerable force, and in a large
degree he would be connected with the press. The house was full. The
412 fixed seats were occupied; also the 68 extra chairs which had
been packed into the aisles; the steps of the platform were occupied;
some distinguished strangers were given seats on the platform; at the
horseshoe of tables which fenced the front and sides of the platform
sat a strong force of special correspondents who had come from
everywhere. It was the best-dressed house the town had ever produced.
There were some tolerably expensive toilets there, and in several cases
the ladies who wore them had the look of being unfamiliar with that
kind of clothes. At least the town thought they had that look, but the
notion could have arisen from the town’s knowledge of the fact that
these ladies had never inhabited such clothes before.
The gold-sack stood on a little table at the front of the platform
where all the house could see it. The bulk of the house gazed at it
with a burning interest, a mouth-watering interest, a wistful and
pathetic interest; a minority of nineteen couples gazed at it tenderly,
lovingly, proprietarily, and the male half of this minority kept saying
over to themselves the moving little impromptu speeches of thankfulness
for the audience’s applause and congratulations which they were
presently going to get up and deliver. Every now and then one of these
got a piece of paper out of his vest pocket and privately glanced at it
to refresh his memory.
Of course there was a buzz of conversation going on--there always
is; but at last, when the Rev. Mr. Burgess rose and laid his hand on
the sack, he could hear his microbes gnaw, the place was so still.
He related the curious history of the sack, then went on to speak
in warm terms of Hadleyburg’s old and well-earned reputation for
spotless honesty, and of the town’s just pride in this reputation.
He said that this reputation was a treasure of priceless value; that
under Providence its value had now become inestimably enhanced, for
the recent episode had spread this fame far and wide, and thus had
focussed the eyes of the American world upon this village, and made its
name for all time, as he hoped and believed, a synonym for commercial
incorruptibility. [Applause.] “And who is to be the guardian of this
noble fame--the community as a whole? No! The responsibility is
individual, not communal. From this day forth each and every one of you
is in his own person its special guardian, and individually responsible
that no harm shall come to it. Do you--does each of you--accept this
great trust? [Tumultuous assent.] Then all is well. Transmit it to
your children and to your children’s children. To-day your purity is
beyond reproach--see to it that it shall remain so. To-day there is not
a person in your community who could be beguiled to touch a penny not
his own--see to it that you abide in this grace. [“We will! we will!”]
This is not the place to make comparisons between ourselves and other
communities--some of them ungracious towards us; they have their ways,
we have ours; let us be content. [Applause.] I am done. Under my hand,
my friends, rests a stranger’s eloquent recognition of what we are;
through him the world will always henceforth know what we are. We do
not know who he is, but in your name I utter your gratitude, and ask
you to raise your voices in indorsement.”
The house rose in a body and made the walls quake with the thunders
of its thankfulness for the space of a long minute. Then it sat down,
and Mr. Burgess took an envelope out of his pocket. The house held
its breath while he slit the envelope open and took from it a slip of
paper. He read its contents--slowly and impressively--the audience
listening with tranced attention to this magic document, each of whose
words stood for an ingot of gold:
“‘The remark which I made to the distressed stranger was this:
“You are very far from being a bad man; go, and reform.”’” Then he
continued:--“We shall know in a moment now whether the remark here
quoted corresponds with the one concealed in the sack; and if that
shall prove to be so--and it undoubtedly will--this sack of gold
belongs to a fellow-citizen who will henceforth stand before the nation
as the symbol of the special virtue which has made our town famous
throughout the land--Mr. Billson!”
The house had gotten itself all ready to burst into the proper tornado
of applause; but instead of doing it, it seemed stricken with a
paralysis; there was a deep hush for a moment or two, then a wave of
whispered murmurs swept the place--of about this tenor: “_Billson_!
oh, come, this is _too_ thin! Twenty dollars to a stranger--or
_anybody_--_Billson_! Tell it to the marines!” And now at this point
the house caught its breath all of a sudden in a new access of
astonishment, for it discovered that whereas in one part of the hall
Deacon Billson was standing up with his head meekly bowed, in another
part of it Lawyer Wilson was doing the same. There was a wondering
silence now for a while. Everybody was puzzled, and nineteen couples
were surprised and indignant.
Billson and Wilson turned and stared at each other. Billson asked,
bitingly:
“Why do _you_ rise, Mr. Wilson?”
“Because I have a right to. Perhaps you will be good enough to explain
to the house why _you_ rise.”
“With great pleasure. Because I wrote that paper.”
“It is an impudent falsity! I wrote it myself.”
It was Burgess’s turn to be paralysed. He stood looking vacantly at
first one of the men and then the other, and did not seem to know what
to do. The house was stupefied. Lawyer Wilson spoke up now, and said:
“I ask the Chair to read the name signed to that paper.”
That brought the Chair to itself, and it read out the name:
“John Wharton _Billson_.”
“There!” shouted Billson, “what have you got to say for yourself now?
And what kind of apology are you going to make to me and to this
insulted house for the imposture which you have attempted to play here?”
“No apologies are due, sir; and as for the rest of it, I publicly
charge you with pilfering my note from Mr. Burgess and substituting a
copy of it signed with your own name. There is no other way by which
you could have gotten hold of the test-remark; I alone, of living men,
possessed the secret of its wording.”
There was likely to be a scandalous state of things if this went
on; everybody noticed with distress that the shorthand scribes were
scribbling like mad; many people were crying “Chair, chair! Order!
order!” Burgess rapped with his gavel, and said:
“Let us not forget the proprieties due. There has evidently been a
mistake somewhere, but surely that is all. If Mr. Wilson gave me an
envelope--and I remember now that he did--I still have it.”
He took one out of his pocket, opened it, glanced at it, looked
surprised and worried, and stood silent a few moments. Then he waved
his hand in a wandering and mechanical way, and made an effort or two
to say something, then gave it up, despondently. Several voices cried
out:
“Read it! read it! What is it?”
So he began, in a dazed and sleep-walker fashion:
“‘The remark which I made to the unhappy stranger was this: “You are
far from being a bad man. [The house gazed at him marvelling.] Go, and
reform.”’ [Murmurs: “Amazing! what can this mean?”] This one,” said the
Chair, “is signed Thurlow G. Wilson.”
“There!” cried Wilson, “I reckon that settles it! I knew perfectly well
my note was purloined.”
“Purloined!” retorted Billson. “I’ll let you know that neither you nor
any man of your kidney must venture to--”
The Chair: “Order, gentlemen, order! Take your seats, both of you,
please.”
They obeyed, shaking their heads and grumbling angrily. The house
was profoundly puzzled; it did not know what to do with this curious
emergency. Presently Thompson got up. Thompson was the hatter. He would
have liked to be a Nineteener; but such was not for him; his stock of
hats was not considerable enough for the position. He said:
“Mr. Chairman, if I may be permitted to make a suggestion, can both of
these gentlemen be right? I put it to you, sir, can both have happened
to say the very same words to the stranger? It seems to me--”
The tanner got up and interrupted him. The tanner was a disgruntled
man; he believed himself entitled to be a Nineteener, but he couldn’t
get recognition. It made him a little unpleasant in his ways and
speech. Said he:
“Sho, _that’s_ not the point! _That_ could happen--twice in a hundred
years--but not the other thing. _Neither_ of them gave the twenty
dollars!” [A ripple of applause.]
Billson. “I did!”
Wilson. “I did!”
Then each accused the other of pilfering.
The Chair. “Order! Sit down, if you please--both of you. Neither of the
notes has been out of my possession at any moment.”
A Voice. “Good--that settles _that_!”
The Tanner. “Mr. Chairman, one thing is now plain: one of these men
has been eavesdropping under the other one’s bed, and filching family
secrets. If it is not unparliamentary to suggest it, I will remark
that both are equal to it. [The Chair. “Order! order!”] I withdraw the
remark, sir, and will confine myself to suggesting that _if_ one of
them has overheard the other reveal the test-remark to his wife, we
shall catch him now.”
A Voice. “How?”
The Tanner. “Easily. The two have not quoted the remark in exactly
the same words. You would have noticed that, if there hadn’t been a
considerable stretch of time and an exciting quarrel inserted between
the two readings.”
A Voice. “Name the difference.”
The Tanner. “The word _very_ is in Billson’s note, and not in the
other.”
Many Voices. “That’s so--he’s right!”
The Tanner. “And so, if the Chair will examine the test-remark in
the sack, we shall know which of these two frauds--[The Chair.
“Order!”]--which of these two adventurers--[The Chair. “Order!
order!”]--which of these two gentlemen--[laughter and applause]--is
entitled to wear the belt as being the first dishonest blatherskite
ever bred in this town--which he has dishonoured, and which will be a
sultry place for him from now out!” [Vigorous applause.]
Many Voices. “Open it!--open the sack!”
Mr. Burgess made a slit in the sack, slid his hand in, and brought out
an envelope. In it were a couple of folded notes. He said:
“One of these is marked, ‘Not to be examined until all written
communications which have been addressed to the Chair--if any--shall
have been read.’ The other is marked ‘_The Test_.’ Allow me. It is
worded--to wit:
“‘I do not require that the first half of the remark which was made
to me by my benefactor shall be quoted with exactness, for it was not
striking, and could be forgotten; but its closing fifteen words are
quite striking, and I think easily rememberable; unless _these_ shall
be accurately reproduced, let the applicant be regarded as an impostor.
My benefactor began by saying he seldom gave advice to anyone, but that
it always bore the hall-mark of high value when he did give it. Then he
said this--and it has never faded from my memory: ‘_You are far from
being a bad man_--’’”
Fifty Voices. “That settles it--the money’s Wilson’s! Wilson! Wilson!
Speech! Speech!”
People jumped up and crowded around Wilson, wringing his hand and
congratulating fervently--meantime the Chair was hammering with the
gavel and shouting:
“Order, gentlemen! Order! Order! Let me finish reading, please.” When
quiet was restored, the reading was resumed--as follows:
“‘_Go, and reform--or, mark my words--some day, for your sins you will
die and go to hell or Hadleyburg_--TRY AND MAKE IT THE FORMER.’”
A ghastly silence followed. First an angry cloud began to settle darkly
upon the faces of the citizenship; after a pause the cloud began to
rise, and a tickled expression tried to take its place; tried so hard
that it was only kept under with great and painful difficulty; the
reporters, the Brixtonites, and other strangers bent their heads down
and shielded their faces with their hands, and managed to hold in by
main strength and heroic courtesy. At this most inopportune time burst
upon the stillness the roar of a solitary voice--Jack Halliday’s:
“_That’s_ got the hall-mark on it!”
Then the house let go, strangers and all. Even Mr. Burgess’s gravity
broke down presently, then the audience considered itself officially
absolved from all restraint, and it made the most of its privilege. It
was a good long laugh, and a tempestuously wholehearted one, but it
ceased at last--long enough for Mr. Burgess to try to resume, and for
the people to get their eyes partially wiped; then it broke out again,
and afterward yet again; then at last Burgess was able to get out these
serious words:
“It is useless to try to disguise the fact--we find ourselves in the
presence of a matter of grave import. It involves the honour of your
town--it strikes at the town’s good name. The difference of a single
word between the test-remarks offered by Mr. Wilson and Mr. Billson was
itself a serious thing, since it indicated that one or the other of
these gentlemen had committed a theft--”
The two men were sitting limp, nerveless, crushed; but at these words
both were electrified into movement, and started to get up.
“Sit down!” said the Chair, sharply, and they obeyed. “That, as I
have said, was a serious thing. And it was--but for only one of them.
But the matter has become graver; for the honour of _both_ is now in
formidable peril. Shall I go even further, and say in inextricable
peril? _Both_ left out the crucial fifteen words.” He paused. During
several moments he allowed the pervading stillness to gather and
deepen its impressive effects, then added: “There would seem to be but
one way whereby this could happen. I ask these gentlemen--Was there
_collusion_?--_agreement_?”
A low murmur sifted through the house; its import was, “He’s got them
both.”
Billson was not used to emergencies; he sat in a helpless collapse. But
Wilson was a lawyer. He struggled to his feet, pale and worried, and
said:
“I ask the indulgence of the house while I explain this most painful
matter. I am sorry to say what I am about to say, since it must inflict
irreparable injury upon Mr. Billson, whom I have always esteemed and
respected until now, and in whose invulnerability to temptation I
entirely believed--as did you all. But for the preservation of my own
honour I must speak--and with frankness. I confess with shame--and I
now beseech your pardon for it--that I said to the ruined stranger all
of the words contained in the test-remark, including the disparaging
fifteen. [Sensation.] When the late publication was made I recalled
them, and I resolved to claim the sack of coin, for by every right
I was entitled to it. Now I will ask you to consider this point,
and weigh it well; that stranger’s gratitude to me that night knew
no bounds; he said himself that he could find no words for it that
were adequate, and that if he should ever be able he would repay me
a thousandfold. Now, then, I ask you this; could I expect--could I
believe--could I even remotely imagine--that, feeling as he did, he
would do so ungrateful a thing as to add those quite unnecessary
fifteen words to his test?--set a trap for me?--expose me as a
slanderer of my own town before my own people assembled in a public
hall? It was preposterous; it was impossible. His test would contain
only the kindly opening clause of my remark. Of that I had no shadow of
doubt. You would have thought as I did. You would not have expected a
base betrayal from one whom you had befriended and against whom you had
committed no offence. And so with perfect confidence, perfect trust,
I wrote on a piece of paper the opening words--ending with “Go, and
reform,”--and signed it. When I was about to put it in an envelope I
was called into my back office, and without thinking I left the paper
lying open on my desk.” He stopped, turned his head slowly toward
Billson, waited a moment, then added: “I ask you to note this; when I
returned, a little latter, Mr. Billson was retiring by my street door.”
[Sensation.]
In a moment Billson was on his feet and shouting:
“It’s a lie! It’s an infamous lie!”
The Chair. “Be seated, sir! Mr. Wilson has the floor.”
Billson’s friends pulled him into his seat and quieted him, and Wilson
went on:
“Those are the simple facts. My note was now lying in a different place
on the table from where I had left it. I noticed that, but attached
no importance to it, thinking a draught had blown it there. That
Mr. Billson would read a private paper was a thing which could not
occur to me; he was an honourable man, and he would be above that. If
you will allow me to say it, I think his extra word ‘_very_’ stands
explained: it is attributable to a defect of memory. I was the only man
in the world who could furnish here any detail of the test-mark--by
_honourable_ means. I have finished.”
There is nothing in the world like a persuasive speech to fuddle the
mental apparatus and upset the convictions and debauch the emotions
of an audience not practised in the tricks and delusions of oratory.
Wilson sat down victorious. The house submerged him in tides of
approving applause; friends swarmed to him and shook him by the hand
and congratulated him, and Billson was shouted down and not allowed to
say a word. The Chair hammered and hammered with its gavel, and kept
shouting:
“But let us proceed, gentlemen, let us proceed!”
At last there was a measurable degree of quiet, and the hatter said:
“But what is there to proceed with, sir, but to deliver the money?”
Voices. “That’s it! That’s it! Come forward, Wilson!”
The Hatter. “I move three cheers for Mr. Wilson, Symbol of the special
virtue which--”
The cheers burst forth before he could finish; and in the midst
of them--and in the midst of the clamour of the gavel also--some
enthusiasts mounted Wilson on a big friend’s shoulder and were going to
fetch him in triumph to the platform. The Chair’s voice now rose above
the noise:
“Order! To your places! You forget that there is still a document to
be read.” When quiet had been restored he took up the document, and
was going to read it, but laid it down again saying “I forgot; this is
not to be read until all written communications received by me have
first been read.” He took an envelope out of his pocket, removed its
enclosure, glanced at it--seemed astonished--held it out and gazed at
it--stared at it.