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Sevenoaks by J. G. Holland

J >> J. G. Holland >> Sevenoaks




Miss Butterworth was angry, and had grown more and more angry with every
word. She had brooded over the matter all the afternoon, and her pent-up
indignation had overflowed beyond control. She felt that she had spoken
truth which Robert Belcher ought to hear and to heed, yet she knew that
she had lost her hold upon him. Mr. Belcher listened with the greatest
coolness, while a half smile overspread his face.

"Don't you think I'm a pretty good-natured man to sit here," said he,
"and hear myself abused in this way, without getting angry?"

"No, I think you are a bad-natured man. I think you are the
hardest-hearted and worst man I ever saw. What in God's name has Paul
Benedict done, that he should be treated in this way? There are a dozen
there just like him, or worse. Is it a crime to lose one's reason? I
wish you could spend one night in Paul Benedict's room."

"Thank you. I prefer my present quarters."

"Yes, you look around on your present quarters, as you call 'em, and
think you'll always have 'em. You won't. Mark my words; you won't. Some
time you'll overreach yourself, and cheat yourself out of 'em. See if
you don't."

"It takes a smart man to cheat himself, Miss Butterworth," responded
Mr. Belcher, rubbing his hands.

"There is just where you're mistaken. It takes a fool."

Mr. Belcher laughed outright. Then, in a patronizing way, he said: "Miss
Butterworth, I have given you considerable time, and perhaps you'll be
kind enough to state your business. I'm a practical man, and I really
don't see anything that particularly concerns me in all this talk. Of
course, I'm sorry for Benedict and the rest of 'em, but Sevenoaks isn't
a very rich town, and it cannot afford to board its paupers at the
hotel, or to give them many luxuries."

Miss Butterworth was calm again. She knew that she had done her cause no
good, but was determined to finish her errand.

"Mr. Belcher, I'm a woman."

"I know it, Keziah."

"And my name is Butterworth."

"I know it."

"You do? Well, then, here is what I came to say to you. The town-meeting
comes to-morrow, and the town's poor are to be sold at auction, and to
pass into Tom Buffum's hands again, unless you prevent it. I can't make
a speech, and I can't vote. I never wanted to until now. You can do
both, and if you don't reform this business, and set Tom Buffum at doing
something else, and treat God's poor more like human beings, I shall get
out of Sevenoaks before it sinks; for sink it will if there is any hole
big enough to hold it."

"Well, I'll think of it," said Mr. Belcher, deliberately.

"Tell me you'll do it."

"I'm not used to doing things in a hurry. Mr. Buffum is a friend of
mine, and I've always regarded him as a very good man for the place. Of
course, if there's anything wrong it ought to be righted, but I think
you've exaggerated."

"No, you don't mean to do anything. I see it. Good-night," and she had
swept out of the door before he could say another word, or rise from his
chair.

She went down the hill into the village. The earth was stiffening with
the frost that lingered late in that latitude, and there were patches of
ice, across which she picked her way. There was a great moon overhead,
but just then all beautiful things, and all things that tended to lift
her thoughts upward, seemed a mockery. She reached the quiet home of
Rev. Solomon Snow.

"Who knows but he can be spurred up to do something?" she said to
herself.

There was only one way to ascertain--so she knocked at the door, and was
received so kindly by Mr. Snow and Mrs. Snow and the three Misses Snow,
that she sat down and unburdened herself--first, of course, as regarded
Mr. Robert Belcher, and second, as concerned the Benedicts, father and
son.

The position of Mr. Belcher was one which inspired the minister with
caution, but the atmosphere was freer in his house than in that of the
proprietor. The vocal engine whose wheels had slipped upon the track
with many a whirr, as she started her train in the great house on the
hill, found a down grade, and went off easily. Mr. Snow sat in his
arm-chair, his elbows resting on either support, the thumb and every
finger of each hand touching its twin at the point, and forming a kind
of gateway in front of his heart, which seemed to shut out or let in
conviction at his will. Mrs. Snow and the girls, whose admiration of
Miss Butterworth for having dared to invade Mr. Belcher's library was
unbounded, dropped their work, and listened with eager attention. Mr.
Snow opened the gate occasionally to let in a statement, but for the
most part kept it closed. The judicial attitude, the imperturbable
spectacles, the long, pale face and white cravat did not prevent Miss
Butterworth from "freeing her mind;" and when she finished the task, a
good deal had been made of the case of the insane paupers of Sevenoaks,
and there was very little left of Mr. Robert Belcher and Mr. Thomas
Buffum.

At the close of her account of what she had seen at the poor-house, and
what had passed between her and the great proprietor, Mr. Snow cast his
eyes up to the ceiling, pursed his lips, and somewhere in the
profundities of his nature, or in some celestial laboratory, unseen by
any eyes but his own, prepared his judgments.

"Cases of this kind," said he, at last, to his excited visitor, whose
eyes glowed like coals as she looked into his impassive face, "are to be
treated with great prudence. We are obliged to take things as they air.
Personally (with a rising inflection and a benevolent smile), I should
rejoice to see the insane poor clothed and in their right mind."

"Let us clothe 'em, then, anyway," interjected Miss Butterworth,
impatiently. "And, as for being in their right mind, that's more than
can be said of those that have the care of 'em."

"Personally--Miss Butterworth, excuse me--I should rejoice to see them
clothed and in their right mind, but the age of miracles is past. We
have to deal with the facts of to-day--with things as they air. It is
possible, nay, for aught I know, it may be highly probable, that in
other towns pauperism may fare better than it does with us. It is to be
remembered that Sevenoaks is itself poor, and its poverty becomes one of
the factors of the problem which you have propounded to us. The town of
Buxton, our neighbor over here, pays taxes, let us say, of seven mills
on the dollar; we pay seven mills on the dollar. Buxton is rich; we are
poor. Buxton has few paupers; we have many. Consequently, Buxton may
maintain its paupers in what may almost be regarded as a state of
affluence. It may go as far as feather-beds and winter fires for the
aged; nay, it may advance to some economical form of teeth-brushes, and
still demand no more sacrifice from its people than is constantly
demanded of us to maintain our poor in a humbler way. Then there are
certain prudential considerations--certain, I might almost say, moral
considerations--which are to be taken into account. It will never do, in
a town like ours, to make pauperism attractive--to make our pauper
establishments comfortable asylums for idleness. It must, in some way,
be made to seem a hardship to go to the poor-house."

"Well, Sevenoaks has taken care of that with a vengeance," burst out
Miss Butterworth.

"Excuse me, Miss Butterworth; let me repeat, that it must be made to
seem a hardship to go to the poor-house. Let us say that we have
accomplished this very desirable result. So far, so good. Give our
system whatever credit may belong to it, and still let us frankly
acknowledge that we have suffering left that ought to be alleviated. How
much? In what way? Here we come into contact with another class of
facts. Paupers have less of sickness and death among them than any-other
class in the community. There are paupers in our establishment that have
been there for twenty-five years--a fact which, if it proves anything,
proves that a large proportion of the wants of our present civilization
are not only artificial in their origin, but harmful in their
gratifications. Our poor are compelled to go back nearer to nature--to
old mother nature--and they certainly get a degree of compensation for
it. It increases the expenses of the town, to be sure."

"Suppose we inquire of them," struck in Miss Butterworth again, "and
find out whether they would not rather be treated better and die
earlier."

"Paupers are hardly in a position to be consulted in that way,"
responded Mr. Snow, "and the alternative is one which, considering their
moral condition, they would have no right to entertain."

Miss Butterworth had sat through this rather desultory disquisition with
what patience she could command, breaking in upon it impulsively at
various points, and seen that it was drifting nowhere--at least, that it
was not drifting toward the object of her wishes. Then she took up the
burden of talk, and carried it on in her very direct way.

"All you say is well enough, I suppose," she began, "but I don't stop to
reason about it, and I don't wish to. Here is a lot of human beings
that are treated like brutes--sold every year to the lowest bidder, to
be kept. They go hungry, and naked, and cold. They are in the hands of a
man who has no more blood in his heart than there is in a turnip, and we
pretend to be Christians, and go to church, and coddle ourselves with
comforts, and pay no more attention to them than we should if their
souls had gone where their money went. I tell you it's a sin and a
shame, and I know it. I feel it. And there's a gentleman among 'em, and
his little boy, and they must be taken out of that place, or treated
better in it. I've made up my mind to that, and if the men of Sevenoaks
don't straighten matters on that horrible old hill, then they're just no
men at all."

Mr. Snow smiled a calm, self-respectful smile, that said, as plainly as
words could say: "Oh! I know women: they are amiably impulsive, but
impracticable."

"Have you ever been there?" inquired Miss Butterworth, sharply.

"Yes, I've been there."

"And conscience forbid!" broke in Mrs. Snow, "that he should go again,
and bring home what he brought home that time. It took me the longest
time to get them out of the house!"

"Mrs. Snow! my dear! you forget that we have a stranger present."

"Well, I don't forget those strangers, anyway!"

The three Misses Snow tittered, and looked at one another, but were
immediately solemnized by a glance from their father.

Mrs. Snow, having found her tongue--a characteristically lively and
emphatic one--went on to say:--

"I think Miss Butterworth is right. It's a burning shame, and you ought
to go to the meeting to-morrow, and put it down."

"Easily said, my dear," responded Mr. Snow, "but you forget that Mr.
Belcher is Buffum's friend, and that it is impossible to carry any
measure against him in Sevenoaks. I grant that it ought not to be so. I
wish it were otherwise; but we must take things as they air."

"To take things as they air," was a cardinal aphorism in Mr. Snow's
budget of wisdom. It was a good starting-point for any range of
reasoning, and exceedingly useful to a man of limited intellect and
little moral courage. The real truth of the case had dawned upon Miss
Butterworth, and it had rankled in the breast of Mrs. Snow from the
beginning of his pointless talk. He was afraid of offending Robert
Belcher, for not only did his church need repairing, but his salary was
in arrears, and the wolf that had chased so many up the long hill to
what was popularly known as Tom Buffum's Boarding House he had heard
many a night, while his family was sleeping, howling with menace in the
distance.

Mrs. Snow rebelled, in every part of her nature, against the power which
had cowed her reverend companion. There is nothing that so goads a
spirited woman to madness as the realization that any man controls her
husband. He may be subservient to her--a cuckold even--but to be mated
with a man whose soul is neither his own nor wholly hers, is to her the
torment of torments.

"I wish Robert Belcher was hanged," said Mrs. Snow, spitefully.

"Amen! and my name is Butterworth," responded that lady, making sure
that there should be no mistake as to the responsibility for the
utterance.

"Why, mother!" exclaimed the three hisses Snow, in wonder.

"And drawn and quartered!" added Mrs. Snow, emphatically.

"Amen, again!" responded Miss Butterworth.

"Mrs. Snow! my dear! You forget that you are a Christian pastor's wife,
and that there is a stranger present."

"No, that is just what I don't forget," said Mrs. Snow. "I see a
Christian pastor afraid of a man of the world, who cares no more about
Christianity than he does about a pair of old shoes, and who patronizes
it for the sake of shutting its mouth against him. It makes me angry,
and makes me wish I were a man; and you ought to go to that meeting
to-morrow, as a Christian pastor, and put down this shame and
wickedness. You have influence, if you will use it. All the people want
is a leader, and some one to tell them the truth."

"Yes, father, I'm sure you have a _great_ deal of influence," said the
elder Miss Snow.

"A great _deal_ of influence," responded the next in years.

"Yes, indeed," echoed the youngest.

Mr. Snow established the bridge again, by bringing his fingers
together,--whether to keep out the flattery that thus came like a subtle
balm to his heart, or to keep in the self-complacency which had been
engendered, was not apparent.

He smiled, looking benevolently out upon the group, and said: "Oh, you
women are so hasty, so hasty, so hasty! I had not said that I would not
interfere. Indeed, I had pretty much made up my mind to do so. But I
wanted you in advance to see things as they air. It may be that
something can be done, and it certainly will be a great satisfaction to
me if I can be the humble instrument for the accomplishment of a
reform."

"And you will go to the meeting? and you will speak?" said Miss
Butterworth, eagerly.

"Yes!" and Mr. Snow looked straight into Miss Butterworth's tearful
eyes, and smiled.

"The Lord add His blessing, and to His name be all the praise!
Good-night!" said Miss Butterworth, rising and making for the door.

"Dear," said Mrs. Snow, springing and catching her by the arm, "don't
you think you ought to put on something more? It's very chilly
to-night."

"Not a rag. I'm hot. I believe I should roast if I had on a feather
more."

"Wouldn't you like Mr. Snow to go home with you? He can go just as well
as not," insisted Mrs. Snow.

"Certainly, just as well as not," repeated the elder Miss Snow, followed
by the second with: "as well as not," and by the third with: "and be
glad to do it."

"No--no--no--no"--to each. "I can get along better without him, and I
don't mean to give him a chance to take back what he has said."

Miss Butterworth ran down the steps, the whole family standing in the
open door, with Mr. Snow, in his glasses, behind his good-natured,
cackling flock, thoroughly glad that his protective services were deemed
of so small value by the brave little tailoress.

Then Miss Butterworth could see the moon and the stars. Then she could
see how beautiful the night was. Then she became conscious of the
everlasting roar of the cataracts, and of the wreaths of mist that they
sent up into the crisp evening air. To the fear of anything in
Sevenoaks, in the day or in the night, she was a stranger; so, with a
light heart, talking and humming to herself, she went by the silent
mill, the noisy dram-shops, and, with her benevolent spirit full of hope
and purpose, reached the house where, in a humble hired room she had
garnered all her treasures, including the bed and the linen which she
had prepared years before for an event that never took place.

"The Lord add His blessing, and to His name be all the praise," she
said, as she extinguished the candle, laughing in spite of herself, to
think how she had blurted out the prayer and the ascription in the face
of Solomon Snow.

"Well, he's a broken reed--a broken reed--but I hope Mrs. Snow will tie
something to him--or starch him--or--something--to make him stand
straight for once," and then she went to sleep, and dreamed of fighting
with Robert Belcher all night.




CHAPTER II.

MR. BELCHER CARRIES HIS POINT AT THE TOWN-MEETING, AND THE POOR ARE
KNOCKED DOWN TO THOMAS BUFFUM.


The abrupt departure of Miss Butterworth left Mr. Belcher piqued and
surprised. Although he regarded himself as still "master of the
situation"--to use his own pet phrase,--the visit of that spirited woman
had in various ways humiliated him. To sit in his own library, with an
intruding woman who not only was not afraid of him but despised him, to
sit before her patiently and be called "Bob Belcher," and a brute, and
not to have the privilege of kicking her out of doors, was the severest
possible trial of his equanimity. She left him so suddenly that he had
not had the opportunity to insult her, for he had fully intended to do
this before she retired. He had determined, also, as a matter of course,
that in regard to the public poor of Sevenoaks he would give all his
influence toward maintaining the existing state of things. The idea of
being influenced by a woman, particularly by a woman over whom he had no
influence, to change his policy with regard to anything, public or
private, was one against which all the brute within him rebelled.

In this state of mind, angry with himself for having tolerated one who
had so boldly and ruthlessly wounded his self-love, he had but one
resort. He could not confess his humiliation to his wife; and there was
no one in the world with whom he could hold conversation on the subject,
except his old confidant who came into the mirror when wanted, and
conveniently retired when the interview closed.

Rising from his chair, and approaching his mirror, as if he had been
whipped, he stood a full minute regarding his disgraced and speechless
image. "Are you Robert Belcher, Esquire, of Sevenoaks?" he inquired, at
length. "Are you the person who has been insulted by a woman? Look at
me, sir! Turn not away! Have you any constitutional objections to
telling me how you feel? Are you, sir, the proprietor of this house? Are
you the owner of yonder mill? Are you the distinguished person who
carries Sevenoaks in his pocket? How are the mighty fallen! And you,
sir, who have been insulted by a tailoress, can stand here, and look me
in the face, and still pretend to be a man! You are a scoundrel, sir--a
low, mean-spirited scoundrel, sir. You are nicely dressed, but you are a
puppy. Dare to tell me you are not, and I will grind you under my foot,
as I would grind a worm. Don't give me a word--not a word! I am not in a
mood to bear it!"

Having vented his indignation and disgust, with the fiercest facial
expression and the most menacing gesticulations, he became calm, and
proceeded:

"Benedict at the poor-house, hopelessly insane! Tell me now, and, mark
you, no lies here! Who developed his inventions? Whose money was risked?
What did it cost Benedict? Nothing. What did it cost Robert Belcher?
More thousands than Benedict ever dreamed of. Have you done your duty,
Robert Belcher? Ay, ay, sir! I believe you. Did you turn his head? No,
sir. I believe you; it is well! I have spent money for him--first and
last, a great deal of money for him; and any man or woman who disputes
me is a liar--a base, malignant liar! Who is still master of the
situation? Whose name is Norval? Whose are these Grampian Hills? Who
intends to go to the town-meeting to-morrow, and have things fixed about
as he wants them? Who will make Keziah Butterworth weep and howl with
anguish? Let Robert Belcher alone! Alone! Far in azure depths of space
(here Mr. Belcher extended both arms heavenward, and regarded his image
admiringly), far--far away! Well, you're a pretty good-looking man,
after all, and I'll let you off this time; but don't let me catch you
playing baby to another woman! I think you'll be able to take care of
yourself [nodding slowly.] By-by! Good-night!"

Mr. Belcher retired from the glass with two or three profound bows, his
face beaming with restored self-complacency, and, taking his chair, he
resumed his cigar. At this moment, there arose in his memory a single
sentence he had read in the warrant for the meeting of the morrow: "To
see if the town will take any steps for the improvement of the condition
of the poor, now supported at the public charge."

When he read this article of the warrant, posted in the public places of
the village, it had not impressed him particularly. Now, he saw Miss
Butterworth's hand in it. Evidently, Mr. Belcher was not the only man
who had been honored by a call from that philanthropic woman. As he
thought the matter over, he regretted that, for the sake of giving form
and force to his spite against her, he should be obliged to relinquish
the popularity he might have won by favoring a reformative measure. He
saw something in it, also, that might be made to add to Tom Buffum's
profits, but even this consideration weighed nothing against his desire
for personal revenge, to be exhibited in the form of triumphant personal
power.

He rose from his chair, walked his room, swinging his hands backward and
forward, casting furtive glances into his mirror, and then rang his
bell. He had arrived at a conclusion. He had fixed upon his scheme, and
was ready for work.

"Tell Phipps to come here," he said to the maid who responded to the
summons.

Phipps was his coachman, body-servant, table-waiter, pet, butt for his
jests, tool, man of all occasions. He considered himself a part of Mr.
Belcher's personal property. To be the object of his clumsy badinage,
when visitors were present and his master was particularly amiable, was
equivalent to an honorable public notice. He took Mr. Belcher's cast-off
clothes, and had them reduced in their dimensions for his own wearing,
and was thus always able to be nearly as well dressed and foppish as the
man for whom they were originally made. He was as insolent to others as
he was obsequious to his master--a flunky by nature and long education.

Phipps appeared.

"Well, Phipps, what are you here for?" inquired Mr. Belcher.

"I was told you wanted me, sir," looking doubtfully with his cunning
eyes into Mr. Belcher's face, as if questioning his mood.

"How is your health? You look feeble. Overwhelmed by your tremendous
duties? Been sitting up late along back? Eh? You rascal! Who's the happy
woman?"

Phipps laughed, and twiddled his fingers.

"You're a precious fellow, and I've got to get rid of you. You are
altogether too many for me. Where did you get that coat? It seems to me
I've seen something like that before. Just tell me how you do it, man. I
can't dress the way you do. Yes, Phipps, you're too many for me!"

Phipps smiled, aware that he was expected to make no reply.

"Phipps, do you expect to get up to-morrow morning?"

"Yes, sir."

"Oh, you do! Very well! See that you do."

"Yes, sir."

"And Phipps--"

"Yes, sir."

"Bring the grays and the light wagon to the door to-morrow morning at
seven o'clock."

"Yes, sir."

"And Phipps, gather all the old clothes about the house that you can't
use yourself, and tie 'em up in a bundle, and put 'em into the back of
the wagon. Mum is the word, and if Mrs. Belcher asks you any questions,
tell her I think of turning Sister of Charity."

Phipps snickered.

"And Phipps, make a basket of cold meat and goodies, and put in with the
clothes."

"Yes, sir."

"And Phipps, remember:--seven o'clock, sharp, and no soldiering."

"Yes, sir."

"And Phipps, here is a cigar that cost twenty-five cents. Do it up in a
paper, and lay it away. Keep it to remember me by."

This joke was too good to be passed over lightly, and so Phipps giggled,
took the cigar, put it caressingly to his nose, and then slipped it into
his pocket.

"Now make yourself scarce," said his master, and the man retired,
entirely conscious that the person he served had some rascally scheme on
foot, and heartily sympathetic with him in the project of its execution.

Promptly at seven the next morning, the rakish pair of trotters stood
before the door, with a basket and a large bundle in the back of the
rakish little wagon. Almost at the same moment, the proprietor came out,
buttoning his overcoat. Phipps leaped out, then followed his master into
the wagon, who, taking the reins, drove off at a rattling pace up the
long hill toward Tom Buffum's boarding-house. The road lay entirely
outside of the village, so that the unusual drive was not observed.

Arriving at the poor-house, Mr. Belcher gave the reins to his servant,
and, with a sharp rap upon the door with the butt of his whip, summoned
to the latch the red-faced and stuffy keeper. What passed between them,
Phipps did not hear, although he tried very hard to do so. At the close
of a half hour's buzzing conversation, Tom Buffum took the bundle from
the wagon, and pitched it into his doorway. Then, with the basket on his
arm, he and Mr. Belcher made their way across the street to the
dormitories and cells occupied by the paupers of both sexes and all ages
and conditions. Even the hard-hearted proprietor saw that which wounded
his blunted sensibilities; but he looked on with a bland face, and
witnessed the greedy consumption of the stale dainties of his own table.

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