Читать книгу Ten Nights in a Bar Room - T. S. Arthur - Страница 7

NIGHT THE FIRST.

THE “SICKLE AND SHEAF.”

Ten years ago, business required me to pass a day in Cedarville. It was late in the afternoon when the stage set me down at the “Sickle and Sheaf,” a new tavern, just opened by a new landlord, in a new house, built with the special end of providing “accommodations for man and beast.” As I stepped from the dusty old vehicle in which I had been jolted along a rough road for some thirty miles, feeling tired and hungry, the good-natured face of Simon Slade, the landlord, beaming as it did with a hearty welcome, was really a pleasant sight to see, and the grasp of his hand was like that of a true friend.

I felt as I entered the new and neatly furnished sitting-room adjoining the bar, that I had indeed found a comfortable resting-place after my wearisome journey.

“All as nice as a new pin,” said I, approvingly, as I glanced around the room, up to the ceiling—white as the driven snow—and over the handsomely carpeted floor. “Haven’t seen anything so inviting as this. How long have you been open?”

“Only a few months,” answered the gratified landlord. “But we are not yet in good going order. It takes time, you know, to bring everything into the right shape. Have you dined yet?”

“No. Everything looked so dirty at the stage-house, where we stopped to get dinner, that I couldn’t venture upon the experiment of eating. How long before your supper will be ready?”

“In an hour,” replied the landlord.

“That will do. Let me have a nice piece of tender steak, and the loss of dinner will soon be forgotten.”

“You shall have that, cooked fit for an alderman,” said the landlord. “I call my wife the best cook in Cedarville.”

As he spoke, a neatly dressed girl, about sixteen years of age, with rather an attractive countenance, passed through the room.

“My daughter,” said the landlord, as she vanished through the door. There was a sparkle of pride in the father’s eyes, and a certain tenderness in the tones of his voice, as he said “My daughter” that told me she was very dear to him.

“You are a happy man to have so fair a child,” said I, speaking more in compliment than with a careful choice of words.

“I am a happy man,” was the landlord’s smiling answer; his fair, round face, unwrinkled by a line of care or trouble, beaming with self-satisfaction. “I have always been a happy man, and always expect to be. Simon Slade takes the world as it comes, and takes it easy. My son, sir,” he added, as a boy, in his twelfth year, came in. “Speak to the gentleman.”

The boy lifted to mine a pair of deep blue eyes, from which innocence beamed, as he offered me his hand, and said, respectfully—”How do you do, sir?” I could not but remark the girl-like beauty of his face, in which the hardier firmness of the boy’s character was already visible.

“What is your name?” I asked.

“Frank, sir.”

“Frank is his name,” said the landlord—”we called him after his uncle. Frank and Flora—the names sound pleasant to the ears. But you know parents are apt to be a little partial and over fond.”

“Better that extreme than its opposite,” I remarked.

“Just what I always say. Frank, my son,”—the landlord spoke to the boy—”there’s some one in the bar. You can wait on him as well as I can.”

The lad glided from the room in ready obedience.

“A handy boy that, sir; a very handy boy. Almost as good, in the bar as a man. He mixes a toddy or a punch just as well as I can.”

“But,” I suggested, “are you not a little afraid of placing one so young in the way of temptation?”

“Temptation!” The open brows of Simon Slade contracted a little. “No, sir!” he replied, emphatically. “The till is safer under his care than it would be in that of one man in ten. The boy comes, sir, of honest parents. Simon Slade never wronged anybody out of a farthing.”

“Oh,” said I, quickly, “you altogether misapprehend me. I had no reference to the till, but to the bottle.”

The landlord’s brows were instantly unbent, and a broad smile circled over his good-humored face.

“Is that all? Nothing to fear, I can assure you. Frank has no taste for liquor, and might pour it out for mouths without a drop finding its way to his lips. Nothing to apprehend there, sir—nothing.”

I saw that further suggestions of danger would be useless, and so remained silent. The arrival of a traveler called away the landlord, and I was left alone for observation and reflection. The bar adjoined the neat sitting-room, and I could see, through the open door, the customer upon whom the lad was attending. He was a well-dressed young man—or rather boy, for he did not appear to be over nineteen years of age—with a fine, intelligent face, that was already slightly marred by sensual indulgence. He raised the glass to his lips, with a quick, almost eager motion, and drained it at a single draught.

“Just right,” said he, tossing a sixpence to the young bar-tender. “You are first rate at a brandy-toddy. Never drank a better in my life.”

The lad’s smiling face told that he was gratified by the compliment. To me the sight was painful, for I saw that this youthful tippler was on dangerous ground.

“Who is that young man in the bar?” I asked, a few minutes afterward, on being rejoined by the landlord.

Simon Slade stepped to the door and looked into the bar for a moment.

Two or three men were there by this time; but he was at no loss in answering my question.

“Oh, that’s a son of Judge Hammond, who lives in the large brick house as you enter the village. Willy Hammond, as everybody familiarly calls him, is about the finest young man in our neighborhood. There is nothing proud or put-on about him—nothing—even if his father is a judge, and rich into the bargain. Every one, gentle or simple, likes Willy Hammond. And then he is such good company. Always so cheerful, and always with a pleasant story on his tongue. And he’s so high-spirited withal, and so honorable. Willy Hammond would lose his right hand rather than be guilty of a mean action.”

“Landlord!” The voice came loud from the road in front of the house, and Simon Slade again left me to answer the demands of some new-comer. I went into the bar-room, in order to take a closer observation of Willy Hammond, in whom an interest, not unmingled with concern, had already been awakened in my mind. I found him engaged in a pleasant conversation with a plain-looking farmer, whose homely, terse, common sense was quite as conspicuous as his fine play of words and lively fancy. The farmer was a substantial conservative, and young Hammond a warm admirer of new ideas and the quicker adaptation of means to ends. I soon saw that his mental powers were developed beyond his years, while his personal qualities were strongly attractive. I understood better, after being a silent listener and observer for ten minutes, why the landlord had spoken of him so warmly.

“Take a brandy-toddy, Mr. H—?” said Hammond, after the discussion closed, good humoredly. “Frank, our junior bar-keeper here, beats his father, in that line.”

“I don’t care if I do,” returned the farmer; and the two passed up to the bar.

“Now, Frank, my boy, don’t belie my praises,” said the young man; “do your handsomest.”

“Two brandy-toddies, did you say?” Frank made inquiry with quite a professional air.

“Just what I did say; and let them be equal to Jove’s nectar.”

Pleased at this familiarity, the boy went briskly to his work of mixing the tempting compound, while Hammond looked on with an approving smile.

“There,” said the latter, as Frank passed the glasses across the counter, “if you don’t call that first-rate, you’re no judge.” And he handed one of them to the farmer, who tasted the agreeable draught, and praised its flavor. As before, I noticed that Hammond drank eagerly, like one athirst—emptying his glass without once taking it from his lips.

Soon after the bar-room was empty; and then I walked around the premises, in company with the landlord, and listened to his praise of everything and his plans and purposes for the future. The house, yard, garden, and out-buildings were in the most perfect order; presenting, in the whole, a model of a village tavern.

“Whatever I do, sir,” said the talkative Simon Slade, “I like to do well. I wasn’t just raised to tavern-keeping, you must know; but I am one who can turn his hand to almost any thing.”

“What was your business?” I inquired.

“I’m a miller, sir, by trade,” he answered—”and a better miller, though I say it myself, is not to be found in Bolton county. I’ve followed milling these twenty years, and made some little money. But I got tired of hard work, and determined to lead an easier life. So I sold my mill, and built this house with the money. I always thought I’d like tavern-keeping. It’s an easy life; and, if rightly seen after, one in which a man is sure to make money.”

“You were still doing a fair business with your mill?”

“Oh, yes. Whatever I do, I do right. Last year, I put by a thousand dollars above all expenses, which is not bad, I can assure you, for a mere grist mill. If the present owner comes out even, he’ll do well!”

“How is that?”

“Oh, he’s no miller. Give him the best wheat that is grown, and he’ll ruin it in grinding. He takes the life out of every grain. I don’t believe he’ll keep half the custom that I transferred with the mill.”

“A thousand dollars, clear profit, in so useful a business, ought to have satisfied you,” said I.

“There you and I differ,” answered the landlord. “Every man desires to make as much money as possible, and with the least labor. I hope to make two or three thousand dollars a year, over and above all expenses, at tavern-keeping. My bar alone ought to yield me that sum. A man with a wife and children very naturally tries to do as well by them as possible.”

“Very true; but,” I ventured to suggest, “will this be doing as well by them as if you had kept on at the mill?”

“Two or three thousand dollars a year against one thousand! Where are your figures, man?”

“There may be something beyond money to take into the account,” said I.

“What?” inquired Slade, with a kind of half credulity.

“Consider the different influences of the two callings in life—that of a miller and a tavern-keeper.”

“Well, say on.”

“Will your children be as safe from temptation here as in their former home?”

“Just as safe,” was the unhesitating answer. “Why not?”

I was about to speak of the alluring glass in the case of Frank, but remembering that I had already expressed a fear in that direction, felt that to do so again would be useless, and so kept silent.

“A tavern-keeper,” said Slade, “is just as respectable as a miller—in fact, the very people who used to call me ‘Simon’ or ‘Neighbor Dustycoat,’ now say ‘Landlord,’ or ‘Mr. Slade,’ and treat me in every way more as if I were an equal than ever they did before.”

“The change,” said I, “may be due to the fact of your giving evidence of possessing some means. Men are very apt to be courteous to those who have property. The building of the tavern has, without doubt, contributed to the new estimation in which you are held.”

“That isn’t all,” replied the landlord. “It is because I am keeping a good tavern, and thus materially advancing the interests of Cedarville, that some of our best people look at me with different eyes.”

“Advancing the interests of Cedarville! In what way?” I did not apprehend his meaning.

“A good tavern always draws people to a place, while a miserable old tumble-down of an affair, badly kept, such as we have had for years, as surely repels them. You can generally tell something about the condition of a town by looking at its taverns. If they are well kept, and doing a good business, you will hardly be wrong in the conclusion that the place is thriving. Why, already, since I built and opened the ‘Sickle and Sheaf,’ property has advanced over twenty per cent along the whole street, and not less than five new houses have been commenced.”

“Other causes, besides the simple opening of a new tavern, may have contributed to this result,” said I.

“None of which I am aware. I was talking with Judge Hammond only yesterday—he owns a great deal of ground on the street—and he did not hesitate to say, that the building and opening of a good tavern here had increased the value of his property at least five thousand dollars. He said, moreover, that he thought the people of Cedarville ought to present me with a silver pitcher; and that, for one, he would contribute ten dollars for that purpose.”

The ringing of the supper bell interrupted further conversation; and with the best of appetites, I took my way to the room, where a plentiful meal was spread. As I entered, I met the wife of Simon Slade, just passing out, after seeing that every thing was in order. I had not observed her before; and now could not help remarking that she had a flushed, excited countenance, as if she had been over a hot fire, and was both worried and fatigued. And there was, moreover, a peculiar expression of the mouth, never observed in one whose mind is entirely at ease—an expression that once seen is never forgotten. The face stamped itself instantly on my memory; and I can even now recall it with almost the original distinctness. How strongly it contrasted with that of her smiling, self-satisfied husband, who took his place at the head of his table with an air of conscious importance. I was too hungry to talk much, and so found greater enjoyment in eating than in conversation. The landlord had a more chatty guest by his side, and I left them to entertain each other, while I did ample justice to the excellent food with which the table was liberally provided.

After supper I went to the sitting-room, and remained there until the lamps were lighted. A newspaper occupied my time for perhaps half an hour; then the buzz of voices from the adjoining bar-room, which had been increasing for some time, attracted my attention, and I went in there to see and hear what was passing. The first person upon whom my eyes rested was young Hammond, who sat talking with a man older than himself by several years. At a glance, I saw that this man could only associate himself with Willy Hammond as a tempter. Unscrupulous selfishness was written all over his sinister countenance; and I wondered that it did not strike every one, as it did me, with instant repulsion. There could not be, I felt certain, any common ground of association, for two such persons, but the dead level of a village bar-room. I afterward learned, during the evening, that this man’s name was Harvey Green, and that he was an occasional visitor at Cedarville, remaining a few days, or a few weeks at a time, as appeared to suit his fancy, and having no ostensible business or special acquaintance with anybody in the village.

“There is one thing about him,” remarked Simon Slade, in answering some question that I put in reference to the man, “that I don’t object to; he has plenty of money, and is not at all niggardly in spending it. He used to come here, so he told me, about once in five or six months; but his stay at the miserably kept tavern, the only one then in Cedarville, was so uncomfortable, that he had pretty well made up his mind never to visit us again. Now, however, he has engaged one of my best rooms, for which he pays me by the year, and I am to charge him full board for the time he occupies it. He says that there is something about Cedarville that always attracts him; and that his health is better while here than it is anywhere except South during the winter season. He’ll never leave less than two or three hundred dollars a year in our village—there is one item, for you, of advantage to a place in having a good tavern.”

“What is his business?” I asked. “Is he engaged in any trading operations?”

The landlord shrugged his shoulders, and looked slightly mysterious, as he answered:

“I never inquire about the business of a guest. My calling is to entertain strangers. If they are pleased with my house, and pay my bills on presentation, I have no right to seek further. As a miller, I never asked a customer, whether he raised, bought, or stole his wheat. It was my business to grind it, and I took care to do it well. Beyond that, it was all his own affair. And so it will be in my new calling. I shall mind my own business and keep my own place.”

Besides young Hammond and this Harvey Green, there were in the bar-room, when I entered, four others besides the landlord. Among these was a Judge Lyman—so he was addressed—a man between forty and fifty years of age, who had a few weeks before received the Democratic nomination for member of Congress. He was very talkative and very affable, and soon formed a kind of centre of attraction to the bar-room circle. Among other topics of conversation that came up was the new tavern, introduced by the landlord, in whose mind it was, very naturally, the uppermost thought.

“The only wonder to me is,” said Judge Lyman, “that nobody had wit enough to see the advantage of a good tavern in Cedarville ten years ago, or enterprise enough to start one. I give our friend Slade the credit of being a shrewd, far-seeing man; and, mark my word for it, in ten years from to-day he will be the richest man in the county.”

“Nonsense—Ho! ho!” Simon Slade laughed outright. “The richest man! You forget Judge Hammond.”

“No, not even Judge Hammond, with all deference for our clever friend Willy,” and Judge Lyman smiled pleasantly on the young man.

“If he gets richer, somebody will be poorer!” The individual who tittered these words had not spoken before, and I turned to look at him more closely. A glance showed him to be one of a class seen in all bar-rooms; a poor, broken-down inebriate, with the inward power of resistance gone—conscious of having no man’s respect, and giving respect to none. There was a shrewd twinkle in his eyes, as he fixed them on Slade, that gave added force to the peculiar tone in which his brief but telling sentence was uttered. I noticed a slight contraction on the landlord’s ample forehead, the first evidence I had yet seen of ruffled feelings. The remark, thrown in so untimely (or timely, some will say), and with a kind of prophetic malice, produced a temporary pause in the conversation. No one answered or questioned the intruder, who, I could perceive, silently enjoyed the effect of his words. But soon the obstructed current ran on again.

“If our excellent friend, Mr. Slade,” said Harvey Green, “is not the richest man in Cedarville at the end of ten years, he will at least enjoy the satisfaction of having made his town richer.”

“A true word that,” replied Judge Lyman—”as true a word as ever was spoken. What a dead-and-alive place this has been until within the last few months. All vigorous growth had stopped, and we were actually going to seed.”

“And the graveyard, too,” muttered the individual who had before disturbed the self-satisfied harmony of the company, remarking upon the closing sentence of Harvey Green. “Come, landlord,” he added, as he strode across to the bar, speaking in a changed, reckless sort of a way, “fix me up a good hot whisky-punch, and do it right; and here’s another sixpence toward the fortune you are bound to make. It’s the last one left—not a copper more in my pockets,” and he turned them inside-out, with a half-solemn, half-ludicrous air. “I send it to keep company in your till with four others that have found their way into that snug place since morning, and which will be lonesome without their little friend.”

I looked at Simon Slade; his eyes rested on mine for a moment or two, and then sunk beneath my earnest gaze. I saw that his countenance flushed, and that his motions were slightly confused. The incident, it was plain, did not awaken agreeable thoughts. Once I saw his hand move toward the sixpence that lay upon the counter; but whether to push it back or draw it toward the till, I could not determine. The whisky-punch was in due time ready, and with it the man retired to a table across the room, and sat down to enjoy the tempting beverage. As he did so, the landlord quietly swept the poor unfortunate’s last sixpence into his drawer. The influence of this strong potation was to render the man a little more talkative. To the free conversation passing around him he lent an attentive ear, dropping in a word, now and then, that always told upon the company like a well-directed blow. At last, Slade lost all patience with him, and said, a little fretfully:

“Look here, Joe Morgan, if you will be ill-natured, pray go somewhere else, and not interrupt good feeling among gentlemen.”

“Got my last sixpence,” retorted Joe, turning his pockets inside-out again. “No more use for me here to-night. That’s the way of the world. How apt a scholar is our good friend Dustycoat, in this new school! Well, he was a good miller—no one ever disputed that—and it’s plain to see that he is going to make a good landlord. I thought his heart was a little too soft; but the indurating process has begun, and, in less than ten years, if it isn’t as hard as one of his old mill-stones, Joe Morgan is no prophet. Oh, you needn’t knit your brows so, friend Simon, we’re old friends; and friends are privileged to speak plain.”

“I wish you’d go home. You’re not yourself tonight,” said the landlord, a little coaxingly, for he saw that nothing was to be gained by quarreling with Morgan. “Maybe my heart is growing harder,” he added, with affected good-humor; “and it is time, perhaps. One of my weaknesses, I have heard even you say, was being too woman-hearted.”

“No danger of that now,” retorted Joe Morgan. “I’ve known a good many landlords in my time, but can’t remember one that was troubled with the disease that once afflicted you.”

Just at this moment the outer door was pushed open with a slow, hesitating motion; then a little pale face peered in, and a pair of soft blue eyes went searching about the room. Conversation was instantly hushed, and every face, excited with interest, turned toward the child, who had now stepped through the door. She was not over ten years of age; but it moved the heart to look upon the saddened expression of her young countenance, and the forced bravery therein, that scarcely overcame the native timidity so touchingly visible.

“Father!” I have never heard this word spoken in a voice that sent such a thrill along every nerve. It was full of sorrowful love—full of a tender concern that had its origin too deep for the heart of a child. As she spoke, the little one sprang across the room, and laying her hands upon the arm of Joe Morgan, lifted her eyes, that were ready to gush over with tears, to his face.

“Come father! won’t you come home?” I hear that low, pleading voice even now, and my heart gives a quicker throb. Poor child! Darkly shadowed was the sky that bent gloomily over thy young life.

Morgan arose, and suffered the child to lead him from the room. He seemed passive in her hands. I noticed that he thrust his fingers nervously into his pocket, and that a troubled look went over his face as they were withdrawn. His last sixpence was in the till of Simon Slade!

The first man who spoke was Harvey Green, and this not for a minute after the father and his child had vanished through the door.

“If I was in your place, landlord”—his voice was cold and unfeeling—”I’d pitch that fellow out of the bar-room the next time he stepped through the door. He’s no business here, in the first place; and, in the second, he doesn’t know how to behave himself. There’s no telling how much a vagabond like him injures a respectable house.”

“I wish he would stay away,” said Simon, with a perplexed air.

“I’d make him stay away,” answered Green.

“That may be easier said than done,” remarked Judge Lyman. “Our friend keeps a public-house, and can’t just say who shall or shall not come into it.”

“But such a fellow has no business here. He’s a good-for-nothing sot. If I kept a tavern, I’d refuse to sell him liquor.”

“That you might do,” said Judge Lyman; “and I presume your hint will not be lost on our friend Slade.”

“He will have liquor, so long as he can get a cent to buy it with,” remarked one of the company; “and I don’t see why our landlord here, who has gone to so much expense to fit up a tavern, shouldn’t have the sale of it as well as anybody else. Joe talks a little freely sometimes; but no one can say that he is quarrelsome. You’ve got to take him as he is, that’s all.”

“I am one,” retorted Harvey Green, with a slightly ruffled manner, “who is never disposed to take people as they are when they choose to render themselves disagreeable. If I was Mr. Slade, as I remarked in the beginning, I’d pitch that fellow into the road the next time he put his foot over my door step.”

“Not if I were present,” remarked the other, coolly.

Green was on his feet in a moment, and I saw, from the flash of his eyes, that he was a man of evil passions. Moving a pace or two in the direction of the other, he said sharply.

“What is that, sir?”

The individual against whom his anger was so suddenly aroused was dressed plainly, and had the appearance of a working man. He was stout and muscular.

“I presume you heard my words. They were spoken distinctly,” he replied, not moving from where he sat, nor seeming to be in the least disturbed. But there was a cool defiance in the tones of his voice and in the steady look of his eyes.

“You’re an impertinent fellow, and I’m half tempted to chastise you.”

Green had scarcely finished the sentence, ere he was lying full length upon the floor. The other had sprung upon him like a tiger, and with one blow from his heavy fist, struck him down as if he had been a child. For a moment or two, Green lay stunned and bewildered—then, starting up with a savage cry, that sounded more bestial than human, he drew a long knife from a concealed sheath, and attempted to stab his assailant, but the murderous purpose was not accomplished, for the other man, who had superior strength and coolness, saw the design, and with a well directed blow almost broke the arm of Green, causing the knife to leave his hand and glide far across the room.

“I’m half tempted to wring your neck off,” exclaimed the man, whose name was Lyon, now much excited, and seizing Green by the throat, he strangled him until his face grew black. “Draw a knife on me, ha! You murdering villain!” And he gripped him tighter.

Judge Lyman and the landlord now interfered, and rescued Green from the hands of his fully aroused antagonist. For some time they stood growling at each other, like two parted dogs struggling to get free, in order to renew the conflict, but gradually cooled off. In a little while Judge Lyman drew Green aside, and the two men left the bar-room to other. In the door, as they were retiring, the former slightly nodded to Willy Hammond, who soon followed them, going into the sitting room, and from thence, as I could perceive, upstairs to an apartment above.

“Not after much good,” I heard Lyon mutter to himself. “If Judge Hammond don’t look a little closer after that boy of his, he’ll be sorry for it, that’s all.”

“Who is this Green?” I asked of Lyon, finding myself alone with him in the bar-room soon after.

“A blackleg, I take it,” was his unhesitating answer.

“Does Judge Lyman suspect his real character?”

“I don’t know anything about that, but I wouldn’t be afraid to bet ten dollars, that if you could look in upon them now, you would find cards in their hands.”

“What a school, and what teachers for the youth who just went with them!” I could not help remarking.

“Willy Hammond?”

“Yes.”

“You may well say that. What can his father be thinking about to leave him exposed to such influences!”

“He’s one of the few who are in raptures about this tavern, because its erection has slightly increased the value of his property about here, but if he is not the loser of fifty per cent for every one gained, before ten years go by, I’m very much in error.”

“How so?”

“It will prove, I fear, the open door to ruin to his son.”

“That’s bad,” said I.

“Bad! It is awful to think of. There is not a finer young man in the country, nor one with better mind and heart, than Willy Hammond. So much the sadder will be his destruction. Ah, sir! this tavern-keeping is a curse to any place.”

“But I thought, just now, that you spoke in favor of letting even the poor drunkard’s money go into the landlord’s till, in order to encourage his commendable enterprise in opening so good a tavern.”

“We all speak with covert irony sometimes,” answered the man, “as I did then. Poor Joe Morgan! He is an old and early friend of Simon Slade. They were boys together, and worked as millers under the same roof for many years. In fact, Joe’s father owned the mill, and the two learned their trade with him. When old Morgan died, the mill came into Joe’s hands. It was in rather a worn-out condition, and Joe went in debt for some pretty thorough repairs and additions of machinery. By and by, Simon Slade, who was hired by Joe to run the mill, received a couple of thousand dollars at the death of an aunt. This sum enabled him to buy a share in the mill, which Morgan was very glad to sell in order to get clear of his debt. Time passed on, and Joe left his milling interest almost entirely in the care of Slade, who, it must be said in his favor, did not neglect the business. But it somehow happened—I will not say unfairly—that at the end of ten years, Joe Morgan no longer owned a share in the mill. The whole property was in the hands of Slade. People did not much wonder at this; for while Slade was always to be found at the mill, industrious, active, and attentive to customers, Morgan was rarely seen on the premises. You would oftener find him in the woods, with a gun over his shoulder, or sitting by a trout brook, or lounging at the tavern. And yet everybody liked Joe, for he was companionable, quick-witted, and very kind-hearted. He would say sharp things, sometimes, when people manifested little meannesses; but there was so much honey in his gall, that bitterness rarely predominated.

“A year or two before his ownership in the mill ceased, Morgan married one of the sweetest girls in our town—Fanny Ellis, that was her name, and she could have had her pick of the young men. Everybody affected to wonder at her choice; and yet nobody really did wonder, for Joe was an attractive young man, take him as you would, and just the one to win the heart of a girl like Fanny. What if he had been seen, now and then, a little the worse for drink! What if he showed more fondness for pleasure than for business! Fanny did not look into the future with doubt or fear. She believed that her love was strong enough to win him from all evil allurements: and, as for this world’s goods, they were matters in which her maiden fancies rarely busied themselves.

“Well. Dark days came for her, poor soul! And yet, in all the darkness of her earthly lot, she has never, it is said, been anything but a loving, forbearing, self-denying wife to Morgan. And he—fallen as he is, and powerless in the grasp of the monster intemperance—has never, I am sure, hurt her with a cruel word. Had he added these, her heart would, long ere this, have broken. Poor Joe Morgan! Poor Fanny! Oh, what a curse is this drink!”

The man, warming with his theme, had spoken with an eloquence I had not expected from his lips. Slightly overmastered by his feelings, he paused for a moment or two, and then added:

“It was unfortunate for Joe, at least, that Slade sold his mill, and became a tavern-keeper; for Joe had a sure berth, and wages regularly paid. He didn’t always stick to his work, but would go off on a spree every now and then; but Slade bore with all this, and worked harder himself to make up for his hand’s shortcoming. And no matter what deficiency the little store-room at home might show, Fanny Morgan never found her meal barrel empty without knowing where to get it replenished.

“But, after Slade sold his mill, a sad change took place. The new owner was little disposed to pay wages to a hand who would not give him all his time during working hours; and in less than two weeks from the day he took possession, Morgan was discharged. Since then, he has been working about at one odd job and another, earning scarcely enough to buy the liquor it requires to feed the inordinate thirst that is consuming him. I am not disposed to blame Simon Slade for the wrong-doing of Morgan; but here is a simple fact in the case—if he had kept on at the useful calling of a miller, he would have saved this man’s family from want, suffering, and a lower deep of misery than that into which they have already fallen. I merely state it, and you can draw your own conclusions. It is one of the many facts, on the other side of this tavern question, which it will do no harm to mention. I have noted a good many facts besides, and one is, that before Slade opened the ‘Sickle and Sheaf,’ he did all in his power to save his early friend from the curse of intemperance; now he has become his tempter. Heretofore, it was his hand that provided the means for his family to live in some small degree of comfort; now he takes the poor pittance the wretched man earns, and dropping it in his till, forgets the wife and children at home who are hungry for the bread this money should have purchased.

“Joe Morgan, fallen as he is, sir, is no fool. His mind sees quickly yet; and he rarely utters a sentiment that is not full of meaning. When he spoke of Blade’s heart growing as hard in ten years as one of his old mill-stones, he was not uttering words at random, nor merely indulging in a harsh sentiment, little caring whether it were closely applicable or not. That the indurating process had begun, he, alas! was too sadly conscious.”

The landlord had been absent from the room for some time. He left soon after Judge Lyman, Harvey Green, and Willy Hammond withdrew, and I did not see him again during the evening. His son Frank was left to attend at the bar; no very hard task, for not more than half a dozen called in to drink from the time Morgan left until the bar was closed.

While Mr. Lyon was giving me the brief history just recorded, I noticed a little incident that caused a troubled feeling to pervade my mind. After a man, for whom the landlord’s son had prepared a fancy drink, had nearly emptied his glass, he set it down upon the counter and went out. A tablespoonful or two remained in the glass, and I noticed Frank, after smelling at it two or three times, put the glass to his lips and sip the sweetened liquor. The flavor proved agreeable; for, after tasting it, he raised the glass again and drained every drop.

“Frank!” I heard a low voice, in a warning tone, pronounce the name, and glancing toward a door partly open, that led from the inside of the bar to the yard, I saw the face of Mrs. Slade. It had the same troubled expression I had noticed before, but now blended with anxiety.

The boy went out at the call of his mother; and when a new customer entered, I noticed that Flora, the daughter, came in to wait upon him. I noticed, too, that while she poured out the liquor, there was a heightened color on her face, in which I fancied that I saw a tinge of shame. It is certain that she was not in the least gracious to the person on whom she was waiting; and that there was little heart in her manner of performing the task.

Ten o’clock found me alone and musing in the barroom over the occurrences of the evening. Of all the incidents, that of the entrance of Joe Morgan’s child kept the most prominent place in my thoughts. The picture of that mournful little face was ever before me; and I seemed all the while to hear the word “Father,” uttered so touchingly, and yet with such a world of childish tenderness. And the man, who would have opposed the most stubborn resistance to his fellow-men, had they sought to force him from the room, going passively, almost meekly out, led by that little child—I could not, for a time, turn my thoughts from the image thereof! And then thought bore me to the wretched home, back to which the gentle, loving child had taken her father, and my heart grew faint in me as imagination busied itself with all the misery there.

And Willy Hammond. The little that I had heard and seen of him greatly interested me in his favor. Ah! upon what dangerous ground was he treading. How many pitfalls awaited his feet—how near they were to the brink of a fearful precipice, down which to fall was certain destruction. How beautiful had been his life-promise! How fair the opening day of his existence! Alas! the clouds were gathering already, and the low rumble of the distant thunder presaged the coming of a fearful tempest. Was there none to warn him of the danger? Alas! all might now come too late, for so few who enter the path in which his steps were treading will hearken to friendly counsel, or heed the solemn warning. Where was he now? This question recurred over and over again. He had left the bar-room with Judge Lyman and Green early in the evening, and had not made his appearance since. Who and what was Green? And Judge Lyman, was he a man of principle? One with whom it was safe to trust a youth like Willy Hammond?

While I mused thus, the bar-room door opened, and a man past the prime of life, with a somewhat florid face, which gave a strong relief to the gray, almost white hair that, suffered to grow freely, was pushed back, and lay in heavy masses on his coat collar, entered with a hasty step. He was almost venerable in appearance; yet there was in his dark, quick eyes the brightness of unquenched loves, the fires of which were kindled at the altars of selfishness and sensuality. This I saw at a glance. There was a look of concern on his face, as he threw his eyes around the bar-room; and he seemed disappointed, I thought, at finding it empty.

“Is Simon Slade here?”

As I answered in the negative, Mrs. Slade entered through the door that opened from the yard, and stood behind the counter.

“Ah, Mrs. Slade! Good evening, madam!” he said.

“Good evening, Judge Hammond.”

“Is your husband at home?”

“I believe he is,” answered Mrs. Slade. “I think he is somewhere about the house.”

“Ask him to step here, will you?”

Mrs. Slade went out. Nearly five minutes went by, during which time Judge Hammond paced the floor of the bar-room uneasily. Then the landlord made his appearance. The free, open, manly, self-satisfied expression of his countenance, which I had remarked on alighting from the stage in the afternoon, was gone. I noticed at once the change, for it was striking. He did not look steadily into the face of Judge Hammond, who asked him, in a low voice, if his son had been there during the evening.

“He was here,” said Slade.

“When?”

“He came in some time after dark and stayed, maybe, an hour.”

“And hasn’t been here since?”

“It’s nearly two hours since he left the bar-room,” replied the landlord.

Judge Hammond seemed perplexed. There was a degree of evasion in Slade’s manner that he could hardly help noticing. To me it was all apparent, for I had lively suspicions that made my observation acute.

Judge Hammond crossed his arms behind him, and took three or four strides about the floor.

“Was Judge Lyman here to-night?” he then asked.

“He was,” answered Slade.

“Did he and Willy go out together?”

The question seemed an unexpected one for the landlord. Slade appeared slightly confused, and did not answer promptly.

“I—I rather think they did,” he said, after a brief hesitation.

“Ah, well! Perhaps he is at Judge Lyman’s. I will call over there.”

And Judge Hammond left the bar-room.

“Would you like to retire, sir?” said the landlord, now turning to me, with a forced smile—I saw that it was forced.

“If you please,” I answered.

He lit a candle and conducted me to my room, where, overwearied with the day’s exertion, I soon fell asleep, and did not awake until the sun was shining brightly into my windows.

I remained at the village a portion of the day, but saw nothing of the parties in whom the incidents of the previous evening had awakened a lively interest. At four o’clock I left in the stage, and did not visit Cedarville again for a year.