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CHAPTER XVI
PRACTICAL TEMPERANCE REFORM
The small town of Durford was not immune from the curse of drink: there was no doubt about that. Other forms of viciousness there were in plenty; but the nine saloons did more harm than all the rest of the evil influences put together, and Maxwell, though far from being a fanatic, was doing much in a quiet way to neutralize their bad influence. He turned the Sunday School room into a reading room during the week days, organized a gymnasium, kept watch of the younger men individually, 187 and offered as best he could some chance for the expression of the gregarious instinct which drew them together after the work of the day was over. In the face of his work in these directions, it happened that a venturesome and enterprising saloon-keeper bought a vacant property adjacent to the church, and opened up an aggressive business—much to Maxwell’s dismay.
Among the women of the parish there was a “Ladies’ Temperance League,” of which Mrs. Burke was president. They held quarterly meetings, and it was at one of the meetings held at Thunder Cliff, and at which Mrs. Burke presided, that she remarked severely:
“Mrs. Sapley, you’re out of order. There’s a motion before the house, and I’ve got something to say about it myself. Mrs. Perkins, as Mrs. Maxwell was unable to be present, will you kindly take the chair, or anything else you can lay your hands on, and I’ll say what I’ve got to say.”
Mrs. Perkins took Mrs. Burke’s place as the president, while Mrs. Burke rubbed her glasses in an impatient way; and having adjusted them, began in a decided tone from which there was meant to be no appeal:
“The fact is, ladies, we’re not gettin’ down to business 188 as we ought to, if we are to accomplish anything. We’ve been singing hymns, and recitin’ lovely poems, and listenin’ to reports as to how money spent for liquor would pay off the national debt; and we’ve been sayin’ prayers, and pledgin’ ourselves not to do things none of us ever was tempted to do, or thought of doin’, and wearin’ ribbons, and attendin’ conventions, and talkin’ about influencin’ legislation at Washington, and eatin’ sandwiches, and drinkin’ weak tea, and doin’ goodness knows what; but we’ve not done a blessed thing to stop men drinkin’ right here in Durford and breakin’ the town law; you know that well enough.”
Mrs. Burke paused for breath after this astounding revolutionary statement, and there was a murmur of scandalized dissent from the assembled ladies at this outspoken expression on the part of the honorable president of the Parish Guild.
“No,” she continued emphatically, “don’t you fool yourselves. If we can’t help matters right here where we live, then there’s no use havin’ imitation church sociables, and goin’ home thinkin’ we’ve helped the temperance cause, and callin’ everybody else bad names who don’t exactly agree with us.”
Again there were symptoms of open rebellion against this traitorous heresy on the part of the plainspoken 189 president; but she was not to be easily silenced; so she continued:
“Men have got to go somewheres when their work is over, and have a good time, and I believe that we won’t accomplish anything until we fix up a nice, attractive set of rooms with games, and give ’em something to drink.”
Cries of “Oh! Oh! Oh!” filled the room.
“I didn’t say whiskey, did I? Anybody would think I’d offered to treat you, the way you receive my remarks. Now we can’t get the rooms right off, ’cause we can’t yet afford to pay the rent of ’em. But there’s one thing we can do. There’s Silas Bingham—the new man. He’s gone and opened a saloon within about a hundred feet of the church, and he’s sellin’ liquor to children and runnin’ a slot machine besides. It’s all against the law; but if you think the village trustees are goin’ to do anythin’ to enforce the law, you’re just dead wrong, every one of you. The trustees are most of ’em in it for graft, and they ’aint goin’ to close no saloon when it’s comin’ election day ’for long, not if Bingham serves cocktails between the hymns in church. Maybe the trustees’d come to church better if he did. Maybe you think I’m usin’ strong language; but it’s true all the same, and you know it’s true. Silas Bingham’s move 190 is a sassy challenge to us: are we goin’ to lie down under it?”
“I must say that I’m painfully surprised at you, Mrs. Burke,” Mrs. Burns began. “You surely can’t forget what wonderful things the League has accomplished in Virginia and–”
“Yes,” Mrs. Burke interrupted, “but you see Durford ’aint in Virginia so far as heard from, and it’s our business to get up and hustle right here where we live. Did you think we were tryin’ to reform Virginia or Alaska by absent treatment?”
Mrs. Sapley could not contain herself another moment; so, rising to her feet excitedly she sputtered:
“I do not agree with you, Mrs. Burke; I do not agree with you at all. Our meetings have been very inspiring and helpful to us all, I am perfectly sure; very uplifting and encouraging; and I am astonished that you should speak as you do.”
“I’m very glad you’ve found them so, Mrs. Sapley. I don’t drink myself, and I don’t need no encouragin’ and upliftin’. It’s the weak man that drinks who needs encouragin’ and upliftin’; and he wouldn’t come near one of our meetin’s any more than a bantam rooster would try to hatch turtles from moth-balls. We’ve got to clear Silas Bingham from off the church steps.” 191
“Well,” Mrs. Burns inquired, “what do you propose to do about it, if I may be allowed to inquire?”
“Do? The first thing I propose to do is to interview Silas Bingham myself privately, and see what I can do with him. Perhaps I won’t accomplish nothin’; but I’m goin’ to try, anyway, and make him get out of that location.”
“You can, if anybody can,” Mrs. Sapley remarked.
“Thank you for the compliment, Mrs. Sapley. Now Mrs. President, I move, sir—that is, madam—that the parish League appoints me to interview Bingham.”
The motion was duly seconded and passed, notwithstanding some mild protests from the opposition, and Mrs. Burke resumed her place as presiding officer of the meeting. Then she continued:
“Excuse me; I forgot the previous question which somebody moved. Shall we have lettuce or chicken sandwiches at our next meetin’? You have heard the question. Those in favor of chicken please say aye. Ah! The ayes have the chicken, and the chicken is unanimously carried. Any more business to come before the meetin’? If not, we’ll proceed to carry out the lit’ary program arranged by Miss Perkins. Then 192 we’ll close this meetin’ by singin’ the 224th hymn. Don’t forget the basket by the door.”
Silas Bingham was an undersized, timid, pulpy soul, with a horizontal forehead, watery blue eyes, and a receding chin. Out of “office hours” he looked like a meek solicitor for a Sunday School magazine. One bright morning just as he had finished sweeping out the saloon and was polishing the brass rod on the front of the bar, Mrs. Burke walked in, and extended her hand to the astonished bar-keeper, whose chin dropped from sheer amazement. She introduced herself in the most cordial and sympathetic of tones, saying:
“How do you do, Mr. Bingham? I haven’t had the pleasure of meetin’ you before; but I always make it a point to call on strangers when they come to town. It must be awful lonesome when you first arrive and don’t know a livin’ soul. I hope your wife is tolerable well.”
Bingham gradually pulled himself together and turned very red, as he replied:
“Thanks! But my wife doesn’t live here. It’s awful kind of you, I’m sure; but you’ll find my wife in the third house beyond the bakery, down two 193 blocks—turn to the right. She’ll be glad to see you.”
“That’s good,” Hepsey responded, “but you see I don’t have much to do on Thursdays, and I’ll just have a little visit with you, now I’m here. Fine day, isn’t it.”
Mrs. Burke drew up a chair and sat down, adjusted her feet comfortably to the rung of another chair, and pulled out her knitting from her work-bag, much to the consternation of the proprietor of the place.
“How nice you’ve got things fixed up, Mr. Bingham,” Hepsey remarked, gazing serenely at the seductive variety of bottles and glasses, and the glare of mirrors behind the bar. “Nothin’ like havin’ a fine lookin’ place to draw trade. Is business prosperin’ now-a-days?”
Silas turned three shades redder, and stammered badly as he replied:
“Yes, I’m doin’ as well as I can expect—er—I suppose.”
“Probably as well as your customers are doin’, I should imagine? You don’t need to get discouraged. It takes time to work up a trade like yours in a nice, decent neighborhood like this.”
Silas stared hard at the unwelcome intruder, glancing apprehensively at the door from which several customers had already turned away when, through the 194 glass, they had caught sight of Mrs. Burke. He was desperately ill at ease, and far from responding cordially to Hepsey’s friendly advances; and his nervousness increased as his patrons continually retreated, occasionally grinning derisively at him through the glass in the door.
“If you don’t mind my sayin’ it, Mrs. Burke, I think you’d be a lot more comfortable at my house than you are here.”
“Oh, I’m perfectly comfortable, thanks; perfectly comfortable. Don’t you worry a bit about me.”
“But this is a saloon, and it ’aint just what you might call respectable for ladies to be sittin’ in a saloon, now, is it?”
“Why not?”
The question was so sudden, sharp and unexpected that Silas jumped and almost knocked over a bottle of gin, and then stared in silent chagrin at his guest, his nervous lips moving without speech.
“I don’t see,” Hepsey continued, “just why the men should have all the fun, and then when a woman takes to enjoyin’ herself say that it isn’t respectable. What’s the difference, I’d like to know? This is a right cheerful place, and I feel just like stayin’ as long as I want to. There’s no law against a woman goin’ to a saloon, is there? I saw Jane Dwire come 195 out of here Saturday night. To be sure, Jane ’aint just what you’d call a ‘society’ lady, as you might say; but as long as I behave myself I don’t see why I should go.”
“But, ma’am,” Silas protested in wrathful desperation, “I must ask you to go. You’ll hurt my trade if you stay here any longer.”
“Hurt your trade! Nonsense! You aren’t half as polite as I thought you were. I’m awful popular with the gentlemen. You ought to be payin’ me a commission to sit here and entertain your customers, instead of insinuatin’ that I ’aint welcome. Ah! Here comes Martin Crowfoot. Haven’t seen Martin in the longest time.”
Martin slouched in and reached the bar and ordered before he caught sight of Mrs. Burke. He was just raising the glass to his lips when Hepsey stepped up briskly, and extending her hand, exclaimed:
“How do you do, Martin? How are the folks at home? Awful glad to see you.”
Martin stared vacantly at Mrs. Burke, dropped his glass, and muttered incoherently. Then he bolted hastily from the place without paying for his drink.
Bingham was now getting a bit hysterical over the situation, and was about to make another vigorous protest, when Hiram Green entered and called for 196 some beer. Again Hepsey extended her hand cordially, and Hiram jumped as if he had seen a ghost—for they had been friendly for years.
“Hepsey Burke, what in the name of all that’s decent are you doin’ in a place like this?” he demanded when he could get his breath. “Don’t you know you’ll ruin your reputation if you’re seen sittin’ in a saloon?”
“Oh, don’t let that worry you, Hiram, My reputation’d freeze a stroke of lightnin’. You don’t seem to be worryin’ much about your own reputation.”
“Oh well, a man can do a lot of things a woman can’t, without losin’ his reputation.”
For an instant the color flamed into Mrs. Burke’s face as she retorted hotly:
“Yes, there’s the whole business. A man can drink, and knock the seventh commandment into a cocked hat; and then when he wants to settle down and get married he demands a wife as white as snow. If he gets drunk, it’s a lark. If she gets drunk, it’s a crime. But I didn’t come here to preach or hold a revival, and as for my welfare and my reputation, Mr. Bingham and I was just havin’ a pleasant afternoon together when you came in and interrupted us. He’s awful nice when you get to know him real intimate. Now, Hiram, I hate to spoil your fun, and you do 197 look a bit thirsty. Suppose you have a lemonade on me, if you’re sure it won’t go to your head. It isn’t often that we get out like this together. Lemonades for two, Mr. Bingham; and make Hiram’s real sweet.”
Mrs. Burke enjoyed hugely the disgust and the grimaces with which Green swallowed the syrupy mixture. He then beat a hasty retreat down the street. For two hours Hepsey received all who were courageous enough to venture in, with most engaging smiles and cordial handshakes, until Silas was bordering on madness. Finally he emerged from the bar and mustered up sufficient courage to threaten:
“Mrs. Burke, if you don’t quit, I’ll send for the police,” he blustered.
Hepsey gazed calmly at her victim and replied:
“I wouldn’t, if I was in your place.”
“Well then, I give you fair warning I’ll put you out myself if you don’t go peaceable in five minutes.”
“No, Silas; you’re wrong as usual. You can’t put me out of here until I’m ready to go. I could wring you out like a mop, and drop you down a knot-hole, and nobody’d be the wiser.”
The door now opened slowly and a small girl, miserably clad, entered the saloon. Her head was covered 198 with a worn, soiled shawl. From underneath the shawl she produced a battered tin pail and placed it on the bar with the phlegmatic remark, “Pa wants a quart of beer.”
Mrs. Burke looked at the girl and then at Bingham, and then back at the girl inquiringly.
“Are you in the habit of gettin’ beer here, child?”
“Sure thing!” the girl replied, cheerfully.
“How old are you?”
“Ten, goin’ on eleven.”
“And you sell it to her?” Hepsey asked, turning to Bingham.
“Oh, it’s for her father. He sends for it.” He frowned at the child and she quickly disappeared, leaving the can behind her.
“Does he? But I thought you said that a saloon was no place for a woman; and surely it can’t be a decent place for a girl under age. Now my friend, I’ve got somethin’ to say to you.”
“You are the very devil and all,” Silas remarked.
“Thanks, Silas. The devil sticks to his job, anyway; and owin’ to the likes of you he wins out, nine times out of ten. Now will you clear out of this location, or won’t you?”
“Another day like this would send me to the lunatic asylum.” 199
“Then I’ll be around in the mornin’ at six-thirty sharp.”
“You just get out of here,” he threatened.
“If you promise to clear out yourself within three days.”
“I guess I’d clear out of Heaven itself to get rid of you.”
“Very well; and if you are still here Saturday afternoon, ten of us women will come and sit on your steps until you go. A woman can’t vote whether you shall be allowed to entice her men-folk into a place like this, and at the very church door; but the average woman can be mighty disagreeable when she tries.”
Silas Bingham had a good business head: he reckoned up the costs—and cleared out.
CHAPTER XVII
NOTICE TO QUIT
Before the year was over Mrs. Betty had become popular with Maxwell’s parishioners through her unfailing good-nature, cordiality and persistent optimism. Even Mrs. Nolan, who lived down by the bridge, and made rag carpets, and suffered from chronic dyspepsia, remarked to Mrs. Burke that she thought the parson’s wife was very nice “’cause she ’aint a bit better than any of the rest of us,”—which tribute to Mrs. Betty’s tact made Mrs. Burke smile and look pleased. All the young 201 men and girls of the parish simply adored her, and it was marvelous how she managed to keep in touch with all the guilds, do her own housework, and learn to know everyone intimately. Hepsey warned her that she was attempting to do too much.
“The best parson’s wife,” she said, “is the one who makes the rest work, while she attends to her own household, and keeps her health. Her business is not to do the work of the parson, but to look after him, keep him well nourished, and cheer him up a little bit when he is tempted to take the next trolley for Timbuctoo.”
The retort was so tempting that Mrs. Betty could not help saying:
“There’s not a person in this town who does so much for others as you do, and who makes so little fuss about it. It’s the force of your example that has led me astray, you see.”
“Hm!” Hepsey replied. “I’m glad you called my attention to it. I shall try to break myself of the habit at once.”
As for Maxwell, his practical helpfulness in forwarding the social life of the place, without in the least applying that phase of his activities as a lever for spiritual upheavals, and his ready sympathy for and interest in the needs and doings of young and old, 202 irrespective of class or caste, gradualy reaped for him the affection and respect of all sorts and conditions. In fact, the year had been a pleasant one for him, and was marred by only one circumstance, the continued and growing hostility of his Senior Warden, Mr. Bascom. From the first, he had been distinctly unfriendly towards his rector; but soon after Maxwell’s marriage, his annoying opposition was quite open and pronounced, and the weight of his personal influence was thrown against every move which Maxwell made towards the development of the parish life and work.
To those more “in the know” than the Maxwells themselves, it was evident that a certain keen aggressiveness evinced by the Senior Warden was foreign to his phlegmatic, brooding character, and it was clear to them that the actively malicious virus was being administered by the disappointed Virginia. That she was plotting punishment, in revenge for wounded amour propre, was clear to the initiated, who were apprehensive of the bomb she was evidently preparing to burst over the unconscious heads of the rector and his wife. But what could her scheme be?
Gradually Mrs. Burke noticed that Betty began to show fatigue and anxiety, and was losing the freshness of her delicate color; while Donald had become silent and reserved, and wore a worried look which 203 was quite unnatural to him. Something was going wrong; of that she felt sure; but observant though she was, she failed to trace the trouble to its source.
Matters came to a crisis one day when Maxwell was informed that some one was waiting to see him in the parlor. The visitor was dressed in very pronounced clothes, and carried himself with a self-assertive swagger. Maxwell had seen him in Bascom’s office, and knew who was waiting for him long before he reached the parlor, by the odor of patchouli which penetrated to the hall.
“Good morning, Mr. Nelson,” said Maxwell. “Did you wish to see me?”
“Yes, I did, Mr. Maxwell, and I am sure it is a great pleasure.”
The man seated himself comfortably in a large chair, put the tips of his fingers together, and gazed about the room with an expression of pleased patronage.
“Very pretty home you have here,” he remarked suavely.
“Yes,” Maxwell replied. “We manage to make ourselves comfortable. Did you wish to see me on business?”
“Oh yes,” the lawyer replied, “a mere technicality. I represent the firm of Bascom & Nelson, or rather I 204 should say I am Mr. Bascom’s legal agent just at present, as I have not yet been admitted as his partner–”
The man stopped, smirked, and evidently relished prolonging his interview with Maxwell, who was getting impatient. Maxwell drew his watch from his pocket, and there was a look in his eyes which made the lawyer proceed:
“The fact is, Rector, that I came to see you on a matter of business about the rectory—as Mr. Bascom’s agent.”
“Will you kindly state it?”
“It concerns the use of this house.”
“In what way? This is the rectory of the church, and the rental of it is part of my salary.”
“You are mistaken. Mr. Bascom owns the house, and you are staying here merely on sufferance.”
For a moment Maxwell was too astonished to speak; then he began:
“Mr. Bascom owns this house? What do you mean? The house is part of the property of the church.”
“You are mistaken, my friend.”
“You will kindly not repeat that form of address, and explain what you mean,” replied Maxwell heatedly. 205
“Come, come; there’s no use in losing your temper, my dear rector,” retorted Nelson offensively.
“You have just two minutes to explain yourself, sir; and I strongly advise you to improve the opportunity, before I put you out of this house.’”
Nelson, like most bullies, was a coward, and evidently concluded that he would take no risks. He continued:
“As I said before, Sylvester Bascom practically owns this house. It does not belong to the church property. The Episcopals made a big bluff at buying it years ago, and made a very small payment in cash; Bascom took a mortgage for the rest. The interest was paid regularly for a while, and then payments began to fall off. As you have reason to know, Bascom is a generous and kind-hearted man, who would not for the world inconvenience his rector, and so he has allowed the matter to go by default, until the back interest amounts to a considerable sum. Of course the mortgage is long past due, and as he needs the money, he has commissioned me to see you and inform you that he is about to foreclose, and to ask you to vacate the premises as soon as you conveniently can. I hope that I make myself reasonably clear.”
In a perfectly steady voice Maxwell replied:
“What you say is clear enough; whether it is true 206 is another matter. I will see Mr. Bascom at once, and ask for his own statement of the case.”
“I don’t think it necessary to see him, as he has expressly authorized me to act for him in the case.”
“Then I suppose you came her to serve the notice of ejectment on me.”
“Oh, we won’t use such strong language as that. I came here merely to tell you that the house must be vacated soon as possible. Mr. Bascom has gone to New York on business and will not be back for two weeks. Meantime he wishes the house vacated, so that he can rent it to other parties.”
“When does the Senior Warden propose to eject his rector, if I may be allowed to ask?”
“Oh, there is no immediate hurry. Any time this week will do.”
“What does he want for this place?”
“I believe he expects fifteen dollars a month.”
“Well, of course that is prohibitive. Tell Mr. Bascom that we will surrender the house on Wednesday, and that we are greatly indebted to him for allowing us to occupy it rent-free for so long a time.”
As Donald showed the objectionable visitor out of the house, he caught sight of Hepsey Burke walking towards it. He half hoped she would pass by, but with a glance of suspicion and barely civil greeting 207 to Nelson as he walked away, she came on, and with a friendly nod to Maxwell entered the rectory.
“I’ve just been talkin’ to Mrs. Betty for her good,” she remarked. “I met her in town, lookin’ as peaked as if she’d been fastin’ double shifts, and I had a notion to come in and complete the good work on yourself.”
Maxwell’s worried face told its own story. He was so nonplused by the bolt just dropped from the blue that he could find no words of responsive raillery wherewith to change the subject.
Hepsey led the way to the parlor and seated herself, facing him judicially. In her quick mind the new evidence soon crystallized into proof of her already half-formed suspicions. She came straight to the point.
“Is Bascom making you any trouble? If he is, say so, ’cause I happen to have the whip-hand so far as he’s concerned. That Nelson’s nothin’ but a tool of his, and a dull tool at that.”
“He’s an objectionable person, I must say,” remarked Maxwell, and hesitated to trust himself further.
Mrs. Burke gazed at Maxwell for some time in silence and then began:
“You look about done up—I don’t want to be pryin’, 208 but I guess you’d better own up. Something’s the matter.”
“I am just worried and anxious, and I suppose I can’t help showing it,” he replied wearily.
“So you’re worried, are you. Now don’t you get the worried habit; if it makes a start it will grow on you till you find yourself worryin’ for fear the moon won’t rise. Worryin’s like usin’ rusty scissors: it sets your mouth awry. You just take things as they come, and when it seems as if everything was goin’ to smash and you couldn’t help it, put on your overalls and paint a fence, or hammer tacks, or any old thing that comes handy. What has that rascal Bascom been doin’? Excuse me—my diplomacy’s of the hammer-and-tongs order; you’re not gettin’ your salary paid?”
For some time Maxwell hesitated and then answered:
“Well, I guess I might as well tell you, because you will know all about it anyway in a day or two, and you might as well get a correct version of the affair from me, though I hate awfully to trouble you. The parish owes me two hundred and fifty dollars. I spoke to Reynolds about it several times, but he says that Bascom and several of his intimate friends won’t pay their subscriptions promptly, and so he can’t pay me. But the shortage in my salary is not the worst of it. 209 Did you know that the rectory was heavily mortgaged, and that Bascom holds the mortgage?”
“Yes, I knew it; but we paid something down’, and the interest’s been kept up, and we hoped that if we did that Bascom would be satisfied.”
“It seems that the interest has not been paid in some time, and the real reason why Nelson called just now was to inform me that as Bascom was about to foreclose we must get out as soon as we could. I told him that we would leave on Wednesday next.”
For a moment there was a look on Mrs. Burke’s face which Maxwell never had seen before, and which boded ill for Bascom: but she made no immediate reply.
“To tell you the truth,” she said finally, “I have been afraid of this. That was the only thing that worried me about your gettin’ married. But I felt that no good would come from worryin’, and that if Bascom was goin’ to play you some dirty trick, he’d do it; and now he’s done it. What’s got into the man, all of a sudden? He’s a skinflint—always closer than hair to a dog’s back; but I don’t believe I’ve ever known him do somethin’ downright ugly, like this.”
“Oh, I know well enough,” remarked Donald. “If I had been aware of how matters stood about the rectory, I should have acted differently. I wrote him a 210 pretty stiff letter a day or two ago, calling upon him, as Senior Warden, to use his influence to fulfill the contract with me, and get the arrears of my salary paid up. I suppose he had thought I would just get out of the place if my salary was held back—and he’s wanted to get rid of me for some time. Now, he’s taken this other means of ejecting me not only from his house but from the town itself. He knows I can’t afford to pay the rent out of my salary—let alone out of half of it!” He laughed rather bitterly.
“He’ll be singing a different tune, before I’ve done with him,” said Hepsey. “Now you leave this to me—I’ll have a twitch on old Bascom’s nose that’ll make him think of something else than ejecting his rector. I’ll go and visit with him a little this afternoon.”
“But Nelson said that he was in New York.”
“I know better than that,” snorted Hepsey. “But I guess he’ll want to go there, and stay the winter there too, maybe, when I’ve had my say. No sir—I’m goin’ to take my knittin’ up to his office, and sit awhile; and if he doesn’t have the time of his life it won’t be my fault.”
She turned to leave the room, with a belligerent swing of her shoulders.
“Mrs. Burke,” said Maxwell gently, “you are kindness itself; but I don’t want you to do this—at least 211 not yet. I want to fight this thing through myself, and rather to shame Bascom into doing the right thing than force him to do it—even if the latter were possible. I must think things out a bit. I shall want your help—we always do, Betty and I.”
“I don’t know but you’re right; but if your plan don’t work, remember mine will. Well, Mrs. Betty’ll be coming in soon, and I’ll leave you. Meantime I shall just go home and load my guns: I’m out for Bascom’s hide, sooner or later.”
