University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.
WHICH TELLS OF A GREAT PUBLIC MEETING IN SEVENOAKS, THE
BURNING IN EFFIGY OF MR. BELCHER, AND THAT GENTLE-MAN'S
INTERVIEW WITH A REPORTER.

Mr. Balfour, in his yearly journeys through Sevenoaks,
had made several acquaintances among the citizens, and had
impressed them as a man of ability and integrity; and, as he
was the only New York lawyer of their acquaintance, they
very naturally turned to him for information and advice.
Without consulting each other, or informing each other of
what they had done, at least half a dozen wrote to him the
moment Mr. Belcher was out of the village, seeking information
concerning the Continental Petroleum Company. They
told him frankly about the enormous investments that they
and their neighbors had made, and of their fears concerning
the results. With a friendly feeling toward the people, he
undertook, as far as possible, to get at the bottom of the matter,
and sent a man to look up the property, and to find the
men who nominally composed the Company.

After a month had passed away and no dividend was announced,
the people began to talk more freely among themselves.
They had hoped against hope, and fought their
suspicions until they were tired, and then they sought in
sympathy to assuage the pangs of their losses and disappointments.

It was not until the end of two months after Mr. Belcher's
departure that a letter was received at Sevenoaks from Mr.
Balfour, giving a history of the Company, which confirmed
their worst fears. This history is already in the possession of

the reader, but to that which has been detailed was added the
information that, practically, the operations of the Company
had been discontinued, and the men who formed it were scattered.
Nothing had ever been earned, and the dividends
which had been disbursed were taken out of the pockets of
the principals, from moneys which they had received for stock.
Mr. Belcher had absorbed half that had been received, at no
cost to himself whatever, and had added the grand total to
his already bulky fortune. It was undoubtedly a gross swindle,
and was, from the first, intended to be such; but it was
under the forms of law, and it was doubtful whether a penny
could ever be recovered.

Then, of course, the citizens held a public meeting—the
great panacea for all the ills of village life in America. Nothing
but a set of more or less impassioned speeches and a string
of resolutions could express the indignation of Sevenoaks.
A notice was posted for several days, inviting all the resident
stockholders in the Continental to meet in council, to see
what was to be done for the security of their interests.

The little town-hall was full, and, scattered among the
boisterous throng of men, were the pitiful faces and figures
of poor women who had committed their little all to the grasp
of the great scoundrel who had so recently despoiled and
deserted them.

The Rev. Mr. Snow was there, as became the pastor of a
flock in which the wolf had made its ravages, and the meeting
was opened with prayer, according to the usual custom.
Considering the mood and temper of the people, a prayer for
the spirit of forgiveness and fortitude would not have been
out of place, but it is to be feared that it was wholly a matter
of form. It is noticeable that at political conventions, on the
eve of conflicts in which personal ambition and party chicanery
play prominent parts; on the inauguration of great
business enterprises in which local interests meet in the determined
strifes of selfishness, and at a thousand gatherings whose
objects leave God forgotten and right and justice out of consideration,

the blessing of the Almighty is invoked, while men
who are about to rend each other's reputations, and strive,
without conscience, for personal and party masteries, bow
reverent heads and mumble impatient “Amens.”

But the people of Sevenoaks wanted their money back, and
that, certainly, was worth praying for. They wanted, also,
to find some way to wreak their indignation upon Robert
Belcher; and the very men who bowed in prayer after reaching
the hall walked under an effigy of that person on their
way thither, hung by the neck and dangling from a tree, and
had rare laughter and gratification in the repulsive vision.
They were angry, they were indignant, they were exasperated,
and the more so because they were more than half convinced
of their impotence, while wholly conscious that they had been
decoyed to their destruction, befooled and overreached by
one who knew how to appeal to a greed which his own ill-won
successes and prosperities had engendered in them.

After the prayer, the discussion began. Men rose, trying
their best to achieve self-control, and to speak judiciously and
judicially, but they were hurled, one after another, into the
vortex of indignation, and cheer upon cheer shook the hall
as they gave vent to the real feeling that was uppermost in
their hearts.

After the feeling of the meeting had somewhat expended
itself, Mr. Snow rose to speak. In the absence of the great
shadow under which he had walked during all his pastorate,
and under the blighting influence of which his manhood
had shriveled, he was once more independent. The sorrows
and misfortunes of his people had greatly moved him. A
sense of his long humiliation shamed him. He was poor, but
he was once more his own; and he owed a duty to the mad
multitude around him which he was bound to discharge.
“My friends,” said he, “I am with you, for better or for
worse. You kindly permit me to share in your prosperity,
and now, in the day of your trial and adversity, I will stand
by you. There has gone out from among us an incarnate evil

influence, a fact which calls for our profound gratitude. I
confess with shame that I have not only felt it, but have
shaped myself, though unconsciously, to it. It has vitiated
our charities, corrupted our morals, and invaded even the
house of God. We have worshiped the golden calf. We
have bowed down to Moloch. We have consented to live
under a will that was base and cruel, in all its motives and
ends. We have been so dazzled by a great worldly success,
that we have ceased to inquire into its sources. We have
done daily obeisance to one who neither feared God nor regarded
man. We have become so pervaded with his spirit,
so demoralized by his foul example, that when he held out
even a false opportunity to realize something of his success,
we made no inquisition of facts or processes, and were willing
to share with him in gains that his whole history would have
taught us were more likely to be unfairly than fairly won. I
mourn for your losses, for you can poorly afford to suffer
them; but to have that man forever removed from us; to be
released from his debasing influence; to be untrammeled in
our action and in the development of our resources; to be
free men and free women, and to become content with our
lot and with such gains as we may win in a legitimate way, is
worth all that it has cost us. We needed a severe lesson, and
we have had it. It falls heavily upon some who are innocent.
Let us, in kindness to these, find a balm for our own trials.
And, now, let us not degrade ourselves by hot words and impotent
resentments. They can do no good. Let us be men
—Christian men, with detestation of the rascality from which
we suffer, but with pity for the guilty man, who, sooner or
later, will certainly meet the punishment he so richly deserves.
`Vengeance is mine; I will repay,' saith the Lord.”

The people of Sevenoaks had never before heard Mr. Snow
make such a speech as this. It was a manly confession, and
a manly admonition. His attenuated form was straight and
almost majestic, his pale face was flushed, his tones were deep
and strong, and they saw that one man, at least, breathed

more freely, now that the evil genius of the place was gone.
It was a healthful speech. It was an appeal to their own conscious
history, and to such remains of manhood as they possessed,
and they were strengthened by it.

A series of the most objurgatory resolutions had been prepared
for the occasion, yet the writer saw that it would be
better to keep them in his pocket. The meeting was at a
stand, when little Dr. Radcliffe, who was sore to his heart's
core with his petty loss, jumped up and declared that he had
a series of resolutions to offer. There was a world of unconscious
humor in his freak,—unconscious, because his resolutions
were intended to express his spite, not only against Mr.
Belcher, but against the villagers, including Mr. Snow. He
began by reading in his piping voice the first resolution
passed at the previous meeting which so pleasantly dismissed
the proprietor to the commercial metropolis of the country.
The reading of this resolution was so sweet a sarcasm on the
proceedings of that oceasion, that it was received with peals
of laughter and deafening cheers, and as he went bitterly on,
from resolution to resolution, raising his voice to overtop the
jargon, the scene became too ludicrous for description. The
resolutions, which never had any sincerity in them, were such
a confirmation of all that Mr. Snow had said, and such a comment
on their own duplicity and moral debasement, that there
was nothing left for them but to break up and go home.

The laugh did them good, and complemented the corrective
which had been administered to them by the minister.
Some of them still retained their anger, as a matter of course,
and when they emerged upon the street and found Mr. Belcher's
effigy standing upon the ground, surrounded by fagots
ready to be lighted, they yelled: “Light him up, boys!”
and stood to witness the sham auto-da-fé with a crowd of
village urchins dancing around it.

Of course, Mr. Belcher had calculated upon indignation
and anger, and rejoiced in their impotence. He knew that
those who had lost so much would not care to risk more in a

suit at law, and that his property at Sevenoaks was so identified
with the life of the town—that so many were dependent
upon its preservation for their daily bread—that they would
not be fool-hardy enough to burn it.

Forty-eight hours after the public meeting, Mr. Belcher,
sitting comfortably in his city home, received from the postman
a large handful of letters. He looked them over, and
as they were all blazoned with the Sevenoaks post-mark, he
selected that which bore the handwriting of his agent, and
read it. The agent had not dared to attend the meeting, but
he had had his spies there, who reported to him fully the authorship
and drift of all the speeches in the hall, and the unseemly
proceedings of the street. Mr. Belcher did not laugh,
for his vanity was wounded. The thought that a town in
which he had ruled so long had dared to burn his effigy in
the open street was a humiliation; particularly so, as he did
not see how he could revenge himself upon the perpetrators
of it without compromising his own interests. He blurted
out his favorite expletive, lighted a new cigar, walked his
room, and chafed like a caged tiger.

He was not in haste to break the other seals, but at last he
sat down to the remainder of his task, and read a series of
pitiful personal appeals that would have melted any heart but
his own. They were from needy men and women whom he
had despoiled. They were a detail of suffering and disappointment,
and in some cases they were abject prayers for restitution.
He read them all, to the last letter and the last
word, and then quietly tore them into strips, and threw them
into the fire.

His agent had informed him of the sources of the public
information concerning the Continental Company, and he
recognized James Balfour as an enemy. He had a premonition
that the man was destined to stand in his way, and that
he was located just where he could overlook his operations
and his life. He would not have murdered him, but he
would have been glad to hear that he was dead. He wondered

whether he was incorruptible, and whether he, Robert Belcher,
could afford to buy him—whether it would not pay to
make his acquaintance—whether, indeed, the man were not
endeavoring to force him to do so. Every bad motive which
could exercise a man, he understood; but he was puzzled in
endeavoring to make out what form of selfishness had moved
Mr. Balfour to take such an interest in the people of Seven-oaks.

At last he sat down at his table and wrote a letter to his
agent, simply ordering him to establish a more thorough
watch over his property, and directing him to visit all the
newspaper offices of the region, and keep the reports of the
meeting and its attendant personal indignities from publication.

Then, with an amused smile upon his broad face, he wrote
the following letter:

Mr. Belcher had done what he considered a very neat and
brilliant thing. He sealed and directed the letter, rang his
bell, and ordered it posted. Then he sat back in his easy
chair, and chuckled over it. Then he rose and paraded himself
before his mirror.

“When you get ahead of Robert Belcher, drop us a line.
Let it be brief and to the point. Any information thankfully
received. Are you, sir, to be bothered by this pettifogger?
Are you to sit tamely down and be undermined? Is that
your custom? Then, sir, you are a base coward. Who said
coward? Did you, sir? Let this right hand, which I now
raise in air, and clench in awful menace, warn you not to
repeat the damning accusation. Sevenoaks howls, and it is
well. Let every man who stands in my path take warning. I
button my coat; I raise my arms; I straighten my form, and
they flee away—flee like the mists of the morning, and over
yonder mountain-top, fade in the far blue sky. And now,
my dear sir, don't make an ass of yourself, but sit down.
Thank you, sir. I make you my obeisance. I retire.”

Mr. Belcher's addresses to himself were growing less frequent
among the excitements of new society. He had enough
to occupy his mind without them, and found sufficient competition
in the matter of dress to modify in some degree his vanity

of person; but the present occasion was a stimulating one,
and one whose excitements he could not share with another.

His missive went to its destination, and performed a thoroughly
healthful work, because it destroyed all hope of any
relief from his hands, and betrayed the cruel contempt with
which he regarded his old townsmen and friends.

He slept as soundly that night as if he had been an innocent
infant; but on the following morning, sipping leisurely
and luxuriously at his coffee, and glancing over the pages of
his favorite newspaper, he discovered a letter with startling
headings, which displayed his own name and bore the date of
Sevenoaks. The “R” at its foot revealed Dr. Radcliffe as
the writer, and the peppery doctor had not miscalculated in
deciding that “The New York Tattler” would be the paper
most affected by Mr. Belcher—a paper with more enterprise
than brains, more brains than candor, and with no conscience
at all; a paper which manufactured hoaxes and vended them
for news, bought and sold scandals by the sheet as if they
were country gingerbread, and damaged reputations one day
for the privilege and profit of mending them the next.

He read anew, and with marvelous amplification, the story
with which the letter of his agent had already made him familiar.
This time he had received a genuine wound, with
poison upon the barb of the arrow that had pierced him. He
crushed the paper in his hand and ascended to his room. All
Wall street would see it, comment upon it, and laugh over it.
Balfour would read it and smile. New York and all the
country would gossip about it. Mrs. Dillingham would peruse
it. Would it change her attitude toward him? This was
a serious matter, and it touched him to the quick.

The good angel who had favored him all his life, and
brought him safe and sound out of every dirty difficulty of his
career, was already on his way with assistance, although he
did not know it. Sometimes this angel had assumed the form
of a lie, sometimes that of a charity, sometimes that of a
palliating or deceptive circumstance; but it had always appeared

at the right moment; and this time it came in the
form of an interviewing reporter. His bell rang, and a servant
appeared with the card of “Mr. Alphonse Tibbets of `The
New York Tattler.”'

A moment before, he was cursing “The Tattler” for publishing
the record of his shame, but he knew instinctively that
the way out of his scrape had been opened to him.

“Show him up,” said the proprietor at once. He had
hardly time to look into his mirror, and make sure that his hair
and his toilet were all right, before a dapper little fellow, with
a professional manner, and a portfolio under his arm, was
ushered into the room. The air of easy good-nature and good
fellowship was one which Mr. Belcher could assume at will,
and this was the air that he had determined upon as a matter
of policy in dealing with a representative of “The Tattler”
office. He expected to meet a man with a guilty look,
and a deprecating, fawning smile. He was, therefore, very
much surprised to find in Mr. Tibbets a young gentleman
without the slightest embarrassment in his bearing, or the
remotest consciousness that he was in the presence of a man
who might possibly have cause of serious complaint against
“The Tattler.” In brief, Mr. Tibbets seemed to be a man
who was in the habit of dealing with rascals, and liked them.
Would Mr. Tibbets have a cup of coffee sent up to him? Mr.
Tibbets had breakfasted, and, therefore, declined the countesy.
Would Mr. Tibbets have a cigar? Mr. Tibbets would,
and, on the assurance that they were nicer than he would be
apt to find elsewhere, Mr. Tibbets consented to put a handful
of cigars into his pocket. Mr. Tibbets then drew up to the
table, whittled his pencil, straightened out his paper, and proceeded
to business, looking much, as he faced the proprietor,
like a Sunday-school teacher on a rainy day, with the one
pupil before him who had braved the storm because he had
his lesson at his tongue's end.

As the substance of the questions and answers appeared in
the next morning's “Tattler,” hereafter to be quoted, it is

not necessary to recite them here. At the close of the interview,
which was very friendly and familiar, Mr. Belcher rose,
and with the remark: “You fellows must have a pretty rough
time of it,” handed the reporter a twenty-dollar bank-note,
which that gentleman pocketed without a scruple, and without
any remarkable effusiveness of gratitude. Then Mr. Belcher
wanted him to see the house, and so walked over it with him.
Mr. Tibbets was delighted. Mr. Tibbets congratulated him.
Mr. Tibbets went so far as to say that he did not believe there
was another such mansion in New York. Mr. Tibbets did
not remark that he had been kicked out of several of them,
only less magnificent, because circumstances did not call for
the statement. Then Mr. Tibbets went away, and walked off
hurriedly down the street to write out his report.

The next morning Mr. Belcher was up early in order to
get his “Tattler” as soon as it was dropped at his door. He
soon found, on opening the reeking sheet, the column which
held the precious document of Mr. Tibbets, and read:

The headings came near taking Mr. Belcher's breath away.
He gasped, shuddered, and wondered what was coming.
Then he went on and read the report of the interview:

“A `Tattler' reporter visited yesterday the great proprietor
of Sevenoaks, Colonel Robert Belcher, at his splendid
mansion on Fifth Avenue. That gentleman had evidently
just swallowed his breakfast, and was comforting himself over

the report he had read in the `Tattler' of that morning, by
inhaling the fragrance of one of his choice Havanas. He is
evidently a devotee of the seductive weed, and knows a good
article when he sees it. A copy of the `Tattler' lay on the
table, which bore unmistakable evidences of having been
spitefully crushed in the hand. The iron had evidently entered
the Colonel's righteous soul, and the reporter, having
first declined the cup of coffee hospitably tendered to him
and accepted (as he always does when he gets a chance) a
cigar, proceeded at once to business.

“Reporter: Col. Belcher, have you seen the report in this
morning's `Tattler' of the riot at Sevenoaks, which nominally
had your dealings with the people for its occasion?

“Answer: I have, and a pretty mess was made of it.

“Reporter: Do you declare the report to be incorrect?

“Answer: I know nothing about the correctness or the
incorrectness of the report, for I was not there.

“Reporter: Were the accusations made against yourself correct,
presuming that they were fairly and truthfully reported?

“Answer: They were so far from being correct that
nothing could be more untruthful or more malicious.

“Reporter: Have you any objection to telling me the true
state of the case in detail?

“Answer: None at all. Indeed, I have been so foully misrepresented,
that I am glad of an opportunity to place myself
right before a people with whom I have taken up my residence.
In the first place, I made Sevenoaks. I have fed the
people of Sevenoaks for more than ten years. I have carried
the burden of their charities; kept their dirty ministers from
starving; furnished employment for their women and children,
and run the town. I had no society there, and of
course, got tired of my hum-drum life. I had worked hard,
been successful, and felt that I owed it to myself and my family
to go somewhere and enjoy the privileges, social and
educational, which I had the means to command. I came to
New York without consulting anybody, and bought this house.

The people protested, but ended by holding a public meeting,
and passing a series of resolutions complimentary to me, of
which I very naturally felt proud; and when I came away,
they assembled at the roadside and gave me the friendliest
cheers.

“Reporter: How about the petroleum?

“Answer: Well, that is an unaccountable thing. I went
into the Continental Company, and nothing would do for the
people but to go in with me. I warned them—every man of
them—but they would go in; so I acted as their agent in procuring
stock for them. There was not a share of stock sold
on any persuasion of mine. They were mad, they were wild,
for oil. You wouldn't have supposed there was half so much
money in the town as they dug out of their old stockings to
invest in oil. I was surprised, I assure you. Well, the Continental
went up, and they had to be angry with somebody;
and although I held more stock than any of them, they took
a fancy that I had defrauded them, and so they came together
to wreak their impotent spite on me. That's the sum and
substance of the whole matter.

“Reporter: And that is all you have to say?

“Answer: Well, it covers the ground. Whether I shall
proceed in law against these scoundrels for maligning me, I
have not determined. I shall probably do nothing about it.
The men are poor, and even if they were rich, what good
would it do me to get their money? I've got money enough,
and money with me can never offset a damage to character.
When they get cool and learn the facts, if they ever do learn
them, they will be sorry. They are not a bad people at heart,
though I am ashamed, as their old fellow-townsman, to say
that they have acted like children in this matter. There's a
half-crazy, half-silly old doctor there by the name of Radcliffe,
and an old parson by the name of Snow, whom I have
helped to feed for years, who lead them into difficulty. But
they're not a bad people, now, and I am sorry for their sake
that this thing has got into the papers. It'll hurt the town.

They have been badly led, inflamed over false information,
and they have disgraced themselves.

“This closed the interview, and then Col. Belcher politely
showed the `Tattler' reporter over his palatial abode.
`Taken for all in all,' he does not expect `to look upon its
like again.'

“It was `linked sweetness long drawn out,' and must have
cost the gallant Colonel a pile of stamps. Declining an invitation
to visit the stables,—for our new millionaire is a lover
of horse-flesh, as well as the narcotic weed—and leaving that
gentleman to `witch the world with wondrous horsemanship,'
the `Tattler' reporter withdrew, `pierced through with
Envy's venomed darts,' and satisfied that his courtly entertainer
had been `more sinned against than sinning.”'

Col. Belcher read the report with genuine pleasure, and
then, turning over the leaf, read upon the editorial page the
following:

“Col. Belcher all right.—We are satisfied that the letter
from Sevenoaks, published in yesterday's `Tattler,' in regard
to our highly respected fellow-citizen, Colonel Robert
Belcher, was a gross libel upon that gentleman, and intended,
by the malicious writer, to injure an honorable and innocent
man. It is only another instance of the ingratitude of rural
communities toward their benefactors. We congratulate the
redoubtable Colonel on his removal from so pestilent a neighborhood
to a city where his sterling qualities will find `ample
scope and verge enough,' and where those who suffer `the
slings and arrows of outrageous fortune' will not lay them to
the charge of one who can, with truthfulness, declare `Thou
canst not say I did it.”'

When Mr. Belcher concluded, he muttered to himself,
“Twenty dollars!—cheap enough.” He had remained at
home the day before; now he could go upon 'Change with a

face cleared of all suspicion. A cloud of truth had overshadowed
him, but it had been dissipated by the genial sunlight
of falsehood. His self-complacency was fully restored
when he received a note, in the daintiest text on the daintiest
paper, congratulating him on the triumphant establishment of
his innocence before the New York public, and bearing as its
signature a name so precious to him that he took it to his own
room before destroying it and kissed it.