Nearly five years glided away before business again called me to
Cedarville. I knew little of what passed there in the interval, except
that Simon Slade had actually been indicted for manslaughter, in
causing the death of Morgan's child. He did not stand a trial, however,
Judge Lyman having used his influence, successfully, in getting the
indictment quashed. The judge, some people said, interested himself in
Slade more than was just seemly--especially, as he had, on several
occasions, in the discharge of his official duties, displayed what
seemed an over-righteous indignation against individuals arraigned for
petty offences. The impression made upon me by Judge Lyman had not been
favorable. He seemed a cold, selfish, scheming man of the world. That
he was an unscrupulous politician, was plain to me, in a single
evening's observation of his sayings and doings among the common herd
of a village bar-room.
As the stage rolled, with a gay flourish of our driver's bugle, into
the village, I noted here and there familiar objects, and marked the
varied evidences of change. Our way was past the elegant residence and
grounds of Judge Hammond, the most beautiful and highly cultivated in
Cedarville. At least, such it was regarded at the time of my previous
visit. But, the moment my eyes rested upon the dwelling and its various
surroundings, I perceived an altered aspect. Was it the simple work of
time? or, had familiarity with other and more elegantly arranged
suburban homes, marred this in my eyes by involuntary contrast? Or had
the hand of cultivation really been stayed, and the marring fingers of
neglect suffered undisturbed to trace on every thing disfiguring
characters?
Such questions were in my thoughts, when I saw a man in the large
portico of the dwelling, the ample columns of which, capped in rich
Corinthian, gave the edifice the aspect of a Grecian temple. He stood
leaning against one of the columns--his hat off, and his long gray hair
thrown back and resting lightly on his neck and shoulders. His head was
bent down upon his breast, and he seemed in deep abstraction. Just as
the coach swept by, he looked up, and in the changed features I
recognized Judge Hammond. His complexion was still florid, but his face
had grown thin, and his eyes were sunken. Trouble was written in every
lineament. Trouble? How inadequately does the word express my meaning!
Ah! at a single glance, what a volume of suffering was opened to the
gazer's eye. Not lightly had the foot of time rested there, as if
treading on odorous flowers, but heavily, and with iron-shod heel. This
I saw at a glance; and then, only the image of the man was present to
my inner vision, for the swiftly rolling stage-coach had borne me
onward past the altered home of the wealthiest denizen of Cedarville.
In a few minutes our driver reined up before the "Sickle and Sheaf,"
and as I stepped to the ground, a rotund, coarse, red-faced man, whom I
failed to recognize as Simon Slade until he spoke, grasped my hand, and
pronounced my name. I could not but contrast, in thought, his
appearance with what it was when I first saw him, some six years
previously; nor help saying to myself:
"So much for tavern-keeping!"
As marked a change was visible everywhere in and around the "Sickle and
Sheaf." It, too, had grown larger by additions of wings and rooms; but
it had also grown coarser in growing larger. When built, all the doors
were painted white, and the shutters green, giving to the house a neat,
even tasteful appearance. But the white and green had given place to a
dark, dirty brown, that to my eyes was particularly unattractive. The
bar-room had been extended, and now a polished brass rod, or railing,
embellished the counter, and sundry ornamental attractions had been
given to the shelving behind the bar--such as mirrors, gilding, etc.
Pictures, too, were hung upon the walls, or more accurately speaking;
coarse colored lithographs, the subjects of which, if not really
obscene, were flashing, or vulgar. In the sitting-room, next to the
bar, I noticed little change of objects, but much in their condition.
The carpet, chairs, and tables were the same in fact, but far from
being the same in appearance. The room had a close, greasy odor, and
looked as if it had not been thoroughly swept and dusted for a week.
A smart young Irishman was in the bar, and handed me the book in which
passenger's names were registered. After I had recorded mine, he
directed my trunk to be carried to the room designated as the one I was
to occupy. I followed the porter, who conducted me to the chamber which
had been mine at previous visits. Here, too, were evidences of change;
but not for the better. Then the room was as sweet and clean as it
could be; the sheets and pillow-cases as white as snow, and the
furniture shining with polish. Now all was dusty and dingy, the air
foul, and the bed-linen scarcely whiter than tow. No curtain made
softer the light as it came through the window; nor would the shutters
entirely keep out the glare, for several of the slats were broken. A
feeling of disgust came over me, at the close smell and foul appearance
of everything; so, after washing my hands and face, and brushing the
dust from my clothes, I went down stairs. The sitting-room was scarcely
more attractive than my chamber; so I went out upon the porch and took
a chair. Several loungers were here; hearty, strong-looking, but lazy
fellows, who, if they had anything to do, liked idling better than
working. One of them leaned his chair back against the wall of the
house, and was swinging his legs with a half circular motion, and
humming "Old Folks at Home." Another sat astride of a chair, with his
face turned toward, and his chin resting upon, the back. He was in too
lazy a condition of body and mind for motion or singing. A third had
slidden down in his chair, until he sat on his back, while his feet
were elevated above his head, and rested against one of the pillars
that supported the porch; while a fourth lay stretched out on a bench,
sleeping, his hat over his face to protect him from buzzing and biting
flies.
Though all but the sleeping man eyed me inquisitively, as I took my
place among them, not one changed his position. The rolling of
eye-balls cost but little exertion; and with that effort they were
contented.
"Hallo! who's that?" one of these loungers suddenly exclaimed, as a man
went swiftly by in a light sulky; and he started up, and gazed down the
road, seeking to penetrate the cloud of dust which the fleet rider had
swept up with hoofs and wheels.
"I didn't see." The sleeping man aroused himself, rubbed his eyes, and
gazed along the road.
"Who was it, Matthew?" The Irish bar-keeper now stood in the door.
"Willy Hammond," was answered by Matthew.
"Indeed! Is that his new three hundred dollar horse?"
"Yes."
"My! but he's a screamer!"
"Isn't he! Most as fast as his young master."
"Hardly," said one of the men, laughing. "I don't think anything in
creation can beat Hammond. He goes it with a perfect rush."
"Doesn't he! Well; you may say what you please of him, he's as
good-hearted a fellow as ever walked; and generous to a fault."
"His old dad will agree with you in the last remark," said Matthew.
"No doubt of that, for he has to stand the bills," was answered.
"Yes, whether he will or no, for I rather think Willy has, somehow or
other, got the upper hand of him."
"In what way?"
"It's Hammond and Son, over at the mill and distillery."
"I know; but what of that!"
"Willy was made the business man--ostensibly--in order, as the old man
thought, to get him to feel the responsibility of the new position, and
thus tame him down."
"Tame HIM down! Oh, dear! It will take more than business to do that.
The curb was applied too late."
"As the old gentleman has already discovered, I'm thinking, to his
sorrow."
"He never comes here any more; does he, Matthew?"
"Who?"
"Judge Hammond."
"Oh, dear, no. He and Slade had all sorts of a quarrel about a year
ago, and he's never darkened our doors since."
"It was something about Willy and--." The speaker did not mention any
name, but winked knowingly and tossed his head toward the entrance of
the house, to indicate some member of Slade's family.
"I believe so."
"D'ye think Willy really likes her?"
Matthew shrugged his shoulders, but made no answer.
"She's a nice girl," was remarked in an under tone, "and good enough
for Hammond's son any day; though, if she were my daughter, I'd rather
see her in Jericho than fond of his company."
"He'll have plenty of money to give her. She can live like a queen."
"For how long?"
"Hush!" came from the lips of Matthew. "There she is now."
I looked up, and saw at a short distance from the house, and
approaching, a young lady, in whose sweet, modest face, I at once
recognized Flora Slade, Five years had developed her into a beautiful
woman. In her alone, of all that appertained to Simon Slade, there was
no deterioration. Her eyes were as mild and pure as when first I met
her at gentle sixteen, and her father said "My daughter," with such a
mingling of pride and affection in his tone. She passed near where I
was sitting, and entered the house. A closer view showed me some marks
of thought and suffering; but they only heightened the attraction of
her face. I failed not to observe the air of respect with which all
returned her slight nod and smile of recognition.
"She's a nice girl, and no mistake--the flower of this flock," was
said, as soon as she passed into the house.
"Too good for Willy Hammond, in my opinion," said Matthew. "Clever and
generous as people call him."
"Just my opinion," was responded. "She's as pure and good, almost, as
an angel; and he?--I can tell you what--he's not the clean thing. He
knows a little too much of the world--on its bad side, I mean."
The appearance of Slade put an end to this conversation. A second
observation of his person and countenance did not remove the first
unfavorable impression. His face had grown decidedly bad in expression,
as well as gross and sensual. The odor of his breath, as he took a
chair close to where I was sitting, was that of one who drank
habitually and freely; and the red, swimming eyes evidenced, too
surely, a rapid progress toward the sad condition of a confirmed
inebriate. There was, too, a certain thickness of speech, that gave
another corroborating sign of evil progress.
"Have you seen anything of Frank this afternoon?" he inquired of
Matthew, after we had passed a few words.
"Nothing," was the bar-keeper's answer.
"I saw him with Tom Wilkins as I came over," said one of the men who
was sitting in the porch.
"What was he doing with Tom Wilkins?" said Slade, in a fretted tone of
voice. "He doesn't seem very choice in his company."
"They were gunning."
"Gunning!"
"Yes. They both had fowling-pieces. I wasn't near enough to ask where
they were going."
This information disturbed Slade a good deal. After muttering to
himself a little while, he started up and went into the house.
"And I could have told him a little more, had I been so inclined," said
the individual who mentioned the fact that Frank was with Tom Wilkins.
"What more?" inquired Matthew.
"There was a buggy in the case; and a champagne basket. What the latter
contained you can easily guess."
"Whose buggy?"
"I don't know anything about the buggy; but if 'Lightfoot' doesn't sink
in value a hundred dollars or so before sundown, call me a false
prophet."
"Oh, no," said Matthew, incredulously. "Frank wouldn't do an outrageous
thing like that. Lightfoot won't be in a condition to drive for a month
to come."
"I don't care. She's out now; and the way she was putting it down when
I saw her, would have made a locomotive look cloudy."
"Where did he get her?" was inquired.
"She's been in the six-acre field, over by Mason's Bridge, for the last
week or so," Matthew answered. "Well; all I have to say," he added, "is
that Frank ought to be slung up and well horse-whipped. I never saw
such a young rascal. He cares for no good, and fears no evil. He's the
worst boy I ever saw."
"It would hardly do for you to call him a boy to his face," said one of
the men, laughing.
"I don't have much to say to him in any way," replied Matthew, "for I
know very well that if we ever do get into a regular quarrel, there'll
be a hard time of it. The same house will not hold us afterward--that's
certain. So I steer clear of the young reprobate."
"I wonder his father don't put him to some business," was remarked.
"The idle life he now leads will be his ruin."
"He was behind the bar for a year or two."
"Yes; and was smart at mixing a glass--but--"
"Was himself becoming too good a customer?"
"Precisely. He got drunk as a fool before reaching his fifteenth year."
"Good gracious!" I exclaimed, involuntarily.
"It's true, sir," said the last speaker, turning to me, "I never saw
anything like it. And this wasn't all bar-room talk, which, as you may
know, isn't the most refined and virtuous in the world. I wouldn't like
my son to hear much of it. Frank was always an eager listener to
everything that was said, and in a very short time became an adept in
slang and profanity. I'm no saint myself; but it's often made my blood
run cold to hear him swear."
"I pity his mother," said I; for my thought turned naturally to Mrs.
Slade.
"You may well do that," was answered. "I doubt if Cedarville holds a
sadder heart. It was a dark day for her, let me tell you, when Simon
Slade sold his mill and built this tavern. She was opposed to it at the
beginning."
"I have inferred as much."
"I know it," said the man. "My wife has been intimate with her for
years. Indeed, they have always been like sisters. I remember very well
her coming to our house, about the time the mill was sold, and crying
about it as if her heart would break. She saw nothing but sorrow and
trouble ahead. Tavern-keeping she had always regarded as a low
business, and the change from a respectable miller to a lazy
tavern-keeper, as she expressed it, was presented to her mind as
something disgraceful. I remember, very well, trying to argue the point
with her--assuming that it was quite as respectable to keep tavern as
to do anything else; but I might as well have talked to the wind. She
was always a pleasant, hopeful, cheerful woman before that time, but,
really, I don't think I've seen a true smile on her face since."
"That was a great deal for a man to lose," said I.
"What?" he inquired, not clearly understanding me.
"The cheerfull face of his wife."
"The face was but an index of her heart," said he.
"So much the worse."
"True enough for that. Yes, it was a great deal to lose.
"What has he gained that will make up for this?"
The man shrugged his shoulders.
"What has he gained?" I repeated. "Can you figure it up?"
"He's a richer man, for one thing."
"Happier?"