A PAIR OF CALLS
Among the honors which came to Ruel Saxon with advancing years there was
probably none which he valued more than his position, well recognized in
the community, as keeper of the best fund of stories of the olden time,
and referee-in-chief on all debated points of local history. There were
plenty of old people in Esterly, some even who had reached the
patriarchal age in which he himself so gloried, but there was no other
with a memory like his, none with so unique a gift for setting out the
past event in warmth and color. The gift was his own, but the memory was
in part at least that of some who had gone before.
It had been the old man’s fortune in his youth to be the constant
companion of a grandfather who, like himself, was a local authority; a
deaf man, who relied much on the boy’s clear voice and quick attention
for intercourse with his fellows. Perhaps the service had been irksome
sometimes to the boy, but it had its reward for him now; for his
grandfather’s experiences and his own blended in his thought as one
continuous whole, and covered a space of time no other memory in the
town could match.
The time was not yet when every rural village of New England had its
historical society, but the recovery of the past was becoming a fad in
the cities, and families who valued themselves on their standing were
waking up to the importance of making sure of their ancestors. A letter
from some gatherer of ancient facts, making requisition on Ruel Saxon’s
knowledge, was not uncommon now, and more than once a caller had stopped
at the farmhouse hoping to gain help from him in tracing some obscure
branch of a family tree.
The person bent on such an errand was so commonly of serious and elderly
aspect that the extremely stylish young man who rode into the yard one
afternoon was not suspected by the girls, who saw him from the parlor,
of belonging to this class. Kate, who was nearest the window, was quite
excited by the appearance of a gentleman on horseback. She had not seen
one before since she left home, and the horse itself was as interesting
as the rider.
“I’ll wager anything that’s a blooded Kentucky,” she said, craning her
neck for a fuller view. “My, but isn’t she a beauty? I’ll have a good
look at her if his highness gets down. Wouldn’t I like to call out,
‘Light, and come in, stranger!’” she added under her breath. “Stella,
who is he? He must be some admirer of yours.”
“Never saw him before,” said Stella, who was eying him with as much
curiosity as Kate. “I’ll tell you what, he must be a connoisseur in art
and has heard of my Breton Peasant. Ha! With that horse and that riding
costume I shall charge him a hundred and fifty.”
By this time the young man had reached the hitching post and jumped down
from the saddle. He patted his horse’s neck when he had adjusted the
hitching rein, flicked the dust from his riding boots with his
gold-handled whip, and proceeded toward the door.
“You go, Kate,” whispered Stella, who was drawing Greenaway figures with
pen and ink on a set of table doilies, and Kate was not loath.
“Is Deacon Saxon at home?” inquired the young man in a pleasant voice.
“I think so. Will you come in?” responded Kate.
“It isn’t the Breton Peasant after all,” murmured Stella to Esther. “I
wonder if it can be an ancestor.” She arranged the doilies with a quick
artistic touch, and rose as the young man entered the room.
He had presented Kate with a small engraved card, and though it was a
new discovery for her that gentlemen ever carried such things, she used
it as if to the manner born.
“Mr. Philip Hadley, Miss Saxon and Miss Northmore,” she announced
easily, and Stella added, with a pretty bow, “And, Mr. Hadley, Miss Kate
Northmore.”
The young man looked bewildered. In search of a country deacon of
advanced years, at an old-fashioned farmhouse, to be ushered into one of
the most attractive of parlors, with three charming young ladies in
possession, was enough to bewilder. But he rose to the surprise
gracefully in another moment.
“I must apologize for intruding myself in this way,” he said, “but I
have heard that Deacon Saxon is quite an authority on Esterly
antiquities, and I wanted to see him on a little matter of inquiry.”
“He will be delighted to talk with you. You may be sure of it,” said
Stella.
It was only a minute before the old gentleman appeared, walking in his
nimblest manner from his own room, whither Kate had gone in search of
him. She had put him in possession of his caller’s name, and he extended
his hand with an air of welcome and curiosity combined.
“Hadley? Did you say your name was Hadley? Well, I’m pleased to see
you.”
“I’m very pleased to see you, sir,” said the young man, bowing with a
deference of manner which was peculiarly pleasing. “I’m taking a liberty
in calling on you, I’m well aware of it, but it’s the penalty one pays
for having a reputation like yours. People say you know everything that
ever happened in Esterly, and as I’m looking up our family history a
little, I thought perhaps you could help me. I confess though,” he added
with a smile, “I expected to see a much older person.”
“Older than eighty-eight?” quoth Ruel Saxon. “I was born in the year
seventeen hundred and ninety-one, and if I live till the twenty-first
day of next June I shall be eighty-nine.”
He was too much pleased with the young man’s errand, and himself as the
person appealed to, to pause for a compliment at this point, and added
briskly, “I shall be glad to tell you anything I know. ’Tisn’t many
young men that go to the old men to inquire about things that are past.
They did in Bible times. In fact, they were commanded to: ‘Ask thy
father and he will show thee, thy elders and they will tell thee.’
That’s what it says; but they don’t do it much nowadays.”
“They have more books to go to now, you know, grandfather,” said Stella,
glancing from the figure she was drawing, a charming little maid in a
sunbonnet, and incidentally holding it up as she spoke.
“Yes, too many of ’em,” said her grandfather, rather grimly. “They’d go
to the old folks more if they couldn’t get the printed stuff so easy.”
“But, grandfather,” exclaimed Esther, “the young people can’t all go to
the old people who know the stories. Kate and I didn’t have you, for
instance, till a few weeks ago.”
Her grandfather’s face relaxed, and Mr. Philip Hadley looked amused.
“But Deacon Saxon is right,” he said, turning to the young ladies. “It’s
a much more delightful thing to hear a story from one who has been a
part of it, or remembers those who were, than to get it from the printed
page. I fancy the spirit of a thing is much better preserved by oral
tradition than by cold print. You remember Sir Walter attributed a good
deal of his enthusiasm for Scottish history to the tales of his
grandmother. I see you have a charming sketch of Abbotsford,” he added,
glancing at a picture on the wall opposite, and from there with a
questioning look to Stella.
She gave a pleased nod. “We were sketching in Scotland, a party of us,
last summer,” she said.
“Were you?” exclaimed the young man. “I was tramping on the Border
myself.”
Perhaps he would have liked to defer his consultation with the old
gentleman long enough for a chat with the young lady, but the former was
impatient for it now. He had been scrutinizing his caller’s face for the
last few moments with sharp attention.
“You say your name is Hadley. Are you any relation to the Hadleys that
used to live in our town? There was quite a family of ’em here fifty
years ago.”
“I think I am,” said the young man, smiling. “My father was born in
Esterly, but moved away before his remembrance. Perhaps you knew my
grandfather, Moses Hadley.”
“I knew _of_ him,” said the old gentleman, nodding; “but our family
never had much to do with the Hadleys, for they lived on the other side
of town. They were good respectable folks,” he added in a ruminating
tone; “didn’t care any great about schooling, I guess, but they were
master hands for making money. I’ve heard one of ’em made a great
fortune somewhere out West. He sent a handsome subscription to our
soldiers’ monument.”
The young man, who had flushed distinctly during part of this speech,
looked relieved at its conclusion. “That must have been my Uncle
Nathan,” he said. “My father went into business in Boston.” Perhaps it
was by way of foot-note to the remark about his ancestors’ lack of zeal
for learning that he added carelessly: “I remember my cousin came to
Esterly once to see your monument. We were in Harvard together at the
time.”
The remark was lost on the old gentleman. He was pursuing his own train
of recollection now. “I knew your grandmother’s folks better ’n I did
your grandfather’s,” he said. “Moses Hadley married Mercy Bridgewood,
and the Bridgewoods and our folks neighbored a good deal.”
“Did they?” exclaimed the young man, with a quick eagerness in his
voice. “It was the Bridgewood line that I came to see you about. Did you
ever hear of Jabez Bridgewood?”
“Jabez Bridgewood!” exclaimed Ruel Saxon. “What, old Jabe that used to
live on Cony Hill? Why, sartin, sartin! He ’n’ my grandfather were great
cronies. I’ve heard my mother say more ’n once, when she saw him coming
across the fields: ‘Girls, we may as well plan for an extra one to
supper. There’s Jabe Bridgewood, and he ’n’ your grandfather’ll set an’
talk till all’s blue. There’ll be no getting rid of him.’”
The young man colored again, and this time the girls did too. But they
might have spared their blushes. The old gentleman was serenely
unconscious of having said anything to call them out, and was pursuing
his subject now under a full head of delighted reminiscence.
“He was an uncommon bright man, old Jabez Bridgewood; sort o’ crotchety
and queer, but chuck full of ideas, and ready to stand up for ’em agin
anybody. He was pretty quick-tempered, too, when anybody riled him up.
My grandfather’s told me more ’n once about a row he got into with Peleg
Wright; and the beginning of it was right here in this room. You see,
Peleg was a regular Tory, though he didn’t let out fair ’n’ square where
he stood; and Jabez he was hot on the other side, right from the start.”
A gleam of amused recollection came into his eyes as he added: “They
used to tell about a contrivance he had on the hill to pepper the
British with, if they should happen to come marching along his road. It
was a young sapling that he bent down and loaded with stones and hitched
a rope to, so he could jerk it up and let fly at a moment’s notice. They
called it ‘Bridgewood’s Battery,’ but I guess he never used it. He was
firing that old flint-lock gun of his instead. He was one of the
minute-men, you know.
“But about that fuss with Peleg Wright. I don’ know just what ’twas
Peleg said. He was sitting here talking with Jabe ’n’ my grandfather,
getting hold of everything he could, I guess; and he said something
about our duty to the king that stirred Jabe up so that he just bent
down and scooped up a handful o’ sand—you know they had the floors
sanded in those days, instead of having carpets on ’em—and flung it
right square into Peleg’s face.”
“Shocking!” exclaimed Mr. Hadley, laughing. “Is that the sort of manners
my great-great-grandfather had? I’m ashamed of him.”
“Well, there was a good many that thought he hadn’t or’ to have done
it,” admitted the old gentleman, “but I don’t know. Peleg was a terrible
mean-spirited, deceiving sort of cretur. It came out afterwards that
’twas he that put the British on the track of some gunpowder our folks
had stored up; and sometimes I’ve kind o’ thought it served him right.
The Bible says, ‘Bread of deceit is sweet to a man, but afterwards his
mouth shall be filled with gravel,’ and I don’ know but your grandfather
was just fulfilling scripture when he gave it to him.”
“Do you suppose he thought of that verse when he did it?” said Mr.
Hadley, laughing more heartily than before.
“Mebbe he didn’t,” said the deacon; “but there’s been plenty of
scripture fulfilled without folks knowing it. Well, naturally it made
Peleg pretty mad, ’specially when folks twitted him ’bout it; and a day
or two afterward he pitched on Jabez down town, and I guess it’s more ’n
likely one of ’em would have got hurt if folks hadn’t separated ’em.
Jabez wrote some verses about it afterward, and I remember my
grandfather telling me one of ’em was:—
“‘Old Tory Wright with me did fight,
Designing me to kill;
But over me did not obtain
To gain his cursèd will.’”
“So he was a poet, too!” exclaimed Mr. Hadley.
“Bless you, yes,” said Ruel Saxon. “When he warn’t contriving something
or other, he was always making up verses. I’ve seen ’em scribbled with
chalk all over his house. It was a little house without any paint on it,
and when it got so full it wouldn’t hold any more he’d rub ’em out and
put on some fresh ones. Paper warn’t as plenty in those days as it is
now, specially not with Jabez.”
“Do you remember any more of his verses?” asked Mr. Hadley, who was
evidently a good deal impressed with this ancestor of his, in spite of
his lack of that economic turn of mind which had so distinguished the
other side of his house.
“I don’ know as I do,” said the old gentleman, “though I guess I could
think up some of ’em if I tried. Oh, Jabez Bridgewood was a good deal of
a character. He could do anything he set his hand to, and I never did
see anybody that knew as much about things outdoors as he did. He was
like Solomon, and spoke of the trees, ‘from the cedar that is in Lebanon
to the hyssop that springeth out of the wall’; and when it came to the
beasts of the field, and the fowls of the air, and the creeping things,
it seemed as if he knew ’em all, though some folks did think he spent
too much time watching ’em, for the good of his family.”
“Why, he must have been a real genius, a Thoreau sort of man,” exclaimed
Esther, who had been listening with rapt attention, as she always did
when her grandfather told a story. “Grandpa, won’t you show me some day
where his little house stood, and the tree he loaded with stones to fire
at the British?”
“And please let me go, too,” said Mr. Hadley, glancing at the girl, and
catching her quick responsive smile at her grandfather; “I should like
it immensely.”
“Why, to be sure, I should like it myself,” said Deacon Saxon, promptly;
“though there ain’t anything there now but dirt and rocks. And I’ll take
you round by the old burying-ground and show you his grave, and the
grave of my great-grandfather, John Saxon, that was killed by the
Indians, if you want me to.”
They had it settled in another minute, with Stella in the plan too. Mr.
Hadley was to call again in a few days, and they were all to take the
trip together. And then the young man stayed a little longer, not
talking of his ancestors now, but of things more modern; of Scotland
with Stella; of her impressions of New England with Esther; and with the
old gentleman of the summer home in a neighboring town, which the
Hadleys had lately purchased. It seemed he had ridden over from there
to-day. There was no chance to talk with Kate of anything. She had
disappeared long ago.
“I’m afraid you’ll think I’ve inherited the staying qualities of my
great-great-grandfather,” he said, rising at last. “Really, I don’t
wonder he found it hard to get away from here.” And then he bowed
himself out with renewed expressions of gratitude for the information he
had received, and of delight in that trip that was coming.
“A most estimable young man,” said Ruel Saxon, when he had ridden away.
“I think he’s the most agreeable young man I ever saw,” said Esther,
warmly, and Stella added, “Quite _au fait_; but I mean to find out the
next time he comes whether he really knows anything about art.”
From Mr. Philip Hadley to Miss Katharine Saxon was a far cry, but the
latter had a genius for supplying contrasts, and she furnished one at
that moment by appearing suddenly at the door. Aunt Elsie, who had been
picking raspberries in the garden, was with her.
“Well, Katharine,” exclaimed her brother, hastening to meet her, “’pears
to me you’re getting pretty smart to come walking all the way from your
house this hot day.”
“I always had the name of being smart, Ruel,” said the old lady, seating
herself, and proceeding with much vigor to use a feather fan made of a
partridge tail, which hung at her belt; “but I shouldn’t have taken the
trouble to show it by walking up here to-day if I hadn’t had an errand.
Mary ’Liza wants to go home for a couple o’ days—her sister’s going to
get married—and I s’pose I or’ to have somebody in the house with me.
Not that I’m ’fraid of anything,” she added, “but I s’pose there’d be a
terrible to-do in the town if I should mind my own business and die in
my bed some night without putting anybody to any trouble about it. So I
thought, long ’s you’ve got so many folks up here just now, I’d see if
one of the girls was a mind to come down and stay with me.”
She had been facing her brother as she talked, but she turned toward
Esther with the last words.
The girl’s face lighted with an instant pleasure. “Let _me_ come, Aunt
Katharine,” she said. “I should like to, dearly.”
There was a gleam of satisfaction in Aunt Katharine’s eyes. “I’d be much
obleeged to you to do it,” she said promptly.
“But Aunt Katharine,” exclaimed Aunt Elsie, “don’t you think you’d
better come here and stay with us? We should like to have you, and it’s
a long time since you slept in your old room.”
“I don’t care anything particular about old rooms,” said Miss Saxon.
“I’m beholden to you, Elsie; but I’d rather be in my own house, long ’s
I can have somebody with me.”
“I s’pose you’ve got Solomon Ridgeway there yet,” observed her brother,
maliciously. “You don’t seem to count much on him, but mebbe you’re
afraid of robbers, with all his jewellery in the house.”
She took no notice of the sarcasm. “Solomon’s been gone ’most a week,”
she said. “Took a notion he wanted to be back at the farm again.”
“So he’s gone back to the poor’us, has he?” said the old gentleman.
“Well, it’s the place for him, poor afflicted cretur!”
She threw up her head with the quick impatient motion. “Dreadful
’flicted, Ruel,” she said. “He’s a leetle the happiest man I know.”
“Hm,” grunted her brother; “happy because he hain’t got sense enough to
know his own situation. He thinks he’s rich, when all he’s got wouldn’t
buy him a week’s victuals and a suit o’ clothes.”
Miss Saxon’s eyes narrowed to the hawk-like expression which was common
in her controversies with her brother. “Oh, he’s crazy, of course,” she
said, with an inexpressible dryness in her voice; “thinks he’s rich when
he’s poor! But you didn’t call Squire Ethan crazy when he had so much
money he didn’t know what to do with it, and was so ’fraid he’d come to
want that he dassn’t give a cent of it away, or let his own folks have
enough to live on.”
“I ain’t excusing Squire Ethan,” said the deacon, bridling. “He made a
god of his money, and he’ll be held responsible for it. But Solomon
Ridgeway ain’t half witted. He’s been crack-brained for the last forty
years, and you know it.”
The coolness of her manner increased with his rising heat. “Oh,
Solomon’s daft, Ruel,” she said in her politest manner. “We won’t argy
about _that_. A man _must_ be daft that takes his wife’s death so hard
it eeny most kills him, and he stays single all the rest of his life. A
man that had full sense would be courting some other woman inside a
year.”
The deacon’s eyes kindled. “You talk like one of the foolish women,
Katharine,” he said sharply. “A man ain’t compelled to stay single all
the rest of his days because the Lord’s seen fit to take away his wife.
The Bible says it ain’t good for man to be alone, and ‘whoso findeth a
wife findeth a good thing.’”
She laughed her thin mocking laugh. “And the more he has of ’em the
better, I s’pose! You don’t happen to remember, do you, any place where
it says she that finds a husband finds a good thing?”
Apparently the exact verse was not at hand, but Ruel Saxon was prepared
without it. “There are some things that folks with common sense are
s’posed to know without being told,” he said tartly.
The words had come so fast from both sides that even Aunt Elsie had not
been able to interpose till this moment. She seized the pause now with
hurrying eagerness. “Aunt Katharine,” she said, “here you are sitting
all this time with your bonnet on. You must take it off and stay to
supper with us.”
The old woman rose and untied the strings. “Thank ye kindly, Elsie,” she
said; “I b’lieve I will.”