TWO OLD MEN.
Shortly after Martha Deane left home for her eventful ride to
Falconer's, the Doctor also mounted his horse and rode out of the
village in the opposite direction. Two days before, he had been summoned
to bleed “Old-man Barton,” on account of a troublesome buzzing in the
head, and, although not bidden to make a second professional visit,
there was sufficient occasion for him to call upon his patient in the
capacity of a neighbor.
Dr. Deane never made a step outside the usual routine of his business
without a special and carefully considered reason. Various causes
combined to inspire his movement in the present instance. The
neighborhood was healthy; the village was so nearly deserted that
no curious observers lounged upon the tavern-porch, or sat upon the
horse-block at the corner-store; and Mr. Alfred Barton had been seen
riding towards Avondale. There would have been safety in a much more
unusual proceeding; this, therefore, might be undertaken in that secure,
easy frame of mind which the Doctor both cultivated and recommended to
the little world around him.
The Barton farm-house was not often molested by the presence of guests,
and he found it as quiet and lifeless as an uninhabited island of the
sea. Leaving his horse hitched in the shade of the corn-crib, he first
came upon Giles, stretched out under the holly-bush, and fast asleep,
with his head upon his jacket. The door and window of the family-room
were open, and Dr. Deane, walking softly upon the thick grass, saw that
Old-man Barton was in his accustomed seat. His daughter Ann was not
visible; she was at that moment occupied in taking out of the drawers of
her queer old bureau, in her narrow bedroom up-stairs, various bits of
lace and ribbon, done up in lavender, and perchance (for we must not be
too curious) a broken sixpence or a lock of dead hair.
The old man's back was towards the window, but the Doctor could hear
that papers were rustling and crackling in his trembling hands, and
could see that an old casket of very solid oak, bound with iron, stood
on the table at his elbow. Thereupon he stealthily retraced his steps to
the gate, shut it with a sharp snap, cleared his throat, and mounted the
porch with slow, loud, deliberate steps. When he reached the open door,
he knocked upon the jamb without looking into the room. There was a
jerking, dragging sound for a moment, and then the old man's snarl was
heard:
“Who's there?”
Dr. Deane entered, smiling, and redolent of sweet-marjoram. “Well,
Friend Barton,” he said, “let's have a look at thee now!”
Thereupon he took a chair, placed it in front of the old man, and sat
down upon it, with his legs spread wide apart, and his ivory-headed cane
(which he also used as a riding-whip) bolt upright between them. He was
very careful not to seem to see that a short quilt, which the old man
usually wore over his knees, now lay in a somewhat angular heap upon the
table.
“Better, I should say,--yes, decidedly better,” he remarked, nodding his
head gravely. “I had nothing to do this afternoon,--the neighborhood is
very healthy,--and thought I would ride down and see how thee's getting
on. Only a friendly visit, thee knows.”
The old man had laid one shaking arm and crooked hand upon the edge of
the quilt, while with the other he grasped his hickory staff. His face
had a strange, ashy color, through which the dark, corded veins on his
temples showed with singular distinctness. But his eye was unusually
bright and keen, and its cunning, suspicious expression did not escape
the Doctor's notice.
“A friendly visit--ay!” he growled--“not like Doctors' visits generally,
eh? Better?--of course I'm better. It's no harm to tap one of a
full-blooded breed. At our age, Doctor, a little blood goes a great
way.”
“No doubt, no doubt!” the Doctor assented. “Especially in thy case. I
often speak of thy wonderful constitution.”
“Neighborly, you say, Doctor--only neighborly?” asked the old man. The
Doctor smiled, nodded, and seemed to exhale a more powerful herbaceous
odor.
“Mayhap, then, you'll take a bit of a dram?--a thimble-full won't come
amiss. You know the shelf where it's kep'--reach to, and help yourself,
and then help me to a drop.”
Dr. Deane rose and took down the square black bottle and the diminutive
wine-glass beside it. Half-filling the latter,--a thimble-full in
verity,--he drank it in two or three delicate little sips, puckering his
large under-lip to receive them.
“It's right to have the best, Friend Barton,” he said, “there's more
life in it!” as he filled the glass to the brim and held it to the slit
in the old man's face.
The latter eagerly drew off the top fulness, and then seized the glass
in his shaky hand. “Can help myself,” he croaked--“don't need waitin'
on; not so bad as that!”
His color presently grew, and his neck assumed a partial steadiness.
“What news, what news?” he asked. “You gather up a plenty in your
goin's-around. It's little I get, except the bones, after they've been
gnawed over by the whole neighborhood.”
“There is not much now, I believe,” Dr. Deane observed.
“Jacob and Leah Gilpin have another boy, but thee hardly knows them,
I think. William Byerly died last week in Birmingham; thee's heard of
him,--he had a wonderful gift of preaching. They say Maryland cattle
will be cheap, this fall: does Alfred intend to fatten many? I saw him
riding towards New-Garden.”
“I guess he will,” the old man answered,--“must make somethin' out o'
the farm. That pastur'-bottom ought to bring more than it does.”
“Alfred doesn't look to want for much,” the Doctor continued. “It's a
fine farm he has.”
“_Me_, I say!” old Barton exclaimed, bringing down the end of his stick
upon the floor. “The farm's mine!”
“But it's the same thing, isn't it?” asked Dr. Deane, in his cheeriest
voice and with his pleasantest smile.
The old man looked at him for a moment, gave an incoherent grunt,
the meaning of which the Doctor found it impossible to decipher, and
presently, with a cunning leer, said.--
“Is all your property the same thing as your daughter's?”
“Well--well,” replied the Doctor, softly rubbing his hands, “I should
hope so--yes, I should hope so.”
“Besides what she has in her own right?”
“Oh, thee knows that will be hers without my disposal. What I should do
for her would be apart from that. I am not likely, at my time of life,
to marry again--but we are led by the Spirit, thee knows; we cannot say,
I will do thus and so, and these and such things shall happen, and those
and such other shall not.”
“Ay, that's my rule, too, Doctor,” said the old man, after a pause,
during which he had intently watched his visitor, from under his
wrinkled eyelids.
“I thought,” the Doctor resumed, “thee was pretty safe against another
marriage, at any rate, and thee had perhaps made up thy mind about
providing for thy children.
“It's better for us old men to have our houses set in order, that we may
spare ourselves worry and anxiety of mind. Elisha is already established
in his own independence, and I suppose Ann will give thee no particular
trouble; but if Alfred, now, should take a notion to marry, he couldn't,
thee sees, be expected to commit himself without having some idea of
what thee intends to do for him.”
Dr. Deane, having at last taken up his position and uncovered his front
of attack, waited for the next movement of his adversary. He was even
aware of a slight professional curiosity to know how far the old man's
keen, shrewd, wary faculties had survived the wreck of his body.
The latter nodded his head, and pressed the top of his hickory stick
against his gums several times, before he answered. He enjoyed the
encounter, though not so sure of its issue as he would have been ten
years earlier.
“I'd do the fair thing, Doctor!” he finally exclaimed; “whatever it
might be, it'd be fair. Come, isn't that enough?”
“In a general sense, it is. But we are talking now as neighbors. We are
both old men, Friend Barton, and I think we know how to keep our own
counsel. Let us suppose a case--just to illustrate the matter, thee
understands. Let us say that Friend Paxson--a widower, thee knows--had a
daughter Mary, who had--well, a nice little penny in her own right,--and
that thy son Alfred desired her in marriage. Friend Paxson, as a prudent
father, knowing his daughter's portion, both what it is and what it will
be,--he would naturally wish, in Mary's interest, to know that Alfred
would not be dependent on her means, but that the children they might
have would inherit equally from both. Now, it strikes me that Friend
Paxson would only be right in asking thee what thee would do for thy
son--nay, that, to be safe, he would want to see some evidence that
would hold in law. Things are so uncertain, and a wise man guardeth his
own household.”
The old man laughed until his watery eyes twinkled. “Friend Paxson is a
mighty close and cautious one to deal with,” he said. “Mayhap he'd like
to manage to have me bound, and himself go free?”
“Thee's mistaken, indeed!” Dr. Deane protested. “He's not that kind of a
man. He only means to do what's right, and to ask the same security from
thee, which thee--I'm sure of it, Friend Barton!--would expect _him_ to
furnish.”
The old man began to find this illustration uncomfortable; it was
altogether one-sided. Dr. Deane could shelter himself behind Friend
Paxson and the imaginary daughter, but the applications came personally
home to him. His old patience had been weakened by his isolation from
the world, and his habits of arbitrary rule. He knew, moreover, the
probable amount of Martha's fortune, and could make a shrewd guess at
the Doctor's circumstances; but if the settlements were to be equal,
each must give his share its highest valuation in order to secure more
from the other. It was a difficult game, because these men viewed it
in the light of a business transaction, and each considered that any
advantage over the other would be equivalent to a pecuniary gain on his
own part.
“No use beatin' about the bush, Doctor,” the old man suddenly said.
“You don't care for Paxson's daughter, that never was; why not put your
Martha in her place. She has a good penny, I hear--five thousand, some
say.”
“Ten, every cent of it!” exclaimed Dr. Deane, very nearly thrown off his
guard. “That is, she will have it, at twenty-five; and sooner, if she
marries with my consent. But why does thee wish particularly to speak of
her?”
“For the same reason you talk about Alfred. He hasn't been about your
house lately, I s'pose, hey?”
The Doctor smiled, dropping his eyelids in a very sagacious way. “He
_does_ seem drawn a little our way, I must confess to thee,” he said,
“but we can't always tell how much is meant. Perhaps thee knows his mind
better than I do?”
“Mayhap I do--know what it will be, if _I_ choose! But I don't begrudge
sayin' that he likes your girl, and I shouldn't wonder if he'd showed
it.”
“Then thee sees, Friend Barton,” Dr. Deane continued, “that the case is
precisely like the one I supposed; and what I would consider right for
Friend Paxson, would even be right for myself. I've no doubt thee could
do more for Alfred than I can do for Martha, and without wrong to thy
other children,--Elisha, as I said, being independent, and Ann not
requiring a great deal,--and the two properties joined together would be
a credit to us, and to the neighborhood. Only, thee knows, there must
be some legal assurance beforehand. There is nothing certain,--even thy
mind is liable to change,--ah, the mind of man is an unstable thing!”
The Doctor delivered these words in his most impressive manner,
uplifting both eyes and hands.
The old man, however, seemed to pay but little attention to it. Turning
his head on one side, he said, in a quick, sharp voice: “Time enough
for that when we come to it How's the girl inclined? Is the money hers,
anyhow, at twenty-five,--how old now? Sure to be a couple, hey?--settle
that first!”
Dr. Deane crossed his legs carefully, so as not to crease the cloth too
much, laid his cane upon them, and leaned back a little in his chair.
“Of course I've not spoken to Martha,” he presently said; “I can only
say that she hasn't set her mind upon anybody else, and that is the
main thing. She has followed my will in all, except as to joining the
Friends, and there I felt that I couldn't rightly command, where the
Spirit had not spoken. Yes, the money will be hers at twenty-five,--she
is twenty-one now,--but I hardly think it necessary to take that into
consideration. If thee can answer for Alfred, I think I can answer for
her.”
“The boy's close about _his_ money,” broke in the old man, with a
sly, husky chuckle. “What he has, Doctor, you understand, goes toward
balancin' what she has, afore you come onto me, at all. Yes, yes, I know
what I'm about. A good deal, off and on, has been got out o' this farm,
and it hasn't all gone into _my_ pockets. I've a trifle put out, but
you can't expect me to strip myself naked, in my old days. But I'll do
what's fair--I'll do what's fair!”
“There's only this,” the Doctor added, meditatively, “and I want thee to
understand, since we've, somehow or other, come to mention the matter,
that we'd better have another talk, after we've had more time to think
of it. Thee can make up thy mind, and let me know _about_ what thee'll
do; and I the same. Thee _has_ a starting-point on my side, knowing
the amount of Martha's fortune--_that_, of course, thee must come up to
first, and then we'll see about the rest!”
Old-man Barton felt that he was here brought up to the rack. He
recognized Dr. Deane's advantage, and could only evade it by accepting
his proposition for delay. True, he had already gone over the subject,
in his lonely, restless broodings beside the window, but this encounter
had freshened and resuscitated many points. He knew that the business
would be finally arranged, but nothing would have induced him to hasten
it. There was a great luxury in this preliminary skirmishing.
“Well, well!” said he, “we needn't hurry. You're right there, Doctor. I
s'pose you won't do anything to keep the young ones apart?”
“I think I've shown my own wishes very plainly, Friend Barton. It is
necessary that Alfred should speak for himself, though, and after all
we've said, perhaps it might be well if thee should give him a hint.
Thee must remember that he has never yet mentioned the subject to me.”
Dr. Deane thereupon arose, smoothed his garments, and shook out,
not only sweet marjoram, but lavender, cloves, and calamus. His
broad-brimmed drab hat had never left his head during the interview.
There were steps on the creaking floor overhead, and the Doctor
perceived that the private conference must now close. It was nearly a
drawn game, so far; but the chance of advantage was on his side.
“Suppose I look at thy arm,--in a neighborly way, of course,” he said,
approaching the old man's chair.
“Never mind--took the bean off this mornin'--old blood, you know, but
lively yet. Gad, Doctor! I've not felt so brisk for a year.” His eyes
twinkled so, under their puffy lids, the flabby folds in which his mouth
terminated worked so curiously,--like those of a bellows, where they run
together towards the nozzle,--and the two movable fingers on each hand
opened and shut with such a menacing, clutching motion, that for one
moment the Doctor felt a chill, uncanny creep run over his nerves.
“Brandy!” the old man commanded. “I've not talked so much at once't for
months. You might take a little more, maybe. No? well, you hardly need
it. Good brandy's powerful dear, these times.”
Dr. Deane had too much tact to accept the grudging invitation. After the
old man had drunk, he carefully replaced the bottle and glass on their
accustomed shelf, and disposed himself to leave. On the whole, he was
well satisfied with the afternoon's work, not doubting but that he
had acted the part of a tender and most considerate parent towards his
daughter.
Before they met, she also had disposed of her future, but in a very
different way.
Miss Ann descended the stairs in time to greet the Doctor before his
departure. She would have gladly retained him to tea, as a little relief
to the loneliness and weariness of the day; but she never dared to
give an invitation except when it seconded her father's, which, in the
present case, was wanting.