A cordial grasp of the hand and a few words of hearty welcome greeted
me as I alighted from the stage at the "Sickle and Sheaf," on my next
visit to Cedarville. At the first glance, I saw no change in the
countenance, manner, or general bearing of Simon Slade, the landlord.
With him, the year seemed to have passed like a pleasant summer day.
His face was round, and full, and rosy, and his eyes sparkled with that
good humor which flows from intense self-satisfaction. Everything about
him seemed to say--"All 'right with myself and the world."
I had scarcely expected this. From what I saw during my last brief
sojourn at the "Sickle and Sheaf," the inference was natural, that
elements had been called into activity, which must produce changes
adverse to those pleasant states of mind that threw an almost perpetual
sunshine over the landlord's countenance. How many hundreds of times
had I thought of Tom Morgan and Willy Hammond--of Frank, and the
temptations to which a bar-room exposed him. The heart of Slade must,
indeed, be as hard as one of his old mill-stones, if he could remain an
unmoved witness of the corruption and degradation of these.
"My fears have outrun the actual progress of things," said I to myself,
with a sense of relief, as I mused alone in the still neatly arranged
sitting-room, after the landlord, who sat and chatted for a few
minutes, had left me. "There is, I am willing to believe, a basis of
good in this man's character, which has led him to remove, as far as
possible, the more palpable evils that ever attach themselves to a
house of public entertainment. He had but entered on the business last
year. There was much to be learned, pondered, and corrected.
Experience, I doubt not, has led to many important changes in the
manner of conducting the establishment, and especially in what pertains
to the bar."
As I thought thus, my eyes glanced through the half-open door, and
rested on the face of Simon Slade. He was standing behind his
bar--evidently alone in the room--with his head bent in a musing
attitude. At first I was in some doubt as to the identity of the
singularly changed countenance. Two deep perpendicular seams lay
sharply defined on his forehead--the arch of his eyebrows was gone, and
from each corner of his compressed lips, lines were seen reaching
half-way to the chin. Blending with a slightly troubled expression, was
a strongly marked selfishness, evidently brooding over the consummation
of its purpose. For some moments I sat gazing on his face, half
doubting at times if it were really that of Simon Slade. Suddenly a
gleam flashed over it--an ejaculation was uttered, and one clenched
hand brought down, with a sharp stroke, into the open palm of the
other. The landlord's mind had reached a conclusion, and was resolved
upon action. There were no warm rays in the gleam of light that
irradiated his countenance--at least none for my heart, which felt
under them an almost icy coldness.
"Just the man I was thinking about." I heard the landlord say, as some
one entered the bar, while his whole manner underwent a sudden change.
"The old saying is true," was answered in a voice, the tones of which
were familiar to my ears.
"Thinking of the old Harry?" said Slade.
"Yes."
"True, literally, in the present case," I heard the landlord remark,
though in a much lower tone; "for, if you are not the devil himself,
you can't be farther removed than a second cousin."
A low, gurgling laugh met this little sally. There was something in it
so unlike a human laugh, that it caused my blood to trickle, for a
moment, coldly along my veins.
I heard nothing more except the murmur of voices in the bar, for a hand
shut the partly opened door that led from the sitting room.
Whose was that voice? I recalled its tones, and tried to fix in my
thought the person to whom it belonged, but was unable to do so. I was
not very long in doubt, for on stepping out on the porch in front of
the tavern, the well remembered face of Harvey Green presented itself.
He stood in the bar-room door, and was talking earnestly to Slade,
whose back was toward me. I saw that he recognized me, although I had
not passed a word with him on the occasion of my former visit, and
there was a lighting up of his countenance as if about to speak--but I
withdrew my eyes from his face to avoid the unwelcome greeting. When I
looked at him again, I saw that he was regarding me with a sinister
glance, which was instantly withdrawn. In what broad, black characters
was the word TEMPTER written on his face! How was it possible for
anyone to look thereon, and not read the warning inscription!
Soon after, he withdrew into the bar-room and the landlord came and
took a seat near me on the porch.
"How is the 'Sickle and Sheaf' coming on?" I inquired.
"First rate," was the answer--"First rate."
"As well as you expected?"
"Better."
"Satisfied with your experiment?"
"Perfectly. Couldn't get me back to the rumbling old mill again, if you
were to make me a present of it."
"What of the mill?" I asked. "How does the new owner come on?"
"About as I thought it would be."
"Not doing very well?"
"How could it be expected when he didn't know enough of the milling
business to grind a bushel of wheat right? He lost half of the custom I
transferred to him in less than three months. Then he broke his main
shaft, and it took over three weeks to get in a new one. Half of his
remaining customers discovered by this time, that they could get far
better meal from their grain at Harwood's mill near Lynwood, and so did
not care to trouble him any more. The upshot of the whole matter is, he
broke down next, and had to sell the mill at a heavy loss."
"Who has it now?"
"Judge Hammond is the purchaser."
"He is going to rent it, I suppose?"
"No; I believe he means to turn it into some kind of a factory--and, I
rather think, will connect therewith a distillery. This is a fine
grain-growing country, as you know. If he does set up a distillery
he'll make a fine thing of it. Grain has been too low in this section
for some years; this all the farmers have felt, and they are very much
pleased at the idea. It will help them wonderfully. I always thought my
mill a great thing for the farmers; but what I did for them was a mere
song compared to the advantage of an extensive distillery."
"Judge Hammond is one of your richest men?"
"Yes--the richest in the county. And what is more, he's a shrewd,
far-seeing man, and knows how to multiply his riches."
"How is his son Willy coming on?"
"Oh! first-rate."
The landlord's eyes fell under the searching look I bent upon him.
"How old is he now?"
"Just twenty."
"A critical age," I remarked.
"So people say; but I didn't find it so," answered Slade, a little
distantly.
"The impulses within and the temptations without, are the measure of
its dangers. At his age, you were, no doubt, daily employed at hard
work."
"I was, and no mistake."
"Thousands and hundreds of thousands are indebted to useful work,
occupying many hours through each day, and leaving them with wearied
bodies at night, for their safe passage from yielding youth to firm,
resisting manhood. It might not be with you as it is now, had leisure
and freedom to go in and out when you pleased been offered at the age
of nineteen."
"I can't tell as to that," said the landlord, shrugging his shoulders.
"But I don't see that Willy Hammond is in any especial danger. He is a
young man with many admirable qualities--is social-liberal--generous
almost to a fault--but has good common sense, and wit enough, I take
it, to keep out of harm's way."
A man passing the house at the moment, gave Simon Slade an opportunity
to break off a conversation that was not, I could see, altogether
agreeable. As he left me, I arose and stepped into the bar-room. Frank,
the landlord's son, was behind the bar. He had grown considerably in
the year--and from a rather delicate, innocent-looking boy, to a stout,
bold lad. His face was rounder, and had a gross, sensual expression,
that showed itself particularly about the mouth. The man Green was
standing beside the bar talking to him, and I noticed that Frank
laughed heartily, at some low, half obscene remarks that he was making.
In the midst of these, Flora, the sister of Frank, a really beautiful
girl, came in to get something from the bar. Green spoke to her
familiarly, and Flora answered him with a perceptibly heightening color.
I glanced toward Frank, half expecting to see an indignant flush on his
young face. But no--he looked on with a smile! "Ah!" thought I, "have
the boy's pure impulses so soon died out in this fatal atmosphere? Can
he bear to see those evil eyes--he knows they are evil--rest upon the
face of his sister? or to hear those lips, only a moment since polluted
with vile words, address her with the familiarity of a friend?"
"Fine girl, that sister of yours, Frank! Fine girl!" said Green, after
Flora had withdrawn--speaking of her with about as much respect in his
voice as if he were praising a fleet racer or a favorite hound.
The boy smiled, with a pleased air.
"I must try and find her a good husband, Frank. I wonder if she
wouldn't have me?"
"You'd better ask her," said the boy, laughing.
"I would if I thought there was any chance for me."
"Nothing like trying. Faint heart never won fair lady," returned Frank,
more with the air of a man than a boy. How fast he was growing old!
"A banter, by George!" exclaimed Green, slapping his hands together.
"You're a great boy, Frank! a great boy! I shall have to talk to your
father about you. Coming on too fast. Have to be put back in your
lessons--hey!"
And Green winked at the boy, and shook his finger at him. Frank laughed
in a pleased way, as he replied: "I guess I'll do."
"I guess you will," said Green, as, satisfied with his colloquy, he
turned off and left the bar-room.
"Have something to drink, sir?" inquired Frank, addressing me in a
bold, free way.