by Ellen Wood
Might the men smoke? It was an anxious question. Oh yes; Mr. Danesbury knew that, to some of the men, tobacco was more than their daily food, and, to strive to put away that, would have crushed the scheme in the onset. He did not find tobacco — the men had to bring that. When they had had time to settle themselves in their seats, and talk off some of their first wonder, a steaming cup of delicious coffee, such as some of them had never tasted, was brought for each man, with a substantial slice of bread and butter, really good bread and butter, not like what they got at home. A superior reader was appointed to each room to read aloud, if the men preferred it to conversation.
So! that was Their master’s gin-palace! A comfortable asylum, where they might enjoy each other’s society, hear the news, and be well-lighted and warmed, all at his expense. “They might have knowed that he never would countenance a liquor traffic — where was their wits to have believed such a thing?”
“The coffee, too, that was at his expense. Well, it wasn’t bad.”
“Bad I it were deadly good.”
“Yes, it were; and so were the bread and butter. But about the beer?”
“And the gin?”
Nobody could say. Any more than that they had passed their words to their good master, and they must put up with the evening coffee for a month.
“And at the end of the month we will talk again,” said Mr. Danesbury, appearing just as the last words were spoken. “Perhaps we may enter on a fresh agreement then. Did you find the coffee to your liking?”
They never had tasted the like — for coffee.
Mr. Danesbury laughed. He sat down for a little while and conversed cheerfully with the men: not about his hopes and schemes, he had done talking of them for a month, and now left them to their own working; but about indifferent topics of interest. After that, he passed into the other rooms successively.
“I think it will answer, William,” he whispered, as they were crossing the well-lighted hall to leave.
“So do I,” answered William; “I did not see a dissatisfied face among them.”
“If, at the month’s end, we have only gained over a few, it will be something effected; and we must hope on, and work on.”
“It will come, it will come in time,” said William. “Perhaps not with all of them, but with a great portion.”
“The next step will be to try and induce them to leave off beer at home. Not yet: we must go to work gradually, little by little.”
“If we can but do that,” eagerly answered William, “that they may get out of liking the taste of it, and so out of the craving for it! You don’t know, Arthur, how much lies in that; what a help it is.”
“No; but you do, now.”
“Yes, thank God.”
Arthur pressed his arm with true affection; but what he would have said more was arrested; for, on going out into the street, they found themselves in the midst of a crowd of women.
News of the astounding truth had been carried to them: that the new place was no drinking-place, but one to keep their husbands and sons from drink. The tidings had spread from cottage to cottage, from house to house, and the excited women, full of joy and thankfulness, had flown to the new place, and stood flocking round it, eager for more particular confirmation. Even the respectable Mrs. Gould had gone, and she was the first to address Mr. Danesbury.
“Oh, sir,” she said, almost in impassioned tones, “I don’t know how to forgive myself. I gave ear to the wicked, disreputable report that this was to be a gin-palace; and, after watching your goodness, as I had, all through so many years! We shall never thank you enough, sir, for opening it what it is.”
“We all joined in the delusion, sir, more shame to us for doubting you,” cried another: “we never thought it was going to be nothing but a gin-palace.”
“Yes,” smiled Mr. Danesbury, “the report did get about. Not from me: I certainly never said it was going to be a gin-palace. But when I found you had picked up the notion, I did not contradict it.”
“Well, sir, I suppose we jumped to the thought, through seeing of it a-doing up so nice. I hope all the blessings in the world will rest upon you, or, for trying to do something to reform our toping pigs of husbands.”
“Perhaps I shall try to do something to reform you next,” said Mr. Danesbury.
The crowd looked at him, wonderingly.
My good women,” said he, in his low, clear, kindly tone, which reached the ears and the consciences of all, how many of you have done any thing to induce your husbands not to tope — except in the way of scolding and abuse? Have you — I speak to you all individually — made his home comfortable and peaceable? have you kept it clean and cheerful? have you ever met him with kind words? I fear not.’’
They were fearing not also, just then: and scarcely an eye dared to meet that of Mr. Danesbury.
“There have been faults on both sides,” he resumed; “I am sure you are now feeling that there have been. I am trying what I can do to mend your husbands’ faults; perhaps in a little time I may see what can be done toward mending yours. I speak in all kindness.”
“Bless Mr. Danesbury! forever bless Mr. Danesbury!” was echoed around; “we shall never know another gentleman like him.”
Arthur raised his hat, and, passing his arm within his brother’s walked away.
CHAPTER XXVI.
CONCLUSION.
It was a lovely day in June; the sun shone on the green trees, and the blue sky was without a cloud. All Eastborough, high and low, rich and poor, had gathered round the church, save those who had been able to get inside it, for it was the marriage day of Arthur Danesbury and Mary Heber. In deference to the recent melancholy deaths in the family, the wedding was as quiet as possible. No ceremonious breakfast was given, and Mary was plainly attired, for they were to go off from the church door.
They were in the churlish now, a small party only; and the officiating clergyman was Mary’s brother, the Rev. Henry Heber.
“May all good luck and prosperity attend them!” ardently uttered old Mrs. Harding. “If any man ever deserved it in this world, it is Arthur Danesbury.”
“He does that,” acquiesced the listeners. “Only think of his having loved this young lady for years, yet he put aside his own wishes for the sake of his family.”
“For them two good-for-nothings, poor lost young fellows! It’s not many as would consider his brother before himself, and help them to the money he wanted to marry upon.”
“Not more for their sakes than for his father’s,” rejoined Mrs. Harding. “Had he breathed a wish to marry, the old gentleman would have lived upon a crust himself, but what he should have been enabled to do it, and Mr. Arthur knew that, and kept it all locked up in his own breast. He deserves happiness now, for he has waited for it patiently, and done his duty to every body before himself. Ay, and happiness will be his; he is one who may sit down under the shadow of his own vine and his own fig-tree, as was promised to the obedient under the Old Dispensation.”
“Hush! here they come! Look! they two first, she leaning on his arm. How pretty she looks with her flushed rose cheeks, and her sweet, pleasant eyes. See! he walks bareheaded.”
It was the bride and bridegroom, now Mr. and Mrs. Danesbury. She wore a rich gray silk dress, a white bonnet and veil. The rest of the party followed, but nobody regarded them. Very good and noble did he look as he led her through the sea of faces to the chariot, placed her in, and took his seat beside her. The post-boys touched their horses, but they could only move at a snail’s pace, unless there had been outriders to clear the road, and the crowd burst into a simultaneous shout, men waved their hats, and women shook their handkerchiefs. One woman, in her eager excitement, shook her baby by mistake, until the poor little thing’s breath was at the last-gasp. ‘‘ Blessings on the future of Mr. and Mrs. Danesbury.”
Mary sat back in the chariot, but he leaned forward and bowed around him; and the crowd shouted again, as they caught his genial smile.
And th
en, when the post-boys bad cleared the throng, and put their horses into a canter, a perfect shower of old shoes flew after the carriage, for good luck; some alighting on it, some beside it, some over it, amid the horses; hundreds, they looked, whirling forward through the air. It seemed as though every man, woman, and child had brought with them their old shoes, to throw after the bridegroom and bride.
Just as lovely a day, only hotter, arose a month later, in July. Preparations were making for a feast at Danesbury House. A large tent was erected in the adjacent field, and tables upon tables were set out in it, for all the workmen and their wives were to dine there, and spend a joyous holiday. In doors, a table was laid for guests. Mr. and Mrs. Danesbury, who had just returned home, had some visitors staying with them; Lord and Lady Temple, their young children, and Mr. and Mrs. St. George, the two latter having arrived by that morning’s train, the others, including Arthur and his wife, the previous night. A few intimate friends were expected from the neighbourhood, and the first to enter was Mrs. Philip Danesbury. Following close upon her, came William and his wife; William with a clear, bright countenance, very different from what it used to be: and next arrived old Mr. Pratt, bringing with him a tall gentlemanly young man, with a fresh colour and intelligent countenance. Mr. Danesbury, calm, noble, kind as ever, met them on the steps.
“May I introduce somebody else, as well as myself?” demanded the old doctor, in his quaint way, as he shook hands heartily with Arthur.
Arthur took the young man’s hands. “It is not your grandson?”
“Yes, it is. He is come to stay a fortnight with me, out of the poisonous smoke and smells of London. He tells me he once saw Mr. Arthur Danesbury.”
“Yes,’’ replied Arthur, looking kindly at him; “it was in Mr. St George’s office; the day he was about to enter on his new employment. How have you got on?”
“Got on,” interrupted old Mr. Pratt; “he is the right hand of his master, they tell me; never was such a head for construction, drawing, and the like. And, what’s more, he is steady,” he emphatically added.
Edmund Pratt stood listening, with a pleasant but embarrassed smile. Arthur turned to him, and spoke in a low tone.
“I heard Mr. St. George make a bargeman with you. Have you kept it?”
“Strictly, sir,” was the ready answer, while his colour deepened. “I am, in the strict sense of the word, a water-drinker.”
“Good. And how is your—” Mr. Danesbury hesitated. It was painful to a son to be asked after such a father.
“Don’t inquire,” cried the old surgeon; “ don’t mar our minds’ peace on this day. It is down, down, and down with him; and it ever will be.”
Mr. Danesbury turned away, for other guests were close upon them; and now they came rapidly.
When all had arrived, they sat down in the dining-room to a slight mid-day meal, cold, with chocolate and coffee. Arthur presided. His fair wife, truly a helpmeet for him, both in person and mind, sat at his right hand. Lord Temple beyond her, and Isabel on the other side Arthur. They were all anxious to know how the “scheme” worked, Mr. St. George being especially eager, not to say satirical in his inquiries.
“Arthur’s gin-palace,” merrily put in Mrs. Philip Danesbury.
“You opened it in April,” cried Mr. St. George. “How did it answer, and how has it progressed?”
Mr. Danesbury smiled. “I made use of a ruse to keep them for the first month,” he began; “tricked them into it, as the men now, good-humouredly, say; and I think that was my strong point in the plan. Had they been at liberty to secede at pleasure, few would have remained beyond a night or two: when the novelty had worn off, away they would have gone again, to their dearly-loved beer-shops.”
“Yes; undoubtedly Mr. Danesbury was wise enough to hit upon the right course, when he bound the men to him for a whole month,” interposed Squire Hanson, a neighbouring gentleman and a magistrate. “I had my doubts about its succeeding; I confess it; for I was in his confidence almost from the first: but I am rejoiced to be able to say that my doubts have been dispelled, and his hopes realized.”
“All the men, who had embraced the proposition to patronize my gin shop,” continued Arthur, laughing, “remained firm to their word passed to me, and came regularly.”
“Then the whole of your operatives did not embrace it?” interrupted Mr. St. George.
“More than three fourths of them did: the rest hesitated, alarmed at my conditions. At the month’s end, they had become, most of them, reconciled to the change: they could not fail to perceive the great benefit it was to their minds, their bodies, and their pockets. The public-house, intoxicating drinks, confusion, and expense: the master’s house (for that is what they have taken to call it), clear heads, sociability, peace, and economy: besides a few had actually begun to prefer the cup of coffee to the jugs of beer, and not a few were gathering a glimmering idea of the solemn fact, that they were different from the brute creation, and perhaps had not been sent into the world to live as such, and then die off and be forgotten.”
Mr. Danesbury paused. But none interrupted Lim, and he resumed.
“At the month’s end, I bargained with them for another month: I knew it was useless to demand, or attempt too much at first; for our fellow-men must be led, not driven. I spoke to them, as I had spoken at the onset. After touching upon the advantages of the plan, which had then become obvious to themselves, I said, ‘Will you be my guests for one more month, and oblige me? but remember, if you enter upon the month, you must complete it.’ Nearly all assented.”
“Nearly all assented.”
“I think there were seven or eight only who did not. I suppose they had given way to the old longing for liquor, and could not, or would not, resist the returning to it. But, as a set-off against these deserters, four or five of the first refusers voluntarily joined us, and are with us still. At the end of the second month the men spoke up of themselves, and said they hoped to stay on at the master’s house for good, and never to go from it again. I told them that nothing should be wanting on my part to induce them to patronize it: that fresh supplies of books, as they were required, should be furnished with the daily and weekly newspapers; that I should be very frequently among them; and the light and warmth, the cup of coffee and bread and butter, should welcome them. I consider it a wonderful victory, and am thankful for it. I trust — I do trust” — here his voice trembled a little—” that even in this short period, they and I are already beginning to reap the reward: and I feel within me a perfect conviction that a Higher Help than any poor efforts or plans of mine, has been sending a blessing upon it.”
What was the matter with Mrs. Danesbury? Her eyes were cast down, and the tears are dropping on her flushed cheeks. Arthur glanced at her, and knew that her emotion arose from love to him.
“I will say this,” resumed Mr. Danesbury, “that since the men have been brought into contact with enlightened conversation and intelligence, their minds, short as the time is, have opened in a remarkable degree.”
“Say, rather, since their leisure hours have not been rendered useless, and their senses stupefied, Arthur,” interrupted Mrs. Philip Danesbury. “Formerly, it was work all day and drink all night: how could they grow out of their ignorance then?”
“I can tell you, better than any body, how the scheme works in private,” cried out old Mr. Pratt, “and that’s first rate. There have been no beatings of wives since the master’s house was opened, or calls upon my sticking-plaster. Formerly they used to sulk home, half stupid, or reel home, swearing and abusive, all of which was vented on the unfortunate wives. Now they go home like cucumbers, cool and tranquil, upon good terms with themselves, and consequently upon good terms with others. Some of them are positively putting by money toward buying blankets for winter — a thing they never did before.”
“But it bears better fruits than blankets,” observed William Danesbury. “Many of them, after a three months’ trial of coffee, do prefer it to beer or gin a
s their evening beverage. You may not easily credit this,” he added, lifting his eyes to the strangers present, ‘‘but, nevertheless, it is a fact. The next improvement we intend to have a try at, is to make them water-drinkers in their own homes at mid-day.’’
“When my wife shall have persuaded the women into rendering their homes something like homes, which she will set about forthwith,” interposed Mr. Danesbury.
‘‘And not pig-sties and scolding dens,” put in the old surgeon.
“But do you consider that beer with their dinner can do workmen harm?” inquired a voice.
“It will do them no good,” said Arthur Danesbury, “even if they should confine themselves to a moderate quantity. But you very rarely find a working-man do this, whatever may be his grade. I pray you not to mistake me,” he hastily added: “I do not imply that a steady working-man takes too much with his dinner, in the meaning we give to the term ‘too much;’ but his taking it at dinner leads him to take it afterward. Suggest to an artisan to leave off his beer. ‘Leave off my beer!’ he will answer you, ‘I should never have strength to go through my day’s work.’ There lies the fallacy. It is a most mistaken conclusion. Beer gives a passing excitement, which lasts for the moment and appears like strength, but the effect goes speedily off, leaving the man weaker than he was before, and insupportably weary. Inquire of any workman whether, after drinking beer, he does not feel a lassitude creep over him at his work — an inclination to sit down and be idle. He does: and he believes he wants ‘supporting,’ and sends for another pint and drinks it, to give that support; and so it goes on, beer and lassitude, beer and lassitude, and beer again all the day through.”
But, allow me to put in a word myself although it is interrupting Mr. Danesbury. Working-man, you who read this — and I hope a great many of you will read it — have you ever tried to do without beer at your dinner? Never: you have always believed it to be as necessary to you as the dinner itself. Oh, try it now! Substitute water: make the effort, and give it a fair trial: if you find my theory wrong, and yours right, take to the beer again. Do not drink the water for one solitary day; that would be of no use. For the first day and the second, and perhaps for five or six days, you will make a wry face over the water, and gulp it down, as you will say “against the grain,” and protest that you dislike it, as compared to your much-relished beer. But persevere. If you have fought the battle for so long, you can fight it still, and you will find that you are losing your dislike to the water. Persevere a little while, and you will begin to doubt (in spite of your prejudices, your wondering disbelief) whether you are not getting to like the water. Still a little longer, and there is no doubt about it, and you find your body is stronger for work, and your head clearer; no lassitude, or inertness, or disinclination for labour will creep over you now. And when the battle is won, and you find you have persevered, persevere on: if ever you relapse it will be your own deliberate fault.
