 | CHAPTER VIII.
AT DR. DEANE'S. The story of Kennett |  |
8. CHAPTER VIII.
AT DR. DEANE'S.
As she dismounted on the large flat stone outside the
paling, Martha Deane saw her father's face at the window.
It was sterner and graver than usual.
The Deane mansion stood opposite the Unicorn Tavern.
When built, ninety years previous, it had been considered
a triumph of architecture; the material was squared logs
from the forest, dovetailed, and overlapping at the corners,
which had the effect of rustic quoins, as contrasted with
the front, which was plastered and yellow-washed. A
small portico, covered with a tangled mass of eglantine
and coral honeysuckle, with a bench at each end, led to
the door; and the ten feet of space between it and the
front paling were devoted to flowers and rose-bushes. At
each corner of the front rose an old, picturesque, straggling
cedar-tree.
There were two front doors, side by side, — one for the
family sitting-room, the other (rarely opened, except when
guests arrived) for the parlor. Martha Deane entered the
former, and we will enter with her.
The room was nearly square, and lighted by two windows.
On those sides the logs were roughly plastered;
on the others there were partitions of panelled oak, nearly
black with age and smoke, as were the heavy beams of
the same wood which formed the ceiling. In the corner
of the room next the kitchen there was an open Franklin
stove, — an innovation at that time, — upon which two
or three hickory sticks were smouldering into snowy ashes.
which an occasional strip of red or blue listing brightened
the prevailing walnut color of the woof. The furniture
was simple and massive, its only unusual feature being
a tall cabinet with shelves filled with glass jars, and an infinity
of small drawers. A few bulky volumes on the lower
shelf constituted the medical library of Dr. Deane.
This gentleman was still standing at the window, with
his hands clasped across his back. His Quaker suit was
of the finest drab broadcloth, and the plain cravat visible
above his high, straight waistcoat, was of spotless cambric.
His knee- and shoe-buckles were of the simplest
pattern, but of good, solid silver, and there was not a
wrinkle in the stockings of softest lamb's-wool, which covered
his massive calves. There was always a faint odor
of lavender, bergamot, or sweet marjoram about him, and
it was a common remark in the neighborhood that the
sight and smell of the Doctor helped a weak patient almost
as much as his medicines.
In his face there was a curious general resemblance to
his daughter, though the detached features were very differently
formed. Large, unsymmetrical, and somewhat
coarse, — even for a man, — they derived much of their
effect from his scrupulous attire and studied air of wisdom.
His long gray hair was combed back, that no portion of
the moderate frontal brain might be covered; the eyes
were gray rather than blue, and a habit of concealment
had marked its lines in the corners, unlike the open, perfect
frankness of his daughter's. The principal resemblance
was in the firm, clear outline of the upper lip, which alone,
in his face, had it been supported by the under one, would
have made him almost handsome; but the latter was
large and slightly hanging. There were marked inconsistencies
in his face, but this was no disadvantage in a
community unaccustomed to studying the external marks
of character.
“Just home, father? How did thee leave Dinah Passmore?”
asked Martha, as she untied the strings of her
beaver.
“Better,” he answered, turning from the window; “but,
Martha, who did I see thee riding with?”
“Does thee mean Gilbert Potter?”
“I do,” he said, and paused. Martha, with her cloak
over her arm and bonnet in her hand, in act to leave the
room, waited, saying, —
“Well, father?”
So frank and serene was her bearing, that the old man
felt both relieved and softened.
“I suppose it happened so,” he said. “I saw his mother
with Friend Fairthorn. I only meant thee should n't be
seen in company with young Potter, when thee could help
it; thee knows what I mean.”
“I don't think, father,” she slowly answered, “there is
anything against Gilbert Potter's life or character, except
that which is no just reproach to him.”
“`The sins of the parents shall be visited upon the children,
even to the third and fourth generation.' That is
enough, Martha.”
She went up to her room, meditating, with an earnestness
almost equal to Gilbert's, upon this form of the world's
injustice, which he was powerless to overcome. Her father
shared it, and the fact did not surprise her; but her independent
spirit had already ceased to be guided, in all
things, by his views. She felt that the young man deserved
the respect and admiration which he had inspired
in her mind, and until a better reason could be discovered,
she would continue so to regard him. The decision was
reached rapidly, and then laid aside for any future necessity;
she went down-stairs again in her usual quiet, cheerful
mood.
During her absence another conversation had taken
place
Miss Betsy Lavender (who was a fast friend of Martha,
and generally spent her Sundays at the Doctor's,) was
sitting before the stove, drying her feet. She was silent
until Martha left the room, when she suddenly exclaimed:
“Doctor! Judge not that ye be not judged.”
“Thee may think as thee pleases, Betsy,” said he, rather
sharply: “it 's thy nature, I believe, to take everybody's
part.”
“Put yourself in his place,” she continued, — “remember
them that 's in bonds as bound with 'em, — I disremember
exackly how it goes, but no matter: I say your way
a'n't right, and I 'd say it seven times, if need be! There 's
no steadier nor better-doin' young fellow in these parts
than Gilbert Potter. Ferris, down in Pennsbury, or Alf
Barton, here, for that matter, a'n't to be put within a mile
of him. I could say something in Mary Potter's behalf,
too, but I won't: for there 's Scribes and Pharisees about.”
Dr. Deane did not notice this thrust: it was not his habit
to get angry. “Put thyself in my place, Betsy,” he said.
“He 's a worthy young man, in some respects, I grant thee,
but would thee like thy daughter to be seen riding home
beside him from Meeting? It 's one thing speaking for
thyself, and another for thy daughter.”
“Thy daughter!” she repeated. “Old or young can't
make any difference, as I see.”
There was something else on her tongue, but she forcibly
withheld the words. She would not exhaust her ammunition
until there was both a chance and a necessity to
do some execution. The next moment Martha reëntered
the room.
After dinner, they formed a quiet group in the front sitting-room.
Dr. Deane, having no more visits to make that
day, took a pipe of choice tobacco, — the present of a Virginia
Friend, whose acquaintance he had made at Yearly
Meeting, — and seated himself in the arm-chair beside the
stove. Martha, at the west window, enjoyed a volume of
labored over the Psalms. The sun shone with dim, muffled
orb, but the air without was mild, and there were
already brown tufts, which would soon be blossoms, on the
lilac twigs.
Suddenly Miss Betsy lifted up her head and exclaimed,
“Well, I never!” As she did so, there was a knock at
the door.
“Come in!” said Dr. Deane, and in came Mr. Alfred
Barton, resplendent in blue coat, buff waistcoat, cambric
ruffles, and silver-gilt buckles. But, alas! the bunch of
seals — topaz, agate, and cornelian — no longer buoyed
the deep-anchored watch. The money due his father had
been promptly paid, through the agency of a three-months'
promissory note, and thus the most momentous result of
the robbery was overcome. This security for the future,
however, scarcely consoled him for the painful privation
of the present. Without the watch, Alfred Barton felt
that much of his dignity and importance was lacking.
Dr. Deane greeted his visitor with respect, Martha with
the courtesy due to a guest, and Miss Betsy with the offhand,
independent manner, under which she masked her
private opinions of the persons whom she met.
“Mark is n't at home, I see,” said Mr. Barton, after having
taken his seat in the centre of the room: “I thought
I 'd have a little talk with him about the wagon-house. I
suppose he told you that I got Hallowell's new barn for
him?”
“Yes, and we 're all greatly obliged to thee, as well as
Mark,” said the Doctor. “The two jobs make a fine start
for a young mechanic, and I hope he 'll do as well as he 's
been done by: there 's luck in a good beginning. By
the bye, has thee heard anything more of Sandy Flash's
doings?”
Mr. Barton fairly started at this question. His own misfortune
had been carefully kept secret, and he could not
the sound of the terrible name.
“What is it?” he asked, in a faint voice.
“He has turned up in Bradford, this time, and they say
has robbed Jesse Frame, the Collector, of between four
and five hundred dollars. The Sheriff and a posse of men
from the Valley hunted him for several days, but found no
signs. Some think he has gone up into the Welch Mountain;
but for my part, I should not be surprised if he were
in this neighborhood.”
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Mr. Barton, starting from
his chair.
“Now 's your chance,” said Miss Betsy. “Git the young
men together who won't feel afraid o' bein' twenty ag'in
one: you know the holes and corners where he 'll be likely
to hide, and what 's to hinder you from ketchin' him?”
“But he must have many secret friends,” said Martha,
“if what I have heard is true, — that he has often helped
a poor man with the money which he takes only from the
rich. You know he still calls himself a Tory, and many
of those whose estates have been confiscated, would not
scruple to harbor him, or even take his money.”
“Take his money. That 's a fact,” remarked Miss
Betsy, “and now I dunno whether I want him ketched.
There 's worse men goin' round, as respectable as you
please, stealin' all their born days, only cunnin'ly jukin'
round the law instead o' buttin' square through it. Why,
old Liz Williams, o' Birmingham, herself told me with her
own mouth, how she was ridin' home from Phildelphy market
last winter, with six dollars, the price of her turkeys —
and General Washin'ton's cook took one of 'em, but that 's
neither here nor there — in her pocket, and fearful as
death when she come to Concord woods, and lo and behold!
there she was overtook by a fresh-complected man,
and she begged him to ride with her, for she had six dollars
in her pocket and Sandy was known to be about. So
person as she ever see, and then and there he said, `Don't
be afeard, Madam, for I, which have seen you home, is
Sandy Flash himself, and here 's somethin' more to remember
me by,' — no sooner said than done, he put a goold
guinea into her hand, and left her there as petrified as
Lot's wife. Now I say, and it may be violation of the law,
for all I know, but never mind, that Sandy Flash has got
one corner of his heart in the right place, no matter where
the others is. There 's honor even among thieves, they
say.”
“Seriously, Alfred,” said Dr. Deane, cutting Miss Betsy
short before she had half expressed her sentiments, “it is
time that something was done. If Flash is not caught
soon, we shall be overrun with thieves, and there will be
no security anywhere on the high roads, or in our houses.
I wish that men of influence in the neighborhood, like thyself,
would come together and plan, at least, to keep Kennett
clear of him. Then other townships may do the
same, and so the thing be stopped. If I were younger,
and my practice were not so laborious, I would move in
the matter, but thee is altogether a more suitable person.”
“Do you think so?” Barton replied, with an irrepressible
reluctance, around which he strove to throw an air of
modesty. “That would be the proper way, certainly, but I,
— I don't know, — that is, I can't flatter myself that I 'm
the best man to undertake it.”
“It requires some courage, you know,” Martha remarked,
and her glance made him feel very uncomfortable, “and
you are too dashing a fox-hunter not to have that. Perhaps
the stranger who rode with you to Avondale — what
was his name? — might be of service. If I were in your
place, I should be glad of a chance to incur danger for the
good of the neighborhood.”
Mr. Alfred Barton was on nettles. If there were irony
assumption of his courage could only be accepted as a compliment,
but it was the last compliment he desired to have
paid to himself, just at that time.
“Yes,” he said, with a forced laugh, rushing desperately
into the opposite extreme, “but the danger and the courage
are not worth talking about. Any man ought to be able to
face a robber, single-handed, and as for twenty men, why,
when it 's once known, Sandy Flash will only be too glad
to keep away.”
“Then, do thee do what I 've recommended. It may
be, as thee says, that the being prepared is all that is necessary,”
remarked Dr. Deane.
Thus caught, Mr. Barton could do no less than acquiesce,
and very much to his secret dissatisfaction, the Doctor
proceeded to name the young men of the neighborhood,
promising to summon such as lived on the lines of his professional
journeys, that they might confer with the leader
of the undertaking. Martha seconded the plan with an
evident interest, yet it did not escape her that neither her
father nor Mr. Barton had mentioned the name of Gilbert
Potter.
“Is that all?” she asked, when a list of some eighteen
persons had been suggested. Involuntarily, she looked at
Miss Betsy Lavender.
“No, indeed!” cried the latter. “There 's Jabez Travilla,
up on the ridge, and Gilbert Potter, down at the
mill.”
“H'm, yes; what does thee say, Alfred?” asked the
Doctor.
“They 're both good riders, and I think they have courage
enough, but we can never tell what a man is until he 's
been tried. They would increase the number, and that, it
seems to me, is a consideration.”
“Perhaps thee had better exercise thy own judgment
there,” the Doctor observed, and the subject, having been
other persons, it was dropped, greatly to Barton's relief.
But in endeavoring to converse with Martha he only
exchanged one difficulty for another. His vanity, powerful
as it was, gave way before that instinct which is the
curse and torment of vulgar natures, — which leaps into
life at every contact of refinement, showing them the gulf
between, which they know not how to cross. The impudence,
the aggressive rudeness which such natures often
exhibit, is either a mask to conceal their deficiency, or an
angry protest against it. Where there is a drop of gentleness
in the blood, it appreciates and imitates the higher
nature.
This was the feeling which made Alfred Barton uncomfortable
in the presence of Martha Deane, — which told
him, in advance, that natures so widely sundered, never
could come into near relations with each other, and thus
quite neutralized the attraction of her beauty and her ten
thousand dollars. His game, however, was to pay court
to her, and in so pointed a way that it should be remarked
and talked about in the neighborhood. Let it once come
through others to the old man's ears, he would have proved
his obedience and could not be reproached if the result
were fruitless.
“What are you reading, Miss Martha?” he asked, after
a long and somewhat awkward pause.
She handed him the book in reply.
“Ah! Hannah More, — a friend of yours? Is she one
of the West-Whiteland Moores?”
Martha could not suppress a light, amused laugh, as she
answered: “Oh, no, she is an English woman.”
“Then it 's a Tory book,” said he, handing it back; “I
would n't read it, if I was you.”
“It is a story, and I should think you might.”
He heard other words than those she spoke. “As
Tory as — what?” he asked himself. “As I am,” of
been one of the disloyal purveyors for the British army
during its occupancy of Philadelphia in the winter of
1777-8, and though the main facts of the traffic where-from
he had drawn immense profits, never could be proved
against him, the general belief hung over the family, and
made a very disagreeable cloud. Whenever Alfred Barton
quarrelled with any one, the taunt was sure to be flung
into his teeth. That it came now, as he imagined, was as
great a shock as if Martha had slapped him in the face
with her own delicate hand, and his visage reddened
from the blow.
Miss Betsy Lavender, bending laboriously over the
Psalms, nevertheless kept her dull gray eyes in movement.
She saw the misconception, and fearing that Martha
did not, made haste to remark: —
“Well, Mr. Alfred, and do you think it 's a harm to read
a story? Why, Miss Ann herself lent me `Alonzo and
Melissa,' and `Midnight Horrors,' and I 'll be bound you 've
read 'em yourself on the sly. 'T a'n't much other readin'
men does, save and except the weekly paper, and law
enough to git a tight hold on their debtors. Come, now,
let 's know what you do read?”
“Not much of anything, that 's a fact,” he answered,
recovering himself, with a shudder at the fearful mistake
he had been on the point of making, “but I 've nothing
against women reading stories. I was rather thinking of
myself when I spoke to you, Miss Martha.”
“So I supposed,” she quietly answered. It was provoking.
Everything she said made him think there was another
meaning behind the words; her composed manner,
though he knew it to be habitual, more and more disconcerted
him. Never did an intentional wooer find his
wooing so painful and laborious. After this attempt he
addressed himself to Doctor Deane, for even the question
of circumventing Sandy Flash now presented itself to his
mind as a relief.
There he sat, and the conversation progressed in jerks
and spirts, between pauses of embarrassing silence. The
sun hung on the western hill in a web of clouds; Martha
and Miss Betsy rose and prepared the tea-table, and the
guest, invited perforce, perforce accepted. Soon after the
meal was over, however, he murmured something about
cattle, took his hat and left.
Two or three horses were hitched before the Unicorn,
and he saw some figures through the bar-room window.
A bright thought struck him; he crossed the road and
entered.
“Hallo, Alf! Where from now? Why, you 're as fine
as a fiddler!” cried Mr. Joel Ferris, who was fast becoming
familiar, on the strength of his inheritance.
“Over the way,” answered the landlord, with a wink and
a jerk of his thumb.
Mr. Ferris whistled, and one of the others suggested:
“He must stand a treat, on that.”
“But, I say!” said the former, “how is it you 're coming
away so soon in the evening?”
“I went very early in the afternoon,” Barton answered,
with a mysterious, meaning smile, as much as to say: “It 's
all right; I know what I 'm about.” Then he added aloud,
— “Step up, fellows; what 'll you have?”
Many were the jests and questions to which he was
forced to submit, but he knew the value of silence in
creating an impression, and allowed them to enjoy their
own inferences.
It is much easier to start a report, than to counteract it,
when once started; but the first, only, was his business.
It was late in the evening when he returned home, and
the household were in bed. Nevertheless, he did not enter
by the back way, in his stockings, but called Giles down
from the garret to unlock the front-door, and made as
much noise as he pleased on his way to bed.
The old man heard it, and chuckled under his coverlet.
| CHAPTER VIII.
AT DR. DEANE'S. The story of Kennett | |