Public opinion is like the wind--it bloweth where it listeth. It
whistled around Brampton the next day, whirling husbands and wives
apart, and families into smithereens. Brampton had a storm all to
itself--save for a sympathetic storm raging in Coniston--and all about a
school-teacher.
Had Cynthia been a certain type of woman, she would have had all the men
on her side and all of her own sex against her. It is a decided point
to be recorded in her favor that she had among her sympathizers as many
women as men. But the excitement of a day long remembered in Brampton
began, for her, when a score or more of children assembled in front of
the little house, tramping down the snow on the grass plots, shouting
for her to come to school with them. Children give no mortgages, or keep
no hardware stores.
Cynthia, trying to read in front of the fire, was all in a tremble at
the sound of the high-pitched little voices she had grown to love, and
she longed to go out and kiss them, every one. Her nature, however,
shrank from any act which might appear dramatic or sensational. She
could not resist going to the window and smiling at them, though they
appeared but dimly--little dancing figures in a mist. And when they
shouted, the more she shook her head and put her finger to her lips in
reproof and vanished from their sight. Then they trooped sadly on to
school, resolved to make matters as disagreeable as possible for poor
Miss Bruce, who had not offended in any way.
Two other episodes worthy of a place in this act of the drama occurred
that morning, and one had to do with Ephraim. Poor Ephraim! His way had
ever been to fight and ask no questions, and in his journey through the
world he had gathered but little knowledge of it. He had limped home the
night before in a state of anger of which Cynthia had not believed him
capable, and had reappeared in the sitting room in his best suit of
blue.
“Where are you going, Cousin Eph?” Cynthia had asked suspiciously.
“Never you mind, Cynthy.”
“But I do mind,” she said, catching hold of his sleeve. “I won't let you
go until you confess.”
“I'm a-goin' to tell Isaac Worthington what I think of him, that's whar
I'm a-goin',” cried Ephraim “what I always hev thought of him sence he
sent a substitute to the war an' acted treasonable here to home talkin'
ag'in' Lincoln.”
“Oh, Cousin Eph, you mustn't,” said Cynthia, clinging to him with all
her strength in her dismay. It had taken every whit of her influence
to persuade him to relinquish his purpose. Cynthia knew very well that
Ephraim meant to lay hands on Mr. Worthington, and it would indeed have
been a disastrous hour for the first citizen if the old soldier had ever
got into his library. Cynthia pointed out, as best she might, that it
would be an evil hour for her, too, and that her cause would be greatly
injured by such a proceeding; she knew very well that it would ruin
Ephraim, but he would not have listened to such an argument.
The next thing he wished to do was to go to Coniston and rouse Jethro.
Cynthia's heart stood still when he proposed this, for it touched upon
her greatest fear,--which had impelled her to go to Coniston. But she
had hoped and believed that Jethro, knowing her feelings, would do
nothing--since for her sake he had chosen to give up his power. Now an
acute attack of rheumatism had come to her rescue, and she succeeded in
getting Ephraim off to bed, swathed in bandages.
The next morning he had insisted upon hobbling away to the postoffice,
where in due time he was discovered by certain members of the Brampton
Club nailing to the wall a new engraving of Abraham Lincoln, and draping
it with a little silk flag he had bought in Boston. By which it will be
seen that a potion of the Club were coming back to their old haunt. This
portion, it may be surmised, was composed of such persons alone as were
likely to be welcomed by the postmaster. Some of these had grievances
against Mr. Worthington or Mr. Flint; others, in more prosperous
circumstances, might have been moved by envy of these gentlemen; still
others might have been actuated largely by righteous resentment at what
they deemed oppression by wealth and power. These members who came that
morning comprised about one-fourth of those who formerly had been in
the habit of dropping in for a chat, and their numbers were a fair
indication of the fact that those who from various motives took the part
of the schoolteacher in Brampton were as one to three.
It is not necessary to repeat their expressions of indignation and
sympathy. There was a certain Mr. Gamaliel Ives in the town, belonging
to an old Brampton family, who would have been the first citizen if
that other first citizen had not, by his rise to wealth and power, so
completely overshadowed him. Mr. Ives owned a small mill on Coniston
Water below the town. He fairly bubbled over with civic pride, and he
was an authority on all matters pertaining to Brampton's history. He
knew the “Hymn to Coniston” by heart. But we are digressing a
little. Mr. Ives, like that other Gamaliel of old, had exhorted his
fellow-townsmen to wash their hands of the controversy. But he was
an intimate of Judge Graves, and after talking with that gentleman he
became a partisan overnight; and when he had stopped to get his mail he
had been lured behind the window by the debate in progress. He was in
the midst of some impromptu remarks when he recognized a certain brisk
step behind him, and Isaac D. Worthington himself entered the sanctum!
It must be explained that Mr. Worthington sometimes had an important
letter to be registered which he carried to the postoffice with his own
hands. On such occasions--though not a member of the Brampton Club--he
walked, as an overlord will, into any private place he chose, and
recognized no partitions or barriers. Now he handed the letter
(addressed to a certain person in Cambridge, Massachusetts) to the
postmaster.
“You will kindly register that and give me a receipt, Mr. Prescott,” he
said.
Ephraim turned from his contemplation of the features of the martyred
President, and on his face was something of the look it might have worn
when he confronted his enemies over the log-works at Five Forks. No, for
there was a vast contempt in his gaze now, and he had had no contempt
for the Southerners, and would have shaken hands with any of them
the moment the battle was over. Mr. Worthington, in spite of himself,
recoiled a little before that look, fearing, perhaps, physical violence.
“I hain't a-goin' to hurt you, Mr. Worthington,” Ephraim said, “but I am
a-goin' to ask you to git out in front, and mighty quick. If you hev any
business with the postmaster, there's the window,” and Ephraim pointed
to it with his twisted finger. “I don't allow nobody but my friends
here, Mr. Worthington, and people I respect.”
Mr. Worthington looked--well, eye-witnesses give various versions as
to how he looked. All agree that his lip trembled; some say his eyes
watered: at any rate, he quailed, stood a moment undecided, and then
swung on his heel and walked to the partition door. At this safe
distance he turned.
“Mr. Prescott,” he said, his voice quivering with passion and
perhaps another emotion, “I will make it my duty to report to the
postmaster-general the manner in which this office is run. Instead of
attending to your business, you make the place a resort for loafers and
idlers. Good morning, sir.”
Ten minutes later Mr. Flint himself came to register the letter. But it
was done at the window, and the loafers and idlers were still there.
The curtain had risen again, indeed, and the action was soon fast enough
for the most impatient that day. No sooner had the town heard with bated
breath of the expulsion of the first citizen from the inner sanctuary of
the post-office, than the news of another event began to go the rounds.
Mr. Worthington had other and more important things to think about than
minor postmasters, and after his anger and--yes, and momentary fear
had subsided, he forgot the incident except to make a mental note
to remember to deprive Mr. Prescott of his postmastership, which he
believed could be done readily enough now that Jethro Bass was out of
the way. Then he had stepped into the bank, which he had come to regard
as his own bank, as he regarded most institutions in Brampton. He had,
in the old days, been president of it, as we know. He stepped into the
bank, and then--he stepped out again.
Most people have experienced that sickly feeling of the diaphragm which
sometimes comes from a sadden shock. Mr. Worthington had it now as he
hurried up the street, and he presently discovered that he was walking
in the direction opposite to that of his own home. He crossed the
street, made a pretence of going into Mr. Goldthwaite's drug store, and
hurried back again. When he reached his own library, he found Mr. Flint
busy there at his desk. Mr. Flint rose. Mr. Worthington sat down
and began to pull the papers about in a manner which betrayed to his
seneschal (who knew every mood of his master) mental perturbation.
“Flint,” he said at last, striving his best for an indifferent accent,
“Jethro Bass is here--I ran across him just now drawing money in the
bank.”
“I could have told you that this morning,” answered Mr. Flint. “Wheeler,
who runs errands for him in Coniston, drove him in this morning, and
he's been with Peleg Hartington for two hours over Sherman's livery
stable.”
An interval of silence followed, during which Mr. Worthington shuffled
with his letters and pretended to read them.
“Graves has called a mass meeting to-night, I understand,” he remarked
in the same casual way. “The man's a demagogue, and mad as a loon. I
believe he sent back one of our passes once, didn't he? I suppose Bass
has come in to get Hartington to work up the meeting. They'll be laughed
out of the town hall, or hissed out.”
“I guess you'll find Bass has come down for something else,” said Mr.
Flint, looking up from a division report.
“What do you mean?” demanded Mr. Worthington, changing his attitude to
one of fierceness. But he was well aware that whatever tone he took with
his seneschal, he never fooled him.
“I mean what I told you yesterday,” said Flint, “that you've stirred up
the dragon.”
Even Mr. Flint did not know how like a knell his words sounded in Isaac
Worthington's ears.
“Nonsense!” he cried, “you're talking nonsense, Flint. We maimed him too
thoroughly for that. He hasn't power enough left to carry his own town.”
“All right,” said the seneschal.
“What do you mean by that?” said his master, with extreme irritation.
“I mean what I said yesterday, that we haven't maimed him at all. He had
his own reasons for going into his hole, and he never would have come
out again if you hadn't goaded him. Now he's out, and we'll have to step
around pretty lively, I can tell you, or he'll maim us.”
All of which goes to show that Mr. Flint had some notion of men and
affairs. He became, as may be predicted, the head of many material
things in later days, and he may sometime reappear in company with other
characters in this story.
The sickly feeling in Mr. Worthington's diaphragm had now returned.
“I think you will find you are mistaken, Flint,” he said, attempting
dignity now. “Very much mistaken.”
“Very well,” said Flint, “perhaps I am. But I believe you'll find he
left for the capital on the eleven o'clock, and if you take the trouble
to inquire from Bedding you will probably learn that the Throne Room is
bespoken for the session.”
All of that which Mr. Flint had predicted turned out to be true. The
dragon had indeed waked up. It all began with the news Milly Skinner had
got from the stage driver, imparted to Jethro as he sat reading about
Hiawatha. And terrible indeed had been that awakening. This dragon did
not bellow and roar and lash his tail when he was roused, but he stood
up, and there seemed to emanate from him a fire which frightened poor
Milly Skinner, upset though she was by the news of Cynthia's dismissal.
O, wondrous and paradoxical might of love, which can tame the most
powerful of beasts, and stir them again into furies by a touch!
Coniston was the first to tremble, as though the forces stretching
themselves in the tannery house were shaking the very ground, and the
name of Jethro Bass took on once more, as by magic, a terrible meaning.
When Vesuvius is silent, pygmies may make faces on the very lip of the
crater, and they on the slopes forget the black terror of the fiery
hail. Jake Wheeler himself, loyal as he was, did not care to look into
the crater now that he was summoned; but a force pulled him all the way
to the tannery house. He left behind him an awe-stricken gathering at
the store, composed of inhabitants who had recently spoken slightingly
of the volcano.
We are getting a little mixed in our metaphors between lions and dragons
and volcanoes, and yet none of them are too strong to represent Jethro
Bass when he heard that Isaac Worthington had had the teacher dismissed
from Brampton lower school. He did not stop to reason then that action
might distress her. The beast in him awoke again; the desire for
vengeance on a man whom he had hated most of his life, and who now had
dared to cause pain to the woman whom he loved with all his soul, and
even idolize, was too great to resist. He had no thought of resisting
it, for the waters of it swept over his soul like the Atlantic over a
lost continent. He would crush Isaac Worthington if it took the last
breath from his body.
Jake went to the tannery house and received his orders--orders of which
he made a great mystery afterward at the store, although they consisted
simply of directions to be prepared to drive Jethro to Brampton the next
morning. But the look of the man had frightened Jake. He had never seen
vengeance so indelibly written on that face, and he had never before
realized the terrible power of vengeance. Mr. Wheeler returned from that
meeting in such a state of trepidation that he found it necessary to
accompany Rias to a certain keg in the cellar; after which he found his
tongue. His description of Jethro's appearance awed his hearers, and
Jake declared that he would not be in Isaac Worthington's shoes for all
of Isaac Worthington's money. There were others right here in Coniston,
Jake hinted, who might now find it convenient to emigrate to the far
West.
Jethro's face had not changed when Jake drove him out of Coniston the
next morning. Good Mr. Satterlee saw it, and felt that the visit he had
wished to make would have been useless; Mr. Amos Cuthbert and Mr. Sam
Price saw it, from a safe distance within the store, and it is a fact
that Mr. Price seriously thought of taking Mr. Wheeler's advice about
a residence in the West; Mr. Cuthbert, of a sterner nature, made up his
mind to be hung and quartered. A few minutes before Jethro walked into
his office over the livery stable, Senator Peleg Hartington would have
denied, with that peculiar and mournful scorn of which he was master,
that Jethro Bass could ever again have any influence over him. Peleg
was, indeed, at that moment preparing, in his own way, to make overtures
to the party of Isaac D. Worthington. Jethro walked into the office,
leaving Jake below with Mr. Sherman; and Senator Hartington was very
glad he had not made the overtures. And when he accompanied Jethro to
the station when he left for the capital, the senator felt that the eyes
of men were upon him.
And Cynthia? Happily, Cynthia passed the day in ignorance that Jethro
had gone through Brampton. Ephraim, though he knew of it, did not
speak of it when he came home to his dinner; Mr. Graves had called, and
informed her of the meeting in the town hall that night.
“It is our only chance,” he said obdurately, in answer to her protests.
“We must lay the case before the people of Brampton. If they have not
the courage to right the wrong, and force your reinstatement through
public opinion, there is nothing more to be done.”
To Cynthia, the idea of having a mass meeting concerning herself was
particularly repellent.
“Oh, Judge Graves!” she cried, “if there isn't any other way, please
drop the matter. There are plenty of teachers who will--be acceptable to
everybody.”
“Cynthia,” said the judge, “I can understand that this publicity is
very painful to you. I beg you to remember that we are contending for a
principle. In such cases the individual must be sacrificed to the common
good.”
“But I cannot go to the meeting--I cannot.”
“No,” said the judge; “I don't think that will be necessary.”
After he was gone, she could think of nothing but the horror of having
her name--yes, and her character--discussed in that public place; and
it seemed to her, if she listened, she could hear a clatter of tongues
throughout the length of Brampton Street, and that she must fain stop
her ears or go mad. The few ladies who called during the day out of
kindness or curiosity, or both, only added to her torture. She was not
one who could open her heart to acquaintances: the curious ones got but
little satisfaction, and the kind ones thought her cold, and they did
not perceive that she was really grateful for their little attentions.
Gratitude, on such occasions, does not always consist in pouring out
one's troubles in the laps of visitors.
So the visitors went home, wondering whether it were worth while after
all to interest themselves in the cause of such a self-contained and
self-reliant young woman. In spite of all her efforts, Cynthia had never
wholly succeeded in making most of the Brampton ladies believe that she
did not secretly deem herself above them. They belonged to a reserved
race themselves; but Cynthia had a reserve which was even different from
their own.
As night drew on the predictions of Mr. Worthington seemed likely to be
fulfilled, and it looked as if Judge Graves would have a useless bill
to pay for gas in the new town hall. The judge had never been a man who
could compel a following, and he had no magnetism with which to lead
a cause: the town tradesmen, especially those in the new brick block,
would be chary as to risking the displeasure of their best customer.
At half-past seven Mr. Graves: came in, alone, and sat on the platform
staring grimly at his gas. Is there a lecturer, or, a playwright, or
a politician, who has not, at one time or another, been in the judge's
place? Who cannot sympathize with him as he watched the thin and
hesitating stream of people out of the corner of his eye as they came in
at the door? The judge despised them with all his soul, but it is human
nature not to wish to sit in a hall or a theatre that is three-quarters
empty.
At sixteen minutes to eight a mild excitement occurred, an incident of
some significance which served to detain many waverers. Senator Peleg
Hartington walked up the aisle, and the judge rose and shook him by the
hand, and as Deacon Hartington he was invited to sit on the platform.
The senator's personal influence was not to be ignored; and it had
sufficed to carry his district in the last election against the
Worthington forces, in spite of the abdication of Jethro Bass. Mr. Page,
the editor of the Clarion, Senator Hartington's organ, was also on the
platform. But where was Mr. Ives? Where was that Gamaliel who had been
such a warm partisan in the postoffice that morning?
“Saw him outside the hall--wahn't but ten minutes ago,” said Deacon
Hartington, sadly; “thought he was a-comin' in.”
Eight o'clock came, and no Mr. Ives; ten minutes past--fifteen minutes
past. If the truth must be told, Mr. Ives had been on the very threshold
of the hall, and one glance at the poor sprinkling of people there had
decided him. Mr. Ives had a natural aversion to being laughed at, and as
he walked back on the darker side of the street he wished heartily that
he had stuck to his original Gamaliel-advocacy of no interference, of
allowing the Supreme Judge to decide. Such opinions were inevitably
just, Mr. Ives was well aware, though not always handed down
immediately. If he were to humble the first citizen, Mr. Ives reflected
that a better opportunity might present itself. The whistle of the
up-train served to strengthen his resolution, for he was reminded
thereby that his mill often had occasion to ask favors of the Truro
Railroad.
In the meantime it was twenty minutes past eight in the town hall, and
Mr. Graves had not rapped for order. Deacon Hartington sat as motionless
as a stork on the borders of a glassy lake at sunrise, the judge had
begun seriously to estimate the gas bill, and Mr. Page had chewed up the
end of a pencil. There was one, at least, in the audience of whom the
judge could be sure. A certain old soldier in blue sat uncompromisingly
on the front bench with his hands crossed over the head of his stick;
but the ladies and gentlemen nearest the door were beginning to vanish,
one by one, silently as ghosts, when suddenly the judge sat up. He would
have rubbed his eyes, had he been that kind of a man. Four persons had
entered the hall--he was sure of it--and with no uncertain steps as
if frightened by its emptiness. No, they came boldly. And after them
trooped others, and still others were heard in the street beyond, not
whispering, but talking in the unmistakable tones of people who had more
coming behind them. Yes, and more came. It was no illusion, or delusion:
there they were filling the hall as if they meant to stay, and buzzing
with excitement. The judge was quivering with excitement now, but
he, too, was only a spectator of the drama. And what a drama, with a
miracle-play for Brampton!
Mr. Page rose from his chair and leaned over the edge of the platform
that something might be whispered in his ear. The news, whatever it
was, was apparently electrifying, and after the first shock he turned to
impart it to Mr. Graves; but turned too late, for the judge had already
rapped for order and was clearing his throat. He could not account for
this extraordinary and unlooked-for audience, among whom he spied many
who had thought it wiser not to protest against the dictum of the
first citizen, and many who had professed to believe that the teacher's
connection with Jethro Bass was a good and sufficient reason for
dismissal. The judge was prepared to take advantage of the tide,
whatever its cause.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “I take the liberty of calling this
meeting to order. And before a chairman be elected, I mean to ask your
indulgence to explain my purposes in requesting the use of this hall
to-night. In our system of government, the inalienable and most precious
gift--”
Whatever the gift was, the judge never explained. He paused at the
words, and repeated them, and stopped altogether because no one was
paying any attention to him. The hall was almost full, the people
had risen, with a hum, and as one man had turned toward the door. Mr.
Gamaliel Ives was triumphantly marching down the aisle, and with him
was--well, another person. Nay, personage would perhaps be the better
word.
Let us go back for a moment. There descended from that train of which
we have heard the whistle a lady with features of no ordinary moulding,
with curls and a string bonnet and a cloak that seemed strangely
to harmonize with the lady's character. She had the way of one in
authority, and Mr. Sherman himself ran to open the door of his only
closed carriage, and the driver galloped off with her all the way to the
Brampton House. Once there, the lady seized the pen as a soldier seizes
the sword, and wrote her name in most uncompromising characters on the
register, Miss Lucretia Penniman, Boston. Then she marched up to her
room.
Miss Lucretia Penniman, author of the “Hymn to Coniston,” in the
reflected glory of whose fame Brampton had shone for thirty years!
Whose name was lauded and whose poem was recited at every Fourth of
July celebration, that the very children might learn it and honor its
composer! Stratford-on-Avon is not prouder of Shakespeare than Brampton
of Miss Lucretia, and now she was come back, unheralded, to her
birthplace. Mr. Raines, the clerk, looked at the handwriting on the
book, and would not believe his own sight until it was vouched for by
sundry citizens who had followed the lady from the station--on foot. And
then there was a to-do.
Send for Mr. Gamaliel Ives; send for Miss Bruce, the librarian; send
for Mr. Page, editor of the Clarion, and notify the first citizen. He,
indeed, could not be sent for, but had he known of her coming he would
undoubtedly have had her met at the portals and presented with the keys
in gold. Up and down the street flew the news which overshadowed and
blotted out all other, and the poor little school-teacher was forgotten.
One of these notables was at hand, though he did not deserve to be.
Mr. Gamaliel Ives sent up his card to Miss Lucretia, and was shown
deferentially into the parlor, where he sat mopping his brow and growing
hot and cold by turns. How would the celebrity treat him? The celebrity
herself answered the question by entering the room in such stately
manner as he had expected, to the rustle of the bombazine. Whereupon Mr.
Ives bounced out of his chair and bowed, though his body was not formed
to bend that way.
“Miss Penniman,” he exclaimed, “what an honor for Brampton! And what a
pleasure, the greater because so unexpected! How cruel not to have given
us warning, and we could have greeted you as your great fame deserves!
You could never take time from your great duties to accept the
invitations of our literary committee, alas! But now that you are
here, you will find a warm welcome, Miss Penniman. How long it has
been--thirty years,--you see I know it to a day, thirty years since you
left us. Thirty years, I may say, we have kept burning the vestal fire
in your worship, hoping for this hour.”
Miss Lucretia may have had her own ideas about the propriety of the
reference to the vestal fire.
“Gamaliel,” she said sharply, “straighten up and don't talk nonsense to
me. I've had you on my knee, and I knew your mother and father.”
Gamaliel did straighten up, as though Miss Lucretia had applied a lump
of ice to the small of his back. So it is when the literary deities,
vestal or otherwise, return to their Stratfords. There are generally
surprises in store for the people they have had on their knees, and for
others.
“Gamaliel,” said Miss Lucretia, “I want to see the prudential committee
for the village district.”
“The prudential committee!” Mr. Ives fairly shrieked the words in his
astonishment.
“I tried to speak plainly,” said Miss Lucretia. “Who are on that
committee?”
“Ezra Graves,” said Mr. Ives, as though mechanically compelled, for his
head was spinning round. “Ezra Graves always has run it, until now. But
he's in the town hall.”
“What's he doing there?”
Mr. Ives was no fool. Some inkling of the facts began to shoot through
his brain, and he saw his chance.
“He called a mass meeting to protest against the dismissal of a
teacher.”
“Gamaliel,” said Miss Lucretia, “you will conduct me to that meeting. I
will get my cloak.”
Mr. Ives wasted no time in the interval, and he fairly ran out into the
office. Miss Lucretia Penniman was in town, and would attend the
mass meeting. Now, indeed, it was to be a mass meeting. Away flew the
tidings, broadcast, and people threw off their carpet slippers and
dressing gowns, and some who had gone to bed got up again. Mr. Dodd
heard it, and changed his shoes three times, and his intentions three
times three. Should he go, or should he not? Already he heard in
imagination the first distant note of the populace, and he was not of
the metal to defend a Bastille or a Louvre for his royal master with the
last drop of his blood.
In the meantime Gamaliel Ives was conducting Miss Lucretia toward
the town hall, and speaking in no measured tones of indignation of the
cringing, truckling qualities of that very Mr. Dodd. The injustice to
Miss Wetherell, which Mr. Ives explained as well as he could, made his
blood boil: so he declared.
And note we are back again at the meeting, when the judge, with his
hand on his Adam's apple, is pronouncing the word “gift.” Mr. Ives
is triumphantly marching down the aisle, escorting the celebrity of
Brampton to the platform, and quite aware of the heart burnings of
his fellow-citizens on the benches. And Miss Lucretia, with that stern
composure with which celebrities accept public situations, follows up
the steps as of right and takes the chair he assigns her beside the
chairman. The judge, still grasping his Adam's apple, stares at the
newcomer in amazement, and recognizes her in spite of the years, and
trembles. Miss Lucretia Penniman! Blucher was not more welcome to
Wellington, or Lafayette to Washington, than was Miss Lucretia to
Ezra Graves as he turned his back on the audience and bowed to her
deferentially. Then he turned again, cleared his throat once more to
collect his senses, and was about to utter the familiar words, “We have
with us tonight,” when they were taken out of his mouth--taken out of
his mouth by one who had in all conscience stolen enough thunder for one
man,--Mr. Gamaliel Ives.
“Mr. Chairman,” said Mr. Ives, taking a slight dropping of the judge's
lower jaw for recognition, “and ladies and gentlemen of Brampton. It is
our great good fortune to have with us to-night, most unexpectedly,
one of whom Brampton is, and for many years has been, justly proud.”
(Cheers.) “One whose career Brampton has followed with a mother's eyes
and with a mother's heart. One who has chosen a broader field for
the exercise of those great powers with which Nature endowed her than
Brampton could give. One who has taken her place among the luminaries of
literature of her time.” (Cheers.) “One who has done more than any
other woman of her generation toward the uplifting of the sex which she
honors.” (Cheers and clapping of hands.) “And one who, though her lot
has fallen among the great, has not forgotten the home of her childhood.
For has she not written those beautiful lines which we all know by
heart?
'Ah, Coniston! Thy lordly form I see
Before mine eyes in exile drear.'
“Mr. Chairman and fellow-townsmen and women, I have the extreme honor
of introducing to you one whom we all love and revere, the author of
the 'Hymn to Coniston,' the editor of the Woman's Hour, Miss Lucretia
Penniman.'” (Loud and long-continued applause.)
Well might Brampton be proud, too, of Gamaliel Ives, president of
its literary club, who could make such a speech as this on such short
notice. If the truth be told, the literary club had sent Miss Lucretia
no less than seven invitations, and this was the speech Mr. Ives had
intended to make on those seven occasions. It was unquestionably a neat
speech, and Judge Graves or no other chairman should cheat him out of
making it. Mr. Ives, with a wave of his hand toward the celebrity, sat
down by no means dissatisfied with himself. What did he care how the
judge glared. He did not see how stiffly Miss Lucretia sat in her chair.
She could not take him on her knee then, but she would have liked to.
Miss Lucretia rose, and stood quite as stiffly as she had sat, and the
judge rose, too. He was very angry, but this was not the time to get
even with Mr. Ives. As it turned out, he did not need to bother about
getting even.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said he, “in the absence of any other chairman I
take pleasure in introducing to you Miss Lucretia Penniman.”
More applause was started, but Miss Lucretia put a stop to it by the
lifting of a hand. Then there was a breathless silence. Then she
cast her eyes around the hall, as though daring any one to break that
silence, and finally they rested upon Mr. Ives.
“Mr. Chairman,” she said, with an inclination toward the judge, “my
friends--for I hope you will be my friends when I have finished” (Miss
Lucretia made it quite clear by her tone that it entirely depended upon
them whether they would be or not), “I understood when I came here that
this was to be a mass meeting to protest against an injustice, and not a
feast of literature and oratory, as Gamaliel Ives seems to suppose.”
She paused, and when the first shock of amazement was past an audible
titter ran through the audience, and Mr. Ives squirmed visibly.
“Am I right, Mr. Chairman?” asked Miss Lucretia.
“You are unquestionably right, Miss Penniman,” answered the chairman,
rising, “unquestionably.”
“Then I will proceed,” said Miss Lucretia. “I wrote the Hymn to
Coniston' many years ago, when I was younger, and yet it is true that I
have always remembered Brampton with kindly feelings. The friends of our
youth are dear to us. We look indulgently upon their failings, even as
they do on ours. I have scanned the faces here in the hall to-night, and
there are some that have not changed beyond recognition in thirty years.
Ezra Graves I remember, and it is a pleasure to see him in that chair.”
(Mr. Graves inclined his head, reverently. None knew how the inner man
exulted.) “But there was one who was often in Brampton in those days,”
Miss Lucretia continued, “whom we all loved and with whom we found
no fault, and I confess that when I have thought of Brampton I have
oftenest thought of her. Her name,” said Miss Lucretia, her hand now in
the reticule, “her name was Cynthia Ware.”
There was a decided stir among the audience, and many leaned forward to
catch every word.
“Even old people may have an ideal,” said Miss Lucretia, “and you will
forgive me for speaking of mine. Where should I speak of it, if not in
this village, among those who knew her and among their children? Cynthia
Ware, although she was younger than I, has been my ideal, and is
still. She was the daughter of the Rev. Samuel Ware of Coniston, and
a descendant of Captain Timothy Prescott, whom General Stark called
'Honest Tim.' She was, to me, all that a woman should be, in intellect,
in her scorn of all that is ignoble and false, and in her loyalty to her
friends.” Here the handkerchief came out of the reticule. “She went to
Boston to teach school, and some time afterward I was offered a position
in New York, and I never saw her again. But she married in Boston a man
of learning and literary attainments, though his health was feeble and
he was poor, William Wetherell.” (Another stir.) “Mr. Wetherell was a
gentleman--Cynthia Ware could have married no other--and he came of good
and honorable people in Portsmouth. Very recently I read a collection of
letters which he wrote to the Newcastle Guardian, which some of you may
know. I did not trust my own judgment as to those letters, but I took
them to an author whose name is known wherever English is spoken, but
which I will not mention. And the author expressed it as his opinion, in
writing to me, that William Wetherell was undoubtedly a genius of a high
order, and that he would have been so recognized if life had given him
a chance. Mr. Wetherell, after his wife died, was taken in a dying
condition to Coniston, where he was forced, in order to earn his living,
to become the storekeeper there. But he took his books with him, and
found time to write the letters of which I have spoken, and to give his
daughter an early education such as few girls have.
“My friends, I am rejoiced to see that the spirit of justice and the
sense of right are as strong in Brampton as they used to be--strong
enough to fill this town hall to overflowing because a teacher has been
wrongly--yes, and iniquitously--dismissed from the lower school.” (Here
there was a considerable stir, and many wondered whether Miss Lucretia
was aware of the irony in her words.) “I say wrongly and iniquitously,
because I have had the opportunity in Boston this winter of learning to
know and love that teacher. I am not given to exaggeration, my friends,
and when I tell you that I know her, that her character is as high and
pure as her mother's, I can say no more. I am here to tell you this
to-night because I do not believe you know her as I do. During the
seventy years I have lived I have grown to have but little faith in
outward demonstration, to believe in deeds and attainments rather than
expressions. And as for her fitness to teach, I believe that even the
prudential committee could find no fault with that.” (I wonder whether
Mr. Dodd was in the back of the hall.) “I can find no fault with it. I
am constantly called upon to recommend teachers, and I tell you I should
have no hesitation in sending Cynthia Wetherell to a high school, young
as she is.”
“And now, my friends, why was she dismissed? I have heard the facts,
though not from her. Cynthia Wetherell does not know that I have come
to Brampton, unless somebody has told her, and did not know that I was
coming. I have heard the facts, and I find it difficult to believe that
so great a wrong could be attempted against a woman, and if the name
of Cynthia Wetherell had meant no more to me than the letters in it I
should have travelled twice as far as Brampton, old as I am, to do my
utmost to right that wrong. I give you my word of honor that I have
never been so indignant in my life. I do not come here to stir up
enmities among you, and I will mention no more names. I prefer to
believe that the prudential committee of this district has made a
mistake, the gravity of which they must now realize, and that they will
reinstate Cynthia Wetherell to-morrow. And if they should not of their
own free will, I have only to look around this meeting to be convinced
that they will be compelled to. Compelled to, my friends, by the sense
of justice and the righteous indignation of the citizens of Brampton.”
Miss Lucretia sat down, her strong face alight with the spirit that
was in her. Not the least of the compelling forces in this world is
righteous anger, and when it is exercised by a man or a woman whose life
has been a continual warfare against the pests of wrong, it is well-nigh
irresistible. While you could count five seconds the audience sat
silent, and then began such tumult and applause as had never been seen
in Brampton--all started, so it is said, by an old soldier in the front
row with his stick. Isaac D. Worthington, sitting alone in the library
of his mansion, heard it, and had no need to send for Mr. Flint to ask
what it was, or who it was had fired the Third Estate. And Mr. Dodd
heard it. He may have been in the hall, but now he sat at home, seeing
visions of the lantern, and he would have fled to the palace had he
thought to get any sympathy from his sovereign. No, Mr. Dodd did not
hold the Bastille or even fight for it. Another and a better man gave
up the keys, for heroes are sometimes hidden away in meek and retiring
people who wear spectacles and have a stoop to their shoulders. Long
before the excitement died away a dozen men were on their feet shouting
at the chairman, and among them was the tall, stooping man with
spectacles. He did not shout, but Judge Graves saw him and made up his
mind that this was the man to speak. The chairman raised his hand and
rapped with his gavel, and at length he had obtained silence.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “I am going to recognize Mr. Hill of
the prudential committee, and ask him to step up on the platform.”
There fell another silence, as absolute as the first, when Mr. Hill
walked down the aisle and climbed the steps. Indeed, people were
stupefied, for the feed dealer was a man who had never opened his mouth
in town-meeting; who had never taken an initiative of any kind; who had
allowed other men to take advantage of him, and had never resented it.
And now he was going to speak. Would he defend the prudential committee,
or would he declare for the teacher? Either course, in Mr. Hill's case,
required courage, and he had never been credited with any. If Mr. Hill
was going to speak at all, he was going to straddle.
He reached the platform, bowed irresolutely to the chairman, and then
stood awkwardly with one knee bent, peering at his audience over his
glasses. He began without any address whatever.
“I want to say,” he began in a low voice, “that I had no intention of
coming to this meeting. And I am going to confess--I am going to confess
that I was afraid to come.” He raised his voice a little defiantly a the
words, and paused. One could almost hear the people breathing. “I was
afraid to come for fear that I should do the very thing I am going to
do now. And yet I was impelled to come. I want to say that my conscience
has not been clear since, as a member of the prudential committee, I
gave my consent to the dismissal of Miss Wetherell. I know that I was
influenced by personal and selfish considerations which should have had
no weight. And after listening to Miss Penniman I take this opportunity
to declare, of my own free will, that I will add my vote to that of
Judge Graves to reinstate Miss Wetherell.”
Mr. Hill bowed slightly, and was about to descend the steps when the
chairman, throwing parliamentary dignity to the winds, arose and seized
the feed dealer's hand. And the people in the hall almost as one man
sprang to their feet and cheered, and some--Ephraim Prescott among
these--even waved their hats and shouted Mr. Hill's name. A New England
audience does not frequently forget itself, but there were few present
who did not understand the heroism of the man's confession, who were not
carried away by the simple and dramatic dignity of it. He had no need to
mention Mr. Worthington's name, or specify the nature of his obligations
to that gentleman. In that hour Jonathan Hill rose high in the respect
of Brampton, and some pressed into the aisle to congratulate him on his
way back to his seat. Not a few were grateful to him for another reason.
He had relieved the meeting of the necessity of taking any further
action: of putting their names, for instance, in their enthusiasm to a
paper which the first citizen might see.
Judge Graves, whose sense of a climax was acute, rapped for order.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, in a voice not wholly free from
emotion, “you will all wish to pay your respects to the famous lady, who
is with us. I see that the Rev. Mr. Sweet is present, and I suggest that
we adjourn, after he has favored us with a prayer.”
As the minister came forward, Deacon Hartington dropped his head and
began to flutter his eyelids. The Rev. Mr. Sweet prayed, and so was
brought to an end the most exciting meeting ever held in Brampton town
hall.
But Miss Lucretia did not like being called “a famous lady.”