 | CHAPTER IV.
FORTUNE AND MISFORTUNE. The story of Kennett |  |
4. CHAPTER IV.
FORTUNE AND MISFORTUNE.
On the same evening, a scene of a very different character
occurred, in which certain personages of this history
were actors. In order to describe it, we must return to
the company of sportsmen whom Gilbert Potter left at the
Hammer-and-Trowel Tavern, late in the afternoon.
No sooner had he departed than the sneers of the young
bucks, who felt themselves humiliated by his unexpected
success, became loud and frequent. Mr. Alfred Barton,
who seemed to care little for the general dissatisfaction,
was finally reproached with having introduced such an unfit
personage at a gentleman's hunt; whereupon he turned impatiently,
and retorted:
“There were no particular invitations sent out, as all of
you know. Anybody that had a horse, and knew how to
manage him, was welcome. Zounds! if you fellows are
afraid to take hedges, am I to blame for that? A hunter 's
a hunter, though he 's born on the wrong side of the marriage
certificate.”
“That 's the talk, Squire!” cried Fortune, giving his
friend a hearty slap between the shoulders. “I 've seen
riding in my day,” he continued, “both down in Loudon
and on the Eastern Shore — men born with spurs on their
heels, and I tell you this Potter could hold his own, even
with the Lees and the Tollivers. We took the hedge together,
while you were making a round of I don't know
how many miles on the road; and I never saw a thing
neater done. If you thought there was anything unfair
about him, why did n't you head him off?”
“Yes, damme,” echoed Mr. Barton, bringing down his fist
upon the bar, so that the glasses jumped, “why did n't you
head him off?” Mr. Barton's face was suspiciously flushed,
and he was more excited than the occasion justified.
There was no answer to the question, except that which
none of the young bucks dared to make.
“Well, I 've had about enough of this,” said Mr. Joel
Ferris, turning on his heel; “who 's for home?”
“Me!” answered three or four, with more readiness than
grammar. Some of the steadier young farmers, who had
come for an afternoon's recreation, caring little who was
first in at the death, sat awhile and exchanged opinions
about crops and cattle; but Barton and Fortune kept together,
whispering much, and occasionally bursting into fits
of uproarious laughter. The former was so captivated by
his new friend, that before he knew it every guest was
gone. The landlord had lighted two or three tallow candles,
and now approached with the question:
“Will you have supper, gentlemen?”
“That depends on what you 've got,” said Fortune.
This was not language to which the host was accustomed.
His guests were also his fellow-citizens: if they patronized
him, he accommodated them, and the account was balanced.
His meals were as good as anybody's, though he
thought it that should n't, and people so very particular
might stay away. But he was a mild, amiable man, and
Fortune's keen eye and dazzling teeth had a powerful
effect upon him. He answered civilly, in spite of an inward
protest:
“There 's ham and eggs, and frizzled beef.”
“Nothing could be better!” Fortune exclaimed, jumping
up. “Come 'Squire — if I stay over Sunday with you,
you must at least take supper at my expense.”
Mr. Barton tried to recollect whether he had invited his
friend to spend Sunday with him. It must be so, of course;
only, he could not remember when he had spoken, or what
but for one thing; and how was he to get over the
difficulty?
However, here they were, at the table, Fortune heaping
his plate like a bountiful host, and talking so delightfully
about horses and hounds, and drinking-bouts, and all those
wild experiences which have such a charm for bachelors of
forty-five or fifty, that it was impossible to determine in his
mind what he should do.
After the supper, they charged themselves with a few
additional potations, to keep off the chill of the night air,
mounted their horses, and took the New-Garden road. A
good deal of confidential whispering had preceded their
departure.
“They 're off on a lark,” the landlord remarked to himself,
as they rode away, “and it 's a shame, in men of their
age.”
After riding a mile, they reached the cross-road on the
left, which the hunters had followed, and Fortune, who was
a little in advance, turned into it.
“After what I told you, 'Squire,” said he, “you won't
wonder that I know the country so well. Let us push on;
it 's not more than two miles. I would be very clear of
showing you one of my nests, if you were not such a good
fellow. But mum 's the word, you know.”
“Never fear,” Barton answered, somewhat thickly; “I 'm
an old bird, Fortune.”
“That you are! Men like you and me are not made of
the same stuff as those young nincompoops; we can follow
a trail without giving tongue at every jump.”
Highly flattered, Barton rode nearer, and gave his friend
an affectionate punch in the side. Fortune answered with
an arm around his waist and a tight hug, and so they rode
onward through the darkness.
They had advanced for somewhat more than a mile on
the cross-road, and found themselves in a hollow, with tall,
There was no wind going, and the utmost stillness
prevailed in every direction. There was something awful
in the gloom and solitude of the forest, and Barton, in spite
of his anticipations, began to feel uncomfortable.
“Good, so far!” said Fortune, at last. “Here we leave
the road, and I must strike a light.”
“Won't it be seen?” Barton anxiously inquired.
“No: it 's a dark-lantern — a most convenient thing. I
would advise you to get one.”
With that, he fumbled in his holsters and produced a
small object, together with a tinder-box, and swiftly and
skilfully struck a light. There was a little blue flash, as of
sulphur, the snap of a spring, and the gleam disappeared.
“Stay!” he said, after satisfying himself that the lantern
was in order. “I must know the time. Let me have
your watch a minute.”
Barton hauled up the heavy article from the depths of
his fob, and handed it, with the bunch of jingling seals, to
his friend. The latter thrust it into his waistcoat pocket,
before opening the lantern, and then seemed to have forgotten
his intention, for he turned the light suddenly on
Barton's face.
“Now,” said he, in a sharp tone, “I 'll trouble you,
'Squire, for the fifty dollars young Ferris paid you before
the start, and whatever other loose change you have about
you.”
Barton was so utterly astounded that the stranger's
words conveyed no meaning to his ears. He sat with
fixed eyes, open mouth, and hanging jaws, and was conscious
only that the hair was slowly rising upon his head.
There was a rustling in one of Fortune's holsters, followed
by a mysterious double click. The next moment,
the lantern illumined a long, bright pistol-barrel, which
pointed towards the victim's breast, and caused him to feel
a sharp, wasp-like sting on that side of his body.
“Be quick, now! Hand over the money!” cried Fortune,
thrusting the pistol an inch nearer.
With trembling hands, Barton took a pocket-book and
purse of mole-skin from his breast, and silently obeyed.
The robber put up the pistol, took the ring of the lantern
in his teeth, and rapidly examined the money.
“A hundred and twenty-five!” he said, with a grin, —
“not a bad haul.”
“Fortune!” stammered Barton, in a piteous voice, “this
is a joke, is n't it?”
“O yes, ha! ha! — a very good joke, — a stroke of fortune
for you! Look here!”
He turned full upon his face the lantern which he held
in his left hand, while with the right he snatched off his
hat, and — as it seemed to Barton's eyes — the greater
part of his head. But it was only his black hair and whiskers,
which vanished in the gloom, leaving a round, smooth
face, and a head of close-cropped, red hair. With his
wicked eyes and shining teeth, Barton imagined that he
beheld a devil.
“Did you ever hear of Sandy Flash?” said the robber.
The victim uttered a cry and gave himself up for lost.
This was the redoubtable highwayman — the terror of the
county — who for two years had defied the law and all its
ordinary and extraordinary agents, scouring the country at
his will between the Schuylkill and the Susquehanna, and
always striking his blows where no one expected them to
fall. This was he in all his dreadful presence, — a match
for any twenty men, so the story went, — and he, Alfred
Barton, was in his clutches! A cold sweat broke out over
his whole body; his face grew deadly pale, and his teeth
chattered.
The highwayman looked at him and laughed. “Sorry I
can't spend Sunday with you,” said he; “I must go on towards
the Rising Sun. When you get another fox, send me
word.” Then he leaned over, nearer the trembling victim,
spot in less than one hour, you are a dead man.”
Then he rode on, whistling “Money Musk” as he went.
Once or twice he stopped, as if to listen, and Barton's heart
ceased to beat; but by degrees the sound of his horse's
hoofs died away. The silence that succeeded was full of
terrors. Barton's horse became restive, and he would have
dismounted and held him, but for the weakness in every
joint which made him think that his body was falling
asunder. Now and then a leaf rustled, or the scent of
some animal, unperceived by his own nostrils, caused his
horse to snort and stamp. The air was raw and sent a
fearful chill through his blood. Moreover, how was he to
measure the hour? His watch was gone; he might have
guessed by the stars, but the sky was overcast. Fortune
and Sandy Flash — for there were two individuals in his
bewildered brain — would surely fulfil their threat if he
stirred before the appointed time. What under heaven
should he do?
Wait; that was all; and he waited until it seemed that
morning must be near at hand. Then, turning his horse,
he rode back very slowly towards the New-Garden road,
and after many panics, to the Hammer-and-Trowel. There
was still light in the bar-room; should the door open, he
would be seen. He put spurs to his horse and dashed
past. Once in motion, it seemed that he was pursued, and
along Tuffkenamon went the race, until his horse, panting
and exhausted, paused to drink at Redley Creek. They
had gone to bed at the Unicorn; he drew a long breath,
and felt that the danger was over. In five minutes more
he was at home.
Putting his horse in the stable, he stole quietly to the
house, pulled off his boots in the wood-shed, and entered
by a back way through the kitchen. Here he warmed his
chill frame before the hot ashes, and then very gently and
cautiously felt his way to bed in the dark.
The next morning, being Sunday, the whole household,
servants and all, slept an hour later than usual, as was then
the country custom. Giles, the old soldier, was the first to
appear. He made the fire in the kitchen, put on the water
to boil, and then attended to the feeding of the cattle at
the barn. When this was accomplished, he returned to
the house and entered a bedroom adjoining the kitchen,
on the ground-floor. Here slept “Old-man Barton,” as he
was generally called, — Alfred's father, by name Abiah, and
now eighty-five years of age. For many years he had
been a paralytic and unable to walk, but the disease had
not affected his business capacity. He was the hardest,
shrewdest, and cunningest miser in the county. There
was not a penny of the income and expenditure of the
farm, for any year, which he could not account for, — not a
date of a deed, bond, or note of hand, which he had ever
given or received, that was not indelibly burnt upon his
memory. No one, not even his sons, knew precisely how
much he was worth. The old lawyer in Chester, who
had charge of much of his investments, was as shrewd as
himself, and when he made his annual visit, the first week
in April, the doors were not only closed, but everybody was
banished from hearing distance so long as he remained.
Giles assisted in washing and dressing the old man, then
seated him in a rude arm-chair, resting on clumsy wooden
castors, and poured out for him a small wine-glass full of
raw brandy. Once or twice a year, usually after the payment
of delayed interest, Giles received a share of the
brandy; but he never learned to expect it. Then a long
hickory staff was placed in the old man's hand, and his
arm-chair was rolled into the kitchen, to a certain station
between the fire and the southern window, where he would
be out of the way of his daughter Ann, yet could measure
with his eye every bit of lard she put into the frying-pan,
and every spoonful of molasses that entered into the composition
of her pies.
She had already set the table for breakfast. The bacon
and sliced potatoes were frying in separate pans, and Ann
herself was lifting the lid of the tin coffee-pot, to see
whether the beverage had “come to a boil,” when the old
man entered, or, strictly speaking, was entered.
As his chair rolled into the light, the hideousness, not
the grace and serenity of old age, was revealed. His
white hair, thin and half-combed, straggled over the dark-red,
purple-veined skin of his head; his cheeks were flabby
bags of bristly, wrinkled leather; his mouth was a sunken,
irregular slit, losing itself in the hanging folds at the corners,
and even the life, gathered into his small, restless gray
eyes, was half quenched under the red and heavy edges
of the lids. The third and fourth fingers of his hands
were crooked upon the skinny palms, beyond any power to
open them.
When Ann — a gaunt spinster of fifty-five — had placed
the coffee on the table, the old man looked around, and
asked with a snarl: “Where 's Alfred?”
“Not up yet, but you need n't wait, father.”
“Wait?” was all he said, yet she understood the tone,
and wheeled him to the table. As soon as his plate was
filled, he bent forward over it, rested his elbows on the
cloth, and commenced feeding himself with hands that
trembled so violently that he could with great difficulty
bring the food to his mouth. But he resented all offers of
assistance, which implied any weakness beyond that of the
infirmity which it was impossible for him to conceal. His
meals were weary tasks, but he shook and jerked through
them, and would have gone away hungry rather than
acknowledge the infirmity of his great age.
Breakfast was nearly over before Alfred Barton made
his appearance. No truant school-boy ever dreaded the
master's eye as he dreaded to appear before his father that
Sunday morning. His sleep had been broken and restless;
the teeth of Sandy Flash had again grinned at him in
the sense of emptiness in his breast-pocket and watch-fob
impressed him like a violent physical pain. His loss was
bad enough, but the inability to conceal it caused him even
greater distress.
Buttoning his coat over the double void, and trying to
assume his usual air, he went down to the kitchen and commenced
his breakfast. Whenever he looked up, he found
his father's eyes fixed upon him, and before a word had
been spoken, he felt that he had already betrayed something,
and that the truth would follow, sooner or later. A
wicked wish crossed his mind, but was instantly suppressed,
for fear lest that, also, should be discovered.
After Ann had cleared the table, and retired to her own
room in order to array herself in the black cloth gown
which she had worn every Sunday for the past fifteen years,
the old man said, or rather wheezed out the words, —
“Kennett, meetin'?”
“Not to-day,” said his son, “I 've a sort of chill from
yesterday.” And he folded his arms and shivered very
naturally.
“Did Ferris pay you?” the old man again asked.
“Y-yes.”
“Where 's the money?”
There was the question, and it must be faced. Alfred
Barton worked the farm “on shares,” and was held to a
strict account by his father, not only for half of all the
grain and produce sold, but of all the horses and cattle
raised, as well as those which were bought on speculation.
On his share he managed — thanks to the niggardly system
enforced in the house — not only to gratify his vulgar
taste for display, but even to lay aside small sums from
time to time. It was a convenient arrangement, but might
be annulled any time when the old man should choose, and
Alfred knew that a prompt division of the profits would be
his surest guarantee of permanence.
“I have not the money with me,” he answered, desperately,
after a pause, during which he felt his father's gaze
travelling over him, from head to foot.
“Why not! You have n't spent it?” The latter question
was a croaking shriek, which seemed to forebode,
while it scarcely admitted, the possibility of such an enormity.
“I spent only four shillings, father, but — but — but the
money 's all gone!”
The crooked fingers clutched the hickory staff, as if
eager to wield it; the sunken gray eyes shot forth angry
fire, and the broken figure uncurved and straightened
itself with a wrathful curiosity.
“Sandy Flash robbed me on the way home,” said the
son, and now that the truth was out, he seemed to pluck
up a little courage.
“What, what, what!” chattered the old man, incredulously;
“no lies, boy, no lies!”
The son unbuttoned his coat, and showed his empty
watch-fob. Then he gave an account of the robbery, not
strictly correct in all its details, but near enough for his
father to know, without discovering inaccuracies at a later
day. The hickory-stick was shaken once or twice during
the recital, but it did not fall upon the culprit — though
this correction (so the gossip of the neighborhood ran) had
more than once been administered within the previous ten
years. As Alfred Barton told his story, it was hardly a
case for anger on the father's part, so he took his revenge
in another way.
“This comes o' your races and your expensive company,”
he growled, after a few incoherent sniffs and snarls; “but
I don't lose my half of the horse. No, no! I 'm not paid
till the money 's been handed over. Twenty-five dollars,
remember! — and soon, that I don't lose the use of it too
long. As for your money and the watch, I 've nothing to
do with them. I 've got along without a watch for eighty-five
born days. Young men understood how to save, in my
time.”
Secretly, however, the old man was flattered by his son's
love of display, and enjoyed his swaggering air, although
nothing would have induced him to confess the fact. His
own father had come to Pennsylvania as a servant of one
of the first settlers, and the reverence which he had felt, as
a boy, for the members of the Quaker and farmer aristocracy
of the neighborhood, had now developed into a late
vanity to see his own family acknowledged as the equals of
the descendants of the former. Alfred had long since discovered
that when he happened to return home from the
society of the Falconers, or the Caswells, or the Carsons,
the old man was in an unusual good-humor. At such
times, the son felt sure that he was put down for a large
slice of the inheritance.
After turning the stick over and over in his skinny hands,
and pressing the top of it against his toothless gums, the
old man again spoke.
“See here, you 're old enough now to lead a steady life.
You might ha' had a farm o' your own, like Elisha, if you 'd
done as well. A very fair bit o' money he married, — very
fair, — but I don't say you could n't do as well, or, maybe,
better.”
“I 've been thinking of that, myself,” the son replied.
“Have you? Why don't you step up to her then? Ten
thousand dollars are n't to be had every day, and you need
n't expect to get it without the askin'! Where molasses is
dropped, you 'll always find more than one fly. Others
than you have got their eyes on the girl.”
The son's eyes opened tolerably wide when the old man
began to speak, but a spark of intelligence presently flashed
into them, and an expression of cunning ran over his face.
“Don't be anxious, daddy!” said he, with assumed playfulness;
“she 's not a girl to take the first that offers.
less speed. I know what I 'm about; I have my top eye
open, and when there 's a good chance, you won't find me
sneaking behind the wood-house.”
“Well, well!” muttered the old man, “we 'll see, — we 'll
see! A good family, too, — not that I care for that. My
family 's as good as the next. But if you let her slip,
boy” — and here he brought down the end of his stick
with a significant whack, upon the floor. “This I 'll tell
you,” he added, without finishing the broken sentence,
“that whether you 're a rich man or a beggar, depends on
yourself. The more you have, the more you 'll get; remember
that! Bring me my brandy!”
Alfred Barton knew the exact value of his father's words.
Having already neglected, or, at least, failed to succeed,
in regard to two matches which his father had proposed,
he understood the risk to his inheritance which was implied
by a third failure. And yet, looking at the subject soberly,
there was not the slightest prospect of success. Martha
Deane was the girl in the old man's mind, and an instinct,
stronger than his vanity, told him that she never would, or
could, be his wife. But, in spite of that, it must be his
business to create a contrary impression, and keep it alive
as long as possible, — perhaps until — until —
We all know what was in his mind. Until the old man
should die.
| CHAPTER IV.
FORTUNE AND MISFORTUNE. The story of Kennett | |