Great events, like young Mr. Worthington's visit to Brampton, are all
very well for a while, but they do not always develop with sufficient
rapidity to satisfy the audiences of the drama. Seven days were an
interlude quite long enough in which to discuss every phase and bearing
of this opening scene, and after that the play in all justice ought to
move on. But there it halted--for a while--and the curtain obstinately
refused to come up. If the inhabitants of Brampton had only known that
the drama, when it came, would be well worth waiting for, they might
have been less restless.
It is unnecessary to enrich the pages of this folio with all the
footnotes and remarks of, the sages of Brampton. These can be condensed
into a paragraph of two--and we can ring up the curtain when we like
on the next scene, for which Brampton had to wait considerably over a
month. There is to be no villain in this drama with the face of an Abbe
Maury like the seven cardinal sins. Comfortable looking Mr. Dodd of the
prudential committee, with his chin-tuft of yellow beard, is cast for
the part of the villain, but will play it badly; he would have been
better suited to a comedy part.
Young Mr. Worthington left Brampton on the five o'clock train, and at
six Mr. Dodd met his fellow-member of the committee, Judge Graves.
“Called a meetin'?” asked Mr. Dodd, pulling the yellow tuft.
“What for?” said the judge, sharply.
“What be you a-goin' to do about it?” said Mr. Dodd.
“Do about what?” demanded the judge, looking at the hardware dealer from
under his eyebrows.
Mr. Dodd knew well enough that this was not ignorance on the part of Mr.
Graves, whose position in the matter dad been very well defined in
the two sentences he had spoken. Mr. Dodd perceived that the judge
was trying to get him to commit himself, and would then proceed to
annihilate him. He, Levi Dodd, had no intention of walking into such a
trap.
“Well,” said he, with a final tug at the tuft, “if that's the way you
feel about it.”
“Feel about what?” said the judge, fiercely.
“Callate you know best,” said Mr. Dodd, and passed on up the street. But
he felt the judge's gimlet eyes boring holes in his back. The judge's
position was very fine, no doubt for the judge. All of which tends to
show that Levi Dodd had swept his mind, and that it was ready now for
the reception of an opinion.
Six weeks or more, as has been said, passed before the curtain rose
again, but the snarling trumpets of the orchestra played a fitting
prelude. Cynthia's feelings and Cynthia's life need not be gone into
during this interval knowing her character, they may well be imagined.
They were trying enough, but Brampton had no means of guessing them.
During the weeks she came and went between the little house and the
little school, putting all the strength that was in her into her duties.
The Prudential Committee, which sometimes sat on the platform, could
find no fault with the performance of these duties, or with the
capability of the teacher, and it is not going too far to state that the
children grew to love her better than Miss Goddard had been loved. It
may be declared that children are the fittest citizens of a republic,
because they are apt to make up their own minds on any subject without
regard to public opinion. It was so with the scholars of Brampton
village lower school: they grew to love the new teacher, careless of
what the attitude of their elders might be, and some of them could have
been seen almost any day walking home with her down the street.
As for the attitude of the elders--there was none. Before assuming one
they had thought it best, with characteristic caution, to await the next
act in the drama. There were ladies in Brampton whose hearts prompted
them, when they called on the new teacher, to speak a kindly word of
warning and advice; but somehow, when they were seated before her in
the little sitting room of the John Billings house, their courage
failed them. There was something about this daughter of the Coniston
storekeeper and ward of Jethro Bass that made them pause. So much for
the ladies of Brampton. What they said among themselves would fill a
chapter, and more.
There was, at this time, a singular falling-off in the attendance of the
Brampton Club. Ephraim sat alone most of the day in his Windsor chair
by the stove, pretending to read newspapers. But he did not mention this
fact to Cynthia. He was more lonesome than ever on the Saturdays and
Sundays which she spent with Jethro Bass.
Jethro Bass! It is he who might be made the theme of the music of the
snarling trumpets. What was he about during those six weeks? That is
what the state at large was beginning to wonder, and the state at large
was looking on at a drama, too. A rumor reached the capital and radiated
thence to every city and town and hamlet, and was followed by other
rumors like confirmations. Jethro Bass, for the first time in a long
life of activity, was inactive: inactive, too, at this most critical
period of his career, the climax of it, with a war to be waged which for
bitterness and ferocity would have no precedent; with the town meetings
at hand, where the frontier fighting was to be done, and no quarter
given. Lieutenants had gone to Coniston for further orders and
instructions, and had come back without either. Achilles was sulking in
the tannery house--some said a broken Achilles. Not a word could be got
out of him, or the sign of an intention. Jake Wheeler moped through the
days in Rias Richardson's store, too sore at heart to speak to any man,
and could have wept if tears had been a relief to him. No more blithe
errands over the mountain to Clovelly and elsewhere, though Jake
knew the issue now and itched for the battle, and the vassals of
the hill-Rajah under a jubilant Bijah Bixby were arming cap-a-pie.
Lieutenant-General-and-Senator Peleg Hartington of Brampton, in his
office over the livery stable, shook his head like a mournful stork
when questioned by brother officers from afar. Operations were at a
standstill, and the sinews of war relaxed. Rural givers of mortgages,
who had not had the opportunity of selling them or had feared to do
so, began (mirabile dictu) to express opinions. Most ominous sign of
all--the proprietor of the Pelican Hotel had confessed that the Throne
Room had not been engaged for the coming session.
Was it possible that Jethro Bass lay crushed under the weight of the
accusations which had been printed, and were still being printed, in
the Newcastle Guardian? He did not answer them, or retaliate in other
newspapers, but Jethro Bass had never made use of newspapers in this
way. Still, nothing ever printed about him could be compared with those
articles. Had remorse suddenly overtaken him in his old age? Such were
the questions people we're asking all over the state--people, at least,
who were interested in politics, or in those operations which went
by the name of politics: yes, and many private citizens--who had
participated in politics only to the extent of voting for such
candidates as Jethro in his wisdom had seen fit to give them, read the
articles and began to say that boss domination was at an end. A new era
was at hand, which they fondly (and very properly) believed was to be
a golden era. It was, indeed, to be a golden era--until things got
working; and then the gold would cease. The Newcastle Guardian, with
unconscious irony, proclaimed the golden era; and declared that its
columns, even in other days and under other ownership, had upheld the
wisdom of Jethro Bass. And he was still a wise man, said the Guardian,
for he had had sense enough to give up the fight.
Had he given up the fight? Cynthia fervently hoped and prayed that he
had, but she hoped and prayed in silence. Well she knew, if the event in
the tannery shed had not made him abandon his affairs, no appeal could
do so. Her happiest days in this period were the Saturdays and Sundays
spent with him in Coniston, and as the weeks went by she began to
believe that the change, miraculous as it seemed, had indeed taken
place. He had given up his power. It was a pleasure that made the weeks
bearable for her. What did it matter--whether he had made the sacrifice
for the sake of his love for her? He had made it.
On these Saturdays and Sundays they went on long drives together over
the hills, while she talked to him of her life in Brampton or the books
she was reading, and of those she had chosen for him to read. Sometimes
they did not turn homeward until the delicate tracery of the branches
on the snow warned them of the rising moon. Jethro was often silent for
hours at a time, but it seemed to Cynthia that it was the silence of
peace--of a peace he had never known before. There came no newspapers
to the tannery house now: during the mid-week he read the books of which
she had spoken William Wetherell's books; or sat in thought, counting,
perhaps; the days until she should come again. And the boy of those
days for him was more pathetic than much that is known to the world as
sorrow.
And what did Coniston think? Coniston, indeed, knew not what to think,
when, little by little, the great men ceased to drive up to the door of
the tannery house, and presently came no more. Coniston sank then from
its proud position as the real capital of the state to a lonely hamlet
among the hills. Coniston, too, was watching the drama, and had had a
better view of the stage than Brampton, and saw some reason presently
for the change in Jethro Bass. Not that Mr. Satterlee told, but such
evidence was bound, in the end, to speak for itself. The Newcastle
Guardian had been read and debated at the store--debated with some heat
by Chester Perkins and other mortgagors; discussed, nevertheless, in a
political rather than a moral light. Then Cynthia had returned home;
her face had awed them by its sorrow, and she had begun to earn her own
living. Then the politicians had ceased to come. The credit belongs to
Rias Richardson for hawing been the first to piece these three facts
together, causing him to burn his hand so severely on the stove that
he had to carry it bandaged in soda for a week. Cynthia Wetherell had
reformed Jethro.
Though the village loved and revered Cynthia, Coniston as a whole did
not rejoice in that reform. The town had fallen from its mighty estate,
and there were certain envious ones who whispered that it had remained
for a young girl who had learned city ways to twist Jethro around
her finger; that she had made him abandon his fight with Isaac D.
Worthington because Mr. Worthington had a son--but there is no use
writing such scandal. Stripped of his power--even though he stripped
himself--Jethro began to lose their respect, a trait tending to prove
that the human race may have had wolves for ancestors as well as apes.
People had small opportunity, however, of showing a lack of respect to
his person, for in these days he noticed no one and spoke to none.
When the lion is crippled, the jackals begin to range. A jackal
reconnoitered the lair to see how badly the lion was crippled, and
conceived with astounding insolence the plan of capturing the lion's
quarry. This jackal, who was an old one, well knew how to round up a
quarry, and fled back over the hills to consult with a bigger jackal,
his master. As a result, two days before March town-meeting day, Mr.
Bijah Bixby paid a visit to the Harwich bank and went among certain
Coniston farmers looking over the sheep, his clothes bulging out in
places when he began, and seemingly normal enough when he had finished.
History repeats itself, even among lions and jackals. Thirty-six
years before there had been a town-meeting in Coniston and a surprise.
Established Church, decent and orderly selectmen and proceedings
had been toppled over that day, every outlying farm sending its
representative through the sleet to do it. And now retribution was at
hand. This March-meeting day was mild, the grass showing a green color
on the south slopes where the snow had melted, and the outlying farmers
drove through mud-holes up to the axles. Drove, albeit, in procession
along the roads, grimly enough, and the sheds Jock Hallowell had built
around the meeting-house could not hold the horses; they lined the
fences and usurped the hitching posts of the village street, and still
they came. Their owners trooped with muddy boots into the meeting-house,
and when the moderator rapped for order the Chairman of the Board of
Selectmen, Jethro Bass, was not in his place; never, indeed, would be
there again. Six and thirty years he had been supreme in that town--long
enough for any man. The beams and king posts would know him no more. Mr.
Amos Cuthbert was elected Chairman, not without a gallant and desperate
but unsupported fight of a minority led by Mr. Jake Wheeler, whose
loyalty must be taken as a tribute to his species. Farmer Cuthbert was
elected, and his mortgage was not foreclosed! Had it been, there was
more money in the Harwich bank.
There was no telegraph to Coniston in these days, and so Mr. Sam Price,
with his horse in a lather, might have been seen driving with unseemly
haste toward Brampton, where in due time he arrived. Half an hour later
there was excitement at Newcastle, sixty-five miles away, in the office
of the Guardian, and the next morning the excitement had spread over the
whole state.
Jethro Bass was dethroned in Coniston--discredited in his own town!
And where was Jethro? Did his heart ache, did he bow his head as
he thought of that supremacy, so hardly won, so superbly held, gone
forever? Many were the curious eyes on the tannery house that day, and
for days after, but its owner gave no signs of concern. He read and
thought and chopped wood in the tannery shed as usual. Never, I believe,
did man, shorn of power, accept his lot more quietly. His struggle was
over, his battle was fought, a greater peace than he had ever thought to
hope for was won. For the opinion and regard of the world he had never
cared. A greater reward awaited him, greater than any knew--the opinion
and regard and the praise of one whom he loved beyond all the world. On
Friday she came to him, on Friday at sunset, for the days were growing
longer, and that was the happiest sunset of his life. She said nothing
as she raised her face to his and kissed him and clung to him in the
little parlor, but he knew, and he had his reward. So much for earthly
power Cynthia brought the little rawhide trunk this time, and came to
Coniston for the March vacation--a happy two weeks that was soon gone.
Happy by comparison, that is, with what they both had suffered, and a
haven of rest after the struggle and despair of the wilderness. The bond
between them had, in truth, never been stronger, for both the young girl
and the old man had denied themselves the thing they held most dear.
Jethro had taken refuge and found comfort in his love. But Cynthia! Her
greatest love had now been bestowed elsewhere.
If there were letters for the tannery house, Milly Skinner, who made it
a point to meet the stage, brought them. And there were letters during
Cynthia's sojourn,--many of them, bearing the Cambridge postmark. One
evening it was Jethro who laid the letter on the table beside her as she
sat under the lamp. He did not look at her or speak, but she felt that
he knew her secret--felt that he deserved to have from her own lips what
he had been too proud--yes--and too humble to ask. Whose sympathy
could she be sure of, if not of his? Still she had longed to keep this
treasure to herself. She took the letter in her hand.
“I do not answer them, Uncle Jethro, but--I cannot prevent his writing
them,” she faltered. She did not confess that she kept them, every one,
and read them over and over again; that she had grown, indeed, to look
forward to them as to a sustenance. “I--I do love him, but I will not
marry him.”
Yes, she could be sure of Jethro's sympathy, though he could not express
it in words. Yet she had not told him for this. She had told him, much
as the telling had hurt her, because she feared to cut him more deeply
by her silence.
It was a terrible moment for Jethro, and never had he desired the gift
of speech as now. Had it not been for him; Cynthia might have been
Robert Worthington's wife. He sat down beside her and put his hand over
hers that lay on the letter in her lap. It was the only answer he could
make, but perhaps it was the best, after all. Of what use were words at
such a time!
Four days afterward, on a Monday morning, she went back to Brampton to
begin the new term.
That same Monday a circumstance of no small importance took place in
Brampton--nothing less than the return, after a prolonged absence in the
West and elsewhere, of its first citizen. Isaac D. Worthington was again
in residence. No bells were rung, indeed, and no delegation of citizens
as such, headed by the selectmen, met him at the station; and
other feudal expressions of fealty were lacking. No staff flew Mr.
Worthington's arms; nevertheless the lord of Brampton was in his castle
again, and Brampton felt that he was there. He arrived alone, wearing
the silk hat which had become habitual with him now, and stepping into
his barouche at the station had been driven up Brampton Street behind
his grays, looking neither to the right nor left. His reddish chop
whiskers seemed to cling a little more closely to his face than
formerly, and long years of compression made his mouth look sterner
than ever. A hawk-like man, Isaac Worthington, to be reckoned with and
feared, whether in a frock coat or in breastplate and mail.
His seneschal, Mr. Flint, was awaiting him in the library. Mr. Flint was
large and very ugly, big-boned, smooth-shaven, with coarse features all
askew, and a large nose with many excrescences, and thick lips. He was
forty-two. From a foreman of the mills he had risen, step by step,
to his present position, which no one seemed able to define. He was,
indeed, a seneschal. He managed the mills in his lord's absence, and--if
the truth be told--in his presence; knotty questions of the Truro
Railroad were brought to Mr. Flint and submitted to Mr. Worthington,
who decided them, with Mr. Flint's advice; and, within the last three
months, Mr. Flint had invaded the realm of politics, quietly, as such a
man would, under the cover of his patron's name and glory. Mr. Flint
it was who had bought the Newcastle Guardian, who went occasionally to
Newcastle and spoke a few effective words now and then to the editor;
and, if the truth will out, Mr. Flint had largely conceived that scheme
about the railroads which was to set Mr. Worthington on the throne of
the state, although the scheme was not now being carried out according
to Mr. Flint's wishes. Mr. Flint was, in a sense, a Bismarck, but he
was not as yet all powerful. Sometimes his august master or one of his
fellow petty sovereigns would sweep Mr. Flint's plans into the waste
basket, and then Mr. Flint would be content to wait. To complete the
character sketch, Mr. Flint was not above hanging up his master's hat
and coat, Which he did upon the present occasion, and went up to Mr.
Worthington's bedroom to fetch a pocket handkerchief out of the second
drawer. He even knew where the handkerchiefs were kept. Lucky petty
sovereigns sometimes possess Mr. Flints to make them emperors.
The august personage seated himself briskly at his desk.
“So that scoundrel Bass is actually discredited at last,” he said,
blowing his nose in the pocket handkerchief Mr. Flint had brought him.
“I lose patience when I think how long we've stood the rascal in this
state. I knew the people would rise in their indignation when they
learned the truth about him.”
Mr. Flint did not answer this. He might have had other views.
“I wonder we did not think of it before,” Mr. Worthington continued. “A
very simple remedy, and only requiring a little courage and--and--” (Mr.
Worthington was going to say money, but thought better of it) “and the
chimera disappears. I congratulate you, Flint.”
“Congratulate yourself,” said Mr. Flint; “that would not have been my
way.”
“Very well, I congratulate myself,” said the august personage, who was
in too good a humor to be put out by the rejection of a compliment. “You
remember what I said: the time was ripe, just publish a few biographical
articles telling people what he was, and Jethro Bass would snuff out
like a candle. Mr. Duncan tells me the town-meeting results are very
good all over the state. Even if we hadn't knocked out Jethro Bass, we'd
have a fair majority for our bill in the next legislature.”
“You know Bass's saying,” answered Mr. Flint, “You can hitch that kind
of a hoss, but they won't always stay hitched.”
“I know, I know,” said Mr. Worthington; “don't croak, Flint. We can
buy more hitch ropes, if necessary. Well, what's the outlay up to the
present? Large, I suppose. Well, whatever it is, it's small compared to
what we'll get for it.” He laughed a little and rubbed his hands, and
then he remembered that capacity in which he stood before the world.
Yes, and he stood before himself in the same capacity. Isaac Worthington
may have deceived himself, but he may or may not have been a hero to
his seneschal. “We have to fight fire with fire,” he added, in a pained
voice. “Let me see the account.”
“I have tabulated the expense in the different cities and towns,”
answered Mr. Flint; “I will show you the account in a little while. The
expenses in Coniston were somewhat greater than the size of the town
justified, perhaps. But Sutton thought--”
“Yes, yes,” interrupted Mr. Worthington, “if it had cost as much to
carry Coniston as Newcastle, it would have been worth it--for the moral
effect alone.”
Moral effect! Mr. Flint thought of Mr. Bixby with his bulging pockets
going about the hills, and smiled at the manner in which moral effects
are sometimes obtained.
“Any news, Flint?”
No news yet, Mr. Flint might have answered. In a few minutes there might
be news, and plenty of it, for it lay ready to be hatched under Mr.
Worthington's eye. A letter in the bold and upright hand of his son
was on the top of the pile, placed there by Mr. Flint himself, who had
examined Mr. Worthington's face closely when he came in to see how much
he might know of its contents. He had decided that Mr. Worthington was
in too good a humor to know anything of them. Mr. Flint had not steamed
the letter open, and read the news; but he could guess at them pretty
shrewdly, and so could have the biggest fool in Brampton. That letter
contained the opening scene of the next act in the drama.
Mr. Worthington cut the envelope and began to read, and while he did so
Mr. Flint, who was not afraid of man or beast, looked at him. It was a
manly and straight forward letter, and Mr. Worthington, no matter what
his opinions on the subject were, should have been proud of it. Bob
announced, first of all, that he was going to marry Cynthia Wetherell;
then he proceeded with praiseworthy self-control (for a lover) to
describe Cynthia's character and attainments: after which he stated
that Cynthia had refused him--twice, because she believed that Mr.
Worthington would oppose the marriage, and had declared that she would
never be the cause of a breach between father and son. Bob asked for his
father's consent, and hoped to have it, but he thought it only right to
add that he had given his word and his love, and did not mean to retract
either. He spoke of his visit to Brampton, and explained that Cynthia
was teaching school there, and urged his father to see her before he
made a decision. Mr. Worthington read it through to the end, his lips
closing tighter and tighter until his mouth was but a line across his
face. There was pain in the face, too, the kind of pain which anger
sends, and which comes with the tottering of a pride that is false. Of
what gratification now was the overthrow of Jethro Bass?
He stared at the letter for a moment after he had finished it, and
his face grew a dark red. Then he seized the paper and tore it slowly,
deliberately, into bits.
Dudley Worthington was not thinking then--not he!--of the young man in
the white beaver who had called at the Social Library many years
before to see a young woman whose name, too, had been Cynthia.--He was
thinking, in fact, for he was a man to think in anger, whether it were
not possible to remove this Cynthia from the face of the earth--at least
to a place beyond his horizon and that of his son. Had he worn the chain
mail instead of the frock coat he would have had her hung outside the
town walls.
“Good God!” he exclaimed. And the words sounded profane indeed as
he fixed his eyes upon Mr. Flint. “You knew that Robert had been to
Brampton.”
“Yes,” said Flint, “the whole village knew it.”
“Good God!” cried Mr. Worthington again, “why was I not informed of
this? Why was I not warned of this? Have I no friends? Do you pretend to
look after my interests and not take the trouble to write me on such a
subject.”
“Do you think I could have prevented it?” asked Mr. Flint, very calmly.
“You allow this--this woman to come here to Brampton and teach school in
a place where she can further her designs? What were you about?”
“When the prudential committee appointed her, nothing of this was known,
Mr. Worthington.”
“Yes, but now--now! What are you doing, what are they doing to allow her
to remain? Who are on that committee?”
Mr. Flint named the men. They had been reelected, as usual, at the
recent town-meeting. Mr. Errol, who had also been reelected, had
returned but had not yet issued the certificate or conducted the
examination.
“Send for them, have them here at once,” commanded Mr. Worthington,
without listening to this.
“If you take my advice, you will do nothing of the kind,” said Mr.
Flint, who, as usual, had the whole situation at his fingers' ends.
He had taken the trouble to inform himself about the girl, and he had
discovered, shrewdly enough, that she was the kind which might be led,
but not driven. If Mr. Flint's advice had been listened to, this story
might have had quite a different ending. But Mr. Flint had not reached
the stage where his advice was always listened to, and he had a maddened
man to deal with now. At that moment, as if fate had determined to
intervene, the housemaid came into the room.
“Mr. Dodd to see you, sir,” she said.
“Show him in,” shouted Mr. Worthington; “show him in!”
Mr. Dodd was not a man who could wait for a summons which he had felt in
his bones was coming. He was ordinarily, as we have seen, officious.
But now he was thoroughly frightened. He had seen the great man in the
barouche as he drove past the hardware store, and he had made up his
mind to go up at once, and have it over with. His opinions were formed
now, He put a smile on his face when he was a foot outside of the
library door.
“This is a great pleasure, Mr. Worthington, a great pleasure, to see you
back,” he said, coming forward. “I callated--”
But the great man sat in his chair, and made no attempt to return the
greeting.
“Mr. Dodd, I thought you were my friend,” he said.
Mr. Dodd went all to pieces at this reception.
“So I be, Mr. Worthington--so I be,” he cried. “That's why I'm here now.
I've b'en a friend of yours ever since I can remember--never fluctuated.
I'd rather have chopped my hand off than had this happen--so I would. If
I could have foreseen what she was, she'd never have had the place, as
sure as my name's Levi Dodd.”
If Mr. Dodd had taken the trouble to look at the seneschal's face, he
would have seen a well-defined sneer there.
“And now that you know what she is,” cried Mr. Worthington, rising and
smiting the pile of letters on his desk, “why do you keep her there an
instant?”
Mr. Dodd stopped to pick up the letters, which had flown over the floor.
But the great man was now in the full tide of his anger.
“Never mind the letters,” he shouted; “tell me why you keep her there.”
“We callated we'd wait and see what steps you'd like taken,” said the
trembling townsman.
“Steps! Steps! Good God! What kind of man are you to serve in such a
place when you allow the professed ward of Jethro Bass--of Jethro Bass,
the most notoriously depraved man in this state, to teach the children
of this town. Steps! How soon can you call your committee together?”
“Right away,” answered Mr. Dodd, breathlessly. He would have gone on to
exculpate himself, but Mr. Worthington's inexorable finger was pointing
at the door.
“If you are a friend of mine,” said that gentleman, “and if you have any
regard for the fair name of this town, you will do so at once.”
Mr. Dodd departed precipitately, and Mr. Worthington began to pace the
room, clasping his hands now in front of him, now behind him, in his
agony: repeating now and again various appellations which need not be
printed here, which he applied in turn to the prudential committee, to
his son, and to Cynthia Wetherell.
“I'll run her out of Brampton,” he said at last.
“If you do,” said Mr. Flint, who had been watching him apparently
unmoved, “you may have Jethro Bass on your back.”
“Jethro Bass?” shouted Mr. Worthington, with a laugh that was not
pleasant to hear, “Jethro Bass is as dead as Julius Caesar.”
It was one thing for Mr. Dodd to promise so readily a meeting of the
committee, and quite another to decide how he was going to get through
the affair without any more burns and scratches than were absolutely
necessary. He had reversed the usual order, and had been in the
fire--now he was going to the frying-pan. He stood in the street for
some time, pulling at his tuft, and then made his way to Mr. Jonathan
Hill's feed store. Mr. Hill was reading “Sartor Resartus” in his little
office, the temperature of which must have been 95, and Mr. Dodd was
perspiring when he got there.
“It's come,” said Mr. Dodd, sententiously.
“What's come?” inquired Mr. Hill, mildly.
“Isaac D.'s come, that's what,” said Mr. Dodd. “I hain't b'en sleepin'
well of nights, lately. I can't think what we was about, Jonathan,
puttin' that girl in the school. We'd ought to've knowed she wahn't
fit.”
“What's the matter with her?” inquired Mr. Hill.
“Matter with her!” exclaimed his fellow-committeeman, “she lives with
Jethro Bass--she's his ward.”
“Well, what of it?” said Mr. Hill, who never bothered himself about
gossip or newspapers, or indeed about anything not between the covers of
a book, except when he couldn't help it.
“Good God!” exclaimed Mr. Dodd, “he's the most notorious, depraved man
in the state. Hain't we got to look out for the fair name of Brampton?”
Mr. Hill sighed and closed his book.
“Well,” he said; “I'd hoped we were through with that. Let's go up and
see what Judge Graves says about it.”
“Hold on,” said Mr. Dodd, seizing the feed dealer by the coat, “we've
got to get it fixed in our minds what we're goin' to do, first. We can't
allow no notorious people in our schools. We've got to stand up to the
jedge, and tell him so. We app'inted her on his recommendation, you
know.”
“I like the girl,” replied Mr. Hill. “I don't think we ever had a better
teacher. She's quiet, and nice appearin', and attends to her business.”
Mr. Dodd pulled his tuft, and cocked his head.
“Mr. Worthington holds a note of yours, don't he, Jonathan?”
Mr. Hill reflected. He said he thought perhaps Mr. Worthington did.
“Well,” said Mr. Dodd, “I guess we might as well go along up to the
jedge now as any time.”
But when they got there Mr. Dodd's knock was so timid that he had to
repeat it before the judge came to the door and peered at them over his
spectacles.
“Well, gentlemen, what can I do for you?” he asked, severely, though he
knew well enough. He had not been taken by surprise many times during
the last forty years. Mr. Dodd explained that they wished a little
meeting of the committee. The judge ushered them into his bedroom, the
parlor being too good for such an occasion.
“Now, gentlemen,” said he, “let us get down to business. Mr. Worthington
arrived here to-day, he has seen Mr. Dodd, and Mr. Dodd has seen Mr.
Hill. Mr. Worthington is a political opponent of Jethro Bass, and wishes
Miss Wetherell dismissed. Mr. Dodd and Mr. Hill have agreed, for various
reasons which I will spare you, that Miss Wetherell should be dismissed.
Have I stated the case, gentlemen, or have I not?”
Mr. Graves took off his spectacles and wiped them, looking from one to
the other of his very uncomfortable fellow-members. Mr. Hill did not
attempt to speak; but Mr. Dodd, who was not sure now that this was not
the fire and the other the frying-pan, pulled at his tuft until words
came to him.
“Jedge,” he said finally, “I must say I'm a mite surprised. I must say
your language is unwarranted.”
“The truth is never unwarranted,” said the judge.
“For the sake of the fair name of Brampton,” began Mr. Dodd, “we cannot
allow--”
“Mr. Dodd,” interrupted the judge, “I would rather have Mr.
Worthington's arguments from Mr. Worthington himself, if I wanted them
at all. There is no need of prolonging this meeting. If I were to waste
my breath until six o'clock, it would be no use. I was about to say
that your opinions were formed, but I will alter that, and say that your
minds are fixed. You are determined to dismiss Miss Wetherell. Is it not
so?”
“I wish you'd hear me, Jedge,” said Mr. Dodd, desperately.
“Will you kindly answer me yes or no to that question,” said the judge;
“my time is valuable.”
“Well, if you put it that way, I guess we are agreed that she hadn't
ought to stay. Not that I've anything against her personally--”
“All right,” said the judge, with a calmness that made them tremble.
They had never bearded him before. “All right, you are two to one and
no certificate has been issued. But I tell you this, gentlemen, that you
will live to see the day when you will bitterly regret this injustice
to an innocent and a noble woman, and Isaac D. Worthington will live to
regret it. You may tell him I said so. Good day, gentlemen.”
They rose.
“Jedge,” began Mr. Dodd again, “I don't think you've been quite fair
with us.”
“Fair!” repeated the judge, with unutterable scorn. “Good day,
gentlemen.” And he slammed the door behind them.
They walked down the street some distance before either of them spoke.
“Goliah,” said Mr. Dodd, at last, “did you ever hear such talk? He's got
the drattedest temper of any man I ever knew, and he never callates to
make a mistake. It's a little mite hard to do your duty when a man talks
that way.”
“I'm not sure we've done it,” answered Mr. Hill.
“Not sure!” ejaculated the hardware dealer, for he was now far enough
away from the judge's house to speak in his normal tone, “and she
connected with that depraved--”
“Hold on,” said Mr. Hill, with an astonishing amount of spirit for him,
“I've heard that before.”
Mr. Dodd looked at him, swallowed the wrong way and began to choke.
“You hain't wavered, Jonathan?” he said, when he got his breath.
“No, I haven't,” said Mr. Hill, sadly; “but I wish to hell I had.”
Mr. Dodd looked at him again, and began to choke again. It was the first
time he had known Jonathan Hill to swear.
“You're a-goin' to stick by what you agreed--by your principles?”
“I'm going to stick by my bread and butter,” said Mr. Hill, “not by my
principles. I wish to hell I wasn't.”
And so saying that gentleman departed, cutting diagonally across the
street through the snow, leaving Mr. Dodd still choking and pulling at
his tuft. This third and totally-unexpected shaking-up had caused him
to feel somewhat deranged internally, though it had not altered the
opinions now so firmly planted in his head. After a few moments,
however, he had collected himself sufficiently to move on once
more, when he discovered that he was repeating to himself, quite
unconsciously, Mr. Hill's profanity “I wish to hell I wasn't.” The iron
mastiffs glaring at him angrily out of the snow banks reminded him that
he was in front of Mr. Worthington's door, and he thought he might as
well go in at once and receive the great man's gratitude. He certainly
deserved it. But as he put his hand on the bell Mr. Worthington himself
came out of the house, and would actually have gone by without noticing
Mr. Dodd if he had not spoken.
“I've got that little matter fixed, Mr. Worthington,” he said, “called
the committee, and we voted to discharge the--the young woman.” No, he
did not deliver Judge Graves's message.
“Very well, Mr. Dodd,” answered the great man, passing on so that Mr.
Dodd was obliged to follow him in order to hear, “I'm glad you've come
to your senses at last. Kindly step into the library and tell Miss Bruce
from me that she may fill the place to-morrow.”
“Certain,” said Mr. Dodd, with his hand to his chin. He watched the
great man turn in at his bank in the new block, and then he did as he
was bid.
By the time school was out that day the news had leaped across Brampton
Street and spread up and down both sides of it that the new teacher had
been dismissed. The story ran fairly straight--there were enough clews,
certainly. The great man's return, the visit of Mr. Dodd, the call on
Judge Graves, all had been marked. The fiat of the first citizen
had gone forth that the ward of Jethro Bass must be got rid of; the
designing young woman who had sought to entrap his son must be punished
for her amazing effrontery.
Cynthia came out of school happily unaware that her name was on the
lips of Brampton: unaware, too, that the lord of the place had come into
residence that day. She had looked forward to living in the same town
with Bob's father as an evil which was necessary to be borne, as one of
the things which are more or less inevitable in the lives of those who
have to make their own ways in the world. The children trooped around
her, and the little girls held her hand, and she talked and laughed with
them as she came up the street in the eyes of Brampton,--came up the
street to the block of new buildings where the bank was. Stepping out of
the bank, with that businesslike alertness which characterized him,
was the first citizen--none other. He found himself entangled among
the romping children and--horror of horrors he bumped into the
schoolmistress herself! Worse than this, he had taken off his hat and
begged her pardon before he looked at her and realized the enormity of
his mistake. And the schoolmistress had actually paid no attention to
him, but with merely heightened color had drawn the children out of his
way and passed on without a word. The first citizen, raging inwardly,
but trying to appear unconcerned, walked rapidly back to his house. On
the street of his own town, before the eyes of men, he had been snubbed
by a school-teacher. And such a schoolteacher!
Mr. Worthington, as he paced his library burning with the shame of this
occurrence, remembered that he had had to glance at her twice before it
came over him who she was. His first sensation had been astonishment.
And now, in spite of his bitter anger, he had to acknowledge that the
face had made an impression on him--a fact that only served to increase
his rage. A conviction grew upon him that it was a face which his son,
or any other man, would not be likely to forget. He himself could not
forget it.
In the meantime Cynthia had reached her home, her cheeks still smarting,
conscious that people had stared at her. This much, of course, she
knew--that Brampton believed Bob Worthington to be in love with her: and
the knowledge at such times made her so miserable that the thought of
Jethro's isolation alone deterred her from asking Miss Lucretia Penniman
for a position in Boston. For she wrote to Miss Lucretia about her life
and her reading, as that lady had made her promise to do. She sat down
now at the cherry chest of drawers that was also a desk, to write: not
to pour out her troubles, for she never had done that,--but to calm her
mind by drawing little character sketches of her pupils. But she had
only written the words, “My dear Miss Lucretia,” when she looked out of
the window and saw Judge Graves coming up the path, and ran to open the
door for him.
“How do you do, Judge?” she said, for she recognized Mr. Graves as
one of her few friends in Brampton. “I have sent to Boston for the new
reader, but it has not come.”
The judge took her hand and pressed it and led her into the little
sitting room. His face was very stern, but his eyes, which had flung
fire at Mr. Dodd, looked at her with a vast compassion. Her heart
misgave her.
“My dear,” he said,--it was long since the judge had called any woman
“my dear,”--“I have bad news for you. The committee have decided that
you cannot teach any longer in the Brampton school.”
“Oh, Judge,” she answered, trying to force back the tears which would
come, “I have tried so hard. I had begun to believe that I could fill
the place.”
“Fill the place!” cried the judge, startling her with his sudden anger.
“No woman in the state can fill it better than you.”
“Then why am I dismissed?” she asked breathlessly.
The judge looked at her in silence, his blue lips quivering. Sometimes
even he found it hard to tell the truth. And yet he had come to tell
it, that she might suffer less. He remembered the time when Isaac D.
Worthington had done him a great wrong.
“You are dismissed,” he said, “because Mr. Worthington has come
home, and because the two other members of the committee are dogs and
cowards.” Mr. Graves never minced matters when he began, and his voice
shook with passion. “If Mr. Errol had examined you, and you had your
certificate, it might have been different. Errol is not a sycophant.
Worthington does not hold his mortgage.”
“Mortgage!” exclaimed Cynthia. The word always struck terror to her
soul.
“Mr. Worthington holds Mr. Hill's mortgage,” said Mr. Graves, more than
ever beside himself at the sight of her suffering. “That man's tyranny
is not to be borne. We will not give up, Cynthia. I will fight him in
this matter if it takes my last ounce of strength, so help me God!”
Mortgage! Cynthia sank down in the chair by the desk. In spite of the
misery the news had brought, the thought that his father, too, who was
fighting Jethro Bass as a righteous man, dealt in mortgages and coerced
men to do his will, was overwhelming. So she sat for a while staring at
the landscape on the old wall paper.
“I will go to Coniston to-night,” she said at last.
“No,” cried the judge, seizing her shoulder in his excitement, “no. Do
you think that I have been your friend--that I am your friend?”
“Oh, Judge Graves--”
“Then stay here, where you are. I ask it as a favor to me. You need not
go to the school to-morrow--indeed, you cannot. But stay here for a day
or two at least, and if there is any justice left in a free country, we
shall have it. Will you stay, as a favor to me?”
“I will stay, since you ask it,” said Cynthia. “I will do what you think
right.”
Her voice was firmer than he expected--much firmer. He glanced at her
quickly, with something very like admiration in his eye.
“You are a good woman, and a brave woman,” he said, and with this
somewhat surprising tribute he took his departure instantly.
Cynthia was left to her thoughts, and these were harassing and sorrowful
enough. One idea, however, persisted through them all. Mr. Worthington,
whose power she had lived long enough in Brampton to know, was an unjust
man and a hypocrite. That thought was both sweet and bitter: sweet, as a
retribution; and bitter, because he was Bob's father. She realized, now,
that Bob knew these things, and she respected and loved him the more,
if that were possible, because he had refrained from speaking of them to
her. And now another thought came, and though she put it resolutely from
her, persisted. Was she not justified now in marrying him? The reasoning
was false, so she told herself. She had no right to separate Bob from
his father, whatever his father might be. Did not she still love Jethro
Bass? Yes, but he had renounced his ways. Her heart swelled gratefully
as she spoke the words to herself, and she reflected that he, at least,
had never been a hypocrite.
Of one thing she was sure, now. In the matter of the school she had
right on her side, and she must allow Judge Graves to do whatever
he thought proper to maintain that right. If Isaac D. Worthington's
character had been different, this would not have been her decision. Now
she would not leave Brampton in disgrace, when she had done nothing to
merit it. Not that she believed that the judge would prevail against
such mighty odds. So little did she think so that she fell, presently,
into a despondency which in all her troubles had not overtaken her--the
despondency which comes even to the pure and the strong when they feel
the unjust strength of the world against them. In this state her eyes
fell on the letter she had started to Miss Lucretia Penniman, and in
desperation she began to write.
It was a short letter, reserved enough, and quite in character. It was
right that she should defend herself, which she did with dignity, saying
that she believed the committee had no fault to find with her duties,
but that Mr. Worthington had seen fit to bring influence to bear upon
them because of her connection with Jethro Bass.
It was not the whole truth, but Cynthia could not bring herself to
write of that other reason. At the end she asked, very simply, if Miss
Lucretia could find her something to do in Boston in case her dismissal
became certain. Then she put on her coat, and walked to the postoffice
to post the letter, for she resolved that there could be no shame
without reason for it. There was a little more color in her cheeks,
and she held her head high, preparing to be slighted. But she was not
slighted, and got more salutations, if anything, than usual. She was,
indeed, in the right not to hide her head, and policy alone would have
forbade it, had Cynthia thought of policy.