AN ASTONISHED VIRGINIAN.
Why old Bunley had made Barton his place of residence nobody knew.
The most plausible theory ever advanced on the subject came from the
former proprietor of the Barton House, who said that Bunley, happening
to be traveling that way, had found the brandy at the Barton House
so good that he hadn’t the heart to leave it. The brandy lasted so
long that old Bunley--then twenty years younger--while consuming it
became acquainted with nearly everybody in the town; and as he had
no engagements that restrained him from making himself agreeable, he
found himself well liked, and entreated to make his home at Barton.
He reported--and his report was afterward verified--that he was the
son of a Virginia planter, and was unpopular at home because he had
made a runaway match with a splendid girl, whose only fault was that
her family did not rank very high. Bunley’s father had cut his son off
with a thousand dollars, but had considerately sent the money with the
letter of dismissal; so the happy couple were leisurely spending the
money and waiting for the old gentleman to relent, as irate fathers
always do in books. But while Bunley was enjoying the hospitalities
of Barton, annoyed only by the fact that his purse was growing light,
he heard of his father’s sudden death and of the inheritance by an
unloving brother of the entire estate. Then the young bridegroom
attempted to obtain money by borrowing, for this was the only method of
money-getting he understood; but the small success which attended his
efforts did not pay for the annoyance which his soulless creditors gave
him. Then he tried gambling, and, by devoting his mind to it, succeeded
so well that no one but an occasional commercial traveler, to whom
Bunley’s ways were unknown, would play with him. Then, under the guise
of being clerk of the Barton House, he became its actual barkeeper, and
attracted so much custom away from the other liquor-sellers that the
grateful proprietor took him into partnership, and, dying a year later,
bequeathed the whole business to him. But the good brandy which had
first persuaded Bunley to stop at Barton continued its fascinations,
and the new proprietor of the Barton House, while liked by all
travelers, grew so unpopular with purveyors of flour, meat, and other
hotel necessities that the sheriff was finally called upon to settle
the differences between them by disposing of the hotel property at
auction.
After that Bunley ran to seed, to use an expression common in Barton.
How he lived during the twenty years which followed was not well
understood. His wife died, and it was understood that he married
some money the second time; but it was none the less whispered about
town that Bunley had been seen at night to borrow at woodpiles whose
owners he had not consulted. He went upon mighty sprees, and carried
the bouquet of liquor wherever he went. He started a small groggery
of his own, in which many bright boys learned to drink. He had long
since ruined the credit which he obtained on the strength of his second
wife’s property, for he never paid an account.
And yet the most aggrieved of Bunley’s creditors could not help being
soft-hearted when they saw the old man in church, as he was every
Sunday morning with his two boys. The gentleman which was in old Bunley
then showed itself in his face and manner, and it _did_ seem too bad
that any one who could look and act so much like a man should not be
trusted to the extent of a dollar’s worth of sugar or a hundred pounds
of flour. Squire Tomple had thought so one Sunday, and as the Squire
strove to keep worldly thoughts out of his mind on the Lord’s day, his
mind became filled with old Bunley--so much so, that on the following
Monday he decoyed Bunley into his store, and talked so pleasantly to
him that the old gentleman actually made the request for which the
Squire hoped. He bought rather more than the Squire had meant to sell
him on credit, but his promise of early payment was so distinct and
emphatic that the Squire’s doubt was not fairly established for many
months. This story in all its details was told by the Squire to Mr.
Crupp, after that gentleman announced to him that something should be
done for old Bunley.
“That was because you didn’t go about the job in the right way,” said
Crupp. “He’s got just enough conceit to suppose that he’s going to pay
all his bills some day, and he feels that when the time comes your
profit’ll pay for your kindness. That conceit of his is just what needs
to be taken down--it’s got to be done kindly--so that he understands
that whatever he gets comes out of pure charity and the desire to make
him comfortable, even at a loss. Now, he and his little family can live
on about a dollar a day. I’ll stand half the expense of supporting him
for three months if you’ll do the other half, and we’ll talk plain,
good-natured English to him, and let him understand he’s a pauper.
That’ll put him on his mettle. What do you say?”
The Squire looked grave at once--as grave as he had appeared when
an uninsured hogshead of sugar belonging to him had fallen from a
steamboat gang-plank into the river, and melted. The proposition seemed
to take his breath away, in fact; but in a moment or two he regained it.
“Look here, Crupp,” said he, “temperance is all very well; but I don’t
think it’s my business to stand part of the expenses of reforming
everybody, when I haven’t had anything to do with making drunkards.
With you the case is different. You say your liquors were always good;
but, like enough, that made men all the fonder of drinking the infernal
things. You’re a public-spirited citizen, but you can’t deny that
you’ve had a thousand times more to do with making drunkards than I
have. The very fact that you _are_ a decent fellow yourself has made
drinking halfway respectable in Barton. The crime’s right at your own
door, and you ought to pay for it. You----”
The Squire paused. Mr. Crupp’s face was very white and his teeth were
tightly set. Mr. Crupp _had_ been known to throw a disorderly visitor
at his bar halfway across the street; and although the Squire knew that
his own avoirdupois was too great to be treated so contemptuously, he
had no desire to feel the weight of Crupp’s fist. Besides, Crupp was a
customer who bought a great deal and paid promptly, and the Squire did
not like to offend him and lose his custom. So the Squire paused.
“Go right on,” said Mr. Crupp very quietly. “I’ll not bear any malice.
I’ve said a great many worse things to myself. Don’t hold in anything
you’ve got on your mind.”
“I’m done,” said the Squire, looking relieved and extending his hand.
“Crupp, I think a good deal of you, and I’m ashamed of myself for
boiling over as I did. But folks talk to me as if I was made of money.
I paid out a good deal on the expense of the meeting; the parson’s
been at me to help every lazy drunkard to get work; George Doughty
wants more pay or less work, so he won’t have such a hankering after
liquor; and now to be asked to help old Bunley, that’s owed me money a
long time and never paid it, that came near helping one of my boys to a
taste for liquor, that helps himself at my woodpile--it’s _too_ much,
that’s all.”
“Squire,” said Crupp, “isn’t there something in your Bible that’s not
complimentary to men who say to the needy, ‘Depart: be ye warmed and
fed,’ but don’t put their hands into their pockets to help the poor
wretches along? I tell you that a man that’s got the love of drink
fixed in every muscle in his body and every drop of his blood is worse
off than any cold and hungry man you ever saw. Such men _sometimes_
help themselves out of their trouble, and stick to cold water; but
the man that does it is more of a hero, and he’s got better stuff in
him, than any other sort of sinner that ever repents. He’s got to be
helped just like drowning men have to be, and you’ve got to take hold
of him just as you do of a drowning man, by whatever part you can get
the tightest grip on. Bunley’s pride’s the only handle you can find on
_him_, and you can’t get at _that_ except by showing that you think
enough of him to sink money in him.”
The Squire cast about in his mind for some argument in defense of his
money; but, as he found none, he acted like a good diplomatist, and
started to talk against time by uttering some promising generalizations.
“I always meant, and I still mean,” said he, “to do good with my money.
That’s what it was given me for. I’m only the Lord’s steward----”
“And right here in Barton is where the Lord put you to do it,” said
Crupp. “Here’s where you made your money; here are the people who know
you and don’t suspect you of caring any less for your money than other
folks do for theirs; here are the people you know all about; you know
their weaknesses and their good points, and every dollar you spend on
them you can watch, and see that it does its duty.”
“When I _know_ that helping a man will be sure to reform him,” began
the Squire, when again his companion interrupted him:
“Did you ever read of Christ’s letting a man suffer for fear that if
he cured him or fed him he might get sick or hungry again? If I read
straight, _he_ helped everybody that came to him, and everybody that
needed help. I suppose loafers were as thick in Judæa as they are in
Barton; why, when he healed those ten lepers there was only one of
them decent enough to come back and say “Thank you.” _I’ve_ got money
enough to take Bunley on my own shoulders for a little while, and I’m
going to spend a good deal on such fellows; but they want to see that
they’re thought something of by men who never sold whisky, who never
made anything out of them, who are enough in earnest to do something
for them that costs more than talk does. I know it isn’t easy, but it’s
got to be done--that is, if Christianity is true.”
Crupp’s last shot told. Squire Tomple was orthodox, but he was
not without reflective capacity, and many had been his twinges of
conscience at his practical rejection of undoubted deductions which he
had drawn from Christ’s teachings and example. But on this particular
occasion, as on many others, he was not defeated; he was only
temporarily demoralized. In a moment he was on the defensive again,
and suddenly raised his head and opened his lips; but, whatever his
idea was, it remained unspoken; for in the eye of Crupp, which had been
intently scrutinizing his face and through it his heart, he detected
a softness and haziness unusual in the eyes of men. The Squire, not
without a struggle, became at once shamefaced and obedient, and said
hurriedly,
“Crupp, you’re a good, square man; I’m proud to know you, and I’ll do
what you like--for old Bunley, that is.”
Great was the surprise of Bunley himself, when he answered a knock
at his door a few minutes later, to find Squire Tomple and Mr. Crupp
upon his front stoop, both of them looking and acting as if extremely
embarrassed. But old Bunley never forgot his Virginia breeding, not
even before a couple of creditors; so he invited both gentlemen to
seats on the top step, and then sat down between them.
The Squire looked appealingly at Crupp; Crupp winked encouragingly
at the Squire; the Squire coughed feebly; Crupp plucked a stem of
timothy grass, and gazed at it as if he had never seen such a thing
before; the Squire took out a pocket-knife, and began to scrape his
finger-nails, and then Crupp remarked that it was a fine day. Bunley
having cheerfully assented to this expression of opinion, there was
a moment or two of awkward silence, which was finally relieved by
Bunley, who drew from his pocket a plug of tobacco, from which he took
a bite, after first offering it to his visitors. A little more facial
pantomime went on between Tomple and Crupp, and then the Squire spoke.
“Bunley,” said he, “you don’t seem to get along very fast in the world.”
“That’s a fact,” answered Bunley with hearty emphasis. “Luck seems to
go against me, no matter how I lay myself out. There ain’t a man in
this town that wants to do the right thing any more than I do, but
somehow I don’t get the chance. I signed the pledge t’other night at
the meetin’; but how I’m goin’ to stick to it, with all the trouble I’m
in, is more than I can see through.”
“We’ve come down to help you do it,” said the Squire.
“To help you with money--not talk,” supplemented Crupp.
Bunley looked at both men quickly, from under the extreme inner edge of
his upper eyelid.
“We propose, between us, to show you that we’re in dead earnest to
help you keep the pledge,” continued the Squire. “We’re going to give
you, week after week, whatever you need to live on for the next three
months, so you won’t have any excuse for drinking to drown trouble, and
so you’ll have a chance to find something to do.”
Old Bunley sprang to his feet. “Gentlemen,” said he, “you’re--you’re
_gentlemen_. It’s the first time in my life that anybody ever cared
_that_ much for me, though. You shan’t lose anything by it, I promise
you _that_; I’ll pay you back again the first chance I get to make
anything.”
“We don’t _want_ it back,” said Crupp. “We won’t _take_ it back. We
want to _give_ it to you, out and out----”
“To show you that it’s _you_ that we’re interested in, not ourselves,”
interrupted the Squire.
Then Old Virginia came to the surface again; Bunley seemed to grow an
inch or two, and to swell several more as he replied,
“I’m not a pauper, gentlemen.”
“Certainly not,” said the Squire hastily; “but you can’t pay your debts
nor your current expenses, and Crupp and I are a little ahead in the
world, and willing to give you a hundred, say--a little at a time.”
“You’ve got a couple of boys to bring up, you know, Bunley,” suggested
Crupp.
“And they ought to go among the best people, too,” said the Squire.
“You came of a good family----”
“And their mother was a lady, too--every inch of her!” exclaimed Bunley.
“Of course she was,” said Crupp. “But, to come back to business, we
don’t want you to have any excuse to touch whisky again, and we want
you to live on us for the next three months as a personal favor. After
that, if you make any money, I s’pose the Squire’ll be glad to sell you
anything he keeps in his store; I know _I_ will, if I’m in business
then. But you mustn’t talk about paying now, ’cause it’s all nonsense.
Come up to the Squire’s store when you want anything. Good-by.”
Bunley drew himself up with great solemnity and old-time courtesy as
he shook hands with both men. When his visitors reached the friendly
angle of an old, abandoned barn, both turned hastily, gazed through
cracks between the boards, and saw the old man sitting in a meditative
attitude, with his lower jaw in both his hands.
“_Don’t_ that look good?” whispered Crupp, his face all animation.
“It does that,” replied the Squire; “there’s no dodging the question;
it _does_ look good.”