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The Man that Corrupted Hadleyburg
By
Mark Twain
THE
MAN THAT CORRUPTED HADLEYBURG
It was many years ago. Hadleyburg was the most honest and
upright town
in all the region round about. It had kept that reputation unsmir=
ched
during three generations, and was prouder =
of
it than of any other of its
possessions. It was so proud of it, and so anxi=
ous to
insure its
perpetuation, that it began to teach the
principles of honest dealing to
its babies in the cradle, and made the like
teachings the staple of their
culture thenceforward through all the years
devoted to their education.
Also, throughout the formative years tempt=
ations
were kept out of the way
of the young people, so that their honesty
could have every chance to
harden and solidify, and become a part of
their very bone. The
neighbouring towns were jealous of this
honourable supremacy, and
affected to sneer at Hadleyburg's pride in=
it
and call it vanity; but all
the same they were obliged to acknowledge =
that
Hadleyburg was in reality
an incorruptible town; and if pressed they
would also acknowledge that
the mere fact that a young man hailed from
Hadleyburg was all the
recommendation he needed when he went forth
from his natal town to seek
for responsible employment.
But at last, in the drift of time, Hadleyb=
urg
had the ill luck to offend
a passing stranger--possibly without knowi=
ng
it, certainly without
caring, for Hadleyburg was sufficient unto
itself, and cared not a rap
for strangers or their opinions. Still, it would have been well to =
make
an exception in this one's case, for he wa=
s a
bitter man, and revengeful.
All through his wanderings during a whole =
year
he kept his injury in
mind, and gave all his leisure moments to
trying to invent a compensating
satisfaction for it. He contrived many plans, and all o=
f them
were good,
but none of them was quite sweeping enough:
the poorest of them would
hurt a great many individuals, but what he
wanted was a plan which would
comprehend the entire town, and not let so
much as one person escape
unhurt.&n=
bsp;
At last he had a fortunate idea, and when it fell into his brain
it lit up his whole head with an evil
joy. He began to form a plan =
at
once, saying to himself "That is the
thing to do--I will corrupt the
town."
Six months later he went to Hadleyburg, and
arrived in a buggy at the
house of the old cashier of the bank about=
ten
at night. He got a sack
out of the buggy, shouldered it, and stagg=
ered
with it through the
cottage yard, and knocked at the door. A woman's voice said "Come
in,"
and he entered, and set his sack behind the
stove in the parlour, saying
politely to the old lady who sat reading t=
he
"Missionary Herald" by the
lamp:
"Pray keep your seat, madam, I will n=
ot
disturb you. There--now it is=
pretty well concealed; one would hardly kn=
ow
it was there. Can I see
your husband a moment, madam?"
No, he was gone to Brixton, and might not
return before morning.
"Very well, madam, it is no matter. I merely wanted to leave that sack=
in his care, to be delivered to the rightf=
ul
owner when he shall be
found.&nb=
sp;
I am a stranger; he does not know me; I am merely passing through
the town to-night to discharge a matter wh=
ich has
been long in my mind.
My errand is now completed, and I go pleas=
ed
and a little proud, and you
will never see me again. There is a paper attached to the s=
ack
which
will explain everything. Good-night, madam."
The old lady was afraid of the mysterious =
big
stranger, and was glad to
see him go. But her curiosity was roused, and =
she
went straight to the
sack and brought away the paper. It began as follows:
&nb=
sp;
"TO BE PUBLISHED, or, the right man sought out by private
&nb=
sp;
inquiry--either will answer.
This sack contains gold coin weighing a
&nb=
sp;
hundred and sixty pounds four ounces--"
"Mercy on us, and the door not
locked!"
Mrs. Richards flew to it all in a tremble =
and
locked it, then pulled down
the window-shades and stood frightened,
worried, and wondering if there
was anything else she could do toward maki=
ng
herself and the money more
safe.&nbs=
p;
She listened awhile for burglars, then surrendered to curiosity,
and went back to the lamp and finished rea=
ding
the paper:
&nb=
sp;
"I am a foreigner, and am presently going back to my own countr=
y,
to
&nb=
sp;
remain there permanently. I
am grateful to
&nb=
sp;
received at her hands during my long stay under her flag; and to one=
&nb=
sp;
of her citizens--a citizen of Hadleyburg--I am especially grateful f=
or
&nb=
sp;
a great kindness done me a year or two ago. Two great kindnesses in
&nb=
sp;
fact. I will explain.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I was a gambler. I say I WAS. I was a ruined
&nb=
sp;
gambler. I arrived in =
this
village at night, hungry and without a
&nb=
sp;
penny. I asked for hel=
p--in
the dark; I was ashamed to beg in the
&nb=
sp;
light. I begged of the=
right
man. He gave me twenty
dollars--that is
&nb=
sp;
to say, he gave me life, as I considered it. He also gave me fortune;
&nb=
sp;
for out of that money I have made myself rich at the gaming-table. And
&nb=
sp;
finally, a remark which he made to me has remained with me to this
&nb=
sp;
day, and has at last conquered me; and in conquering has saved the
&nb=
sp;
remnant of my morals: I shall gamble no more. Now I have no idea who
&nb=
sp;
that man was, but I want him found, and I want him to have this mone=
y,
&nb=
sp;
to give away, throw away, or keep, as he pleases. It is merely my way
&nb=
sp;
of testifying my gratitude to him.&=
nbsp;
If I could stay, I would find him
&nb=
sp;
myself; but no matter, he will be found. This is an honest town, an
&nb=
sp;
incorruptible town, and I know I can trust it without fear. This man
&nb=
sp;
can be identified by the remark which he made to me; I feel persuade=
d
&nb=
sp;
that he will remember it.
&nb= sp; "And now my plan is this: If you prefer to conduct the inquiry<= o:p>
&nb=
sp;
privately, do so. Tell=
the
contents of this present writing to any
&nb=
sp;
one who is likely to be the right man. If he shall answer, 'I am the
&nb= sp; man; the remark I made was so-and-so,' apply the test--to wit: open<= o:p>
&nb= sp; the sack, and in it you will find a sealed envelope containing that<= o:p>
&nb=
sp;
remark. If the remark
mentioned by the candidate tallies with it,
&nb=
sp;
give him the money, and ask no further questions, for he is certainl=
y
&nb=
sp;
the right man.
&nb=
sp;
"But if you shall prefer a public inquiry, then publish this
present
&nb=
sp;
writing in the local paper--with these instructions added, to wit:
&nb=
sp;
Thirty days from now, let the candidate appear at the town-hall at
&nb=
sp;
eight in the evening (Friday), and hand his remark, in a sealed
&nb=
sp;
envelope, to the Rev. Mr. Burgess (if he will be kind enough to act)=
;
&nb=
sp;
and let Mr. Burgess there and then destroy the seals of the sack, op=
en
&nb=
sp;
it, and see if the remark is correct: if correct, let the money be
&nb=
sp;
delivered, with my sincere gratitude, to my benefactor thus
&nb=
sp;
identified."
Mrs. Richards sat down, gently quivering w=
ith
excitement, and was soon
lost in thinkings--after this pattern:
"What a strange thing it is! . . .
And what a fortune for that kind man who s=
et
his bread afloat upon the
waters! . . . If it had only been my husba=
nd
that did it!--for we are so
poor, so old and poor! . . ." Then, with a sigh--"But it wa=
s not
my
Edward; no, it was not he that gave a stra=
nger
twenty dollars. It is a
pity too; I see it now. . . " Then, with a shudder--"But it=
is
gamblers' money! the wages of sin; we coul=
dn't
take it; we couldn't
touch it.=
I don't like to be near it; it seems a defilement." She moved
to a farther chair. . . "I wish Edward
would come, and take it to the
bank; a burglar might come at any moment; =
it
is dreadful to be here all
alone with it."
At eleven Mr. Richards arrived, and while =
his
wife was saying "I am so
glad you've come!" he was saying, &qu=
ot;I
am so tired--tired clear out; it is
dreadful to be poor, and have to make these
dismal journeys at my time of
life.&nbs=
p;
Always at the grind, grind, grind, on a salary--another man's
slave, and he sitting at home in his slipp=
ers,
rich and comfortable."
"I am so sorry for you, Edward, you k=
now
that; but be comforted; we have
our livelihood; we have our good name--&qu=
ot;
"Yes, Mary, and that is everything. Don't mind my talk--it's just a
moment's irritation and doesn't mean
anything. Kiss me--there, it'=
s all
gone now, and I am not complaining any
more. What have you been gett=
ing?
What's in the sack?"
Then his wife told him the great secret. It dazed him for a moment; then
he said:
"It weighs a hundred and sixty
pounds? Why, Mary, it's for-ty
thou-sand
dollars--think of it--a whole fortune! Not ten men in this village are
worth that much. Give me the paper."
He skimmed through it and said:
"Isn't it an adventure! Why, it's a romance; it's like the
impossible
things one reads about in books, and never
sees in life." He was we=
ll
stirred up now; cheerful, even gleeful.
cheek, and said humorously, "Why, we'=
re
rich, Mary, rich; all we've got
to do is to bury the money and burn the
papers. If the gambler ever
comes to inquire, we'll merely look coldly
upon him and say: 'What is
this nonsense you are talking? We have never heard of you and you=
r sack
of gold before;' and then he would look
foolish, and--"
"And in the meantime, while you are
running on with your jokes, the money
is still here, and it is fast getting along
toward burglar-time."
"True. Very well, what shall we do--make =
the
inquiry private? No, not
that; it would spoil the romance. The public method is better. Think
what a noise it will make! And it will make all the other tow=
ns
jealous;
for no stranger would trust such a thing to
any town but Hadleyburg, and
they know it. It's a great card for us. I must get to the
printing-office now, or I shall be too
late."
"But stop--stop--don't leave me here
alone with it, Edward!"
But he was gone. For only a little while, however.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Not far from his own
house he met the editor--proprietor of the
paper, and gave him the
document, and said "Here is a good th=
ing
for you, Cox--put it in."
"It may be too late, Mr. Richards, but
I'll see."
At home again, he and his wife sat down to
talk the charming mystery
over; they were in no condition for
sleep. The first question was=
, Who
could the citizen have been who gave the
stranger the twenty dollars? =
It
seemed a simple one; both answered it in t=
he
same breath--
"Barclay Goodson."
"Yes," said Richards, "he c=
ould
have done it, and it would have been like
him, but there's not another in the
town."
"Everybody will grant that, Edward--g=
rant
it privately, anyway. For six=
months, now, the village has been its own
proper self once more--honest,
narrow, self-righteous, and stingy."<= o:p>
"It is what he always called it, to t=
he
day of his death--said it right
out publicly, too."
"Yes, and he was hated for it."<= o:p>
"Oh, of course; but he didn't care. I reckon he was the best-hated man=
among us, except the Reverend Burgess.&quo=
t;
"Well, Burgess deserves it--he will n=
ever
get another congregation here.
Mean as the town is, it knows how to estim=
ate
him. Edward, doesn't it
seem odd that the stranger should appoint
Burgess to deliver the money?"
"Well, yes--it does. That is--that is--"
"Why so much that-is-ing? Would you select him?"
"Mary, maybe the stranger knows him
better than this village does."
"Much that would help Burgess!"<= o:p>
The husband seemed perplexed for an answer;
the wife kept a steady eye
upon him, and waited. Finally Richards said, with the
hesitancy of one
who is making a statement which is likely =
to
encounter doubt,
"Mary, Burgess is not a bad man."=
;
His wife was certainly surprised.
"Nonsense!" she exclaimed.
"He is not a bad man. I know. The whole of his unpopularity had =
its
foundation in that one thing--the thing th=
at
made so much noise."
"That 'one thing,' indeed! As if that 'one thing' wasn't enou=
gh,
all by
itself."
"Plenty. Plenty. Only he wasn't guilty of it."=
"How you talk! Not guilty of it! Everybody knows he was guilty.&quo=
t;
"Mary, I give you my word--he was inn=
ocent."
"I can't believe it and I don't. How do you know?"
"It is a confession. I am ashamed, but I will make it.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I was the only
man who knew he was innocent. I could have saved him, and--and--=
well,
you know how the town was wrought up--I ha=
dn't
the pluck to do it. It
would have turned everybody against me.
didn't dare; I hadn't the manliness to face
that."
Mary looked troubled, and for a while was
silent. Then she said
stammeringly:
"I--I don't think it would have done =
for
you to--to--One
mustn't--er--public opinion--one has to be= so careful--so--" It was a<= o:p>
difficult road, and she got mired; but aft=
er a
little she got started
again.&nb=
sp;
"It was a great pity, but--Why, we couldn't afford it, Edward--=
we
couldn't indeed. Oh, I wouldn't have had you do it =
for
anything!"
"It would have lost us the good-will =
of
so many people, Mary; and
then--and then--"
"What troubles me now is, what he thi=
nks
of us, Edward."
"He?=
He doesn't suspect that I could have saved him."
"Oh," exclaimed the wife, in a t=
one
of relief, "I am glad of that.
As
long as he doesn't know that you could have
saved him, he--he--well that
makes it a great deal better. Why, I might have known he didn't =
know,
because he is always trying to be friendly=
with
us, as little
encouragement as we give him. More than once people have twitted=
me
with
it.
There's the Wilsons, and the Wilcoxes, and the Harknesses, they take=
a mean pleasure in saying 'Your friend
Burgess,' because they know it
pesters me. I wish he wouldn't persist in liki=
ng us
so; I can't think
why he keeps it up."
"I can explain it. It's another confession. When the thing was new and
hot, and the town made a plan to ride him =
on a
rail, my conscience hurt
me so that I couldn't stand it, and I went
privately and gave him notice,
and he got out of the town and stayed out =
till
it was safe to come back."
"Edward! If the town had found it out--&quo=
t;
"Don't! It scares me yet, to think of it.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I repented of it the minute
it was done; and I was even afraid to tell=
you
lest your face might
betray it to somebody. I didn't sleep any that night, for
worrying. But
after a few days I saw that no one was goi=
ng
to suspect me, and after
that I got to feeling glad I did it. And I feel glad yet, Mary--glad
through and through."
"So do I, now, for it would have been=
a
dreadful way to treat him. Ye=
s,
I'm glad; for really you did owe him that,=
you
know. But, Edward,
suppose it should come out yet, some
day!"
"It won't."
"Why?"
"Because everybody thinks it was Good=
son."
"Of course they would!"
"Certainly. And of course he didn't care. They persuaded poor old
Sawlsberry to go and charge it on him, and=
he
went blustering over there
and did it. Goodson looked him over, like as i=
f he
was hunting for a
place on him that he could despise the mos=
t;
then he says, 'So you are
the Committee of Inquiry, are you?' Sawlsberry said that was about wha=
t
he was.&n=
bsp;
'H'm. Do they require
particulars, or do you reckon a kind of a
general answer will do?' 'If they require particulars, I wi=
ll
come
back, Mr. Goodson; I will take the general
answer first.' 'Very well,
then, tell them to go to hell--I reckon th=
at's
general enough. And I'll
give you some advice, Sawlsberry; when you
come back for the particulars,
fetch a basket to carry what is left of
yourself home in.'"
"Just like Goodson; it's got all the
marks. He had only one vanity=
; he
thought he could give advice better than a=
ny
other person."
"It settled the business, and saved u=
s,
Mary. The subject was
dropped."
"Bless you, I'm not doubting that.&qu=
ot;
Then they took up the gold-sack mystery ag=
ain,
with strong interest. Soon
the conversation began to suffer
breaks--interruptions caused by absorbed
thinkings. The breaks grew more and more
frequent. At last Richards
lost himself wholly in thought. He sat long, gazing vacantly at th=
e
floor, and by-and-by he began to punctuate=
his
thoughts with little
nervous movements of his hands that seemed=
to
indicate vexation. Meantime
his wife too had relapsed into a thoughtful
silence, and her movements
were beginning to show a troubled
discomfort. Finally Richards =
got up
and strode aimlessly about the room, ploug=
hing
his hands through his
hair, much as a somnambulist might do who =
was
having a bad dream. Then
he seemed to arrive at a definite purpose;=
and
without a word he put on
his hat and passed quickly out of the
house. His wife sat brooding,=
with
a drawn face, and did not seem to be aware
that she was alone. Now and
then she murmured, "Lead us not into =
t .
. . but--but--we are so poor, so
poor! . . . Lead us not into . . . Ah, who
would be hurt by it?--and no
one would ever know . . . Lead us . . . " The voice died out in<= o:p>
mumblings. After a little she glanced up and
muttered in a
half-frightened, half-glad way--
"He is gone! But, oh dear, he may be too late--=
too
late . . . Maybe
not--maybe there is still time." She rose and stood thinking, nervo=
usly
clasping and unclasping her hands. A slight shudder shook her frame, =
and
she said, out of a dry throat, "God
forgive me--it's awful to think such
things--but . . . Lord, how we are made--h=
ow
strangely we are made!"
She turned the light low, and slipped
stealthily over and knelt down by
the sack and felt of its ridgy sides with =
her
hands, and fondled them
lovingly; and there was a gloating light in
her poor old eyes. She fell
into fits of absence; and came half out of
them at times to mutter "If we
had only waited!--oh, if we had only waite=
d a
little, and not been in
such a hurry!"
Meantime Cox had gone home from his office=
and
told his wife all about
the strange thing that had happened, and t=
hey
had talked it over eagerly,
and guessed that the late Goodson was the =
only
man in the town who could
have helped a suffering stranger with so n=
oble
a sum as twenty dollars.
Then there was a pause, and the two became
thoughtful and silent. And by=
-
and-by nervous and fidgety. At last the wife said, as if to he=
rself,
"Nobody knows this secret but the
Richardses . . . and us . . . nobody."
The husband came out of his thinkings with=
a
slight start, and gazed
wistfully at his wife, whose face was beco=
me
very pale; then he
hesitatingly rose, and glanced furtively at
his hat, then at his wife--a
sort of mute inquiry. Mrs. Cox swallowed once or twice, =
with
her hand at
her throat, then in place of speech she no=
dded
her head. In a moment she
was alone, and mumbling to herself.
And now Richards and Cox were hurrying thr=
ough
the deserted streets, from
opposite directions. They met, panting, at the foot of =
the
printing-office stairs; by the night-light
there they read each other's
face.&nbs=
p;
Cox whispered:
"Nobody knows about this but us?"=
;
The whispered answer was:
"Not a soul--on honour, not a soul!&q=
uot;
"If it isn't too late to--"
The men were starting up-stairs; at this
moment they were overtaken by a
boy, and Cox asked,
"Is that you, Johnny?"
"Yes, sir."
"You needn't ship the early mail--nor=
any
mail; wait till I tell you."
"It's already gone, sir."
"Gone?" It had the sound of an unspeakable
disappointment in it.
"Yes, sir. Time-table for Brixton and all the=
towns
beyond changed to-
day, sir--had to get the papers in twenty
minutes earlier than common. =
I
had to rush; if I had been two minutes
later--"
The men turned and walked slowly away, not
waiting to hear the rest.
Neither of them spoke during ten minutes; =
then
Cox said, in a vexed tone,
"What possessed you to be in such a
hurry, I can't make out."
The answer was humble enough:
"I see it now, but somehow I never
thought, you know, until it was too
late.&nbs=
p;
But the next time--"
"Next time be hanged! It won't come in a thousand years.=
"
Then the friends separated without a
good-night, and dragged themselves
home with the gait of mortally stricken
men. At their homes their wiv=
es
sprang up with an eager
"Well?"--then saw the answer with their eyes and
sank down sorrowing, without waiting for i=
t to
come in words. In both
houses a discussion followed of a heated
sort--a new thing; there had
been discussions before, but not heated on=
es,
not ungentle ones. The
discussions to-night were a sort of seeming
plagiarisms of each other.
Mrs. Richards said:
"If you had only waited, Edward--if y=
ou
had only stopped to think; but
no, you must run straight to the
printing-office and spread it all over
the world."
"It said publish it."
"That is nothing; it also said do it
privately, if you liked. Ther=
e,
now--is that true, or not?"
"Why, yes--yes, it is true; but when I
thought what a stir it would make,
and what a compliment it was to Hadleyburg
that a stranger should trust
it so--"
"Oh, certainly, I know all that; but =
if
you had only stopped to think,
you would have seen that you couldn't find=
the
right man, because he is
in his grave, and hasn't left chick nor ch=
ild
nor relation behind him;
and as long as the money went to somebody =
that
awfully needed it, and
nobody would be hurt by it, and--and--&quo=
t;
She broke down, crying. Her husband tried to think of some
comforting
thing to say, and presently came out with
this:
"But after all, Mary, it must be for =
the
best--it must be; we know that.
And we must remember that it was so
ordered--"
"Ordered! Oh, everything's ordered, when a p=
erson
has to find some way
out when he has been stupid. Just the same=
, it
was ordered that the
money should come to us in this special wa=
y,
and it was you that must
take it on yourself to go meddling with the
designs of Providence--and
who gave you the right? It was wicked, that is what it was=
--just
blasphemous presumption, and no more becom=
ing
to a meek and humble
professor of--"
"But, Mary, you know how we have been=
trained
all our lives long, like
the whole village, till it is absolutely
second nature to us to stop not
a single moment to think when there's an
honest thing to be done--"
"Oh, I know it, I know it--it's been =
one
everlasting training and
training and training in honesty--honesty
shielded, from the very cradle,
against every possible temptation, and so =
it's
artificial honesty, and
weak as water when temptation comes, as we
have seen this night. God
knows I never had shade nor shadow of a do=
ubt
of my petrified and
indestructible honesty until now--and now,
under the very first big and
real temptation, I--Edward, it is my belief
that this town's honesty is
as rotten as mine is; as rotten as yours.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> It is a mean town, a hard,
stingy town, and hasn't a virtue in the wo=
rld
but this honesty it is so
celebrated for and so conceited about; and=
so
help me, I do believe that
if ever the day comes that its honesty fal=
ls
under great temptation, its
grand reputation will go to ruin like a ho=
use
of cards. There, now, I've
made confession, and I feel better; I am a
humbug, and I've been one all
my life, without knowing it. Let no man call me honest again--I=
will
not
have it."
"I--Well, Mary, I feel a good deal as= you do: I certainly do. It seems<= o:p>
strange, too, so strange. I never could have believed
it--never."
A long silence followed; both were sunk in
thought. At last the wife
looked up and said:
"I know what you are thinking,
Edward."
Richards had the embarrassed look of a per=
son
who is caught.
"I am ashamed to confess it, Mary,
but--"
"It's no matter, Edward, I was thinki=
ng
the same question myself."
"I hope so. State it."
"You were thinking, if a body could o=
nly
guess out what the remark was
that Goodson made to the stranger."
"It's perfectly true. I feel guilty and ashamed. And you?"
"I'm past it. Let us make a pallet here; we've g=
ot to
stand watch till
the bank vault opens in the morning and ad=
mits
the sack. . . Oh dear, oh
dear--if we hadn't made the mistake!"=
The pallet was made, and Mary said:
"The open sesame--what could it have
been? I do wonder what that r=
emark
could have been. But come; we will get to bed now.&=
quot;
"And sleep?"
"No; think."
"Yes; think."
By this time the Coxes too had completed t=
heir
spat and their
reconciliation, and were turning in--to th=
ink,
to think, and toss, and
fret, and worry over what the remark could
possibly have been which
Goodson made to the stranded derelict; that
golden remark; that remark
worth forty thousand dollars, cash.
The reason that the village telegraph-offi=
ce
was open later than usual
that night was this: The foreman of Cox's
paper was the local
representative of the Associated Press.
representative, for it wasn't four times a
year that he could furnish
thirty words that would be accepted. But this time it was different.
despatch stating what he had caught got an
instant answer:
&nb=
sp;
"Send the whole thing--all the details--twelve hundred words.&q=
uot;
A colossal order! The foreman filled the bill; and h=
e was
the proudest
man in the State. By breakfast-time the next morning=
the
name of
Hadleyburg the Incorruptible was on every =
lip
in America, from Montreal
to the Gulf, from the glaciers of Alaska to
the orange-groves of Florida;
and millions and millions of people were
discussing the stranger and his
money-sack, and wondering if the right man
would be found, and hoping
some more news about the matter would come
soon--right away.
Hadleyburg village woke up
world-celebrated--astonished--happy--vain.
Vain beyond imagination. Its nineteen principal citizens and
their wives
went about shaking hands with each other, =
and
beaming, and smiling, and
congratulating, and saying this thing adds=
a
new word to the
dictionary--Hadleyburg, synonym for
incorruptible--destined to live
in dictionaries for ever! And the minor and unimportant citi=
zens
and
their wives went around acting in much the
same way. Everybody ran to
the bank to see the gold-sack; and before =
noon
grieved and envious crowds
began to flock in from Brixton and all nei=
ghbouring
towns; and that
afternoon and next day reporters began to
arrive from everywhere to
verify the sack and its history and write =
the
whole thing up anew, and
make dashing free-hand pictures of the sac=
k,
and of Richards's house, and
the bank, and the Presbyterian church, and=
the
Baptist church, and the
public square, and the town-hall where the
test would be applied and the
money delivered; and damnable portraits of=
the
Richardses, and Pinkerton
the banker, and Cox, and the foreman, and
Reverend Burgess, and the
postmaster--and even of Jack Halliday, who=
was
the loafing, good-natured,
no-account, irreverent fisherman, hunter,
boys' friend, stray-dogs'
friend, typical "Sam Lawson" of =
the
town. The little mean, smirki=
ng,
oily Pinkerton showed the sack to all come=
rs,
and rubbed his sleek palms
together pleasantly, and enlarged upon the
town's fine old reputation for
honesty and upon this wonderful endorsemen=
t of
it, and hoped and believed
that the example would now spread far and =
wide
over the American world,
and be epoch-making in the matter of moral regeneration. And so on, and<= o:p>
so on.
By the end of a week things had quieted do=
wn
again; the wild intoxication
of pride and joy had sobered to a soft, sw=
eet,
silent delight--a sort of
deep, nameless, unutterable content. All faces bore a look of peaceful,=
holy happiness.
Then a change came. It was a gradual change; so gradua=
l that
its
beginnings were hardly noticed; maybe were=
not
noticed at all, except by
Jack Halliday, who always noticed everythi=
ng;
and always made fun of it,
too, no matter what it was. He began to throw out chaffing rem=
arks
about
people not looking quite so happy as they =
did
a day or two ago; and next
he claimed that the new aspect was deepeni=
ng
to positive sadness; next,
that it was taking on a sick look; and fin=
ally
he said that everybody was
become so moody, thoughtful, and absent-mi=
nded
that he could rob the
meanest man in town of a cent out of the
bottom of his breeches pocket
and not disturb his reverie.
At this stage--or at about this stage--a
saying like this was dropped at
bedtime--with a sigh, usually--by the head=
of
each of the nineteen
principal households:
"Ah, what could have been the remark =
that
Goodson made?"
And straightway--with a shudder--came this,
from the man's wife:
"Oh, don't! What horrible thing are you mullin=
g in
your mind? Put it
away from you, for God's sake!"
But that question was wrung from those men
again the next night--and got
the same retort. But weaker.
And the third night the men uttered the qu=
estion
yet again--with anguish,
and absently. This time--and the following night=
--the
wives fidgeted
feebly, and tried to say something. But didn't.
And the night after that they found their
tongues and
responded--longingly:
"Oh, if we could only guess!"
Halliday's comments grew daily more and mo=
re
sparklingly disagreeable and
disparaging. He went diligently about, laughing=
at
the town,
individually and in mass. But his laugh was the only one lef=
t in
the
village: it fell upon a hollow and mournful
vacancy and emptiness. Not
even a smile was findable anywhere. Halliday carried a cigar-box aroun=
d
on a tripod, playing that it was a camera,=
and
halted all passers and
aimed the thing and said "Ready!--now
look pleasant, please," but not
even this capital joke could surprise the
dreary faces into any
softening.
So three weeks passed--one week was left.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> It was Saturday evening after
supper.&n=
bsp;
Instead of the aforetime Saturday-evening flutter and bustle and
shopping and larking, the streets were emp=
ty
and desolate. Richards and
his old wife sat apart in their little
parlour--miserable and thinking.
This was become their evening habit now: t=
he
life-long habit which had
preceded it, of reading, knitting, and
contented chat, or receiving or
paying neighbourly calls, was dead and gone
and forgotten, ages ago--two
or three weeks ago; nobody talked now, nob=
ody
read, nobody visited--the
whole village sat at home, sighing, worryi=
ng,
silent. Trying to guess
out that remark.
The postman left a letter. Richards glanced listlessly at the=
superscription and the post-mark--unfamili=
ar,
both--and tossed the letter
on the table and resumed his might-have-be=
ens
and his hopeless dull
miseries where he had left them off. Two or three hours later his wife<= o:p>
got wearily up and was going away to bed
without a good-night--custom
now--but she stopped near the letter and e=
yed
it awhile with a dead
interest, then broke it open, and began to
skim it over. Richards,
sitting there with his chair tilted back
against the wall and his chin
between his knees, heard something fall. It was his wife. He sprang to
her side, but she cried out:
"Leave me alone, I am too happy. Read the letter--read it!"
He did.&n=
bsp;
He devoured it, his brain reeling.&=
nbsp;
The letter was from a
distant State, and it said:
&nb=
sp;
"I am a stranger to you, but no matter: I have something to
tell. I
&nb=
sp;
have just arrived home from
&nb=
sp;
course you do not know who made that remark, but I know, and I am th=
e
&nb=
sp;
only person living who does know.&n=
bsp;
It was GOODSON. I knew=
him
well,
&nb=
sp;
many years ago. I pass=
ed
through your village that very night, and
&nb=
sp;
was his guest till the midnight train came along. I overheard him
&nb=
sp;
make that remark to the stranger in the dark--it was in Hale Alley.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> He
&nb=
sp;
and I talked of it the rest of the way home, and while smoking in hi=
s
&nb=
sp;
house. He mentioned ma=
ny of
your villagers in the course of his
&nb=
sp;
talk--most of them in a very uncomplimentary way, but two or three
&nb=
sp;
favourably: among these latter yourself. I say 'favourably'--nothing
&nb=
sp;
stronger. I remember h=
is
saying he did not actually LIKE any person
&nb=
sp;
in the town--not one; but that you--I THINK he said you--am almost
&nb=
sp;
sure--had done him a very great service once, possibly without knowi=
ng
&nb=
sp;
the full value of it, and he wished he had a fortune, he would leave=
&nb=
sp;
it to you when he died, and a curse apiece for the rest of the
&nb=
sp;
citizens. Now, then, i=
f it
was you that did him that service, you are
&nb=
sp;
his legitimate heir, and entitled to the sack of gold. I know that I
&nb=
sp;
can trust to your honour and honesty, for in a citizen of Hadleyburg=
&nb=
sp;
these virtues are an unfailing inheritance, and so I am going to
&nb=
sp;
reveal to you the remark, well satisfied that if you are not the rig=
ht
&nb=
sp;
man you will seek and find the right one and see that poor Goodson's=
&nb=
sp;
debt of gratitude for the service referred to is paid. This is the
&nb=
sp;
remark 'YOU ARE FAR FROM BEING A BAD MAN: GO, AND REFORM.'
&nb=
sp;
"HOWARD L. STEPHENSON."
"Oh, Edward, the money is ours, and I=
am
so grateful, oh, so
grateful,--kiss me, dear, it's for ever si=
nce
we kissed--and we needed it
so--the money--and now you are free of
Pinkerton and his bank, and
nobody's slave any more; it seems to me I
could fly for joy."
It was a happy half-hour that the couple s=
pent
there on the settee
caressing each other; it was the old days =
come
again--days that had begun
with their courtship and lasted without a
break till the stranger brought
the deadly money. By-and-by the wife said:
"Oh, Edward, how lucky it was you did=
him
that grand service, poor
Goodson!&=
nbsp;
I never liked him, but I love him now. And it was fine and
beautiful of you never to mention it or br= ag about it." Then, with a<= o:p>
touch of reproach, "But you ought to =
have
told me, Edward, you ought to
have told your wife, you know."
"Well, I--er--well, Mary, you see--&q=
uot;
"Now stop hemming and hawing, and tel=
l me
about it, Edward. I always
loved you, and now I'm proud of you. Everybody believes there was only<= o:p>
one good generous soul in this village, and
now it turns out that
you--Edward, why don't you tell me?"<= o:p>
"Well--er--er--Why, Mary, I can't!&qu=
ot;
"You can't? Why can't you?"
"You see, he--well, he--he made me
promise I wouldn't."
The wife looked him over, and said, very
slowly:
"Made--you--promise? Edward, what do you tell me that
for?"
"Mary, do you think I would lie?"=
;
She was troubled and silent for a moment, =
then
she laid her hand within
his and said:
"No . . . no. We have wandered far enough from o=
ur
bearings--God spare
us that!&=
nbsp;
In all your life you have never uttered a lie. But now--now
that the foundations of things seem to be
crumbling from under us,
we--we--" She lost her voice for a moment, t=
hen
said, brokenly, "Lead us
not into temptation. . . I think you made =
the
promise, Edward. Let it
rest so.&=
nbsp;
Let us keep away from that ground.&=
nbsp;
Now--that is all gone by;
let us he happy again; it is no time for
clouds."
Edward found it something of an effort to
comply, for his mind kept
wandering--trying to remember what the ser=
vice
was that he had done
Goodson.
The couple lay awake the most of the night,
Mary happy and busy, Edward
busy, but not so happy. Mary was planning what she would d=
o with
the
money.&nb=
sp;
Edward was trying to recall that service. At first his
conscience was sore on account of the lie =
he
had told Mary--if it was a
lie.
After much reflection--suppose it was a lie? What then? Was it
such a great matter? Aren't we always acting lies? Then why not tell
them?&nbs=
p;
Look at Mary--look what she had done. While he was hurrying off
on his honest errand, what was she doing?<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Lamenting because the papers
hadn't been destroyed and the money kept.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Is theft better than lying?
That point lost its sting--the lie dropped
into the background and left
comfort behind it. The next point came to the front: =
had he
rendered
that service? Well, here was Goodson's own evide=
nce as
reported in
Stephenson's letter; there could be no bet=
ter
evidence than that--it was
even proof that he had rendered it. Of course. So that point was
settled. . . No, not quite. He recalled with a wince that this
unknown
Mr. Stephenson was just a trifle unsure as=
to
whether the performer of it
was Richards or some other--and, oh dear, =
he
had put Richards on his
honour!&n=
bsp;
He must himself decide whither that money must go--and Mr.
Stephenson was not doubting that if he was=
the
wrong man he would go
honourably and find the right one. Oh, it was odious to put a man in<= o:p>
such a situation--ah, why couldn't Stephen=
son
have left out that doubt?
What did he want to intrude that for?
Further reflection. How did it happen that Richards's =
name
remained in
Stephenson's mind as indicating the right =
man,
and not some other man's
name?&nbs=
p;
That looked good. Yes,=
that
looked very good. In fact it =
went
on
looking better and better, straight along-=
-until
by-and-by it grew into
positive proof. And then Richards put the matter a=
t once
out of his
mind, for he had a private instinct that a
proof once established is
better left so.
He was feeling reasonably comfortable now,=
but
there was still one other
detail that kept pushing itself on his not=
ice:
of course he had done that
service--that was settled; but what was th=
at
service? He must recall
it--he would not go to sleep till he had
recalled it; it would make his
peace of mind perfect. And so he thought and thought. He thought of a
dozen things--possible services, even prob=
able
services--but none of them
seemed adequate, none of them seemed large
enough, none of them seemed
worth the money--worth the fortune Goodson=
had
wished he could leave in
his will.=
And besides, he couldn't remember having done them, anyway.
Now, then--now, then--what kind of a servi=
ce
would it be that would
make a man so inordinately grateful? Ah--the saving of his soul! That
must be it. Yes, he could remember, now, how h=
e once
set himself the
task of converting Goodson, and laboured a=
t it
as much as--he was going
to say three months; but upon closer
examination it shrunk to a month,
then to a week, then to a day, then to
nothing. Yes, he remembered n=
ow,
and with unwelcome vividness, that Goodson=
had
told him to go to thunder
and mind his own business--he wasn't hanke=
ring
to follow Hadleyburg to
heaven!
So that solution was a failure--he hadn't
saved Goodson's soul. Richard=
s
was discouraged. Then after a little came another i=
dea:
had he saved
Goodson's property? No, that wouldn't do--he hadn't
any. His life? That
is it!&nb=
sp;
Of course. Why, he mig=
ht
have thought of it before. Th=
is
time
he was on the right track, sure. His imagination-mill was hard at w=
ork
in a minute, now.
Thereafter, during a stretch of two exhaus=
ting
hours, he was busy saving
Goodson's life. He saved it in all kinds of diffic=
ult
and perilous ways.
In every case he got it saved satisfactori=
ly
up to a certain point; then,
just as he was beginning to get well persu=
aded
that it had really
happened, a troublesome detail would turn =
up
which made the whole thing
impossible. As in the matter of drowning, for
instance. In that case he
had swum out and tugged Goodson ashore in =
an
unconscious state with a
great crowd looking on and applauding, but
when he had got it all thought
out and was just beginning to remember all
about it, a whole swarm of
disqualifying details arrived on the groun=
d:
the town would have known of
the circumstance, Mary would have known of=
it,
it would glare like a
limelight in his own memory instead of bei=
ng
an inconspicuous service
which he had possibly rendered "witho=
ut
knowing its full value." And
at
this point he remembered that he couldn't =
swim
anyway.
Ah--there was a point which he had been
overlooking from the start: it
had to be a service which he had rendered
"possibly without knowing the
full value of it." Why, really, that ought to be an e=
asy
hunt--much
easier than those others. And sure enough, by-and-by he foun=
d it.
Goodson, years and years ago, came near
marrying a very sweet and pretty
girl, named Nancy Hewitt, but in some way =
or
other the match had been
broken off; the girl died, Goodson remaine=
d a
bachelor, and by-and-by
became a soured one and a frank despiser of
the human species. Soon
after the girl's death the village found o=
ut,
or thought it had found
out, that she carried a spoonful of negro blood in her veins. Richards<= o:p>
worked at these details a good while, and =
in
the end he thought he
remembered things concerning them which mu=
st
have gotten mislaid in his
memory through long neglect. He seemed to dimly remember that i=
t was
he that found out about the negro blood; t=
hat
it was he that told the
village; that the village told Goodson whe=
re
they got it; that he thus
saved Goodson from marrying the tainted gi=
rl;
that he had done him this
great service "without knowing the fu=
ll
value of it," in fact without
knowing that he was doing it; but that Goo=
dson
knew the value of it,
and what a narrow escape he had had, and so
went to his grave grateful to
his benefactor and wishing he had a fortun=
e to
leave him. It was all
clear and simple, now, and the more he went
over it the more luminous and
certain it grew; and at last, when he nest=
led
to sleep, satisfied and
happy, he remembered the whole thing just = as if it had been yesterday. In<= o:p>
fact, he dimly remembered Goodson's telling
him his gratitude once.
Meantime Mary had spent six thousand dolla=
rs
on a new house for herself
and a pair of slippers for her pastor, and
then had fallen peacefully to
rest.
That same Saturday evening the postman had
delivered a letter to each of
the other principal citizens--nineteen let=
ters
in all. No two of the
envelopes were alike, and no two of the
superscriptions were in the same
hand, but the letters inside were just like
each other in every detail
but one.&=
nbsp;
They were exact copies of the letter received by
Richards--handwriting and all--and were all
signed by Stephenson, but in
place of Richards's name each receiver's o=
wn
name appeared.
All night long eighteen principal citizens=
did
what their caste-brother
Richards was doing at the same time--they =
put
in their energies trying to
remember what notable service it was that =
they
had unconsciously done
Barclay Goodson. In no case was it a holiday job; s=
till
they succeeded.
And while they were at this work, which was
difficult, their wives put in
the night spending the money, which was
easy. During that one night t=
he
nineteen wives spent an average of seven
thousand dollars each out of the
forty thousand in the sack--a hundred and
thirty-three thousand
altogether.
Next day there was a surprise for Jack
Halliday. He noticed that the=
faces of the nineteen chief citizens and t=
heir
wives bore that expression
of peaceful and holy happiness again. He could not understand it,
neither was he able to invent any remarks
about it that could damage it
or disturb it. And so it was his turn to be
dissatisfied with life. His
private guesses at the reasons for the
happiness failed in all instances,
upon examination. When he met Mrs. Wilcox and noticed=
the
placid ecstasy
in her face, he said to himself, "Her=
cat
has had kittens"--and went and
asked the cook; it was not so, the cook had
detected the happiness, but
did not know the cause. When Halliday found the duplicate
ecstasy in the
face of "Shadbelly" Billson (vil=
lage
nickname), he was sure some
neighbour of Billson's had broken his leg,=
but
inquiry showed that this
had not happened. The subdued ecstasy in Gregory Yat=
es's
face could mean
but one thing--he was a mother-in-law shor=
t;
it was another mistake. "=
;And
Pinkerton--Pinkerton--he has collected ten
cents that he thought he was
going to lose." And so on, and so on. In some cases the guesses had to
remain in doubt, in the others they proved
distinct errors. In the end
Halliday said to himself, "Anyway it
roots up that there's nineteen
Hadleyburg families temporarily in heaven:=
I
don't know how it happened;
I only know Providence is off duty
to-day."
An architect and builder from the next Sta=
te
had lately ventured to set
up a small business in this unpromising
village, and his sign had now
been hanging out a week. Not a customer yet; he was a disco=
uraged
man,
and sorry he had come. But his weather changed suddenly
now. First one
and then another chief citizen's wife said=
to
him privately:
"Come to my house Monday week--but say
nothing about it for the present.
We think of building."
He got eleven invitations that day. That night he wrote his daughter a=
nd
broke off her match with her student. He said she could marry a mile
higher than that.
Pinkerton the banker and two or three other
well-to-do men planned
country-seats--but waited. That kind don't count their chicke=
ns
until
they are hatched.
The Wilsons devised a grand new thing--a
fancy-dress ball. They made n=
o
actual promises, but told all their
acquaintanceship in confidence that
they were thinking the matter over and tho=
ught
they should give it--"and
if we do, you will be invited, of
course." People were
surprised, and
said, one to another, "Why, they are
crazy, those poor Wilsons, they
can't afford it." Several among the nineteen said
privately to their
husbands, "It is a good idea, we will
keep still till their cheap thing
is over, then we will give one that will m=
ake
it sick."
The days drifted along, and the bill of fu=
ture
squanderings rose higher
and higher, wilder and wilder, more and mo=
re
foolish and reckless. It
began to look as if every member of the
nineteen would not only spend his
whole forty thousand dollars before
receiving-day, but be actually in
debt by the time he got the money. In some cases light-headed people =
did
not stop with planning to spend, they real=
ly
spent--on credit. They
bought land, mortgages, farms, speculative
stocks, fine clothes, horses,
and various other things, paid down the bo=
nus,
and made themselves liable
for the rest--at ten days. Presently the sober second thought=
came,
and
Halliday noticed that a ghastly anxiety was
beginning to show up in a
good many faces. Again he was puzzled, and didn't k=
now
what to make of
it.
"The Wilcox kittens aren't dead, for they weren't born; nobody'=
s
broken a leg; there's no shrinkage in
mother-in-laws; nothing has
happened--it is an insolvable mystery.&quo=
t;
There was another puzzled man, too--the Re=
v.
Mr. Burgess. For days,
wherever he went, people seemed to follow =
him
or to be watching out for
him; and if he ever found himself in a ret=
ired
spot, a member of the
nineteen would be sure to appear, thrust an
envelope privately into his
hand, whisper "To be opened at the
town-hall Friday evening," then vanish
away like a guilty thing. He was expecting that there might =
be one
claimant for the sack--doubtful, however,
Goodson being dead--but it
never occurred to him that all this crowd might be claimants. When the<= o:p>
great Friday came at last, he found that he
had nineteen envelopes.
The town-hall had never looked finer. The platform at the end of it was<= o:p>
backed by a showy draping of flags; at
intervals along the walls were
festoons of flags; the gallery fronts were
clothed in flags; the
supporting columns were swathed in flags; =
all
this was to impress the
stranger, for he would be there in
considerable force, and in a large
degree he would be connected with the
press. The house was full.
412 fixed seats were occupied; also the 68
extra chairs which had been
packed into the aisles; the steps of the
platform were occupied; some
distinguished strangers were given seats on
the platform; at the
horseshoe of tables which fenced the front=
and
sides of the platform sat
a strong force of special correspondents w= ho had come from everywhere. It<= o:p>
was the best-dressed house the town had ev=
er
produced. There were some
tolerably expensive toilets there, and in
several cases the ladies who
wore them had the look of being unfamiliar
with that kind of clothes. At=
least the town thought they had that look,=
but
the notion could have
arisen from the town's knowledge of the fa=
ct
that these ladies had never
inhabited such clothes before.
The gold-sack stood on a little table at t=
he
front of the platform where
all the house could see it. The bulk of the house gazed at it =
with a
burning interest, a mouth-watering interes=
t, a
wistful and pathetic
interest; a minority of nineteen couples g=
azed
at it tenderly, lovingly,
proprietarily, and the male half of this
minority kept saying over to
themselves the moving little impromptu
speeches of thankfulness for the
audience's applause and congratulations wh=
ich
they were presently going
to get up and deliver. Every now and then one of these go=
t a
piece of
paper out of his vest pocket and privately
glanced at it to refresh his
memory.
Of course there was a buzz of conversation
going on--there always is; but
at last, when the Rev. Mr. Burgess rose and
laid his hand on the sack, he
could hear his microbes gnaw, the place wa=
s so
still. He related the
curious history of the sack, then went on =
to
speak in warm terms of
Hadleyburg's old and well-earned reputation
for spotless honesty, and of
the town's just pride in this reputation.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> He said that this reputation
was a treasure of priceless value; that un=
der
now become inestimably enhanced, for the
recent episode had spread this
fame far and wide, and thus had focussed t=
he
eyes of the American world
upon this village, and made its name for a=
ll
time, as he hoped and
believed, a synonym for commercial
incorruptibility. [Applause.]=
"And
who is to be the guardian of this noble
fame--the community as a whole?
No!
The responsibility is individual, not communal. From this day forth
each and every one of you is in his own pe=
rson
its special guardian, and
individually responsible that no harm shall
come to it. Do you--does
each of you--accept this great trust? [Tumultuous assent.] Then all is
well.&nbs=
p;
Transmit it to your children and to your children's children. To-
day your purity is beyond reproach--see to= it that it shall remain so. To-<= o:p>
day there is not a person in your community
who could be beguiled to
touch a penny not his own--see to it that =
you
abide in this grace. ["W=
e
will! we will!"] This is not the place to make compa=
risons
between
ourselves and other communities--some of t=
hem
ungracious towards us; they
have their ways, we have ours; let us be
content. [Applause.] I am
done.&nbs=
p;
Under my hand, my friends, rests a stranger's eloquent recognition
of what we are; through him the world will
always henceforth know what we
are.
We do not know who he is, but in your name I utter your gratitude,
and ask you to raise your voices in
indorsement."
The house rose in a body and made the wall=
s quake
with the thunders of
its thankfulness for the space of a long
minute. Then it sat down, and=
Mr. Burgess took an envelope out of his
pocket. The house held its
breath while he slit the envelope open and
took from it a slip of paper.
He read its contents--slowly and
impressively--the audience listening
with tranced attention to this magic docum=
ent,
each of whose words stood
for an ingot of gold:
"'The remark which I made to the
distressed stranger was this: "You are
very far from being a bad man; go, and
reform."'" Then he
continued:--"We
shall know in a moment now whether the rem=
ark
here quoted corresponds
with the one concealed in the sack; and if
that shall prove to be so--and
it undoubtedly will--this sack of gold bel=
ongs
to a fellow-citizen who
will henceforth stand before the nation as=
the
symbol of the special
virtue which has made our town famous
throughout the land--Mr. Billson!"
The house had gotten itself all ready to b=
urst
into the proper tornado of
applause; but instead of doing it, it seem=
ed
stricken with a paralysis;
there was a deep hush for a moment or two,
then a wave of whispered
murmurs swept the place--of about this ten=
or:
"Billson! oh, come, this
is too thin! Twenty dollars to a stranger--or
anybody--Billson!
Tell it to the marines!" And now at this point the house ca=
ught
its
breath all of a sudden in a new access of
astonishment, for it discovered
that whereas in one part of the hall Deacon
Billson was standing up with
his head weekly bowed, in another part of =
it
Lawyer Wilson was doing the
same.&nbs=
p;
There was a wondering silence now for a while. Everybody was
puzzled, and nineteen couples were surpris=
ed
and indignant.
Billson and Wilson turned and stared at ea=
ch
other. Billson asked,
bitingly:
"Why do you rise, Mr. Wilson?"
"Because I have a right to. Perhaps you will be good enough to
explain
to the house why you rise."
"With great pleasure. Because I wrote that paper."<= o:p>
"It is an impudent falsity! I wrote it myself."
It was Burgess's turn to be paralysed. He stood looking vacantly at
first one of the men and then the other, a=
nd
did not seem to know what to
do.
The house was stupefied.
Lawyer
"I ask the Chair to read the name sig=
ned
to that paper."
That brought the Chair to itself, and it r=
ead
out the name:
"John Wharton Billson."
"There!" shouted Billson, "=
what
have you got to say for yourself now?
And
what kind of apology are you going to make=
to
me and to this insulted
house for the imposture which you have
attempted to play here?"
"No apologies are due, sir; and as for
the rest of it, I publicly charge
you with pilfering my note from Mr. Burgess
and substituting a copy of it
signed with your own name. There is no other way by which you=
could
have
gotten hold of the test-remark; I alone, of
living men, possessed the
secret of its wording."
There was likely to be a scandalous state =
of
things if this went on;
everybody noticed with distress that the
shorthand scribes were
scribbling like mad; many people were cryi=
ng
"Chair, chair! Order!
order!" Burgess rapped with his gavel, and=
said:
"Let us not forget the proprieties
due. There has evidently been=
a
mistake somewhere, but surely that is
all. If Mr. Wilson gave me an=
envelope--and I remember now that he did--I
still have it."
He took one out of his pocket, opened it,
glanced at it, looked surprised
and worried, and stood silent a few
moments. Then he waved his ha=
nd in
a
wandering and mechanical way, and made an
effort or two to say something,
then gave it up, despondently. Several voices cried out:
"Read it! read it! What is it?"
So he began, in a dazed and sleep-walker
fashion:
"'The remark which I made to the unha=
ppy
stranger was this: "You are far
from being a bad man. [The house gazed at him
marvelling.] Go, and
reform."' [Murmurs: "Amazing! what can =
this
mean?"] This one," =
said
the
Chair, "is signed Thurlow G.
Wilson."
"There!" cried
my note was purloined."
"Purloined!" retorted Billson. "I'll let you know that neith=
er you
nor
any man of your kidney must venture to--&q=
uot;
The Chair: "Order, gentlemen, order!<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Take your seats, both of you,
please."
They obeyed, shaking their heads and grumb=
ling
angrily. The house was
profoundly puzzled; it did not know what t=
o do
with this curious
emergency. Presently Thompson got up. Thompson was the hatter. He
would have liked to be a Nineteener; but s=
uch
was not for him; his stock
of hats was not considerable enough for the
position. He said:
"Mr. Chairman, if I may be permitted =
to
make a suggestion, can both of
these gentlemen be right? I put it to you, sir, can both have
happened
to say the very same words to the
stranger? It seems to me--&qu=
ot;
The tanner got up and interrupted him. The tanner was a disgruntled man;<= o:p>
he believed himself entitled to be a
Nineteener, but he couldn't get
recognition. It made him a little unpleasant in=
his
ways and speech.
Said he:
"Sho, that's not the point! That could happen--twice in a hund=
red
years--but not the other thing. Neither of them gave the twenty
dollars!" [A ripple of applause.]
Billson.&=
nbsp;
"I did!"
Then each accused the other of pilfering.<= o:p>
The Chair. "Order! Sit down, if you please--both of
you. Neither of
the notes has been out of my possession at=
any
moment."
A Voice.&=
nbsp;
"Good--that settles that!"
The Tanner. "Mr. Chairman, one thing is n=
ow
plain: one of these men has
been eavesdropping under the other one's b=
ed,
and filching family
secrets.&=
nbsp;
If it is not unparliamentary to suggest it, I will remark that
both are equal to it. [The Chair. "Order! order!"] I withdraw the
remark, sir, and will confine myself to
suggesting that if one of them
has overheard the other reveal the test-re=
mark
to his wife, we shall
catch him now."
A Voice.&=
nbsp;
"How?"
The Tanner. "Easily. The two have not quoted the remark=
in
exactly the
same words. You would have noticed that, if th=
ere
hadn't been a
considerable stretch of time and an exciti=
ng
quarrel inserted between the
two readings."
A Voice.&=
nbsp;
"Name the difference."
The Tanner. "The word very is in Billson's
note, and not in the
other."
Many Voices. "That's so--he's right!"=
The Tanner. "And so, if the Chair will ex=
amine
the test-remark in the
sack, we shall know which of these two
frauds--[The Chair.
"Order!"]--which of these two
adventurers--[The Chair.
"Order!
order!"]--which of these two
gentlemen--[laughter and applause]--is
entitled to wear the belt as being the fir=
st
dishonest blatherskite ever
bred in this town--which he has dishonoure=
d,
and which will be a sultry
place for him from now out!" [Vigorous applause.]
Many Voices. "Open it!--open the sack!&quo=
t;
Mr. Burgess made a slit in the sack, slid =
his
hand in, and brought out an
envelope.=
In it were a couple of folded notes. He said:
"One of these is marked, 'Not to be
examined until all written
communications which have been addressed to
the Chair--if any--shall have
been read.' The other is marked 'The Test.'
worded--to wit:
"'I do not require that the first hal=
f of
the remark which was made to me
by my benefactor shall be quoted with
exactness, for it was not striking,
and could be forgotten; but its closing
fifteen words are quite striking,
and I think easily rememberable; unless th=
ese
shall be accurately
reproduced, let the applicant be regarded =
as
an impostor. My benefactor
began by saying he seldom gave advice to
anyone, but that it always bore
the hall-mark of high value when he did gi=
ve
it. Then he said this--and
it has never faded from my memory: 'You are
far from being a bad
man--''"
Fifty Voices. "That settles it--the money's=
Speech!&n=
bsp;
Speech!"
People jumped up and crowded around
congratulating fervently--meantime the Cha=
ir
was hammering with the gavel
and shouting:
"Order, gentlemen! Order! Order! Let me finish reading,
please." When
quiet was restored, the reading was
resumed--as follows:
"'Go, and reform--or, mark my words--=
some
day, for your sins you will
die and go to hell or Hadleyburg--TRY AND =
MAKE
IT THE FORMER.'"
A ghastly silence followed. First an angry cloud began to sett=
le
darkly
upon the faces of the citizenship; after a
pause the cloud began to rise,
and a tickled expression tried to take its
place; tried so hard that it
was only kept under with great and painful
difficulty; the reporters, the
Brixtonites, and other strangers bent their
heads down and shielded their
faces with their hands, and managed to hol=
d in
by main strength and
heroic courtesy. At this most inopportune time burs=
t upon
the stillness
the roar of a solitary voice--Jack Hallida=
y's:
"That's got the hall-mark on it!"=
;
Then the house let go, strangers and all.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Even Mr. Burgess's gravity
broke down presently, then the audience
considered itself officially
absolved from all restraint, and it made t=
he
most of its privilege. It
was a good long laugh, and a tempestuously
wholehearted one, but it
ceased at last--long enough for Mr. Burges=
s to
try to resume, and for the
people to get their eyes partially wiped; =
then
it broke out again, and
afterward yet again; then at last Burgess =
was
able to get out these
serious words:
"It is useless to try to disguise the
fact--we find ourselves in the
presence of a matter of grave import. It involves the honour of your
town--it strikes at the town's good name.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The difference of a single
word between the test-remarks offered by M=
r.
Wilson and Mr. Billson was
itself a serious thing, since it indicated
that one or the other of these
gentlemen had committed a theft--"
The two men were sitting limp, nerveless,
crushed; but at these words
both were electrified into movement, and
started to get up.
"Sit down!" said the Chair, shar=
ply,
and they obeyed. "That, =
as I
have
said, was a serious thing. And it was--but for only one of
them. But
the matter has become graver; for the hono=
ur
of both is now in
formidable peril. Shall I go even further, and say in
inextricable
peril?&nb=
sp;
Both left out the crucial fifteen words." He paused. During
several moments he allowed the pervading
stillness to gather and deepen
its impressive effects, then added:
"There would seem to be but one way
whereby this could happen. I ask these gentlemen--Was there
collusion?--agreement?"
A low murmur sifted through the house; its
import was, "He's got them
both."
Billson was not used to emergencies; he sa=
t in
a helpless collapse. But
said:
"I ask the indulgence of the house wh=
ile
I explain this most painful
matter.&n=
bsp;
I am sorry to say what I am about to say, since it must inflict
irreparable injury upon Mr. Billson, whom I
have always esteemed and
respected until now, and in whose
invulnerability to temptation I
entirely believed--as did you all. But for the preservation of my own=
honour I must speak--and with frankness. I confess with shame--and I now
beseech your pardon for it--that I said to=
the
ruined stranger all of the
words contained in the test-remark, includ=
ing
the disparaging fifteen.
[Sensation.] When the late publication was made=
I
recalled them, and I
resolved to claim the sack of coin, for by
every right I was entitled to
it.
Now I will ask you to consider this point, and weigh it well; that
stranger's gratitude to me that night knew=
no
bounds; he said himself
that he could find no words for it that we=
re
adequate, and that if he
should ever be able he would repay me a
thousandfold. Now, then, I as=
k
you this; could I expect--could I
believe--could I even remotely
imagine--that, feeling as he did, he would=
do
so ungrateful a thing as to
add those quite unnecessary fifteen words =
to
his test?--set a trap for
me?--expose me as a slanderer of my own to=
wn
before my own people
assembled in a public hall? It was preposterous; it was
impossible. His
test would contain only the kindly opening clause of my remark. Of that<= o:p>
I had no shadow of doubt. You would have thought as I did. You would
not have expected a base betrayal from one
whom you had befriended and
against whom you had committed no offence. And so with perfect<= o:p>
confidence, perfect trust, I wrote on a pi=
ece
of paper the opening
words--ending with "Go, and
reform,"--and signed it. When
I was about to
put it in an envelope I was called into my
back office, and without
thinking I left the paper lying open on my
desk." He stopped, turne=
d his
head slowly toward Billson, waited a momen=
t,
then added: "I ask you to
note this; when I returned, a little latte=
r,
Mr. Billson was retiring by
my street door." [Sensation.]
In a moment Billson was on his feet and
shouting:
"It's a lie! It's an infamous lie!"
The Chair. "Be seated, sir! Mr. Wilson has the floor."
Billson's friends pulled him into his seat=
and
quieted him, and Wilson
went on:
"Those are the simple facts. My note was now lying in a differe=
nt
place
on the table from where I had left it. I noticed that, but attached no
importance to it, thinking a draught had b=
lown
it there. That Mr.
Billson would read a private paper was a t=
hing
which could not occur to
me; he was an honourable man, and he would=
be
above that. If you will
allow me to say it, I think his extra word
'very' stands explained: it
is attributable to a defect of memory. I was the only man in the world
who could furnish here any detail of the
test-mark--by honourable
means.&nb=
sp;
I have finished."
There is nothing in the world like a
persuasive speech to fuddle the
mental apparatus and upset the convictions=
and
debauch the emotions of an
audience not practised in the tricks and
delusions of oratory.
sat down victorious. The house submerged him in tides of
approving
applause; friends swarmed to him and shook=
him
by the hand and
congratulated him, and Billson was shouted
down and not allowed to say a
word.&nbs=
p;
The Chair hammered and hammered with its gavel, and kept shouting:
"But let us proceed, gentlemen, let us
proceed!"
At last there was a measurable degree of
quiet, and the hatter said:
"But what is there to proceed with, s=
ir,
but to deliver the money?"
Voices.&n=
bsp;
"That's it! That's
it! Come forward,
The Hatter. "I move three cheers for Mr.
Wilson, Symbol of the special
virtue which--"
The cheers burst forth before he could fin=
ish;
and in the midst of
them--and in the midst of the clamour of t=
he
gavel also--some enthusiasts
mounted
triumph to the platform. The Chair's voice now rose above t=
he
noise:
"Order! To your places! You forget that there is still a
document to be
read." When quiet had been restored he to=
ok up
the document, and was
going to read it, but laid it down again
saying "I forgot; this is not to
be read until all written communications
received by me have first been
read." He took an envelope out of his poc=
ket,
removed its enclosure,
glanced at it--seemed astonished--held it =
out
and gazed at it--stared at
it.
Twenty or thirty voices cried out
"What is it? Read it! read it!"
And he did--slowly, and wondering:
"'The remark which I made to the
stranger--[Voices. "Hell=
o!
how's
this?"]--was this: 'You are far from
being a bad man. [Voices. "Great
Scott!"] Go, and reform.'" [Voice. "Oh, saw my leg off!"] Signed by
Mr. Pinkerton the banker."
The pandemonium of delight which turned it=
self
loose now was of a sort to
make the judicious weep. Those whose withers were unwrung l=
aughed
till
the tears ran down; the reporters, in thro=
es
of laughter, set down
disordered pot-hooks which would never in =
the
world be decipherable; and
a sleeping dog jumped up scared out of its
wits, and barked itself crazy
at the turmoil. All manner of cries were scattered
through the din:
"We're getting rich--two Symbols of
Incorruptibility!--without counting
Billson!" "Three!--count Shadbelly in--=
we
can't have too many!"
"All
right--Billson's elected!" "Alas, poor
A Powerful Voice. "Silence! The Chair's fished up something mo=
re out
of
its pocket."
Voices.&n=
bsp;
"Hurrah! Is it
something fresh? Read it! rea=
d!
read!"
The Chair [reading]. "'The remark which I made,'
etc. 'You are far from
being a bad man. Go,' etc. Signed, 'Gregory Yates.'"
Tornado of Voices. "Four Symbols!" "'Rah for Yates!" "Fish again!"
The house was in a roaring humour now, and
ready to get all the fun out
of the occasion that might be in it. Several Nineteeners, looking pale<= o:p>
and distressed, got up and began to work t=
heir
way towards the aisles,
but a score of shouts went up:
"The doors, the doors--close the door=
s;
no Incorruptible shall leave this
place!&nb=
sp;
Sit down, everybody!"
The mandate was obeyed.
"Fish again! Read! read!"
The Chair fished again, and once more the
familiar words began to fall
from its lips--"'You are far from bei=
ng a
bad man--'"
"Name! name! What's his name?"
"'L. Ingoldsby Sargent.'"
"Five elected! Pile up the Symbols! Go on, go on!"
"'You are far from being a bad--'&quo=
t;
"Name! name!"
"'Nicholas Whitworth.'"
"Hooray! hooray! it's a symbolical
day!"
Somebody wailed in, and began to sing this
rhyme (leaving out "it's") to
the lovely "Mikado" tune of
"When a man's afraid of a beautiful maid;"
the audience joined in, with joy; then, ju=
st
in time, somebody
contributed another line--
&nb=
sp;
"And don't you this forget--"
The house roared it out. A third line was at once furnished=
--
&nb=
sp;
"Corruptibles far from Hadleyburg are--"
The house roared that one too. As the last note died, Jack Hallid=
ay's
voice rose high and clear, freighted with a
final line--
&nb=
sp;
"But the Symbols are here, you bet!"
That was sung, with booming enthusiasm.
at the beginning and sang the four lines
through twice, with immense
swing and dash, and finished up with a cra=
shing
three-times-three and a
tiger for "Hadleyburg the Incorruptib=
le
and all Symbols of it which we
shall find worthy to receive the hall-mark
to-night."
Then the shoutings at the Chair began agai=
n,
all over the place:
"Go on! go on! Read! read some more! Read all you've got!"
"That's it--go on! We are winning eternal celebrity!&=
quot;
A dozen men got up now and began to
protest. They said that this =
farce
was the work of some abandoned joker, and =
was
an insult to the whole
community. Without a doubt these signatures w=
ere
all forgeries--
"Sit down! sit down! Shut up! You are confessing. We'll find your
names in the lot."
"Mr. Chairman, how many of those
envelopes have you got?"
The Chair counted.
"Together with those that have been
already examined, there are
nineteen."
A storm of derisive applause broke out.
"Perhaps they all contain the
secret. I move that you open =
them
all and
read every signature that is attached to a
note of that sort--and read
also the first eight words of the note.&qu=
ot;
"Second the motion!"
It was put and carried--uproariously. Then poor old Richards got up, and=
his wife rose and stood at his side. Her head was bent down, so that
none might see that she was crying. Her husband gave her his arm, and =
so
supporting her, he began to speak in a
quavering voice:
"My friends, you have known us two--M=
ary
and me--all our lives, and I
think you have liked us and respected
us--"
The Chair interrupted him:
"Allow me. It is quite true--that which you a=
re
saying, Mr. Richards;
this town does know you two; it does like =
you;
it does respect you;
more--it honours you and loves you--"=
Halliday's voice rang out:
"That's the hall-marked truth, too! If the Chair is right, let the hou=
se
speak up and say it. Rise! Now, then--hip! hip! hip!--all
together!"
The house rose in mass, faced toward the o=
ld
couple eagerly, filled the
air with a snow-storm of waving handkerchi=
efs,
and delivered the cheers
with all its affectionate heart.
The Chair then continued:
"What I was going to say is this: We =
know
your good heart, Mr. Richards,
but this is not a time for the exercise of
charity toward offenders.
[Shouts of "Right! right!"] I see your generous purpose in your
face,
but I cannot allow you to plead for these
men--"
"But I was going to--"
"Please take your seat, Mr.
Richards. We must examine the=
rest
of these
notes--simple fairness to the men who have
already been exposed requires
this.&nbs=
p;
As soon as that has been done--I give you my word for this--you
shall he heard."
Many voices. "Right!--the Chair is right--=
no
interruption can be
permitted at this stage! Go on!--the names! the names!--acc=
ording
to the
terms of the motion!"
The old couple sat reluctantly down, and t=
he
husband whispered to the
wife, "It is pitifully hard to have to
wait; the shame will be greater
than ever when they find we were only goin=
g to
plead for ourselves."
Straightway the jollity broke loose again =
with
the reading of the names.
"'You are far from being a bad man--'
Signature, 'Robert J. Titmarsh.'"
'"You are far from being a bad man--'
Signature, 'Eliphalet Weeks.'"
"'You are far from being a bad man--'
Signature, 'Oscar B. Wilder.'"
At this point the house lit upon the idea =
of
taking the eight words out
of the Chairman's hands. He was not unthankful for that.
he held up each note in its turn and
waited. The house droned out =
the
eight words in a massed and measured and
musical deep volume of sound
(with a daringly close resemblance to a
well-known church chant)--"You
are f-a-r from being a b-a-a-a-d
man." Then the Chair sai=
d,
"Signature,
'Archibald Wilcox.'" And so on, and so on, name after n=
ame,
and
everybody had an increasingly and glorious=
ly
good time except the
wretched Nineteen. Now and then, when a particularly
shining name was
called, the house made the Chair wait whil=
e it
chanted the whole of the
test-remark from the beginning to the clos=
ing
words, "And go to hell or
Hadleyburg--try and make it the
for-or-m-e-r!" and in these special cases
they added a grand and agonised and imposi=
ng "A-a-a-a-men!"
The list dwindled, dwindled, dwindled, poor
old Richards keeping tally of
the count, wincing when a name resembling =
his
own was pronounced, and
waiting in miserable suspense for the time=
to
come when it would be his
humiliating privilege to rise with Mary and
finish his plea, which he was
intending to word thus: ". . . for un=
til
now we have never done any wrong
thing, but have gone our humble way
unreproached. We are very poo=
r, we
are old, and, have no chick nor child to h=
elp
us; we were sorely tempted,
and we fell. It was my purpose when I got up be=
fore
to make confession
and beg that my name might not be read out=
in
this public place, for it
seemed to us that we could not bear it; bu=
t I
was prevented. It was
just; it was our place to suffer with the
rest. It has been hard for us=
.
It is the first time we have ever heard our
name fall from any one's
lips--sullied. Be merciful--for the sake or the b=
etter
days; make our
shame as light to bear as in your charity =
you
can." At this point in h=
is
reverie Mary nudged him, perceiving that h=
is
mind was absent. The house
was chanting, "You are f-a-r," e=
tc.
"Be ready," Mary whispered. "Your name comes now; he has =
read
eighteen."
The chant ended.
"Next! next! next!" came volleyi=
ng
from all over the house.
Burgess put his hand into his pocket. The old couple, trembling, began
to rise.&=
nbsp;
Burgess fumbled a moment, then said:
"I find I have read them all."
Faint with joy and surprise, the couple sa=
nk
into their seats, and Mary
whispered:
"Oh, bless God, we are saved!--he has
lost ours--I wouldn't give this for
a hundred of those sacks!"
The house burst out with its
"Mikado" travesty, and sang it three times
with ever-increasing enthusiasm, rising to=
its
feet when it reached for
the third time the closing line--
&nb=
sp;
"But the Symbols are here, you bet!"
and finishing up with cheers and a tiger f=
or
"Hadleyburg purity and our
eighteen immortal representatives of it.&q=
uot;
Then Wingate, the saddler, got up and prop=
osed
cheers "for the cleanest
man in town, the one solitary important
citizen in it who didn't try to
steal that money--Edward Richards."
They were given with great and moving
heartiness; then somebody proposed
that "Richards be elected sole Guardi=
an
and Symbol of the now Sacred
Hadleyburg Tradition, with power and right=
to
stand up and look the whole
sarcastic world in the face."
Passed, by acclamation; then they sang the
"Mikado" again, and ended it
with--
&nb=
sp;
"And there's one Symbol left, you bet!"
There was a pause; then--
A Voice.&=
nbsp;
"Now, then, who's to get the sack?"
The Tanner (with bitter sarcasm). "That's easy. The money has to be
divided among the eighteen
Incorruptibles. They gave the
suffering
stranger twenty dollars apiece--and that
remark--each in his turn--it
took twenty-two minutes for the procession=
to
move past. Staked the
stranger--total contribution, $360. All they want is just the loan
back--and interest--forty thousand dollars
altogether."
Many Voices [derisively.] "That's it! Divvy! divvy! Be kind to the
poor--don't keep them waiting!"
The Chair. "Order! I now offer the stranger's remaini=
ng
document. It
says: 'If no claimant shall appear [grand
chorus of groans], I desire
that you open the sack and count out the m=
oney
to the principal citizens
of your town, they to take it in trust [Cr=
ies
of "Oh! Oh! Oh!"], and use
it in such ways as to them shall seem best=
for
the propagation and
preservation of your community's noble
reputation for incorruptible
honesty [more cries]--a reputation to which
their names and their efforts
will add a new and far-reaching
lustre." [Enthusiastic
outburst of
sarcastic applause.] That seems to be all. No--here is a postscript:
"'P.S.--CITIZENS OF HADLEYBURG: There=
is
no test-remark--nobody made
one.
[Great sensation.] The=
re
wasn't any pauper stranger, nor any
twenty-dollar contribution, nor any
accompanying benediction and
compliment--these are all inventions. [General buzz and hum of
astonishment and delight.] Allow me to tell my story--it will=
take
but a
word or two. I passed through your town at a ce=
rtain
time, and received
a deep offence which I had not earned. Any other man would have been
content to kill one or two of you and call=
it
square, but to me that
would have been a trivial revenge, and
inadequate; for the dead do not
suffer. Besides I could not kill you all--=
and,
anyway, made as I am,
even that would not have satisfied me. I wanted to damage every man in
the place, and every woman--and not in the=
ir
bodies or in their estate,
but in their vanity--the place where feeble
and foolish people are most
vulnerable. So I disguised myself and came bac=
k and
studied you. You
were easy game. You had an old and lofty reputatio=
n for
honesty, and
naturally you were proud of it--it was your
treasure of treasures, the
very apple of your eye. As soon as I found out that you
carefully and
vigilantly kept yourselves and your childr=
en
out of temptation, I knew
how to proceed. Why, you simple creatures, the wea=
kest
of all weak
things is a virtue which has not been test=
ed
in the fire. I laid a plan,
and gathered a list of names. My project was to corrupt Hadleybu=
rg the
Incorruptible. My idea was to make liars and thie=
ves of
nearly half a
hundred smirchless men and women who had n=
ever
in their lives uttered a
lie or stolen a penny. I was afraid of Goodson. He was neither born nor
reared in Hadleyburg. I was afraid that if I started to
operate my
scheme by getting my letter laid before yo=
u,
you would say to yourselves,
'Goodson is the only man among us who would
give away twenty dollars to a
poor devil'--and then you might not bite a=
t my
bait. But heaven took
Goodson; then I knew I was safe, and I set=
my
trap and baited it. It may
be that I shall not catch all the men to w=
hom
I mailed the pretended test-
secret, but I shall catch the most of them=
, if
I know Hadleyburg nature.
[Voices.&=
nbsp;
"Right--he got every last one of them."] I believe they will
even steal ostensible gamble-money, rather
than miss, poor, tempted,
and mistrained fellows. I am hoping to eternally and
everlastingly
squelch your vanity and give Hadleyburg a =
new
renown--one that will
stick--and spread far. If I have succeeded, open the sack=
and
summon
the Committee on Propagation and Preservat=
ion
of the Hadleyburg
Reputation.'"
A Cyclone of Voices. "Open it! Open it! The Eighteen to the front!
Committee on Propagation of the
Tradition! Forward--the
Incorruptibles!"
The Chair ripped the sack wide, and gather=
ed
up a handful of bright,
broad, yellow coins, shook them together, =
then
examined them.
"Friends, they are only gilded disks =
of
lead!"
There was a crashing outbreak of delight o=
ver
this news, and when the
noise had subsided, the tanner called out:=
"By right of apparent seniority in th=
is
business, Mr. Wilson is Chairman
of the Committee on Propagation of the Tra=
dition. I suggest that he step
forward on behalf of his pals, and receive=
in
trust the money."
A Hundred Voices. "
without apologies for my language, damn the
money!"
A Voice.&=
nbsp;
"Oh, and him a Baptist!"
A Voice.&=
nbsp;
"Seventeen Symbols left!
Step up, gentlemen, and assume your
trust!"
There was a pause--no response.
The Saddler. "Mr. Chairman, we've got one =
clean
man left, anyway, out
of the late aristocracy; and he needs mone=
y,
and deserves it. I move
that you appoint Jack Halliday to get up t=
here
and auction off that sack
of gilt twenty-dollar pieces, and give the
result to the right man--the
man whom Hadleyburg delights to honour--Ed=
ward
Richards."
This was received with great enthusiasm, t=
he
dog taking a hand again; the
saddler started the bids at a dollar, the
Brixton folk and Barnum's
representative fought hard for it, the peo=
ple
cheered every jump that the
bids made, the excitement climbed moment by
moment higher and higher, the
bidders got on their mettle and grew stead=
ily
more and more daring, more
and more determined, the jumps went from a
dollar up to five, then to
ten, then to twenty, then fifty, then to a
hundred, then--
At the beginning of the auction Richards
whispered in distress to his
wife: "Oh, Mary, can we allow it? It--it--you see, it is an
honour--reward, a testimonial to purity of
character, and--and--can we
allow it?=
Hadn't I better get up and--Oh, Mary, what ought we to
do?--what do you think we--" [Hallida=
y's
voice. "Fifteen I'm
bid!--fifteen for the sack!--twenty!--ah,
thanks!--thirty--thanks again!
Thirty, thirty, thirty!--do I hear
forty?--forty it is! Keep the=
ball
rolling, gentlemen, keep it rolling!--fift=
y!--thanks,
noble Roman!--going
at fifty, fifty,
fifty!--seventy!--ninety!--splendid!--a hundred!--pile
it up, pile it up!--hundred and
twenty--forty!--just in time!--hundred
and fifty!--Two hundred!--superb! Do I hear two h--thanks!--two hund=
red
and fifty!--"]
"It is another temptation, Edward--I'm
all in a tremble--but, oh, we've
escaped one temptation, and that ought to =
warn
us, to--["Six did I
hear?--thanks!--six fifty, six f--SEVEN
hundred!"] And yet, Edwa=
rd,
when
you think--nobody susp--["Eight hundr=
ed
dollars!--hurrah!--make it
nine!--Mr. Parsons, did I hear you
say--thanks!--nine!--this noble sack
of virgin lead going at only nine hundred
dollars, gilding and all--come!
do I hear--a thousand!--gratefully yours!-=
-did
some one say eleven?--a
sack which is going to be the most celebra=
ted
in the whole Uni--"] &qu=
ot;Oh,
Edward" (beginning to sob), "we =
are
so poor!--but--but--do as you think
best--do as you think best."
Edward fell--that is, he sat still; sat wi=
th a
conscience which was not
satisfied, but which was overpowered by
circumstances.
Meantime a stranger, who looked like an
amateur detective gotten up as an
impossible English earl, had been watching=
the
evening's proceedings with
manifest interest, and with a contented
expression in his face; and he
had been privately commenting to himself.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> He was now soliloquising
somewhat like this: "None of the Eigh=
teen
are bidding; that is not
satisfactory; I must change that--the dram=
atic
unities require it; they
must buy the sack they tried to steal; they
must pay a heavy price,
too--some of them are rich. And another thing, when I make a m=
istake
in
Hadleyburg nature the man that puts that e=
rror
upon me is entitled to a
high honorarium, and some one must pay.
brought my judgment to shame; he is an hon=
est
man:--I don't understand
it, but I acknowledge it. Yes, he saw my deuces--and with a
straight
flush, and by rights the pot is his. And it shall be a jack-pot, too, i=
f
I can manage it. He disappointed me, but let that
pass."
He was watching the bidding. At a thousand, the market broke: t=
he
prices
tumbled swiftly. He waited--and still watched. One competitor dropped
out; then another, and another. He put in a bid or two now. When the
bids had sunk to ten dollars, he added a f=
ive;
some one raised him a
three; he waited a moment, then flung in a
fifty-dollar jump, and the
sack was his--at $1,282. The house broke out in cheers--then
stopped;
for he was on his feet, and had lifted his
hand. He began to speak.
"I desire to say a word, and ask a favour. I am a speculator in<= o:p>
rarities, and I have dealings with persons
interested in numismatics all
over the world. I can make a profit on this purcha=
se,
just as it stands;
but there is a way, if I can get your
approval, whereby I can make every
one of these leaden twenty-dollar pieces w=
orth
its face in gold, and
perhaps more. Grant me that approval, and I will=
give
part of my gains
to your Mr. Richards, whose invulnerable
probity you have so justly and
so cordially recognised to-night; his share
shall be ten thousand
dollars, and I will hand him the money
to-morrow. [Great applause fr=
om
the house. But the "invulnerable probity=
"
made the Richardses blush
prettily; however, it went for modesty, and
did no harm.] If you will
pass my proposition by a good majority--I
would like a two-thirds vote--I
will regard that as the town's consent, and
that is all I ask. Rarities
are always helped by any device which will
rouse curiosity and compel
remark.&n=
bsp;
Now if I may have your permission to stamp upon the faces of
each of these ostensible coins the names of
the eighteen gentlemen who--"
Nine-tenths of the audience were on their =
feet
in a moment--dog and
all--and the proposition was carried with a
whirlwind of approving
applause and laughter.
They sat down, and all the Symbols except
"Dr." Clay Harkness got up,
violently protesting against the proposed
outrage, and threatening to--
"I beg you not to threaten me," =
said
the stranger calmly. "I =
know
my
legal rights, and am not accustomed to bei=
ng
frightened at bluster."
[Applause.] He sat down. "Dr." Harkness saw an
opportunity here. He
was one of the two very rich men of the pl=
ace,
and Pinkerton was the
other.&nb=
sp;
Harkness was proprietor of a mint; that is to say, a popular
patent medicine. He was running for the Legislature=
on
one ticket, and
Pinkerton on the other. It was a close race and a hot one,=
and
getting
hotter every day. Both had strong appetites for mone=
y;
each had bought a
great tract of land, with a purpose; there=
was
going to be a new railway,
and each wanted to be in the Legislature a=
nd
help locate the route to his
own advantage; a single vote might make the
decision, and with it two or
three fortunes. The stake was large, and Harkness =
was a
daring
speculator. He was sitting close to the
stranger. He leaned over whil=
e
one or another of the other Symbols was
entertaining the house with
protests and appeals, and asked, in a whis=
per,
"What is your price for the sack?&quo=
t;
"Forty thousand dollars."
"I'll give you twenty."
"No."
"Twenty-five."
"No."
"Say thirty."
"The price is forty thousand dollars;=
not
a penny less."
"All right, I'll give it. I will come to the hotel at ten in=
the
morning.&=
nbsp;
I don't want it known; will see you privately."
"Very good." Then the stranger got up and said =
to the
house:
"I find it late. The speeches of these gentlemen ar=
e not
without merit,
not without interest, not without grace; y=
et
if I may he excused I will
take my leave. I thank you for the great favour w=
hich
you have shown me
in granting my petition. I ask the Chair to keep the sack f=
or me
until
to-morrow, and to hand these three
five-hundred-dollar notes to Mr.
Richards." They were passed up to the Chair.<= o:p>
"At nine I will call for the sack, an=
d at
eleven will deliver the rest of
the ten thousand to Mr. Richards in person=
at
his home. Good-night."
Then he slipped out, and left the audience
making a vast noise, which was
composed of a mixture of cheers, the
"Mikado" song, dog-disapproval, and
the chant, "You are f-a-r from being a
b-a-a-d man--a-a-a a-men!"
At home the Richardses had to endure
congratulations and compliments
until midnight. Then they were left to themselves.=
They looked a little
sad, and they sat silent and thinking. Finally Mary sighed and said:
"Do you think we are to blame,
Edward--much to blame?" and her eyes
wandered to the accusing triplet of big
bank-notes lying on the table,
where the congratulators had been gloating
over them and reverently
fingering them. Edward did not answer at once; the=
n he
brought out a
sigh and said, hesitatingly:
"We--we couldn't help it, Mary. It--well it was ordered. All things
are."
Mary glanced up and looked at him steadily,
but he didn't return the
look.&nbs=
p;
Presently she said:
"I thought congratulations and praise=
s always
tasted good. But--it seems
to me, now--Edward?"
"Well?"
"Are you going to stay in the bank?&q=
uot;
"N--no."
"Resign?"
"In the morning--by note."
"It does seem best."
Richards bowed his head in his hands and
muttered:
"Before I was not afraid to let ocean=
s of
people's money pour through my
hands, but--Mary, I am so tired, so
tired--"
"We will go to bed."
At nine in the morning the stranger called=
for
the sack and took it to
the hotel in a cab. At ten Harkness had a talk with him
privately. The
stranger asked for and got five cheques on=
a
metropolitan bank--drawn to
"Bearer,"--four for $1,500 each,=
and
one for $34,000. He put one o=
f the
former in his pocket-book, and the remaind=
er,
representing $38,500, he
put in an envelope, and with these he adde=
d a
note which he wrote after
Harkness was gone. At eleven he called at the Richard=
s'
house and
knocked.&=
nbsp;
Mrs. Richards peeped through the shutters, then went and
received the envelope, and the stranger
disappeared without a word. S=
he
came back flushed and a little unsteady on=
her
legs, and gasped out:
"I am sure I recognised him! Last night it seemed to me that ma=
ybe I
had
seen him somewhere before."
"He is the man that brought the sack
here?"
"I am almost sure of it."
"Then he is the ostensible Stephenson
too, and sold every important
citizen in this town with his bogus
secret. Now if he has sent ch=
eques
instead of money, we are sold too, after we
thought we had escaped. I
was beginning to feel fairly comfortable o=
nce
more, after my night's
rest, but the look of that envelope makes =
me
sick. It isn't fat enough;
$8,500 in even the largest bank-notes makes
more bulk than that."
"Edward, why do you object to
cheques?"
"Cheques signed by Stephenson! I am resigned to take the $8,500 i=
f it
could come in bank-notes--for it does seem
that it was so ordered,
Mary--but I have never had much courage, a=
nd I
have not the pluck to try
to market a cheque signed with that disast=
rous
name. It would be a trap.
That man tried to catch me; we escaped som=
ehow
or other; and now he is
trying a new way. If it is cheques--"
"Oh, Edward, it is too bad!" And she held up the cheques and be=
gan to
cry.
"Put them in the fire! quick! we must= n't be tempted. It is a trick to<= o:p>
make the world laugh at us, along with the
rest, and--Give them to
me, since you can't do it!" He snatched them and tried to hold=
his
grip till he could get to the stove; but he
was human, he was a cashier,
and he stopped a moment to make sure of the signature. Then he came near<= o:p>
to fainting.
"Fan me, Mary, fan me! They are the same as gold!"
"Oh, how lovely, Edward! Why?"
"Signed by Harkness. What can the mystery of that be,
Mary?"
"Edward, do you think--"
"Look here--look at this!
Fifteen--fifteen--fifteen--thirty-four. Thirty-
eight thousand five hundred! Mary, the sack isn't worth twelve
dollars,
and Harkness--apparently--has paid about p=
ar
for it."
"And does it all come to us, do you
think--instead of the ten thousand?"
"Why, it looks like it. And the cheques are made to 'Beare=
r,'
too."
"Is that good, Edward? What is it for?"
"A hint to collect them at some dista=
nt
bank, I reckon. Perhaps Harkn=
ess
doesn't want the matter known. What is that--a note?"
"Yes. It was with the cheques."
It was in the "Stephenson"
handwriting, but there was no signature.&n=
bsp;
It
said:
&nb=
sp;
"I am a disappointed man.
Your honesty is beyond the reach of
&nb=
sp;
temptation. I had a
different idea about it, but I wronged you in
&nb=
sp;
that, and I beg pardon, and do it sincerely. I honour you--and that
&nb=
sp;
is sincere too. This t=
own is
not worthy to kiss the hem of your
&nb=
sp;
garment. Dear sir, I m=
ade a
square bet with myself that there were
&nb=
sp;
nineteen debauchable men in your self-righteous community. I have
&nb=
sp;
lost. Take the whole p=
ot,
you are entitled to it."
Richards drew a deep sigh, and said:
"It seems written with fire--it burns
so. Mary--I am miserable
again."
"I, too. Ah, dear, I wish--"
"To think, Mary--he believes in me.&q=
uot;
"Oh, don't, Edward--I can't bear
it."
"If those beautiful words were deserv=
ed,
Mary--and God knows I believed I
deserved them once--I think I could give t=
he
forty thousand dollars for
them.&nbs=
p;
And I would put that paper away, as representing more than gold
and jewels, and keep it always. But now--We could not live in the =
shadow
of its accusing presence, Mary."
He put it in the fire.
A messenger arrived and delivered an
envelope. Richards took from =
it a
note and read it; it was from Burgess:
&nb=
sp;
"You saved me, in a difficult time. I saved you last night. It was
&nb=
sp;
at cost of a lie, but I made the sacrifice freely, and out of a
&nb=
sp;
grateful heart. None i=
n this
village knows so well as I know how
&nb=
sp;
brave and good and noble you are.&n=
bsp;
At bottom you cannot respect me,
&nb=
sp;
knowing as you do of that matter of which I am accused, and by the
&nb=
sp;
general voice condemned; but I beg that you will at least believe th=
at
&nb=
sp;
I am a grateful man; it will help me to bear my burden. [Signed]
&nb=
sp;
'BURGESS.'"
"Saved, once more. And on such terms!" He put the note in the lire.
"I--I wish I were dead, Mary, I wish I
were out of it all!"
"Oh, these are bitter, bitter days,
Edward. The stabs, through th=
eir
very generosity, are so deep--and they com=
e so
fast!"
Three days before the election each of two
thousand voters suddenly found
himself in possession of a prized memento-=
-one
of the renowned bogus
double-eagles. Around one of its faces was stamped
these words: "THE
REMARK I MADE TO THE POOR STRANGER
WAS--" Around the other =
face
was
stamped these: "GO, AND REFORM. [SIGNED] PINKERTON." Thus the entire
remaining refuse of the renowned joke was
emptied upon a single head, and
with calamitous effect. It revived the recent vast laugh a=
nd
concentrated it upon Pinkerton; and Harkne=
ss's
election was a walk-over.
Within twenty-four hours after the Richard=
ses had
received their cheques
their consciences were quieting down,
discouraged; the old couple were
learning to reconcile themselves to the sin
which they had committed. But=
they were to learn, now, that a sin takes =
on
new and real terrors when
there seems a chance that it is going to be
found out. This gives it a
fresh and most substantial and important
aspect. At church the morning=
sermon was of the usual pattern; it was the
same old things said in the
same old way; they had heard them a thousa=
nd
times and found them
innocuous, next to meaningless, and easy to
sleep under; but now it was
different: the sermon seemed to bristle wi=
th
accusations; it seemed aimed
straight and specially at people who were
concealing deadly sins. After=
church they got away from the mob of
congratulators as soon as they
could, and hurried homeward, chilled to the
bone at they did not know
what--vague, shadowy, indefinite fears.
glimpse of Mr. Burgess as he turned a
corner. He paid no attention =
to
their nod of recognition! He hadn't seen it; but they did no=
t know
that.
What could his conduct mean? It might mean--it might--mean--oh,=
a
dozen
dreadful things. Was it possible that he knew that
Richards could have
cleared him of guilt in that bygone time, =
and
had been silently waiting
for a chance to even up accounts? At home, in their distress they go=
t to
imagining that their servant might have be=
en
in the next room listening
when Richards revealed the secret to his w=
ife
that he knew of Burgess's
innocence; next Richards began to imagine =
that
he had heard the swish of
a gown in there at that time; next, he was
sure he had heard it. They
would call Sarah in, on a pretext, and wat=
ch
her face; if she had been
betraying them to Mr. Burgess, it would sh=
ow in
her manner. They asked
her some questions--questions which were so
random and incoherent and
seemingly purposeless that the girl felt s=
ure
that the old people's minds
had been affected by their sudden good
fortune; the sharp and watchful
gaze which they bent upon her frightened h=
er,
and that completed the
business.=
She blushed, she became nervous and confused, and to the old
people these were plain signs of guilt--gu=
ilt
of some fearful sort or
other--without doubt she was a spy and a
traitor. When they were alone=
again they began to piece many unrelated
things together and get horrible
results out of the combination. When things had got about to the w=
orst
Richards was delivered of a sudden gasp and
his wife asked:
"Oh, what is it?--what is it?"
"The note--Burgess's note! Its language was sarcastic, I see =
it
now." He
quoted: "'At bottom you cannot respect
me, knowing, as you do, of that
matter of which I am accused'--oh, it is
perfectly plain, now, God help
me!
He knows that I know! =
You
see the ingenuity of the phrasing.
It
was a trap--and like a fool, I walked into
it. And Mary--!"
"Oh, it is dreadful--I know what you =
are
going to say--he didn't return
your transcript of the pretended
test-remark."
"No--kept it to destroy us with. Mary, he has exposed us to some
already.&=
nbsp;
I know it--I know it well. =
span>I
saw it in a dozen faces after
church.&n=
bsp;
Ah, he wouldn't answer our nod of recognition--he knew what he
had been doing!"
In the night the doctor was called. The news went around in the mornin=
g
that the old couple were rather seriously
ill--prostrated by the
exhausting excitement growing out of their
great windfall, the
congratulations, and the late hours, the
doctor said. The town was
sincerely distressed; for these old people
were about all it had left to
be proud of, now.
Two days later the news was worse. The old couple were delirious, and=
were doing strange things. By witness of the nurses, Richards=
had
exhibited cheques--for $8,500? No--for an amazing sum--$38,500! What
could be the explanation of this gigantic
piece of luck?
The following day the nurses had more
news--and wonderful. They had=
concluded to hide the cheques, lest harm c=
ome
to them; but when they
searched they were gone from under the
patient's pillow--vanished away.
The patient said:
"Let the pillow alone; what do you
want?"
"We thought it best that the
cheques--"
"You will never see them again--they =
are
destroyed. They came from
Satan.&nb=
sp;
I saw the hell-brand on them, and I knew they were sent to betray
me to sin." Then he fell to gabbling strange a=
nd
dreadful things which
were not clearly understandable, and which=
the
doctor admonished them to
keep to themselves.
Richards was right; the cheques were never
seen again.
A nurse must have talked in her sleep, for
within two days the forbidden
gabblings were the property of the town; a=
nd
they were of a surprising
sort.&nbs=
p;
They seemed to indicate that Richards had been a claimant for the
sack himself, and that Burgess had conceal=
ed
that fact and then
maliciously betrayed it.
Burgess was taxed with this and stoutly de=
nied
it. And he said it was
not fair to attach weight to the chatter o=
f a
sick old man who was out of
his mind.=
Still, suspicion was in the air, and there was much talk.
After a day or two it was reported that Mr=
s.
Richards's delirious
deliveries were getting to be duplicates of
her husband's. Suspicion
flamed up into conviction, now, and the to=
wn's
pride in the purity of its
one undiscredited important citizen began =
to
dim down and flicker toward
extinction.
Six days passed, then came more news. The old couple were dying.
Richards's mind cleared in his latest hour,
and he sent for Burgess.
Burgess said:
"Let the room be cleared. I think he wishes to say something=
in
privacy."
"No!" said Richards; "I wan=
t witnesses. I want you all to hear my
confession, so that I may die a man, and n=
ot a
dog. I was
clean--artificially--like the rest; and li=
ke
the rest I fell when
temptation came. I signed a lie, and claimed the
miserable sack. Mr.
Burgess remembered that I had done him a
service, and in gratitude (and
ignorance) he suppressed my claim and saved
me. You know the thing that
was charged against Burgess years ago. My testimony, and mine alone,
could have cleared him, and I was a coward=
and
left him to suffer
disgrace--"
"No--no--Mr. Richards, you--"
"My servant betrayed my secret to
him--"
"No one has betrayed anything to
me--"
--"And then he did a natural and
justifiable thing; he repented of the
saving kindness which he had done me, and =
he
exposed me--as I
deserved--"
"Never!--I make oath--"
"Out of my heart I forgive him."=
Burgess's impassioned protestations fell u=
pon
deaf ears; the dying man
passed away without knowing that once more=
he
had done poor Burgess a
wrong.&nb=
sp;
The old wife died that night.
The last of the sacred Nineteen had fallen=
a
prey to the fiendish sack;
the town was stripped of the last rag of i=
ts
ancient glory. Its mourning
was not showy, but it was deep.
By act of the Legislature--upon prayer and
petition--Hadleyburg was
allowed to change its name to (never mind
what--I will not give it away),
and leave one word out of the motto that f=
or
many generations had graced
the town's official seal.
It is an honest town once more, and the man
will have to rise early that
catches it napping again.