THERE were days when there was a mighty ferment in the systems of Griggsby.
On a gray, chilly Saturday in the early autumn the village was full of farmer folk who had come to market their produce. With these people and the mill hands, Saturday was apt to be a busy day, with all doors open until eight or nine o'clock. Most of the farmers went home in good order after their selling and buying. Some, however, proceeded to squander the proceeds and went home reeling in their wagons, with horses running and lathering under the whip.
Late in the afternoon Henry Dunbar and I were walking down the main street when we saw a crowd gathering and heard an outburst of drunken profanity. We ran with the crowd, which was surrounding the town bully, a giant blacksmith, of the name of Josh, noted for his great strength and thunderous voice, and a farmer from an Irish neighborhood above the village. Both had been drinking, and the blacksmith was berating the farmer. We mounted a wagon that stood near, where we could see and hear. The blacksmith had rolled up his right shirt sleeve to the shoulder, and stood with his huge arm raised as the foul thunder of his wrath broke the peace of the village.
The farmer rushed in, striking with both fists. Josh seized him about the shoulders, and the two wrestled for a moment, then fell, the farmer underneath. Josh held him by his hair and ears, and was banging his head on the stone pavement. It was now like a fight between bulldogs; blood was flowing. The farmer had the blacksmith's thumb between his teeth, and the latter was roaring with pain. There were loud cries of “Stop it!” Two bystanders were tugging at the great shoulders of Josh.
Henry and I leaped from the wagon, pushed our way through the crowd, and, seizing the blacksmith by his collar, broke their holds with a quick pull and brought Josh's neck to the ground. The farmer was surrounded and pushed away, while the mighty Josh made for me. I was minded to run away, but how could I, after all that Smead had said to me? I expected to be killed, but I could not run away. So I did a thing no man had ever done before when the great Josh was coming. I ran straight at the giant and, as I met him, delivered a blow, behind which was the weight and impulse of my body, full in the face of that redoubtable man. It was like the stroke of a hundred-and-sixty-pound sledge hammer. The man toppled backward and fell into a cellarway, head foremost, burst the door at the foot of the stairs, and stopped senseless on the threshold of a butcher's shop. It was a notable fall, that of this town bully, and his pristine eminence was never wholly recovered. Henry, too, was set upon by rowdy partisans, and was defending himself when the town constable reached the battlefield and arrested Josh and the farmer and me for a breach of the peace. But the incident was not closed.
Friends of the fighters began to discuss the merits of the men and their quarrel in the bar-rooms and stable yards of Griggsby. Feeling ran high, and there was noisy brawling in the streets.
Soon after nightfall a fight began in a bar-room between the two factions represented by farmer boys and horse-rubbers, and was carried into the back yard; and while it lasted one young man was kicked in the chest until he was nearly dead. Word ran through the town that a murder had been committed. The Websterian age of Griggsby had come to its climax, and naturally.
Next day Henry was arrested for his part in the affray. His father, who happened to be in Boston at the time, was summoned by a telegram from Florence. He came, and the result of his coming was the purchase ofThe Little Corporalfor his daughter. I sat with him and his son and daughter when Dan'l Webster Smead told him the story of that day with the insight of a true philosopher.
“The old town is in a bad way,” said Dunbar, when the story was finished.
“But it can be set right,” said Smead, “an' you're the man to do it.”
“How?”
“BuyThe Little Corporalfor your daughter, an' we'll do the rest,” said Smead.
Mr. Dunbar shook his head. “I'd rather she'd marry some fine young fellow and settle down,” said he.
“What's the matter with her doin' both?” Smead asked.
“Give me theCorporal, and I'll attend to the young fellow,” said Florence.
“Well, if you'll agree to help her in both enterprises,” said Dunbar to Smead, “I'll buy the paper. But you and Havelock must agree to help with the newspaper, and make no important contracts without my consent.”
So I agreed to work for theCorporal, and changed my plan of leaving Griggsby.
Immediately I began to suffer an ill-earned and unwelcome adulation. The Dan'l Websters touched their hats when I passed, and one likened me to Achilles; small boys followed me in the streets and gazed into my face. Fortunately, my alleged crimes were soon forgotten. That is one curious thing about the Yankees: they will use a lie for conversational purposes, but they never believe it. They rarely love a man until they have taken him apart and put him together again by the surgery of conversation. They want to know how he stands it.
GOOD food, and plenty of it, was required to maintain the talents for leisure, racing, and Websterian grandeur that distinguished the men of Griggsby. As a rule, the women, therefore, were overworked. Men who could not afford the grandeur or the sport indulged in dreams of it, and surrendered their lives to inelegant leisure. Some left their farms and moved into the village to make Dan'l Websters of their sons. Some talked of going West, where the opportunities were better. You could hear men in blue denim dreaming of wealth on the pavements and cracker barrels of Griggsby, while their wives battled with poverty at home.
Wifehood was still a form of bondage, as it was bound to be among a people who for generations had spent every Sabbath and the beginning and the end of every other day with Abraham and his descendants. Their ideals and their duties were from three to four thousand years apart—so far apart that they seldom got acquainted with one another. Among the highest of their ideals was Ruth, of the country of Moab. Did she not touch her face to the ground to find favor with the man she loved? Did she not glean in the fields till even, and thresh out her bundles, and then lie down at the feet of Boaz?
In love and fear the wives of the Yankees were always gleaning. They found a certain joy in trouble. Sorrow was a form of dissipation to many, disappointment a welcome means of grace, and weariness a comforting sign of duty done. Their fears were an ever-present trouble in time of need. They were three—idleness, God, and the poorhouse. Whatever the men might do or fail to do in Griggsby, it was the part of the women to work and save. They squandered to save; squandered their abundant strength to save the earnings of the family, the souls of husbands, sons, and daughters, the lives of the sick. If ever they thought of themselves it was in secret. Their hands were never idle.
The Yankee was often an orator to his own wife at least, and had convinced his little audience of one of two things, either that he had achieved greatness or was soon to be crowned. The lures of politics, invention, horsemanship, speculation, religion, and even poesy, led their victims from the ax and the plow. In certain homes you found soft-handed, horny-hearted tyrants of vast hope and good nature, and one or more slaves in calico. In my humble opinion, these willing slaves suffered from injustice more profound than did their dark-skinned sisters of the South.
You might see a judge or a statesman strutting in purple and fine linen, or exchanging compliments in noble rhetoric at a mahogany bar, while his aproned wife, with bare arms, was hard at work in the kitchen, trying to save the expense of a second hired girl. And you would find her immensely proud of her rhetorical peacock. His drinking and his maudlin conduct were often excused as the sad but inevitable accessories of Websterian genius.
But the Websterian impulse had begun to show itself in a new generation of women. It flowered in resounding rhetoric.
Now and then Florence Dunbar called at the home of the Smeads, and had learned to enjoy the jests of Dan'l, and especially his talk about social conditions in Griggsby. It was there that she got the notion of buying theCorporaland hiring Smead to help her reform the place.
One evening a number of my schoolmates were asked to meet the daughters of Smead, who had attended the normal school before going out to teach.
“Ruth, won't you get up and give us a piece?” Mrs. Smead asked one of her daughters.
“Mince, apple, or pumpkin, mother?” Dan'l W. inquired, playfully.
“Oh, stop your joking!” said Mrs. Smead.
The young lady stepped to the middle of the floor, after the fashion of Charlotte Cushman in the sleep-walking scene of “Lady Macbeth.” She gave us Warren's “Address,” trilling her (r's) and pronouncing “my” like “me.”
“There's the makin' of another D. W.,” said Smead, soberly.
Ruth did not get the point, and he went on. “She makes the boys and girls roar like cottage organs up there at the red school-house. They know how to work every stop in the organ, too—patriotic defiance, king hatred, sorrow, despair, torpid liver, pious rant. They need two more stops on the organ, humor and sanity.”
Betsey, the younger sister of Ruth, would not speak “a piece,” and I was glad of it. She sat by me and modestly told of her work, and now and then gave me a look out of her lovely blue eyes that would have moved the heart of a stone. What a mouth and face she had, what a fair, full, soft crown of hair! What a slim, inviting waist! And I liked her; that is the most I can say of it. Soc Potter, another schoolmate of those days, was said to be in love with her and to have the inside track.
Two other young ladies possessed by the demon of elocution shook out a few faded rags of literature with noble gestures and high-flavored tones. Yet these ladies of Griggsby were content with the intoxication of whirling words, while their husbands, sons, and brothers indulged in feelings of grandeur not so easily supported. But I do not wish you to forget that the women were always busy. If it had not been for them Griggsby would long ago have perished of dignity and indolence, or of that trouble which the Germans callkatzenjammer.
To sum up, the women stood for industry, the men sat down for it; the women worked for decency, and every man recommended it to his neighbor. But the women had no voice in the government of the town.
A year had passed since Ralph's departure. For months no word from him had come to me, or to Florence, as she informed me.
“I'm very sorry,” I said, as we were walking together..
“I'm afraid I'm not,” she surprised me by saying.
I turned and looked into her eyes.
“For a long time I've been trying to make a hero of Ralph, but it's hard work,” she went on; “I fear it's impossible.”
“Why?”
“He doesn't help me a bit; he doesn't give me any material to work with.”
There was a moment of silence, in which the girl seemed to be trying to hold her poise. Then she added.
“Either he doesn't care or he is very easily fooled.”
I said nothing, but I heartily agreed with her.
Congress had adjourned, and the Colonel had returned to his native haunts with all his Websterian accessories. There were moral weather prophets in Griggsby who used to say, when the Colonel came back, that they could tell whether it was going to be a wet or a dry summer by the color of his nose and the set of his high hat. “Wet” was now the general verdict as he strode down the main street swinging his gold-headed cane.
On a lovely May day I tramped off into the country to attend Betsey Smead's last day of school and to walk home with her. The latter was the main part of it. She was glad to see me, and I enjoyed the children, and the songs of the birds in the maples of the old schoolyard.
In the middle of the afternoon a stern-faced old man with a hickory cane in his hand entered the schoolhouse, and Betsey hurried to meet and kiss him. Then she helped him to a seat at the teacher's desk. He was stoutly built, and wore a high collar, a black stock, and a suit of faded brown. There was a fringe of iron-gray hair above his ears, with tufts of the same color in front of them. The rest of his rugged, deep-lined face was as bare as the top of his head. His stem, gray eyes quizzically regarded the girl and the pupils.
“Describe the course of the Connecticut River,” he demanded of a member of the geography class.
To my joy, the frightened girl answered correctly.
“Very well, very well,” said he, loudly, as though it were a matter of small credit, after all.
A member of the first class in arithmetic was not so fortunate. To him he put a problem.
“Go to the blackboard,” the old gentleman commanded. “A man had three sons—put down three, if you please.
“To A he willed half his property, to B a quarter, and to C a sixth. Now, his property consisted of eleven sheep. The sons wished to divide the sheep without killing any, so they consulted a neighbor. The neighbor came with one of his own sheep and put it in with the eleven, making twelve in all. Then he gave one-half to A, making six; one-quarter to B, making three; one-sixth to C, making two—a total of eleven—and drove back his own sheep. Now, tell me, young man, what is the matter with that problem—tell me at once, sir.”
The boy trembled, looked stupidly at the blackboard, and gave up.
“Huh! that will do,” snapped the old gentleman.
Here was the grand, stentorian method applied to geography and mathematics.
At last school was dismissed. The tears of the children as they parted with Betsey seemed to please the old gentleman. His face softened a little.
“Ah, you'll make a good mother, Betsey,” he said, rather snappishly, as he came down from his seat, drawing his breath at the proper places of punctuation and touching his right leg as though he had a pain in it. “Do ye know how to work, eh?”
“I've always had to work,” said Betsey.
“That's good, that's good!” the old man exclaimed. “Your grandmother was a good woman to work.”
“Grandfather, this is Mr. Havelock,” said Betsey, as she presented me.
“How d' do?” snapped the old gentleman, looking sharply into my face. Then he turned to Betsey and said: “Don't be in a hurry to get married. There are plenty of fish in the sea, girl—plenty of fish. Huh! Tell your father that I am very much pleased with the last news of him—very much pleased; but I shall not trust him again—never, nor any of them except you.”
A man was waiting for him in a buggy outside the door. I withdrew a little, and waited while Betsey spoke with the old gentleman. The girl joined me as her grandfather drove away, and together we walked down the hills to Griggsby, that lovely afternoon of the early summer. We talked of many things, and always when I have thought of that hour I have heard the hum of new life in ponds and marshes and seen the light of a day's end glowing on windows, woods, and hills, and felt the joy of youth again.
“You are a friend of Florence Dunbar,” said Betsey, as we were crossing a field. “She has told me lots about you.”
“I fear that I'm not much of a success either as a subject or a predicate,” I said.
“She thinks you are a great hero, and there are others who think it, too.”
I blushed and stumbled a little in trying to say:
“Well—it—it isn't my fault. I've—I've done my best to—to keep her from making any mistake.”
“We've been hoping that you and she would make a match,” the little school teacher went on.
“It's—it's impossible,” I said, bitterly.
“Impossible? Why?”
“Well, she—she feels so horribly grateful to me that—that if I asked her to be my wife, I—I suppose she would think it her duty to say yes.”
Betsey laughed, and we walked along in silence for half a minute. Then she stopped, and her glowing eyes looked into mine as she said, very soberly:
“Havelock, you're a strange boy. I don't want to spoil you, but I think—well, I won't say what I think.”
So I never knew what she thought, but I well remember there were tears in her eyes and mine as we walked in silence. She was the first to speak.
“If Florence said yes, it would be because she loves you,” said Betsey.
“But you do not know all that I know,” was my answer.
“I want to be decently modest, but I know some things that you do not,” she declared.
Then, as if she dared go no further in that direction, she timidly veered about.
“I believe you are acquainted with Socrates Potter?”
“Yes, and I like him. He can say such funny things.”
“Sometimes I fear that he hasn't a serious thought in his head.”
“Oh yes! He has at least one,” I said.
“Well, I should like to know what it is.”
“His thought of you.”
She blushed and looked away, and I could see that she was in quite a flutter of excitement.
Oh, what a day was that, and—we were in its last moments!
We were nearing the village, and had begun to meet people, and, while we had a little distance to go, our serious talk went no further.
GRADUATION day had arrived, when Florence was to complete her course at the academy. The best women, as though by general agreement, had combined to right the wrong done her. No girl so noble and splendid had ever stood on the platform of the old academy. She was the valedictorian. Her gown was white, her voice music, while her form and face would have delighted a sculptor. That very day she assumed control ofThe Little Corporal,and began her work, with Dan! Webster Smead as associate editor.
The first issue of the paper under its new management had an editorial to this effect:
Things are going to happen in Griggsby—things that have never happened before in Griggsby or elsewhere. We have a large, distinguished, and growing list of drunkards whose careers thus far have suffered from neglect, concealment, and a general lack of appreciation.
Full many a brawl of purest ray serene
The dark, unfathomed depths of Griggsby bear;
Full many a spree is born to blush unseen
And waste its fragrance on the midnight air.
It shall be so no longer. We propose to fathom the depths. Hereafter the adventures of our merry gentlemen shall be duly chronicled, so that the public may share their joy and give them credit according to their deserts.
We have a number of idlers and gamblers in Griggsby whose exploits have also been shrouded in obscurity. They, too, may rejoice that at last full justice is to be accorded them in this paper, so that their winning and losing shall no longer be a subject of inaccurate knowledge. Some are blamed who ought not to be blamed, and some are not blamed who ought to be blamed, and there is no health in the present situation.
We have a large number of young men who are looking to their elders for an example worthy of emulation.The Little Corporalwill let its light shine hereafter upon the example set by the elder generation of Griggsby, to the end that none of it may be lost.
We have seven saloons and three drug stores that have violated the law with notable and unnoted persistence. They, too, may be assured that their achievements will no longer be overlooked.
But the biggest thing we have in Griggsby is aconscience. That, too, may rejoice that its findings are no longer to be unknown and neglected. It shall be busy night and day, and its approval shall be recorded with joy and its condemnations with deep regret in theCorporal. But both shall be duly signalized and set forth.
It is recorded of Napoleon, who was himself known as the Little Corporal, that one night, having found a sentinel asleep at his post, he took the weapon of the latter and stood guard for him until he awoke. That this paper will try to do for the conscience of Griggsby, when it is weary and overworked.
Well, things did begin to happen in Griggsby. The Mutual Adulation Company that had paid its daily dividends in compliments and good wishes at the bar of the Palace Hotel went out of business. The souls of the leading citizens ceased to flow. The babbling brooks of flattery ran dry.
Among other items this appeared in the next number of theCorporal:
Jerry McMann attacked his horse in the street the other day, and without any provocation that the bystanders could observe beat him over the head with the butt of his whip, for which he has had to pay the utterly inadequate fine of five dollars. TheCorporalhereby adds to his fine the distinction which his act has won. This beater of a helpless animal is probably the most brutal man in the township, and the most arrant coward.
The Little Corporalpassed from hand to hand, and waves of joy and consternation swept over the community. Thoughtful and worried looks gathered under the hats of silk and beaver. Colonel Buckstone smote the bar of the Palace Hotel and roared about the “Magna Charta of our liberties,” as he viewed his image in a mirror among the outlines of a bird drawn in soap.
Now, there lived in the village of Griggsby a certain lawyer of the name of Pike—G. Washington Pike. He was the most magnificent human being in that part of the country. He shone every day in broadcloth, a tall beaver hat, and a stock and collar. He greeted one with a low bow and a sweeping gesture of the right hand, and said “Good morning” as though it were a solemn and eternal verity. His distinguished presence graced every public occasion, and he was made up as the living image of Dan'l Webster. At one time or another many who lived in the village had been nudged by visitors from a distance and asked: “Who is that grand-looking man?” It was a query not so easy to answer. He was a lawyer without visible clients, whose wife was the leading dressmaker of Griggsby.
I was sitting in the office of theCorporalwith Smead when the great man entered, bowed low, and cut a scroll in the air with his right hand.
“Good morning, Editor Smead,” said he, oratorically.
“Good morning, Mr. Pike,” was the greeting of Smead.
“On this occasion it isLawyerPike, who presents his compliments toEditorSmead, and begs to confer with him on a matter of business,” said the great man.
“Go ahead,LawyerPike,” said the editor.
“WhileMr.Pike has the highest personal regard forMr.Smead,LawyerPike takes issue withEditorSmead in behalf of his client, Mr. Jeremiah McMann, and demands a retraction of certain words in theCorporalof last week, calculated to injure the reputation of said McMann.”
Then the great Dan'l said:
0151m
“EditorSmead refuses the request ofLawyerPike, and suggests that he and horse-killer McMann should join hands and jump into the air as high as possible.”
And so ended the first bluff in the new life of Griggsby.
A great public meeting was held in the town hall in support of the candidacy of Colonel Buckstone for the post of consul at Hongkong. The merchant princes and Daniel Websters, representing the beauty and fashion of Griggsby, the women, representing its industry and sturdy virtue, were on hand. So were many mill-workers and students from the old academy.
Judge Warner was chosen to preside, and opened the meeting with sober, well-chosen words. Then followed a great and memorable tournament of the D. W.'s. Floods of impassioned eloquence swept over the crowd and out of the open windows, and at every impressive pause we could hear birds chattering as they slipped from their perches in the treetops that overhung the eaves.
The great Bill Smithers was telling of the poor, barefooted boy who came down from the hills long ago and bade fair to rise to the highest pinnacle of statesmanship.
Among other things he said: “Think of this poor boy, who used to feed the chickens and milk the patient cow. Since then he has fed the multitude of his fellow-citizens with political wisdom and milked the great Republic for their benefit.”
He soared and roared in praise of the manly virtues of the Colonel.
A stray cow began to bellow in the streets. Mr. Smithers, who was speaking, paused to inquire if some one would please stop that beast.
A voice in the gallery shouted, “Give the cow a chance.” Another said, “It's the cow that Sile milked.” The crowd began to laugh and the situation was critical; but, fortunately, the emotions of the cow subsided.
The Rev. Sam Shackleford turned himself into a human earthquake, and tears rolled down his face while he told of the great talents and the noble heart of his distinguished fellow-townsman.
In due time Colonel Buckstone rose to acknowledge the kindness of his fellow-citizens.
He spoke of the affairs of his native town, and presently referred to the newspaper, which had always been a power for good in the village. He hoped that it would continue to be so, but had his fears. A certain editorial had already injured the fair fame of Griggsby. There was not a scintilla of evidence in support of its veiled and open charges, not one. He challenged Mr. D. W. Smead to prove that Griggsby was any worse than other communities.
In the name of Heaven, what new assault was to be made upon the Magna Charta of our liberties, secured by the blood of our fathers? He would defend it. He served notice then and there that he would pour out his life's blood, if need be, rather than see the liberties of the citizens of Griggsby abated by one jot or tittle. No, he would rather see his right arm severed from his body.
That dear old Magna Charta was often on his lips. Indeed, the chart of his liberties was so great and so threatening that Moses and the prophets had to get out of its way. Every day he referred to “jots and tittles” of abatement and absent “scintillas of evidence.”
He closed his address with this Websterian peroration:
“When my eyes shall be turned to behold for the last time the sun in heaven, may they not see him shining on the enslaved citizens of my native town. Rather let their last feeble and lingering glance behold them eating and drinking according to their needs and wishes, and in the full enjoyment of every blessing that the Almighty has showered upon us.”
These sentiments met with noisy approval. How often the eyes of the great man were “turned to behold for the last time the sun in heaven”!
There was a call for Dan'l W. Smead. Mr. Smead rose from his seat in the audience, went to the platform, and said:
“I feel like Pompeii after the great eruption of seventy-nine a.d. I am overwhelmed, but I propose to dig myself up and continue in business. First, let me say that I am glad that Colonel Buckstone is likely to enter the missionary field an' show the Christian virtues of New England to the heathen of the Orient. I have long thought that it was a good thing for him to do—a good thing for anybody to do. In my opinion, the Colonel would soon take the conceit out of those foreign heathen. But we need him here. We do not wish him to be plucked from the garden of Griggsby. What, I ask you, what is to become of our own heathen if he is removed from among them? Have not the press an' the pulpit already threatened their sacred liberties? Who would remind us of those jots and tittles of abatement, of those absent scintillas of evidence? It is too bad that the palladium of our oratory is threatened. It must not be. Think of the feelings of the sun in heaven if he were not again to be beheld for the last time in the village of Griggsby! Of course, there are other villages, but let it never be said that we have fallen behind them.
“When my eyes shall be turned to behold for the last time the sun in heaven, may I not see him shining on a bereft an' joyful Griggsby; on citizens who have ceased to weep except for sorrow, whose tears have gone dry because the village pumps of oratory have failed them. God forbid that I should behold him shining upon men of genius in bondage or in exile! Rather let their last feeble and lingering glance see those citizens eating and drinking, according to their needs and wishes, at the Palace Hotel, while their wives are at work, according to their habit, in the kitchen and the laundry.”
For a moment he was silenced by a storm of laughter.
It was a death blow to the Dan'l Websters of Griggsby. Those hardened criminals of the rostrum, who had long been robbing the people of their tears, had themselves been touched. Their consciences were awakened. They tumbled and fell.
Bill Smithers, who had so highly praised his friend the Colonel on the stage, said to a fellow-citizen after he had left the hall, “Well, after all is said and done, what a d———d pirate Buckstone is!”
That shows how sincere, how heartfelt was the loud-sounding oratory of that time.
Next day a stem and sorrowful silence fell upon Colonel Buckstone. It boomed like an empty barrel at the slightest touch. Judge Brooks ventured to ask him what was the matter. He smote the air with his fist, muttered an oath, checked himself, shook his head, and said, in a tone worthy of Edwin Forrest:
“The evil days have come, sir. I tremble for Griggsby.”
Then he sadly strode away.
Now, that morning, Colonel Buckstone had received a letter from the able editor of theCorporal, in circumstances fraught with some peril to myself. The letter ran about as follows:
My dear Colonel,—I have undertaken to improve the morals of Griggsby, and as a first step I shall insist upon your retirement from public life. I inclose the proof of an article, now in type in this office, in which, as you will observe, is a full and accurate review of your career. In my opinion, this justifies my demand that forthwith you resign your seat in Congress. If you fail to do so within one week from date, I shall submit this article to the judgment of the electors of the district; but I should like, if possible, to spare your family the pain of that process. I can only leave you to choose between voluntary and enforced retirement, with some unnecessary disgrace attending the latter. I am sending this by Mr. Havelock, who is instructed to deliver it to you, and only to you.
Yours truly,
Florence Dunbar.
I had gone to work in the office ofThe Little Corporal, and had delivered the message, of the nature of which I knew nothing. The Colonel tore the envelope, grew hot with rage, struck at me with his cane, and shattered the Ninth Commandment with a cannon shot of profanity.
I wondered what it was all about, and promptly decided that the profession of journalism was too full of peril for me.
“Ha, blackmailer!” he shouted. “Child of iniquity, I will not slay you until you have taken my reply to your mistress, who is a disgrace to the name of woman. Say to her that if she publishes the article, a proof of which I have just read, I shall kill her, so help me God!”
Yes, it was a kind of blackmail, but how noble and how absolutely feminine.
When I returned to the Colonel's office I knew what I was doing. It was with a note which read as follows:
Dear Sir,—This is to advise you, first, that you cannot change my purpose with cheap and vulgar threats; second, that resignation would be an easier means of retirement, and probably less painful, than a shooting-match with me.
Yours truly,
Florence Dunbar.
The old bluff mill of his brain, which had won many lawsuits and jack pots for the Colonel, had failed him for once. Its goods, the quality of which had never been disputed, were now declared cheap and vulgar.
He was comparatively calm until he had finished reading the note, when the storm broke out again, and I fled before it.
Well, next day a note of surprising politeness came from the Colonel. It apologized for the haste and heat of his former message, and requested an interview. Miss Dunbar was quick to grant his request, demanding that the interview occur in her office, and in the presence of a witness of her choosing, who could be trusted to divulge no part of the conversation. The interview took place, and I was the chosen witness.
The Colonel was calm under a look of injured innocence.
“Young woman,” he began, “let us be brief. You have it in your power to ruin me. That I admit, and only that, and ask what you want me to do.”
“Resign,” said she, firmly. “Mademoiselle, I have been foolish,” said the Colonel, “but my follies are those which, unfortunately, are shared by many of my sex. I ask you to consider my family and my long devotion to the interests of this community. If I resign with no apparent reason, what will my constituents say, who are now being asked to sign a petition in favor of my appointment to a consular position? My fondest hopes will be crushed.”
Colonel Buckstone wiped his watery eyes with his handkerchief.
Miss Dunbar spoke out with courage and judgment.
“I don't want to be hard on you,” she said. “There are two conditions which would induce me to modify my demand. The first is that you turn in and help us to improve the morals of this community.”
“I have always labored in that cause,” said the Colonel, with a righteous look.
“But you have succeeded in concealing your efforts,” she said. “You are one of the leading citizens of Griggsby. All eyes are upon you. Your example has a tremendous influence on the young men of this village. Often you have a highly moral pair of lungs in your breast, but your heart does not seem to agree with them. A man is known by his conduct, and not by his words. By your conduct you teach the young men to buy and sell votes, to go on sprees, to drink and gamble in public places, to have little regard for the virtue and good name of woman.”
Then a thing happened which gave me new hope of the Colonel. It was the first time that his jacket had been warmed, and it looked as though the fire of remorse had begun to burn a little.
“Young woman,” he said, very solemnly, “if my humble example has been so misunderstood, if my conduct has so belied the sentiments of my heart as to create such an impression in the mind of the observer, I will do anything in my power to make amends, and I will listen to any suggestions you are good enough to offer.”
The suggestions were offered and accepted, and the sway of Buckstone was at its end.
“There is one other thing,” said Miss Dunbar. “You have cruelly misjudged my character, and there is one thing I shall ask you to do.”
“What is it?”
“That you join Ralph in Europe, and see that he returns all my letters within six weeks from date.”
“It was my plan to join him for a needed rest,” said the Colonel, “and you may be glad to know that I propose to bring him back with me.”
“What you propose to do with him is a matter of no interest to me,” said Florence. “I only demand the letters.”
IWAS discussing plans with Florence in her sanctum one afternoon, when she said to me:
“Uriel, you're a hummer. We can't get along without you. The advertising has doubled, and it's due mostly to your efforts. Please consider yourself married to this paper, and with no chance of divorce. I'll treble your salary.”
“I couldn't help doing well with such a paper to work for,” I said. “There's no credit due me.”
“I don't agree with you. Of course, we've made a good paper. I thought it was about time that the women, who did most of the work, had a voice in the government of the village. Women have some rights, and I think I've a right to know whether you still care for me or not.”
“Florence, I love you more than ever,” I said. I rose and stepped toward her, my face burning; and she quickly opened the gate of the railing, went behind it, and held me back with her hand.
“Havelock, you stupid thing!” said she. “What I want now is eloquence—real, Websterian eloquence, and plenty of it.”
I stood like a fool, blushing to the roots of my hair, and she took pity on me.
“Bear in mind,” said she, “that I am not the least bit grateful. I just naturally love you, sir; that's the truth about it.” Then my tongue was loosed. I do not remember what I said, but it was satisfactory to her, and right in the midst of it she unlocked the gate.
0014m
We were both crying in each other's arms when there came a rap at the door.
“One moment,” she called, as we endeavored to dry our eyes, while she noisily bustled about the room. Then she opened the door, and there stood Dan'l W. Smead.
“Come in,” said she; “and don't mind my appearance. I have just listened to an address full of the most impassioned eloquence. It touched my heart.”
Dan'l W. looked at us, smiled, and said with unerring insight, “I presume it was an address to the electors of his home district.”
“It was,” said she.
“Did his eyes behold for the last time the sun in heaven?”
“No, sir; they beheld it for the first time.”
“And it shines brighter than ever before on land or sea,” I added.
“He'll do,” said Smead. “He has much to learn about the oratory and politics of love; but I move that he be elected by osculation.”
“It has been accomplished,” said Florence, as she covered her blushing face.
“But there were no tellers to record the vote,” he insisted.
We voted again.
“God bless you both!” said Smead, with enthusiasm.
He kissed her, gave me a little hug, and added: “Her father told me what would happen, an' I believe he gave his consent in advance.”
“He did,” said Florence.
“Old boy, you've got a life job on your hands keepin' up with her. It suggests an editorial.”
“How so?” Florence inquired.
“It will run about like this,” Dan! W. went on. “'The first occupation of man was keepin' up with Eve. She got tired of seein' him lie in the shade an' of hearin' him lie in the shade. So she contrived a situation in which it was necessary for him to get busy; she got him a job. It was no temporary thing; it was a real, permanent job. Many have tried to resign an' devote their lives to rum, eloquence, an' trottin'-hosses. We have seen the result in Griggsby. It is deplorable.Little Corporalcalls them back to their tasks.'”
We applauded his editorial.
“Oh, I could compose an Iliad, now that I know you're both happy,” said he.
“Betsey did it!” Florence exclaimed. “She gave me courage.”
“Poor Betsey!” said Dan'l W. “You know, her grandfather died a few weeks ago an' left her his fortune, an' she's dreadfully grieved about it because her beau, young Socrates Potter, has said that he would never marry a rich woman. The boys are gettin' awfully noble an' inhuman. I'm glad that Havelock has reformed.”