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diff --git a/8680-0.txt b/8680-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..887f4d9 --- /dev/null +++ b/8680-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,14876 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Story Of Kennett, by Bayard Taylor + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Story Of Kennett + +Author: Bayard Taylor + + +Release Date: August, 2005 [EBook #8680] +This file was first posted on July 31, 2003 +Last Updated: March 16, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE STORY OF KENNETT *** + + + + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Tiffany Vergon, Michelle +Shephard, Charles Franks, and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team + + + + + + + + +THE STORY OF KENNETT + +By Bayard Taylor + + + + +PROLOGUE. + +TO MY FRIENDS AND NEIGHBORS OF KENNETT: + + +I wish to dedicate this Story to you, not only because some of you +inhabit the very houses, and till the very fields which I have given to +the actors in it, but also because many of you will recognize certain of +the latter, and are therefore able to judge whether they are drawn with +the simple truth at which I have aimed. You are, naturally, the critics +whom I have most cause to fear; but I do not inscribe these pages to you +with the design of purchasing your favor. I beg you all to accept the +fact as an acknowledgment of the many quiet and happy years I have spent +among you; of the genial and pleasant relations into which I was born, +and which have never diminished, even when I have returned to you from +the farthest ends of the earth; and of the use (often unconsciously to +you, I confess,) which I have drawn from your memories of former days, +your habits of thought and of life. + +I am aware that truth and fiction are so carefully woven together +in this Story of Kennett, that you will sometimes be at a loss to +disentangle them. The lovely pastoral landscapes which I know by heart, +have been copied, field for field and tree for tree, and these you will +immediately recognize. Many of you will have no difficulty in detecting +the originals of Sandy Flash and Deb. Smith; a few will remember the +noble horse which performed the service I have ascribed to Roger; and +the descendants of a certain family will not have forgotten some of the +pranks of Joe and Jake Fairthorn. Many more than these particulars are +drawn from actual sources; but as I have employed them with a strict +regard to the purposes of the Story, transferring dates and characters +at my pleasure, you will often, I doubt not, attribute to invention that +which I owe to family tradition. Herein, I must request that you will +allow me to keep my own counsel; for the processes which led to the +completed work extend through many previous years, and cannot readily be +revealed. I will only say that every custom I have described is true +to the time, though some of them are now obsolete; that I have used no +peculiar word or phrase of the common dialect of the country which I +have not myself heard; and further, that I owe the chief incidents of +the last chapter, given to me on her death-bed, to the dear and noble +woman whose character (not the circumstances of her life) I have +endeavored to reproduce in that of Martha Deane. + +The country life of our part of Pennsylvania retains more elements of +its English origin than that of New England or Virginia. Until within +a few years, the conservative influence of the Quakers was so powerful +that it continued to shape the habits even of communities whose +religious sentiment it failed to reach. Hence, whatever might be +selected as incorrect of American life, in its broader sense, in these +pages, is nevertheless locally true; and to this, at least, all of +you, my Friends and Neighbors, can testify. In these days, when Fiction +prefers to deal with abnormal characters and psychological problems more +or less exceptional or morbid, the attempt to represent the elements of +life in a simple, healthy, pastoral community, has been to me a source +of uninterrupted enjoyment. May you read it with half the interest I +have felt in writing it! + +BAYARD TAYLOR. + + + + +CONTENTS. + + +CHAPTER I. THE CHASE + +CHAPTER II. WHO SHALL HAVE THE BRUSH? + +CHAPTER III. MARY POTTER AND HER SON + +CHAPTER IV. FORTUNE AND MISFORTUNE + +CHAPTER V. GUESTS AT FAIRTHORN'S + +CHAPTER VI. THE NEW GILBERT + +CHAPTER VII. OLD KENNETT MEETING + +CHAPTER VIII. AT DR. DEANE'S + +CHAPTER IX. THE RAISING + +CHAPTER X. THE RIVALS + +CHAPTER XI. GUESTS AT POTTER'S + +CHAPTER XII. THE EVENTS OF AN EVENING + +CHAPTER XIII. TWO OLD MEN + +CHAPTER XIV. DOUBTS AND SURMISES + +CHAPTER XV. ALFRED BARTON BETWEEN TWO FIRES + +CHAPTER XVI. MARTHA DEANE + +CHAPTER XVII. CONSULTATIONS + +CHAPTER XVIII. SANDY FLASH REAPPEARS + +CHAPTER XIX. THE HUSKING FROLIC + +CHAPTER XX. GILBERT ON THE ROAD TO CHESTER + +CHAPTER XXI. ROGER REPAYS HIS MASTER + +CHAPTER XXII. MARTHA DEANE TAKES A RESOLUTION + +CHAPTER XXIII. A CROSS-EXAMINATION + +CHAPTER XXIV. DEB. SMITH TAKES A RESOLUTION + +CHAPTER XXV. TWO ATTEMPTS + +CHAPTER XXVI. THE LAST OF SANDY FLASH + +CHAPTER XXVII. GILBERT INDEPENDENT + +CHAPTER XXVIII. MISS LAVENDER MAKES A GUESS + +CHAPTER XXIX. MYSTERIOUS MOVEMENTS + +CHAPTER XXX. THE FUNERAL + +CHAPTER XXXI. THE WILL + +CHAPTER XXXII. THE LOVERS + +CHAPTER XXXIII. HUSBAND AND WIFE + +CHAPTER XXXIV. THE WEDDING + + + + +CHAPTER I. + +THE CHASE. + + +At noon, on the first Saturday of March, 1796, there was an unusual stir +at the old Barton farm-house, just across the creek to the eastward, as +you leave Kennett Square by the Philadelphia stage-road. Any gathering +of the people at Barton's was a most rare occurrence; yet, on that day +and at that hour, whoever stood upon the porch of the corner house, in +the village, could see horsemen approaching by all the four roads +which there met. Some five or six had already dismounted at the Unicorn +Tavern, and were refreshing themselves with stout glasses of “Old +Rye,” while their horses, tethered side by side to the pegs in the long +hitching-bar, pawed and stamped impatiently. An eye familiar with the +ways of the neighborhood might have surmised the nature of the occasion +which called so many together, from the appearance and equipment +of these horses. They were not heavy animals, with the marks of +plough-collars on their broad shoulders, or the hair worn off their +rumps by huge breech-straps; but light and clean-limbed, one or two of +them showing signs of good blood, and all more carefully groomed than +usual. + +Evidently, there was no “vendue” at the Barton farmhouse; neither +a funeral, nor a wedding, since male guests seemed to have been +exclusively bidden. To be sure, Miss Betsy Lavender had been observed to +issue from Dr. Deane's door, on the opposite side of the way, and turn +into the path beyond the blacksmith's, which led down through the wood +and over the creek to Barton's; but then, Miss Lavender was known to be +handy at all times, and capable of doing all things, from laying out +a corpse to spicing a wedding-cake. Often self-invited, but always +welcome, very few social or domestic events could occur in four +townships (East Marlborough, Kennett, Pennsbury, and New-Garden) without +her presence; while her knowledge of farms, families, and genealogies +extended up to Fallowfield on one side, and over to Birmingham on the +other. + +It was, therefore, a matter of course, whatever the present occasion +might be, that Miss Lavender put on her broad gray beaver hat, and brown +stuff cloak, and took the way to Barton's. The distance could easily +be walked in five minutes, and the day was remarkably pleasant for the +season. A fortnight of warm, clear weather had extracted the last +fang of frost, and there was already green grass in the damp hollows. +Bluebirds picked the last year's berries from the cedar-trees; buds were +bursting on the swamp-willows; the alders were hung with tassels, and a +powdery crimson bloom began to dust the bare twigs of the maple-trees. +All these signs of an early spring Miss Lavender noted as she picked her +way down the wooded bank. Once, indeed, she stopped, wet her forefinger +with her tongue, and held it pointed in the air. There was very little +breeze, but this natural weathercock revealed from what direction it +came. + +“Southwest!” she said, nodding her head--“Lucky!” + +Having crossed the creek on a flat log, secured with stakes at either +end, a few more paces brought her to the warm, gentle knoll, upon which +stood the farm-house. Here, the wood ceased, and the creek, sweeping +around to the eastward, embraced a quarter of a mile of rich bottomland, +before entering the rocky dell below. It was a pleasant seat, and the +age of the house denoted that one of the earliest settlers had been +quick to perceive its advantages. A hundred years had already elapsed +since the masons had run up those walls of rusty hornblende rock, and it +was even said that the leaden window-sashes, with their diamond-shaped +panes of greenish glass, had been brought over from England, in the days +of William Penn. In fact, the ancient aspect of the place--the tall, +massive chimney at the gable, the heavy, projecting eaves, and the +holly-bush in a warm nook beside the front porch, had, nineteen years +before, so forcibly reminded one of Howe's soldiers of his father's +homestead in mid-England, that he was numbered among the missing after +the Brandywine battle, and presently turned up as a hired hand on the +Barton farm, where he still lived, year in and year out. + +An open, grassy space, a hundred yards in breadth, intervened between +the house and the barn, which was built against the slope of the knoll, +so that the bridge to the threshing-floor was nearly level, and the +stables below were sheltered from the north winds, and open to the +winter sun. On the other side of the lane leading from the high-road +stood a wagon-house and corn-crib--the latter empty, yet evidently, +in spite of its emptiness, the principal source of attraction to the +visitors. A score of men and boys peeped between the upright laths, and +a dozen dogs howled and sprang around the smooth corner-posts upon +which the structure rested. At the door stood old Giles, the military +straggler already mentioned--now a grizzly, weather-beaten man of +fifty--with a jolly grin on his face, and a short leather whip in his +hand. + +“Want to see him, Miss Betsy?” he asked, touching his mink-skin cap, +as Miss Lavender crawled through the nearest panel of the lofty picket +fence. + +“See him?” she repeated. “Don't care if I do, afore goin' into th' +house.” + +“Come up, then; out o' the way, Cato! Fan, take that, you slut! Don't be +afeard, Miss Betsy; if folks kept 'em in the leash, as had ought to +be done, I'd have less trouble. They're mortal eager, and no wonder. +There!--a'n't he a sly-lookin' divel? If I'd a hoss, Miss Betsy, I'd +foller with the best of 'em, and maybe you wouldn't have the brush?” + +“Have the brush. Go along, Giles! He's an old one, and knows how to take +care of it. Do keep off the dreadful dogs, and let me git down!” cried +Miss Lavender, gathering her narrow petticoats about her legs, and +surveying the struggling animals before her with some dismay. + +Giles's whip only reached the nearest, and the excited pack rushed +forward again after every repulse; but at this juncture a tall, +smartly-dressed man came across the lane, kicked the hounds out of the +way, and extended a helping hand to the lady. + +“Ho, Mr. Alfred!” said she; “Much obliged. Miss Ann's havin' her hands +full, I reckon?” + +Without waiting for an answer, she slipped into the yard and along the +front of the house, to the kitchen entrance, at the eastern end. There +we will leave her, and return to the group of gentlemen. + +Any one could see at a glance that Mr. Alfred Barton was the most +important person present. His character of host gave him, of course, +the right to control the order of the coming chase; but his size and +swaggering air of strength, his new style of hat, the gloss of his blue +coat, the cut of his buckskin breeches, and above all, the splendor +of his tasselled top-boots, distinguished him from his more homely +apparelled guests. His features were large and heavy: the full, wide +lips betrayed a fondness for indulgence, and the small, uneasy eyes +a capacity for concealing this and any other quality which needed +concealment. They were hard and cold, generally more than half hidden +under thick lids, and avoided, rather than sought, the glance of the man +to whom he spoke. His hair, a mixture of red-brown and gray, descended, +without a break, into bushy whiskers of the same color, and was cut +shorter at the back of the head than was then customary. Something +coarse and vulgar in his nature exhaled, like a powerful odor, through +the assumed shell of a gentleman, which he tried to wear, and rendered +the assumption useless. + +A few guests, who had come from a distance, had just finished their +dinner in the farm-house. Owing to causes which will hereafter be +explained, they exhibited less than the usual plethoric satisfaction +after the hospitality of the country, and were the first to welcome the +appearance of a square black bottle, which went the rounds, with the +observation: “Whet up for a start!” + +Mr. Barton drew a heavy silver watch from his fob, and carefully holding +it so that the handful of glittering seals could be seen by everybody, +appeared to meditate. + +“Five minutes to one,” he said at last. “No use in waiting much longer; +'t isn't good to keep the hounds fretting. Any signs of anybody else?” + +The others, in response, turned towards the lane and highway. Some, +with keen eyes, fancied they could detect a horseman through the wood. +Presently Giles, from his perch at the door of the corn-crib, cried out: + +“There's somebody a-comin' up the meadow. I don't know the hoss; rides +like Gilbert Potter. Gilbert it is, blast me! new-mounted.” + +“Another plough-horse!” suggested Mr. Joel Ferris, a young Pennsbury +buck, who, having recently come into a legacy of four thousand pounds, +wished it to be forgotten that he had never ridden any but plough-horses +until within the year. + +The others laughed, some contemptuously, glancing at their own +well-equipped animals the while, some constrainedly, for they knew the +approaching guest, and felt a slight compunction in seeming to side with +Mr. Ferris. Barton began to smile stiffly, but presently bit his lip and +drew his brows together. + +Pressing the handle of his riding-whip against his chin, he stared +vacantly up the lane, muttering “We must wait, I suppose.” + +His lids were lifted in wonder the next moment; he seized Ferris by the +arm, and exclaimed:-- + +“Whom have we here?” + +All eyes turned in the same direction, descried a dashing horseman in +the lane. + +“Upon my soul I don't know,” said Ferris. “Anybody expected from the +Fagg's Manor way?” + +“Not of my inviting,” Barton answered. + +The other guests professed their entire ignorance of the stranger, who, +having by this time passed the bars, rode directly up to the group. He +was a short, broad-shouldered man of nearly forty, with a red, freckled +face, keen, snapping gray eyes, and a close, wide mouth. Thick, +jet-black whiskers, eyebrows and pig-tail made the glance of those +eyes, the gleam of his teeth, and the color of his skin where it was not +reddened by the wind, quite dazzling. This violent and singular contrast +gave his plain, common features an air of distinction. Although his +mulberry coat was somewhat faded, it had a jaunty cut, and if his +breeches were worn and stained, the short, muscular thighs and strong +knees they covered, told of a practised horseman. + +He rode a large bay gelding, poorly groomed, and apparently not +remarkable for blood, but with no marks of harness on his rough coat. + +“Good-day to you, gentlemen!” said the stranger, familiarly knocking the +handle of his whip against his cocked hat. “Squire Barton, how do you +do?” + +“How do you do, sir?” responded Mr. Barton, instantly flattered by the +title, to which he had no legitimate right. “I believe,” he added, “you +have the advantage of me.” + +A broad smile, or rather grin, spread over the stranger's face. His +teeth flashed, and his eyes shot forth a bright, malicious ray. He +hesitated a moment, ran rapidly over the faces of the others without +perceptibly moving his head, and noting the general curiosity, said, at +last:-- + +“I hardly expected to find an acquaintance in this neighborhood, but +a chase makes quick fellowship. I happened to hear of it at the Anvil +Tavern,--am on my way to the Rising Sun; so, you see, if the hunt goes +down Tuffkenamon, as is likely, it's so much of a lift on the way.” + +“All right,--glad to have you join us. What did you say your name was?” + inquired Mr. Barton. + +“I didn't say what; it's Fortune,--a fortune left to me by my father, +ha! ha! Don't care if I do”-- + +With the latter words, Fortune (as we must now call him) leaned down +from his saddle, took the black bottle from the unresisting hands of Mr. +Ferris, inverted it against his lips, and drank so long and luxuriously +as to bring water into the mouths of the spectators. Then, wiping his +mouth with the back of his freckled hand, he winked and nodded his head +approvingly to Mr. Barton. + +Meanwhile the other horseman had arrived from the meadow, after +dismounting and letting down the bars, over which his horse stepped +slowly and cautiously,--a circumstance which led some of the younger +guests to exchange quiet, amused glances. Gilbert Potter, however, +received a hearty greeting from all, including the host, though the +latter, by an increased shyness in meeting his gaze, manifested some +secret constraint. + +“I was afraid I should have been too late,” said Gilbert; “the old break +in the hedge is stopped at last, so I came over the hill above, without +thinking on the swampy bit, this side.” + +“Breaking your horse in to rough riding, eh?” said Mr. Ferris, touching +a neighbor with his elbow. + +Gilbert smiled good-humoredly, but said nothing, and a little laugh +went around the circle. Mr. Fortune seemed to understand the matter in a +flash. He looked at the brown, shaggy-maned animal, standing behind its +owner, with its head down, and said, in a low, sharp tone: “I see--where +did you get him?” + +Gilbert returned the speaker's gaze a moment before he answered. “From a +drover,” he then said. + +“By the Lord!”-ejaculated Mr. Barton, who had again conspicuously +displayed his watch, “it's over half-past one. Look out for the +hounds,--we must start, if we mean to do any riding this day!” + +The owners of the hounds picked out their several animals and dragged +them aside, in which operation they were uproariously assisted by the +boys. The chase in Kennett, it must be confessed, was but a very +faint shadow of the old English pastime. It had been kept up, in the +neighborhood, from the force of habit in the Colonial times, and +under the depression which the strong Quaker element among the people +exercised upon all sports and recreations. The breed of hounds, not +being restricted to close communion, had considerably degenerated, +and few, even of the richer farmers, could afford to keep thoroughbred +hunters for this exclusive object. Consequently all the features of the +pastime had become rude and imperfect, and, although very respectable +gentlemen still gave it their countenance, there was a growing suspicion +that it was a questionable, if not demoralizing diversion. It would be +more agreeable if we could invest the present occasion with a little +more pomp and dignity; but we must describe the event precisely as it +occurred. + +The first to greet Gilbert were his old friends, Joe and Jake Fairthorn. +These boys loudly lamented that their father had denied them the loan +of his old gray mare, Bonnie; they could ride double on a gallop, they +said; and wouldn't Gilbert take them along, one before and one behind +him? But he laughed and shook his head. + +“Well, we've got Watch, anyhow,” said Joe, who thereupon began +whispering very earnestly to Jake, as the latter seized the big family +bull-dog by the collar. Gilbert foreboded mischief, and kept his eye +upon the pair. + +A scuffle was heard in the corn-crib, into which Giles had descended. +The boys shuddered and chuckled in a state of delicious fear, which +changed into a loud shout of triumph, as the soldier again made his +appearance at the door, with the fox in his arms, and a fearless hand +around its muzzle. + +“By George! what a fine brush!” exclaimed Mr. Ferris. + +A sneer, quickly disguised in a grin, ran over Fortune's face. The +hounds howled and tugged; Giles stepped rapidly across the open space +where the knoll sloped down to the meadow. It was a moment of intense +expectation. + +Just then, Joe and Jake Fairthorn let go their hold on the bull-dog's +collar; but Gilbert Potter caught the animal at the second bound. The +boys darted behind the corn-crib, scared less by Gilbert's brandished +whip than by the wrath and astonishment in Mr. Barton's face. + +“Cast him off, Giles!” the latter cried. + +The fox, placed upon the ground, shot down the slope and through the +fence into the meadow. Pausing then, as if first to assure himself of +his liberty, he took a quick, keen survey of the ground before him, and +then started off towards the left. + +“He's making for the rocks!” cried Mr. Ferris; to which the stranger, +who was now watching the animal with sharp interest, abruptly answered, +“Hold your tongue!” + +Within a hundred yards the fox turned to the right, and now, having +apparently made up his mind to the course, struck away in a steady but +not hurried trot. In a minute he had reached the outlying trees of the +timber along the creek. + +“He's a cool one, he is!” remarked Giles, admiringly. + +By this time he was hidden by the barn from the sight of the hounds, +and they were let loose. While they darted about in eager quest of the +scent, the hunters mounted in haste. Presently an old dog gave tongue +like a trumpet, the pack closed, and the horsemen followed. The boys +kept pace with them over the meadow, Joe and Jake taking the lead, until +the creek abruptly stopped their race, when they sat down upon the bank +and cried bitterly, as the last of the hunters disappeared through the +thickets on the further side. + +It was not long before a high picket-fence confronted the riders. Mr. +Ferris, with a look of dismay, dismounted. Fortune, Barton, and Gilbert +Potter each threw off a heavy “rider,” and leaped their horses over the +rails. The others followed through the gaps thus made, and all swept +across the field at full speed, guided by the ringing cry of the hounds. + +When they reached the Wilmington road, the cry swerved again to the +left, and most of the hunters, with Barton at their head, took the +highway in order to reach the crossroad to New-Garden more conveniently. +Gilbert and Fortune alone sprang into the opposite field, and kept a +straight southwestern course for the other branch of Redley Creek. The +field was divided by a stout thorn-hedge from the one beyond it, and the +two horsemen, careering neck and neck, glanced at each other curiously +as they approached this barrier. Their respective animals were +transformed; the unkempt manes were curried by the wind, as they flew; +their sleepy eyes were full of fire, and the splendid muscles, aroused +to complete action, marked their hides with lines of beauty. There was +no wavering in either; side by side they hung in flight above the hedge, +and side by side struck the clean turf beyond. + +Then Fortune turned his head, nodded approvingly to Gilbert, and +muttered to himself: “He's a gallant fellow,--I'll not rob him of the +brush.” But he laughed a short, shrill, wicked laugh the next moment. + +Before they reached the creek, the cry of the hounds ceased. They halted +a moment on the bank, irresolute. + +“He must have gone down towards the snuff-mill,” said Gilbert, and was +about to change his course. + +“Stop,” said the stranger; “if he has, we've lost him any way. Hark! +hurrah!” + +A deep bay rang from the westward, through the forest. Gilbert shouted: +“The lime-quarry!” and dashed across the stream. A lane was soon +reached, and as the valley opened, they saw the whole pack heading +around the yellow mounds of earth which marked the locality of the +quarry. At the same instant some one shouted in the rear, and they saw +Mr. Alfred Barton, thundering after, and apparently bent on diminishing +the distance between them. + +A glance was sufficient to show that the fox had not taken refuge in the +quarry, but was making a straight course up the centre of the valley. +Here it was not so easy to follow. The fertile floor of Tuffkenamon, +stripped of woods, was crossed by lines of compact hedge, and, moreover, +the huntsmen were not free to tear and trample the springing wheat of +the thrifty Quaker farmers. Nevertheless, one familiar with the ground +could take advantage of a gap here and there, choose the connecting +pasture-fields, and favor his course with a bit of road, when the chase +swerved towards either side of the valley. Gilbert Potter soon took the +lead, closely followed by Fortune. Mr. Barton was perhaps better mounted +than either, but both horse and rider were heavier, and lost in the +moist fields, while they gained rapidly where the turf was firm. + +After a mile and a half of rather toilsome riding, all three were nearly +abreast. The old tavern of the Hammer and Trowel was visible, at the +foot of the northern hill; the hounds, in front, bayed in a straight +line towards Avondale Woods,--but a long slip of undrained bog made its +appearance. Neither gentleman spoke, for each was silently tasking his +wits how to accomplish the passage most rapidly. The horses began to +sink into the oozy soil: only a very practised eye could tell where the +surface was firmest, and even this knowledge was but slight advantage. + +Nimbly as a cat Gilbert sprang from the saddle, still holding the pummel +in his right hand, touched his horse's flank with the whip, and bounded +from one tussock to another. The sagacious animal seemed to understand +and assist his manoeuvre. Hardly had he gained firm ground than he was +in his seat again, while Mr. Barton was still plunging in the middle of +the bog. + +By the time he had reached the road, Gilbert shrewdly guessed where the +chase would terminate. The idlers on the tavern-porch cheered him as he +swept around the corner; the level highway rang to the galloping hoofs +of his steed, and in fifteen minutes he had passed the long and lofty +oak woods of Avondale. At the same moment, fox and hounds broke into +full view, sweeping up the meadow on his left. The animal made a last +desperate effort to gain a lair among the bushes and loose stones on +the northern hill; but the hunter was there before him, the hounds were +within reach, and one faltering moment decided his fate. + +Gilbert sprang down among the frantic dogs, and saved the brush from the +rapid dismemberment which had already befallen its owner. Even then, +he could only assure its possession by sticking it into his hat and +remounting his horse. When he looked around, no one was in sight, but +the noise of hoofs was heard crashing through the wood. + +Mr. Ferris, with some dozen others, either anxious to spare their horses +or too timid to take the hedges in the valley, had kept the cross-road +to New-Garden, whence a lane along the top of the southern hill led them +into the Avondale Woods. They soon emerged, shouting and yelling, upon +the meadow. + +The chase was up; and Gilbert Potter, on his “plough horse,” was the +only huntsman in at the death. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + +WHO SHALL HAVE THE BRUSH? + + +Mr. Barton and Fortune, who seemed to have become wonderfully intimate +during the half hour in which they had ridden together, arrived at the +same time. The hunters, of whom a dozen were now assembled (some five or +six inferior horses being still a mile in the rear), were all astounded, +and some of them highly vexed, at the result of the chase. Gilbert's +friends crowded about him, asking questions as to the course he had +taken, and examining the horse, which had maliciously resumed its sleepy +look, and stood with drooping head. The others had not sufficient tact +to disguise their ill-humor, for they belonged to that class which, in +all countries, possesses the least refinement--the uncultivated rich. + +“The hunt started well, but it's a poor finish,” said one of these. + +“Never mind!” Mr. Ferris remarked; “such things come by chance.” + +These words struck the company to silence. A shock, felt rather than +perceived, fell upon them, and they looked at each other with an +expression of pain and embarrassment. Gilbert's face faded to a sallow +paleness, and his eyes were fastened upon those of the speaker with a +fierce and dangerous intensity. Mr. Ferris colored, turned away, and +called to his hounds. + +Fortune was too sharp an observer not to remark the disturbance. He +cried out, and his words produced an instant, general sense of relief:-- + +“It's been a fine run, friends, and we can't do better than ride back +to the Hammer and Trowel, and take a 'smaller'--or a 'bigger' for that +matter--at my expense. You must let me pay my footing now, for I hope to +ride with you many a time to come. Faith! If I don't happen to buy that +place down by the Rising Sun, I'll try to find another, somewhere about +New London or Westgrove, so that we can be nearer neighbors.” + +With that he grinned, rather than smiled; but although his manner would +have struck a cool observer as being mocking instead of cordial, +the invitation was accepted with great show of satisfaction, and the +horsemen fell into pairs, forming a picturesque cavalcade as they passed +under the tall, leafless oaks. + +Gilbert Potter speedily recovered his self-possession, but his face was +stern and his manner abstracted. Even the marked and careful kindness +of his friends seemed secretly to annoy him, for it constantly suggested +the something by which it had been prompted. Mr. Alfred Barton, however, +whether under the influence of Fortune's friendship, or from a late +suspicion of his duties as host of the day, not unkindly complimented +the young man, and insisted on filling his glass. Gilbert could do no +less than courteously accept the attention, but he shortly afterwards +stole away from the noisy company, mounted his horse, and rode slowly +towards Kennett Square. + +As he thus rides, with his eyes abstractedly fixed before him, we will +take the opportunity to observe him more closely. Slightly under-sized, +compactly built, and with strongly-marked features, his twenty-four +years have the effect of thirty. His short jacket and knee-breeches +of gray velveteen cover a chest broad rather than deep, and reveal the +fine, narrow loins and muscular thighs of a frame matured and hardened +by labor. His hands, also, are hard and strong, but not ungraceful in +form. His neck, not too short, is firmly planted, and the carriage of +his head indicates patience and energy. Thick, dark hair enframes his +square forehead, and straight, somewhat heavy brows. His eyes of +soft dark-gray, are large, clear, and steady, and only change their +expression under strong excitement. His nose is straight and short, his +mouth a little too wide for beauty, and less firm now than it will be +ten years hence, when the yearning tenderness shall have vanished from +the corners of the lips; and the chin, in its broad curve, harmonizes +with the square lines of the brow. Evidently a man whose youth has not +been a holiday; who is reticent rather than demonstrative; who will +be strong in his loves and long in his hates; and, without being of a +despondent nature, can never become heartily sanguine. + +The spring-day was raw and overcast, as it drew towards its close, and +the rider's musings seemed to accord with the change in the sky. His +face expressed a singular mixture of impatience, determined will, and +unsatisfied desire. But where most other men would have sighed, or +given way to some involuntary exclamation, he merely set his teeth, and +tightened the grasp on his whip-handle. + +He was not destined, however, to a solitary journey. Scarcely had he +made three quarters of a mile, when, on approaching the junction of a +wood-road which descended to the highway from a shallow little glen +on the north, the sound of hoofs and voices met his ears. Two female +figures appeared, slowly guiding their horses down the rough road. One, +from her closely-fitting riding-habit of drab cloth, might have been a +Quakeress, but for the feather (of the same sober color) in her beaver +hat, and the rosette of dark red ribbon at her throat. The other, in +bluish-gray, with a black beaver and no feather, rode a heavy old horse +with a blind halter on his head, and held the stout leathern reins with +a hand covered with a blue woollen mitten. She rode in advance, paying +little heed to her seat, but rather twisting herself out of shape in the +saddle in order to chatter to her companion in the rear. + +“Do look where you are going, Sally!” cried the latter as the blinded +horse turned aside from the road to drink at a little brook that oozed +forth from under the dead leaves. + +Thus appealed to, the other lady whirled around with a half-jump, and +caught sight of Gilbert Potter and of her horse's head at the same +instant. + +“Whoa there, Bonnie!” she cried. “Why, Gilbert, where did you come from? +Hold up your head, I say! Martha, here's Gilbert, with a brush in his +hat! Don't be afraid, you beast; did you never smell a fox? Here, ride +in between, Gilbert, and tell us all about it! No, not on that side, +Martha; you can manage a horse better than I can!” + +In her efforts to arrange the order of march, she drove her horse's +head into Gilbert's back, and came near losing her balance. With amused +screams, and bursts of laughter, and light, rattling exclamations, she +finally succeeded in placing herself at his left hand, while her adroit +and self-possessed companion quietly rode up to his right Then, dropping +the reins on their horses' necks, the two ladies resigned themselves to +conversation, as the three slowly jogged homewards abreast. + +“Now, Gilbert!” exclaimed Miss Sally Fairthorn, after waiting a moment +for him to speak; “did you really earn the brush, or beg it from one of +them, on the way home?” + +“Begging, you know, is my usual habit,” he answered, mockingly. + +“I know you're as proud as Lucifer, when you've a mind to be so. There!” + +Gilbert was accustomed to the rattling tongue of his left-hand neighbor, +and generally returned her as good as she gave. To-day, however, he was +in no mood for repartee. He drew down his brows and made no answer to +her charge. + +“Where was the fox earthed?” asked the other lady, after a rapid glance +at his face. + +Martha Deane's voice was of that quality which compels an answer, and +a courteous answer, from the surliest of mankind. It was not loud, +it could scarcely be called musical; but every tone seemed to exhale +freshness as of dew, and brightness as of morning. It was pure, slightly +resonant; and all the accumulated sorrows of life could not have veiled +its inherent gladness. It could never grow harsh, never be worn thin, +or sound husky from weariness; its first characteristic would always be +youth, and the joy of youth, though it came from the lips of age. + +Doubtless Gilbert Potter did not analyze the charm which it exercised +upon him; it was enough that he felt and submitted to it. A few quiet +remarks sufficed to draw from him the story of the chase, in all +its particulars, and the lively interest in Martha Deane's face, the +boisterous glee of Sally Fairthorn, with his own lurking sense of +triumph, soon swept every gloomy line from his visage. His mouth relaxed +from its set compression, and wore a winning sweetness; his eyes +shone softly-bright, and a nimble spirit of gayety gave grace to his +movements. + +“Fairly won, I must say!” exclaimed Miss Sally Fairthorn, when the +narrative was finished. “And now, Gilbert, the brush?” + +“The brush?” + +“Who's to have it, I mean. Did you never get one before, as you don't +seem to understand?” + +“Yes, I understand,” said he, in an indifferent tone; “it may be had for +the asking.” + +“Then it's mine!” cried Sally, urging her heavy horse against him and +making a clutch at his cap. But he leaned as suddenly away, and shot a +length ahead, out of her reach. Miss Deane's horse, a light, spirited +animal, kept pace with his. + +“Martha!” cried the disappointed damsel, “Martha! one of us must have +it; ask him, you!” + +“No,” answered Martha, with her clear blue eyes fixed on Gilbert's face, +“I will not ask.” + +He returned her gaze, and his eyes seemed to say: “Will you take it, +knowing what the acceptance implies?” + +She read the question correctly; but of this he was not sure. Neither, +if it were so, could he trust himself to interpret the answer. Sally had +already resumed her place on his left, and he saw that the mock strife +would be instantly renewed. With a movement so sudden as to appear +almost ungracious, he snatched the brush from his cap and extended it to +Martha Deane, without saying a word. + +If she hesitated, it was at least no longer than would be required in +order to understand the action. Gilbert might either so interpret it, or +suspect that she had understood the condition in his mind, and meant to +signify the rejection thereof. The language of gestures is wonderfully +rapid, and all that could be said by either, in this way, was over, and +the brush in Martha Deane's hand, before Sally Fairthorn became aware of +the transfer. + +“Well-done, Martha!” she exclaimed: “Don't let him have it again! Do you +know to whom he would have given it: an A. and a W., with the look of an +X,--so!” + +Thereupon Sally pulled off her mittens and crossed her forefingers, +an action which her companions understood--in combination with the +mysterious initials--to be the rude, primitive symbol of a squint. + +Gilbert looked annoyed, but before he could reply, Sally let go the rein +in order to put on her mittens, and the blinded mare quickly dropping +her head, the rein slipped instantly to the animal's ears. The latter +perceived her advantage, and began snuffing along the edges of the +road in a deliberate search for spring grass. In vain Sally called and +kicked; the mare provokingly preserved her independence. Finally, a +piteous appeal to Gilbert, who had pretended not to notice the dilemma, +and was a hundred yards in advance, was Sally's only resource. The two +halted and enjoyed her comical helplessness. + +“That's enough, Gilbert,” said Martha Deane, presently, “go now and pick +up the rein.” + +He rode back, picked it up, and handed it to Sally without speaking. + +“Gilbert,” she said, with a sudden demure change of tone, as they rode +on to where Miss Deane was waiting, “come and take supper with us, at +home. Martha has promised. You've hardly been to see us in a month.” + +“You know how much I have to do, Sally,” he answered. “It isn't only +that, to-day being a Saturday; but I've promised mother to be at home by +dark, and fetch a quarter of tea from the store.” + +“When you've once promised, I know, oxen couldn't pull you the other +way.” + +“I don't often see your mother, Gilbert,” said Martha Deane; “she is +well?” + +“Thank you, Martha,--too well, and yet not well enough.” + +“What do you mean?” + +“I mean,” he answered, “that she does more than she has strength to do. +If she had less she would be forced to undertake less; if she had more, +she would be equal to her undertaking.” + +“I understand you now. But you should not allow her to go on in that +way; you should”-- + +What Miss Deane would have said must remain unwritten. Gilbert's eyes +were upon her, and held her own; perhaps a little more color came into +her face, but she did not show the slightest embarrassment. A keen +observer might have supposed that either a broken or an imperfect +relation existed between the two, which the gentleman was trying to +restore or complete without the aid of words; and that, furthermore, +while the lady was the more skilful in the use of that silent language, +neither rightly understood the other. + +By this time they were ascending the hill from Redley Creek to Kennett +Square. Martha Deane had thus far carried the brush carelessly in her +right hand; she now rolled it into a coil and thrust it into a large +velvet reticule which hung from the pommel of her saddle. A few dull +orange streaks in the overcast sky, behind them, denoted sunset, and a +raw, gloomy twilight crept up from the east. + +“You'll not go with us?” Sally asked again, as they reached the corner, +and the loungers on the porch of the Unicorn Tavern beyond, perceiving +Gilbert, sprang from their seats to ask for news of the chase. + +“Sally, I cannot!” he answered. “Good-night!” + +Joe and Jake Fairthorn rushed up with a whoop, and before Gilbert could +satisfy the curiosity of the tavern-idlers, the former sat behind Sally, +on the old mare, with his face to her tail, while Jake, prevented by +Miss Deane's riding-whip from attempting the same performance, capered +behind the horses and kept up their spirits by flinging handfuls of +sand. + +Gilbert found another group in “the store”--farmers or their sons who +had come in for a supply of groceries, or the weekly mail, and who sat +in a sweltering atmosphere around the roaring stove. They, too, had +heard of the chase, and he was obliged to give them as many details as +possible while his quarter of tea was being weighed, after which he left +them to supply the story from the narrative of Mr. Joel Ferris, who, a +new-comer announced, had just alighted at the Unicorn, a little drunk, +and in a very bad humor. + +“Where's Barton?” Gilbert heard some one ask of Ferris, as he mounted. + +“In his skin!” was the answer, “unless he's got into that fellow +Fortune's. They're as thick as two pickpockets!” + +Gilbert rode down the hill, and allowed his horse to plod leisurely +across the muddy level, regardless of the deepening twilight. + +He was powerfully moved by some suppressed emotion. The muscles of +his lips twitched convulsively, and there was a hot surge and swell +somewhere in his head, as of tears about to overrun their secret +reservoir. But they failed to surprise him, this time. As the first +drops fell from his dark eyelashes, he loosed the rein and gave the +word to his horse. Over the ridge, along the crest, between dusky +thorn-hedges, he swept at full gallop, and so, slowly sinking towards +the fair valley which began to twinkle with the lights of scattered +farms to the eastward, he soon reached the last steep descent, and saw +the gray gleam of his own barn below him. + +By this time his face was sternly set. He clinched his hands, and +muttered to himself-- + +“It will almost kill me to ask, but I must know, and--and she must +tell.” + +It was dark now. As he climbed again from the bottom of the hill towards +the house, a figure on the summit was drawn indistinctly against the +sky, unconscious that it was thus betrayed. But it vanished instantly, +and then he groaned-- + +“God help me! I cannot ask.” + + + + +CHAPTER III. + +MARY POTTER AND HER SON. + + +While Gilbert was dismounting at the gate leading into his barn-yard, he +was suddenly accosted by a boyish voice:-- + +“Got back, have you?” + +This was Sam, the “bound-boy,”--the son of a tenant on the old Carson +place, who, in consideration of three months' schooling every winter, +and a “freedom suit” at the age of seventeen, if he desired then to +learn a trade, was duly made over by his father to Gilbert Potter. His +position was something between that of a poor relation and a servant. He +was one of the family, eating at the same table, sleeping, indeed, (for +economy of house-work,) in the same bed with his master, and privileged +to feel his full share of interest in domestic matters; but on the other +hand bound to obedience and rigid service. + +“Feed's in the trough,” said he, taking hold of the bridle. “I'll fix +him. Better go into th' house. Tea's wanted.” + +Feeling as sure that all the necessary evening's work was done as if he +had performed it with his own hands, Gilbert silently followed the boy's +familiar advice. + +The house, built like most other old farm-houses in that part of the +county, of hornblende stone, stood near the bottom of a rounded knoll, +overhanging the deep, winding valley. It was two stories in height, the +gable looking towards the road, and showing, just under the broad double +chimney, a limestone slab, upon which were rudely carved the initials of +the builder and his wife, and the date “1727.” A low portico, overgrown +with woodbine and trumpet-flower, ran along the front. In the narrow +flower-bed, under it, the crocuses and daffodils were beginning to +thrust up their blunt, green points. A walk of flag-stones separated +them from the vegetable garden, which was bounded at the bottom by a +mill-race, carrying half the water of the creek to the saw and grist +mill on the other side of the road. + +Although this road was the principal thoroughfare between Kennett +Square and Wilmington, the house was so screened from the observation +of travellers, both by the barn, and by some huge, spreading apple-trees +which occupied the space between the garden and road, that its inmates +seemed to live in absolute seclusion. Looking from the front door across +a narrow green meadow, a wooded hill completely shut out all glimpse of +the adjoining farms; while an angle of the valley, to the eastward, hid +from sight the warm, fertile fields higher up the stream. + +The place seemed lonelier than ever in the gloomy March twilight; or +was it some other influence which caused Gilbert to pause on the flagged +walk, and stand there, motionless, looking down into the meadow until a +woman's shadow crossing the panes, was thrown upon the square of lighted +earth at his feet? Then he turned and entered the kitchen. + +The cloth was spread and the table set. A kettle, humming on a heap +of fresh coals, and a squat little teapot of blue china, were waiting +anxiously for the brown paper parcel which he placed upon the cloth. His +mother was waiting also, in a high straight-backed rocking-chair, with +her hands in her lap. + +“You're tired waiting, mother, I suppose?” he said, as he hung his hat +upon a nail over the heavy oak mantel-piece. + +“No, not tired, Gilbert, but it's hungry _you'll_ be. It won't take long +for the tea to draw. Everything else has been ready this half-hour.” + +Gilbert threw himself upon the settle under the front window, and +mechanically followed her with his eyes, as she carefully measured the +precious herb, even stooping to pick up a leaf or two that had fallen +from the spoon to the floor. + +The resemblance between mother and son was very striking. Mary Potter +had the same square forehead and level eyebrows, but her hair was darker +than Gilbert's, and her eyes more deeply set. The fire of a lifelong +pain smouldered in them, and the throes of some never-ending struggle +had sharpened every line of cheek and brow, and taught her lips the +close, hard compression, which those of her son were also beginning to +learn. She was about forty-five years of age, but there was even now a +weariness in her motions, as if her prime of strength were already past. +She wore a short gown of brown flannel, with a plain linen stomacher, +and a coarse apron, which she removed when the supper had been placed +upon the table. A simple cap, with a narrow frill, covered her head. + +The entire work of the household devolved upon her hands alone. Gilbert +would have cheerfully taken a servant to assist her, but this she +positively refused, seeming to court constant labor, especially during +his absence from the house. Only when he was there would she take +occasion to knit or sew. The kitchen was a marvel of neatness and +order. The bread-trough and dresser-shelves were scoured almost to the +whiteness of a napkin, and the rows of pewter-plates upon the latter +flashed like silver sconces. To Gilbert's eyes, indeed, the effect was +sometimes painful. He would have been satisfied with less laborious +order, a less eager and unwearied thrift. To be sure, all this was in +furtherance of a mutual purpose; but he mentally determined that when +the purpose had been fulfilled, he would insist upon an easier and more +cheerful arrangement. The stern aspect of life from which his nature +craved escape met him oftenest at home. + +Sam entered the kitchen barefooted, having left his shoes at the back +door. The tea was drawn, and the three sat down to their supper of +bacon, bread and butter, and apple-sauce. Gilbert and his mother ate and +drank in silence, but Sam's curiosity was too lively to be restrained. + +“I say, how did Roger go?” he asked. + +Mary Potter looked up, as if expecting the question to be answered, and +Gilbert said:-- + +“He took the lead, and kept it.” + +“O cracky!” exclaimed the delighted Sam. + +“Then you think it's a good bargain, Gilbert. Was it a long chase? Was +he well tried?” + +“All right, mother. I could sell him for twenty dollars advance--even to +Joel Ferris,” he answered. + +He then gave a sketch of the afternoon's adventures, to which his mother +listened with a keen, steady interest. She compelled him to describe the +stranger, Fortune, as minutely as possible, as if desirous of finding +some form or event in her own memory to which he could be attached; but +without result. + +After supper Sam squatted upon a stool in the corner of the fireplace, +and resumed his reading of “The Old English Baron,” by the light of the +burning back-log, pronouncing every word to himself in something +between a whisper and a whistle. Gilbert took an account-book, a +leaden inkstand, and a stumpy pen from a drawer under the window, and +calculated silently and somewhat laboriously. His mother produced a +clocked stocking of blue wool, and proceeded to turn the heel. + +In half an hour's time, however, Sam's whispering ceased; his head +nodded violently, and the book fell upon the hearth. + +“I guess I'll go to bed,” he said; and having thus conscientiously +announced his intention, he trotted up the steep back-stairs on his +hands and feet. In two minutes more, a creaking overhead announced that +the act was accomplished. + +Gilbert filliped the ink out of his pen into the fire, laid it in his +book, and turned away from the table. + +“Roger has bottom,” he said at last, “and he's as strong as a lion. +He and Fox will make a good team, and the roads will be solid in three +days, if it don't rain.” + +“Why, you don't mean,”--she commenced. + +“Yes, mother. You were not for buying him, I know, and you were right, +inasmuch as there is always _some_ risk. But it will make a difference +of two barrels a load, besides having a horse at home. If I plough both +for corn and oats next week,--and it will be all the better for corn, +as the field next to Carson's is heavy,--I can begin hauling the week +after, and we'll have the interest by the first of April, without +borrowing a penny.” + +“That would be good,--very good, indeed,” said she, dropping her +knitting, and hesitating a moment before she continued; “only--only, +Gilbert, I didn't expect you would be going so soon.” + +“The sooner I begin, mother, the sooner I shall finish.” + +“I know that, Gilbert,--I know that; but I'm always looking forward to +the time when you won't be bound to go at all. Not that Sam and I can't +manage awhile--but if the money was paid once”-- + +“There's less than six hundred now, altogether. It's a good deal to +scrape together in a year's time, but if it can be done I will do +it. Perhaps, then, you will let some help come into the house. I'm as +anxious as you can be, mother. I'm not of a roving disposition, that you +know; yet it isn't pleasant to me to see you slave as you do, and for +that very reason, it's a comfort when I'm away, that you've one less to +work for.” + +He spoke earnestly, turning his face full upon her. + +“We've talked this over, often and often, but you never can make me see +it in your way,” he then added, in a gentler tone. + +“Ay, Gilbert,” she replied, somewhat bitterly, “I've had my thoughts. +Maybe they were too fast; it seems so. I meant, and mean, to make a good +home for you, and I'm happiest when I can do the most towards it. I want +you to hold up your head and be beholden to no man. There are them in +the neighborhood that were bound out as boys, and are now as good as the +best.” + +“But they are not,”--burst from his lips, as the thought on which he +so gloomily brooded sprang to the surface and took him by surprise. He +checked his words by a powerful effort, and the blood forsook his face. +Mary Potter placed her hand on her heart, and seemed to gasp for breath. + +Gilbert could not bear to look upon her face. He turned away, placed his +elbow on the table, and leaned his head upon his hand. It never occurred +to him that the unfinished sentence might be otherwise completed. He +knew that his _thought_ was betrayed, and his heart was suddenly filled +with a tumult of shame, pity, and fear. + +For a minute there was silence. Only the long pendulum, swinging openly +along the farther wall, ticked at each end of its vibration. Then Mary +Potter drew a deep, weary breath, and spoke. Her voice was hollow and +strange, and each word came as by a separate muscular effort. + +“_What_ are they not? What word was on your tongue, Gilbert?” + +He could not answer. He could only shake his head, and bring forth a +cowardly, evasive word,--“Nothing.” + +“But there _is_ something! Oh, I knew it must come some time!” she +cried, rather to herself than to him. “Listen to me, Gilbert! Has any +one dared to say to your face that you are basely born?” + +He felt, now, that no further evasion was possible; she had put into +words the terrible question which he could not steel his own heart to +ask. Perhaps it was better so,--better a sharp, intense pain than a dull +perpetual ache. So he answered honestly now, but still kept his head +turned away, as if there might be a kindness in avoiding her gaze. + +“Not in so many words, mother,” he said; “but there are ways, and +ways of saying a thing; and the cruellest way is that which everybody +understands, and I dare not. But I have long known what it meant. It is +ten years, mother, since I have mentioned the word '_father_' in your +hearing.” + +Mary Potter leaned forward, hid her face in her hands, and rocked to and +fro, as if tortured with insupportable pain. She stifled her sobs, but +the tears gushed forth between her fingers. + +“O my boy,--my boy!” she moaned. “Ten years?--and you believed it, all +that time!” + +He was silent. She leaned forward and grasped his arm. + +“Did you,--_do_ you believe it? Speak, Gilbert!” + +When he did speak, his voice was singularly low and gentle. “Never mind, +mother!” was all he could say. His head was still turned away from her, +but she knew there were tears on his cheeks. + +“Gilbert, it is a lie!” she exclaimed, with startling vehemence. “A +lie,--A LIE! You are my lawful son, born in wedlock! There is no stain +upon your name, of my giving, and I know there will be none of your +own.” + +He turned towards her, his eyes shining and his lips parted in +breathless joy and astonishment. + +“Is it--is it true?” he whispered. + +“True as there is a God in Heaven.” + +“Then, mother, give me my name! Now I ask you, for the first time, who +was my father?” + +She wrung her hands and moaned. The sight of her son's eager, expectant +face, touched with a light which she had never before seen upon it, +seemed to give her another and a different pang. + +“That, too!” She murmured to herself. + +“Gilbert,” she then said, “have I always been a faithful mother to you? +Have I been true and honest in word and deed? Have I done my best to +help you in all right ways,--to make you comfortable, to spare you +trouble? Have I ever,--I'll not say acted, for nobody's judgment is +perfect,--but tried to act otherwise than as I thought it might be for +your good?” + +“You have done all that you could say, and more, mother.” + +“Then, my boy, is it too much for me to ask that you should believe my +word,--that you should let it stand for the truth, without my giving +proofs and testimonies? For, Gilbert, that I _must_ ask of you, hard as +it may seem. If you will only be content with the knowledge--: but then, +you have felt the shame all this while; it was my fault, mine, and I +ought to ask your forgiveness”-- + +“Mother--mother!” he interrupted, “don't talk that way! Yes--I believe +you, without testimony. You never said, or thought, an untruth; and +your explanation will be enough not only for me, but for the whole +neighborhood, if all witnesses are dead or gone away. If you knew of the +shameful report, why didn't you deny it at once? Why let it spread and +be believed in?” + +“Oh,” she moaned again, “if my tongue was not tied--if my tongue was not +tied! There was my fault, and what a punishment! Never--never was woman +punished as I have been. Gilbert, whatever you do, bind yourself by no +vow, except in the sight of men!” + +“I do not understand you, mother,” said he. + +“No, and I dare not make myself understood. Don't ask me anything more! +It's hard to shut my mouth, and bear everything in silence, but it cuts +my very heart in twain to speak and not tell!” + +Her distress was so evident, that Gilbert, perplexed and bewildered as +her words left him, felt that he dared not press her further. He could +not doubt the truth of her first assertion; but, alas! it availed only +for his own private consciousness,--it took no stain from him, in the +eyes of the world. Yet, now that the painful theme had been opened,--not +less painful, it seemed, since the suspected dishonor did not exist,--he +craved and decided to ask, enlightenment on one point. + +“Mother,” he said, after a pause, “I do not want to speak about this +thing again. I believe you, and my greatest comfort in believing is +for your sake, not for mine. I see, too, that you are bound in some way +which I do not understand, so that we cannot be cleared from the blame +that is put upon us. I don't mind that so much, either--for my own sake, +and I will not ask for an explanation, since you say you dare not give +it. But tell me one thing,--will it always be so? Are you bound forever, +and will I never learn anything more? I can wait; but, mother, you know +that these things work in a man's mind, and there will come a time when +the knowledge of the worst thing that could be will seem better than no +knowledge at all.” + +Her face brightened a little. “Thank you, Gilbert!” she said. “Yes; +there will come a day when you shall know all,--when you and me shall +have justice. I do not know how soon; I cannot guess. In the Lord's good +time. I have nigh out-suffered my fault, I think, and the reward cannot +be far off. A few weeks, perhaps,--yet, maybe, for oh, I am not allowed +even to hope for it!--maybe a few years. It will all come to the light, +after so long--so long--an eternity. If I had but known!” + +“Come, we will say no more now. Surely I may wait a little while, when +you have waited so long. I believe you, mother. Yes, I believe you; I am +your lawful son.” + +She rose, placed her hands on his shoulders, and kissed him. Nothing +more was said. + +Gilbert raked the ashes over the smouldering embers on the hearth, +lighted his mother's night-lamp, and after closing the chamber-door +softly behind her, stole up-stairs to his own bed. + +It was long past midnight before he slept. + + + + +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 didn't you head him off?” + +“Yes, damme,” echoed Mr. Barton, bringing down his fist upon the bar, +so that the glasses jumped, “why didn'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 shouldn'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 words he had used. It would be very +pleasant, he confessed, 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, and added in a low, significant +tone, “If you stir from this 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 needn'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 +nightmare-dreams, and when he came to put on his clothes, 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 haven'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 years, and I never +wore as smart a coat as that in my 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 couldn'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 +aren't to be had every day, and you needn'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. She has a mind of her own,--with +her the more haste the 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 V. + +GUESTS AT FAIRTHORN'S. + + +The Fairthorn farm was immediately north of Kennett Square. For the +first mile towards Unionville, the rich rolling fields which any +traveller may see, to this day, on either side of the road, belonged +to it. The house stood on the right, in the hollow into which the road +dips, on leaving the village. Originally a large cabin of hewn logs, it +now rejoiced in a stately stone addition, overgrown with ivy up to the +eaves, and a long porch in front, below which two mounds of box guarded +the flight of stone steps leading down to the garden. The hill in the +rear kept off the north wind, and this garden caught the earliest warmth +of spring. Nowhere else in the neighborhood did the crocuses bloom so +early, or the peas so soon appear above ground. The lack of order, the +air of old neglect about the place, in nowise detracted from its warm, +cosy character; it was a pleasant nook, and the relatives and friends of +the family (whose name was Legion) always liked to visit there. + +Several days had elapsed since the chase, and the eventful evening which +followed it. It was baking-day, and the plump arms of Sally Fairthorn +were floury-white up to the elbows. She was leaning over the +dough-trough, plunging her fists furiously into the spongy mass, when +she heard a step on the porch. Although her gown was pinned up, leaving +half of her short, striped petticoat visible, and a blue and white +spotted handkerchief concealed her dark hair, Sally did not stop to +think of that. She rushed into the front room, just as a gaunt female +figure passed the window, at the sight of which she clapped her hands so +that the flour flew in a little white cloud, and two or three strips of +dough peeled off her arms and fell upon the floor. + +The front-door opened, and our old friend, Miss Betsy Lavender, walked +into the room. + +Any person, between Kildeer Hill and Hockessin, who did not know Miss +Betsy, must have been an utter stranger to the country, or an idiot. She +had a marvellous clairvoyant faculty for the approach of either Joy or +Grief, and always turned up just at the moment when she was most wanted. +Profession had she none; neither a permanent home, but for twenty years +she had wandered hither and thither, in highly independent fashion, +turning her hand to whatever seemed to require its cunning. A better +housekeeper never might have lived, if she could have stuck to one spot; +an admirable cook, nurse, seamstress, and spinner, she refused alike the +high wages of wealthy farmers and the hands of poor widowers. She had a +little money of her own, but never refused payment from those who were +able to give it, in order that she might now and then make a present of +her services to poorer friends. Her speech was blunt and rough, her ways +odd and eccentric; her name was rarely mentioned without a laugh, but +those who laughed at her esteemed her none the less. In those days of +weekly posts and one newspaper, she was Politics, Art, Science, and +Literature to many families. + +In person, Miss Betsy Lavender was peculiar rather than attractive. She +was nearly, if not quite fifty years of age, rather tall, and a little +stoop-shouldered. Her face, at first sight, suggested that of a horse, +with its long, ridged nose, loose lips and short chin. Her eyes were +dull gray, set near together, and much sharper in their operation than a +stranger would suppose. Over a high, narrow forehead she wore thin bands +of tan-colored hair, somewhat grizzled, and forming a coil at the back +of her head, barely strong enough to hold the teeth of an enormous +tortoise-shell comb. Yet her grotesqueness had nothing repellant; it +was a genial caricature, at which no one could take offence. “The very +person I wanted to see!” cried Sally. “Father and mother are going up +to Uncle John's this afternoon; Aunt Eliza has an old woman's +quilting-party, and they'll stay all night, and however am I to manage +Joe and Jake by myself? Martha's half promised to come, but not till +after supper. It will all go right, since you are here; come into +mother's room and take off your things!” + +“Well,” said Miss Betsy, with a snort, “_that's_ to be my business, eh? +I'll have my hands full; a pearter couple o' lads a'n't to be found this +side o' Nottin'gam. They might ha' growed up wild on the Barrens, for +all the manners they've got.” + +Sally knew that this criticism was true; also that Miss Betsy's task was +no sinecure, and she therefore thought it best to change the subject. + +“There!” said she, as Miss Betsy gave the thin rope of her back hair a +fierce twist, and jammed her high comb inward and outward that the teeth +might catch,--“there! now you'll do! Come into the kitchen and tell me +the news, while I set my loaves to rise.” + +“Loaves to rise,” echoed Miss Betsy, seating herself on a tall, +rush-bottomed chair near the window. She had an incorrigible habit of +repeating the last three words of the person with whom she spoke,--a +habit which was sometimes mimicked good-humoredly, even by her best +friends. Many persons, however, were flattered by it, as it seemed to +denote an earnest attention to what they were saying. Between the two, +there it was and there it would be, to the day of her death,--Miss +Lavender's “keel-mark, [Footnote: Keel, a local term for red chalk.] as +the farmers said of their sheep. + +“Well,” she resumed, after taking breath, “no news is good news, these +days. Down Whitely Creek way, towards Strickersville, there's fever, +they say; Richard Rudd talks o' buildin' higher up the hill,--you know +it's low and swampy about the old house,--but Sarah, she says it'll be a +mortal long ways to the spring-house, and so betwixt and between them +I dunno how it'll turn out. Dear me! I was up at Aunt Buffin'ton's t' +other day; she's lookin' poorly; her mother, I remember, went off in a +decline, the same year the Tories burnt down their barn, and I'm afeard +she's goin' the same way. But, yes! I guess there's one thing you'll +like to hear. Old-man Barton is goin' to put up a new wagon-house, and +Mark is to have the job.” + +“Law!” exclaimed Sally, “what's that to me?” But there was a decided +smile on her face as she put another loaf into the pan, and, although +her head was turned away, a pretty flush of color came up behind her +ear, and betrayed itself to Miss Lavender's quick eye. + +“Nothin' much, I reckon,” the latter answered, in the most +matter-of-fact way, “only I thought you might like to know it, Mark +bein' a neighbor, like, and a right-down smart young fellow.” + +“Well, I _am_ glad of it,” said Sally, with sudden candor, “he's +Martha's cousin.” + +“Martha's cousin,--and I shouldn't wonder if he'd be something more to +her, some day.” + +“No, indeed! What are you thinking of, Betsy?” Sally turned around +and faced her visitor, regardless that her soft brunette face showed a +decided tinge of scarlet. At this instant clattering feet were heard, +and Joe and Jake rushed into the kitchen. They greeted their old friend +with boisterous demonstrations of joy. + +“Now we'll have dough-nuts,” cried Joe. + +“No; 'lasses-wax!” said Jake. “Sally, where's mother? Dad's out at the +wall, and Bonnie's jumpin' and prancin' like anything!” + +“Go along!” exclaimed Sally, with a slap which, lost its force in the +air, as Jake jumped away. Then they all left the kitchen together, and +escorted the mother to the garden-wall by the road, which served the +purpose of a horseblock. Farmer Fairthorn--a hale, ruddy, honest figure, +in broad-brimmed hat, brown coat and knee-breeches--already sat upon the +old mare, and the pillion behind his saddle awaited the coming burden. +Mother Fairthorn, a cheery little woman, with dark eyes and round +brunette face, like her daughter, wore the scoop bonnet and drab shawl +of a Quakeress, as did many in the neighborhood who did not belong to +the sect. Never were people better suited to each other than these two: +they took the world as they found it, and whether the crops were poor or +abundant, whether money came in or had to be borrowed, whether the roof +leaked, or a broken pale let the sheep into the garden, they were alike +easy of heart, contented and cheerful. + +The mare, after various obstinate whirls, was finally brought near the +wall; the old woman took her seat on the pillion, and after a parting +admonition to Sally: “Rake the coals and cover 'em up, before going to +bed, whatever you do!”--they went off, deliberately, up the hill. + +“Miss Betsy,” said Joe, with a very grave air, as they returned to the +kitchen, “I want you to tell me one thing,--whether it's true or not. +Sally says I'm a monkey.” + +“I'm a monkey,” repeated the unconscious Miss Lavender, whereupon both +boys burst into shrieks of laughter, and made their escape. + +“Much dough-nuts they'll get from me,” muttered the ruffled spinster, as +she pinned up her sleeves and proceeded to help Sally. The work went on +rapidly, and by the middle of the afternoon, the kitchen wore its normal +aspect of homely neatness. Then came the hour or two of quiet and rest, +nowhere in the world so grateful as in a country farm-house, to its +mistress and her daughters, when all the rough work of the day is over, +and only the lighter task of preparing supper yet remains. Then, when +the sewing or knitting has been produced, the little painted-pine +work-stand placed near the window, and a pleasant neighbor drops in +to enliven the softer occupation with gossip, the country wife or girl +finds her life a very happy and cheerful possession. No dresses are worn +with so much pleasure as those then made; no books so enjoyed as those +then read, a chapter or two at a time. + +Sally Fairthorn, we must confess, was not in the habit of reading much. +Her education had been limited. She had ciphered as far as Compound +Interest, read Murray's “Sequel,” and Goldsmith's “Rome,” and could +write a fair letter, without misspelling many words; but very few other +girls in the neighborhood possessed greater accomplishments than these, +and none of them felt, or even thought of, their deficiencies. There +were no “missions” in those days; it was fifty or sixty years before +the formation of the “Kennett Psychological Society,” and “Pamela,” + “Rasselas,” and “Joseph Andrews,” were lent and borrowed, as at present +“Consuelo,” Buckle, Ruskin, and “Enoch Arden.” + +One single work of art had Sally created, and it now hung, stately in +a frame of curled maple, in the chilly parlor. It was a sampler, +containing the alphabet, both large and small, the names and dates of +birth of both her parents, a harp and willow-tree, the twigs whereof +were represented by parallel rows of “herring-bone” stitch, a sharp +zigzag spray of rose-buds, and the following stanza, placed directly +underneath the harp and willow:-- + + “By Babel's streams we Sat and Wept + When Zion we thought on; + For Grief thereof, we Hang our Harp + The Willow Tree upon.” + +Across the bottom of the sampler was embroidered the inscription: “Done +by Sarah Ann Fairthorn, May, 1792, in the 16th year of her age.” + +While Sally went up-stairs to her room, to put her hair into order, and +tie a finer apron over her cloth gown, Miss Betsy Lavender was made the +victim of a most painful experience. + +Joe and Jake, who had been dodging around the house, half-coaxing and +half-teasing the ancient maiden whom they both plagued and liked, had +not been heard or seen for a while. Miss Betsy was knitting by the front +window, waiting for Sally, when the door was hastily thrown open, and +Joe appeared, panting, scared, and with an expression of horror upon his +face. + +“Oh, Miss Betsy!” was his breathless exclamation, “Jake! the +cherry-tree!” + +Dropping her work upon the floor, Miss Lavender hurried out of the +house, with beating heart and trembling limbs, following Joe, who ran +towards the field above the barn, where, near the fence, there stood a +large and lofty cherry-tree. As she reached the fence she beheld Jake, +lying motionless on his back, on the brown grass. + +“The Lord have mercy!” she cried; her knees gave way, and she sank upon +the ground in an angular heap. When, with a desperate groan, she lifted +her head and looked through the lower rails, Jake was not to be seen. +With a swift, convulsive effort she rose to her feet, just in time to +catch a glimpse of the two young scamps whirling over the farther fence +into the wood below. + +She walked unsteadily back to the house. “It's given me such a turn,” + she said to Sally, after describing the trick, “that I dunno when I'll +get over it.” + +Sally gave her some whiskey and sugar, which soon brought a vivid red to +the tip of her chin and the region of her cheek-bones, after which she +professed that she felt very comfortable. But the boys, frightened at +the effect of their thoughtless prank, did not make their appearance. +Joe, seeing Miss Betsy fall, thought she was dead, and the two hid +themselves in a bed of dead leaves, beside a fallen log, not daring to +venture home for supper. Sally said they should have none, and would +have cleared the table; but Miss Betsy, whose kind heart had long since +relented, went forth and brought them to light, promising that she would +not tell their father, provided they “would never do such a wicked thing +again.” Their behavior, for the rest of the evening, was irreproachable. + +Just as candles were being lighted, there was another step on the porch, +and the door opened on Martha Deane. + +“I'm _so_ glad!” cried Sally. “Never mind your pattens, Martha; Joe +shall carry them into the kitchen. Come, let me take off your cloak and +hat.” + +Martha's coming seemed to restore the fading daylight. Not boisterous +or impulsive, like Sally, her nature burned with a bright and steady +flame,--white and cold to some, golden and radiant to others. Her form +was slender, and every motion expressed a calm, serene grace, which +could only spring from some conscious strength of character. Her face +was remarkably symmetrical, its oval outline approaching the Greek +ideal; but the brow was rather high than low, and the light brown hair +covered the fair temples evenly, without a ripple. Her eyes were purely +blue, and a quick, soft spark was easily kindled in their depths; the +cheeks round and rosy, and the mouth clearly and delicately cut, with +an unusual, yet wholly feminine firmness in the lines of the upper lip. +This peculiarity, again, if slightly out of harmony with the pervading +gentleness of her face, was balanced by the softness and sweetness of +her dimpled chin, and gave to her face a rare union of strength and +tenderness. It very rarely happens that decision and power of will in a +young woman are not manifested by some characteristic rather masculine +than feminine; but Martha Deane knew the art of unwearied, soft +assertion and resistance, and her beautiful lips could pronounce, when +necessary, a final word. + +Joe and Jake came forward with a half-shy delight, to welcome “Cousin +Martha,” as she was called in the Fairthorn household, her mother and +Sally's father having been “own” cousins. There was a cheerful fire +on the hearth, and the three ladies gathered in front of it, with +the work-stand in the middle, while the boys took possession of the +corner-nooks. The latter claimed their share of the gossip; they +knew the family histories of the neighborhood much better than their +school-books, and exhibited a precocious interest in this form of +knowledge. The conversation, therefore, was somewhat guarded, and the +knitting and sewing all the more assiduously performed, until, with +great reluctance, and after repeated commands, Joe and Jake stole off to +bed. + +The atmosphere of the room then became infinitely more free and +confidential. Sally dropped her hands in her lap, and settled herself +more comfortably in her chair, while Miss Lavender, with an unobserved +side-glance at her, said:-- + +“Mark is to put up Barton's new wagon-house, I hear, Martha.” + +“Yes,” Martha answered; “it is not much, but Mark, of course, is very +proud of his first job. There is a better one in store, though he does +not know of it.” + +Sally pricked up her ears. “What is it?” asked Miss Betsy. + +“It is not to be mentioned, you will understand. I saw Alfred Barton +to-day. He seems to take quite an interest in Mark, all at once, and he +told me that the Hallowells are going to build a new barn this summer. +He spoke to them of Mark, and thinks the work is almost sure.” + +“Well, now!” Miss Betsy exclaimed, “if he gets that, after a year's +journey-work, Mark is a made man. And I'll speak to Richard Rudd the +next time I see him. He thinks he's beholden to me, since Sarah had the +fever so bad. I don't like folks to think that, but there's times when +it appears to come handy.” + +Sally arose, flushed and silent, and brought a plate of cakes and a +basket of apples from the pantry. The work was now wholly laid aside, +and the stand cleared to receive the refreshments. + +“Now pare your peels in one piece, girls,” Miss Betsy advised, “and then +whirl 'em to find the _initials_ o' your sweethearts' names.” + +“You, too, Miss Betsy!” cried Sally, “we must find out the widower's +name!” + +“The widower's name,” Miss Betsy gravely repeated, as she took a knife. + +With much mirth the parings were cut, slowly whirled three times around +the head, and then let fly over the left shoulder. Miss Betsy's was +first examined and pronounced to be an A. + +“Who's A?” she asked. + +“Alfred!” said Sally. “Now, Martha, here's yours--an S, no it's a G!” + +“The curl is the wrong way,” said Martha, gravely, “it's a figure 3; so, +I have three of them, have I?” + +“And mine,” Sally continued, “is a W!” + +“Yes, if you look at it upside down. The inside of the peel is +uppermost: you must turn it, and then it will be an M.” + +Sally snatched it up in affected vexation, and threw it into the fire. +“Oh, I know a new way!” she cried; “did you ever try it, Martha--with +the key and the Bible!” + +“Old as the hills, but awful sure,” remarked Miss Lavender. “When it's +done serious, it's never been known to fail.” + +Sally took the house-key, and brought from the old walnut cabinet a +plump octavo Bible, which she opened at the Song of Solomon, eighth +chapter and sixth verse. The end of the key being carefully placed +therein, the halves of the book were bound together with cords, so that +it could be carried by the key-handle. Then Sally and Martha, sitting +face to face, placed each the end of the fore finger of the right hand +under the half the ring of the key nearest to her. + +“Now, Martha,” said Sally, “we'll try your fortune first. Say 'A,' and +then repeat the verse: 'set me as a seal upon thy heart, as a seal upon +thine arm; for love is strong as death, jealousy is cruel as the grave: +the coals thereof are coals of fire, which hath a most vehement flame.'” + +Martha did as she was bidden, but the book hung motionless. She was +thereupon directed to say B, and repeat the verse; and so on, letter by +letter. The slender fingers trembled a little with the growing weight +of the book, and, although Sally protested that she was holding as still +“as she knew how,” the trembling increased, and before the verse which +followed G had been finished, the ring of the key slowly turned, and the +volume fell to the floor. + +Martha picked it up with a quiet smile. + +“It is easy to see who was in _your_ mind, Sally,” she said. “Now let me +tell your fortune: we will begin at L--it will save time.” + +“Save time,” said Miss Lavender, rising. “Have it out betwixt and +between you, girls: I'm a-goin' to bed.” + +The two girls soon followed her example. Hastily undressing themselves +in the chilly room, they lay down side by side, to enjoy the blended +warmth and rest, and the tender, delicious interchanges of confidence +which precede sleep. Though so different in every fibre of their +natures, they loved each other with a very true and tender affection. + +“Martha,” said Sally, after an interval of silence, “did you think I +_made_ the Bible turn at G?” + +“I think you thought it would turn, and therefore it did. Gilbert Potter +was in your mind, of course.” + +“And not in yours, Martha?” + +“If any man was seriously in my mind, Sally, do you think I would take +the Bible and the door-key in order to find out his name?” + +Sally was not adroit in speech: she felt that her question had not +been answered, but was unable to see precisely how the answer had been +evaded. + +“I certainly was beginning to think that you liked Gilbert,” she said. + +“So I do. Anybody may know that who cares for the information.” And +Martha laughed cheerfully. + +“Would you say so to Gilbert himself?” Sally timidly suggested. + +“Certainly; but why should he ask? I like a great many young men.” + +“Oh, Martha!” + +“Oh, Sally!--and so do you. But there's this I will say: if I were to +love a man, neither he nor any other living soul should know it, until +he had told me with his own lips that his heart had chosen me.” + +The strength of conviction in Martha's grave, gentle voice, struck Sally +dumb. Her lips were sealed on the delicious secret she was longing, and +yet afraid, to disclose. _He_ had not spoken: she hoped he loved her, +she was sure she loved him. Did she speak now, she thought, she would +lower herself in Martha's eyes. With a helpless impulse, she threw one +arm over the latter's neck, and kissed her cheek. She did not know that +with the kiss she had left a tear. + +“Sally,” said Martha, in a tender whisper, “I only spoke for myself. +Some hearts must be silent, while it is the nature of others to speak +out. You are not afraid of me: it will be womanly in you to tell me +everything. Your cheek is hot: you are blushing. Don't blush, Sally +dear, for I know it already.” + +Sally answered with an impassioned demonstration of gratitude and +affection. Then she spoke; but we will not reveal the secrets of her +virgin heart. It is enough that, soothed and comforted by Martha's wise +counsel and sympathy, she sank into happy slumber at her side. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + +THE NEW GILBERT. + + +This time the weather, which so often thwarts the farmer's calculations, +favored Gilbert Potter. In a week the two fields were ploughed, and what +little farm-work remained to be done before the first of April, could be +safely left to Sam. On the second Monday after the chase, therefore, he +harnessed his four sturdy horses to the wagon, and set off before the +first streak of dawn for Columbia, on the Susquehanna. Here he would +take from twelve to sixteen barrels of flour (according to the state +of the roads) and haul them, a two days' journey, to Newport, on the +Christiana River. The freight of a dollar and a half a barrel, which +he received, yielded him what in those days was considered a handsome +profit for the service, and it was no unusual thing for farmers who were +in possession of a suitable team, to engage in the business whenever +they could spare the time from their own fields. + +Since the evening when she had spoken to him, for the first time in her +life, of the dismal shadow which rested upon their names, Mary Potter +felt that there was an indefinable change in her relation to her son. He +seemed suddenly drawn nearer to her, and yet, in some other sense which +she could not clearly comprehend, thrust farther away. His manner, +always kind and tender, assumed a shade of gentle respect, grateful in +itself, yet disturbing, because new in her experience of him. His head +was slightly lifted, and his lips, though firm as ever, less rigidly +compressed. She could not tell how it was, but his voice had more +authority in her ears. She had never before quite disentangled the man +that he was from the child that he had been; but now the separation, +sharp, sudden, and final, was impressed upon her mind. Under all the +loneliness which came upon her, when the musical bells of his team +tinkled into silence beyond the hill, there lurked a strange sense of +relief, as if her nature would more readily adjust itself during his +absence. + +Instead of accepting the day with its duties, as a sufficient burden, +she now deliberately reviewed the Past. It would give her pain, she +knew; but what pain could she ever feel again, comparable to that which +she had so recently suffered? Long she brooded over that bitter period +before and immediately succeeding her son's birth, often declaring to +herself how fatally she had erred, and as often shaking her head in +hopeless renunciation of any present escape from the consequences of +that error. She saw her position clearly, yet it seemed that she had +so entangled herself in the meshes of a merciless Fate, that the only +reparation she could claim, either for herself or her son, would be +thrown away by forestalling--after such endless, endless submission and +suffering--the Event which should set her free. + +Then she recalled and understood, as never before, Gilbert's childhood +and boyhood. For his sake she had accepted menial service in families +where he was looked upon and treated as an incumbrance. The child, it +had been her comfort to think, was too young to know or feel this,--but +now, alas! the remembrance of his shyness and sadness told her a +different tale. So nine years had passed, and she was then forced to +part with her boy. She had bound him to Farmer Fairthorn, whose good +heart, and his wife's, she well knew, and now she worked for him, alone, +putting by her savings every year, and stinting herself to the utmost +that she might be able to start him in life, if he should live to be his +own master. Little by little, the blot upon her seemed to fade out or +be forgotten, and she hoped--oh, how she had hoped!--that he might be +spared the knowledge of it. + +She watched him grow up, a boy of firm will, strong temper, yet great +self-control; and the easy Fairthorn rule, which would have spoiled a +youth of livelier spirits, was, providentially, the atmosphere in which +his nature grew more serene and patient. He was steady, industrious, and +faithful, and the Fairthorns loved him almost as their own son. When he +reached the age of eighteen, he was allowed many important privileges: +he hauled flour to Newport, having a share of the profits, and in other +ways earned a sum which, with his mother's aid, enabled him to buy a +team of his own, on coming of age. + +Two years more of this weary, lonely labor, and the one absorbing aim of +Mary Potter's life, which she had impressed upon him ever since he was +old enough to understand it, drew near fulfilment. The farm upon which +they now lived was sold, and Gilbert became the purchaser. There was +still a debt of a thousand dollars upon the property, and she felt that +until it was paid, they possessed no secure home. During the year which +had elapsed since the purchase, Gilbert, by unwearied labor, had laid up +about four hundred dollars, and another year, he had said, if he should +prosper in his plans, would see them free at last! Then,--let the world +say what it chose! They had fought their way from shame and poverty +to honest independence, and the respect which follows success would at +least be theirs. + +This was always the consoling thought to which Mary Potter returned, +from the unallayed trouble of her mind. Day by day, Gilbert's new figure +became more familiar, and she was conscious that her own manner towards +him must change with it The subject of his birth, however, and the new +difficulties with which it beset her, would not be thrust aside. For +years she had almost ceased to think of the possible release, of which +she had spoken; now it returned and filled her with a strange, restless +impatience. + +Gilbert, also, had ample time to review his own position, during the +fortnight's absence. After passing the hills and emerging upon the long, +fertile swells of Lancaster, his experienced leaders but rarely needed +the guidance of his hand or voice. Often, sunk in revery, the familiar +landmarks of the journey went by unheeded; often he lay awake in the +crowded bedroom of a tavern, striving to clear a path for his feet a +little way into the future. Only men of the profoundest culture make a +deliberate study of their own natures, but those less gifted often act +with an equal or even superior wisdom, because their qualities operate +spontaneously, unwatched by an introverted eye. Such men may be +dimly conscious of certain inconsistencies, or unsolved puzzles, in +themselves, but instead of sitting down to unravel them, they seek the +easiest way to pass by and leave them untouched. For them the material +aspects of life are of the highest importance, and a true instinct shows +them that beyond the merest superficial acquaintance with their own +natures lie deep and disturbing questions, with which they are not +fitted to grapple. + +There comes a time, however, to every young man, even the most +uncultivated, when he touches one of the primal, eternal forces of life, +and is conscious of other needs and another destiny. This time had come +to Gilbert Potter, forcing him to look upon the circumstances of his +life from a loftier point of view. He had struggled, passionately but at +random, for light,--but, fortunately, every earnest struggle is towards +the light, and it now began to dawn upon him. + +He first became aware of one enigma, the consideration of which was +not so easy to lay aside. His mother had not been deceived: there was +a change in the man since that evening. Often and often, in gloomy +breedings over his supposed disgrace, he had fiercely asserted to +himself that _he_ was free from stain, and the unrespect in which he +stood was an injustice to be bravely defied. The brand which he wore, +and which he fancied was seen by every eye he met, existed in his own +fancy; his brow was as pure, his right to esteem and honor equal, to +that of any other man. But it was impossible to act upon this reasoning; +still when the test came he would shrink and feel the pain, instead of +trampling it under his feet. + +Now that the brand _was_ removed, the strength which he had so +desperately craved, was suddenly his. So far as the world was concerned, +nothing was altered; no one knew of the revelation which his mother had +made to him; he was still the child of her shame, but this knowledge was +no longer a torture. Now he had a right to respect, not asserted only +to his own heart, but which every man would acknowledge, were it made +known. He was no longer a solitary individual, protesting against +prejudice and custom. Though still feeling that the protest was just, +and that his new courage implied some weakness, he could not conceal +from himself the knowledge that this very weakness was the practical +fountain of his strength. He was a secret and unknown unit of the great +majority. + +There was another, more intimate subject which the new knowledge touched +very nearly; and here, also, hope dawned upon a sense akin to despair. +With all the force of his nature, Gilbert Potter loved Martha Deane. +He had known her since he was a boy at Fairthorn's; her face had always +been the brightest in his memory; but it was only since the purchase +of the farm that his matured manhood had fully recognized its answering +womanhood in her. He was slow to acknowledge the truth, even to his own +heart, and when it could no longer be denied, he locked it up and sealed +it with seven seals, determined never to betray it, to her or any one. +Then arose a wild hope, that respect might come with the independence +for which he was laboring, and perhaps he might dare to draw +nearer,--near enough to guess if there were any answer in her heart. It +was a frail support, but he clung to it as with his life, for there was +none other. + +Now,--although his uncertainty was as great as ever,--his approach could +not humiliate her. His love brought no shadow of shame; it was proudly +white and clean. Ah! he had forgotten that she did not know,--that his +lips were sealed until his mother's should be opened to the world. The +curse was not to be shaken off so easily. + +By the time he had twice traversed the long, weary road between Columbia +and Newport, Gilbert reached a desperate solution of this difficulty. +The end of his meditations was: “I will see if there be love in woman as +in man!--love that takes no note of birth or station, but, once having +found its mate, is faithful from first to last.” In love, an honest and +faithful heart touches the loftiest ideal. Gilbert knew that, were the +case reversed, no possible test could shake his steadfast affection, +and how else could he measure the quality of hers? He said to himself: +“Perhaps it is cruel, but I cannot spare her the trial.” He was prouder +than he knew,--but we must remember all that he endured. + +It was a dry, windy March month, that year, and he made four good +trips before the first of April. Returning home from Newport, by way of +Wilmington, with seventy-five dollars clear profit in his pocket, his +prospects seemed very cheerful. Could he accomplish two more months of +hauling during the year, and the crops should be fair, the money +from these sources, and the sale of his wagon and one span, would be +something more than enough to discharge the remaining debt. He knew, +moreover, how the farm could be more advantageously worked, having used +his eyes to good purpose in passing through the rich, abundant fields of +Lancaster. The land once his own,--which, like his mother, he could not +yet feel,--his future, in a material sense, was assured. + +Before reaching the Buck Tavern, he overtook a woman plodding slowly +along the road. Her rusty beaver hat, tied down over her ears, and her +faded gown, were in singular contrast to the shining new scarlet shawl +upon her shoulders. As she stopped and turned, at the sound of his +tinkling bells, she showed a hard red face, not devoid of a certain +coarse beauty, and he recognized Deb. Smith, a lawless, irregular +creature, well known about Kennett. + +“Good-day, Deborah!” said he; “if you are going my way, I can give you a +lift.” + +“He calls me 'Deborah,'” she muttered to herself; then aloud--“Ay, and +thank ye, Mr. Gilbert.” + +Seizing the tail of the near horse with one hand, she sprang upon the +wagon-tongue, and the next moment sat upon the board at his side. Then, +rummaging in a deep pocket, she produced, one after the other, a short +black pipe, an eel-skin tobacco-pouch, flint, tinder, and a clumsy +knife. With a dexterity which could only have come from long habit, +she prepared and kindled the weed, and was presently puffing forth rank +streams, with an air of the deepest satisfaction. + +“Which way?” asked Gilbert. + +“Your'n, as far as you go,--always providin' you takes me.” + +“Of course, Deborah, you're welcome. I have no load, you see.” + +“Mighty clever in you, Mr. Gilbert; but you always was one o' the clever +ones. Them as thinks themselves better born”-- + +“Come, Deborah, none of that!” he exclaimed. + +“Ax your pardon,” she said, and smoked her pipe in silence. When she had +finished and knocked the ashes out against the front panel of the wagon, +she spoke again, in a hard, bitter voice,-- + +“'Tisn't much difference what _I_ am. I was raised on hard knocks, and +now I must git my livin' by 'em. But I axes no'un's help, I'm _that_ +proud, anyways. I go my own road, and a straighter one, too, damme, than +I git credit for, but I let other people go their'n. You might have wuss +company than me, though _I_ say it.” + +These words hinted at an inward experience in some respects so +surprisingly like his own, that Gilbert was startled. He knew the +reputation of the woman, though he would have found it difficult to +tell whereupon it was based. Everybody said she was bad, and nobody +knew particularly why. She lived alone, in a log-cabin in the woods; did +washing and house-cleaning; worked in the harvest-fields; smoked, and +took her gill of whiskey with the best of them,--but other vices, though +inferred, were not proven. Involuntarily, he contrasted her position, +in this respect, with his own. The world, he had recently learned, was +wrong in his case; might it not also be doing her injustice? Her +pride, in its coarse way, was his also, and his life, perhaps, had only +unfolded into honorable success through a mother's ever-watchful care +and never-wearied toil. + +“Deborah,” he said, after a pause, “no man or woman who makes an honest +living by hard work, is bad company for me. I am trying to do the same +thing that you are,--to be independent of others. It's not an easy thing +for anybody, starting from nothing, but I can guess that it must be much +harder for you than for me.” + +“Yes, you're a man!” she cried. “Would to God I'd been one, too! A man +can do everything that I do, and it's all right and proper. Why did the +Lord give me strength? Look at that!” She bared her right arm--hard, +knitted muscle from wrist to shoulder--and clenched her fist. “What's +that for?--not for a woman, I say; I could take two of 'em by the necks +and pitch 'em over yon fence. I've felled an Irishman like an ox when he +called me names. The anger's in me, and the boldness and the roughness, +and the cursin'; I didn't put 'em there, and I can't git 'em out now, +if I tried ever so much. Why did they snatch the sewin' from me when +I wanted to learn women's work, and send me out to yoke th' oxen? I do +believe I was a gal onc't, a six-month or so, but it's over long ago. +I've been a man ever since!” + +She took a bottle out of her pocket, and offered it to Gilbert. When he +refused, she simply said: “You're right!” set it to her mouth, and drank +long and deeply. There was a wild, painful gleam of truth in her words, +which touched his sympathy. How should he dare to judge this unfortunate +creature, not knowing what perverse freak of nature, and untoward +circumstances of life had combined to make her what she was? His manner +towards her was kind and serious, and by degrees this covert respect +awoke in her a desire to deserve it. She spoke calmly and soberly, +exhibiting a wonderful knowledge as they rode onwards, not only of +farming, but of animals, trees, and plants. + +The team, knowing that home and rest were near, marched cheerily up and +down the hills along the border, and before sunset, emerging from the +woods, they overlooked the little valley, the mill, and the nestling +farmhouse. An Indian war-whoop rang across the meadow, and Gilbert +recognized Sam's welcome therein. + +“Now, Deborah,” said he, “you shall stop and have some supper, before +you go any farther.” + +“I'm obliged, all the same,” said she, “but I must push on. I've to go +beyond the Square, and couldn't wait. But tell your mother if she wants +a man's arm in house-cleanin' time to let me know. And, Mr. Gilbert, let +me say one thing: give me your hand.” + +The horses had stopped to drink at the creek. He gave her his right +hand. + +She held it in hers a moment, gazing intently on the palm. Then she bent +her head and blew upon it gently, three times. + +“Never mind: it's my fancy,” she said. “You're born for trial and +good-luck, but the trials come first, all of a heap, and the good luck +afterwards. You've got a friend in Deb. Smith, if you ever need one. +Good-bye to ye!” + +With these words she sprang from the wagon, and trudged off silently up +the hill. The horses turned of themselves into the lane leading to the +barn, and Gilbert assisted Sam in unharnessing and feeding them before +entering the house. By the time he was ready to greet his mother, +and enjoy, without further care, his first evening at home, he knew +everything that had occurred on the farm during his absence. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + +OLD KENNETT MEETING. + + +On the Sunday succeeding his return, Gilbert Potter proposed to his +mother that they should attend the Friends' Meeting at Old Kennett. + +The Quaker element, we have already stated, largely predominated in this +part of the county; and even the many families who were not +actually members of the sect were strongly colored with its peculiar +characteristics. Though not generally using “the plain speech” among +themselves, they invariably did so towards Quakers, varied but little +from the latter in dress and habits, and, with very few exceptions, +regularly attended their worship. In fact, no other religious attendance +was possible, without a Sabbath journey too long for the well-used +farm-horses. To this class belonged Gilbert and his mother, the +Fairthorns, and even the Bartons. Farmer Fairthorn had a birthright, it +is true, until his marriage, which having been a stolen match, and +not performed according to “Friends' ceremony,” occasioned his +excommunication. He might have been restored to the rights of membership +by admitting his sorrow for the offence, but this he stoutly refused to +do. The predicament was not an unusual one in the neighborhood; but +a few, among whom was Dr. Deane, Martha's father, submitted to the +required humiliation. As this did not take place, however, until after +her birth, Martha was still without the pale, and preferred to remain +so, for two reasons: first, that a scoop bonnet was monstrous on a young +woman's head; and second, that she was passionately fond of music, and +saw no harm in a dance. This determination of hers was, as her father +expressed himself, a “great cross” to him; but she had a habit of +paralyzing his argument by turning against him the testimony of the +Friends in regard to forms and ceremonies, and their reliance on the +guidance of the Spirit. + +Herein Martha was strictly logical, and though she, and others who +belonged to the same class, were sometimes characterized, by a zealous +Quaker, in moments of bitterness, as being “the world's people,” they +were generally regarded, not only with tolerance, but in a spirit of +fraternity. The high seats in the gallery were not for them, but they +were free to any other part of the meeting-house during life, and to +a grave in the grassy and briery enclosure adjoining, when dead. The +necessity of belonging to some organized church was recognized but +faintly, if at all; provided their lives were honorable, they were +considered very fair Christians. + +Mary Potter but rarely attended meeting, not from any lack of the need +of worship, but because she shrank with painful timidity from appearing +in the presence of the assembled neighborhood. She was, nevertheless, +grateful for Gilbert's success, and her heart inclined to thanksgiving; +besides, he desired that they should go, and she was not able to offer +any valid objection. So, after breakfast, the two best horses of the +team were very carefully groomed, saddled, and--Sam having been sent off +on a visit to his father, with the house-key in his pocket--the mother +and son took the road up the creek. + +Both were plainly, yet very respectably, dressed, in garments of the +same home-made cloth, of a deep, dark brown color, but Mary Potter wore +under her cloak the new crape shawl which Gilbert had brought to her +from Wilmington, and his shirt of fine linen displayed a modest ruffle +in front. The resemblance in their faces was even more strongly marked, +in the common expression of calm, grave repose, which sprang from the +nature of their journey. A stranger meeting them that morning, would +have seen that they were persons of unusual force of character, and +bound to each other by an unusual tie. + +Up the lovely valley, or rather glen, watered by the eastern branch of +Redley Creek, they rode to the main highway. It was an early spring, +and the low-lying fields were already green with the young grass; the +weeping-willows in front of the farm-houses seemed to spout up and +fall like broad enormous geysers as the wind swayed them, and daffodils +bloomed in all the warmer gardens. The dark foliage of the cedars +skirting the road counteracted that indefinable gloom which the +landscapes of early spring, in their grayness and incompleteness, so +often inspire, and mocked the ripened summer in the close shadows which +they threw. It was a pleasant ride, especially after mother and son had +reached the main road, and other horsemen and horsewomen issued from the +gates of farms on either side, taking their way to the meeting-house. +Only two or three families could boast vehicles,--heavy, cumbrous +“chairs,” as they were called, with a convex canopy resting on four +stout pillars, and the bulging body swinging from side to side on huge +springs of wood and leather. No healthy man or woman, however, unless he +or she were very old, travelled otherwise than on horseback. + +Now and then exchanging grave but kindly nods with their acquaintances, +they rode slowly along the level upland, past the Anvil Tavern, +through Logtown,--a cluster of primitive cabins at the junction of the +Wilmington Road,--and reached the meeting-house in good season. Gilbert +assisted his mother to alight at the stone platform built for that +purpose near the women's end of the building, and then fastened the +horses in the long, open shed in the rear. Then, as was the custom, +he entered by the men's door, and quietly took a seat in the silent +assembly. + +The stiff, unpainted benches were filled with the congregation, young +and old, wearing their hats, and with a stolid, drowsy look upon their +faces. Over a high wooden partition the old women in the gallery, +but not the young women on the floor of the house, could be seen. Two +stoves, with interminable lengths of pipe, suspended by wires from +the ceiling, created a stifling temperature. Every slight sound +or motion,--the moving of a foot, the drawing forth of a +pocket-handkerchief, the lifting or lowering of a head,--seemed to +disturb the quiet as with a shock, and drew many of the younger eyes +upon it; while in front, like the guardian statues of an Egyptian +temple, sat the older members, with their hands upon their knees or +clasped across their laps. Their faces were grave and severe. + +After nearly an hour of this suspended animation, an old Friend rose, +removed his broad-brimmed hat, and placing his hands upon the rail +before him, began slowly swaying to and fro, while he spoke. As he rose +into the chant peculiar to the sect, intoning alike his quotations from +the Psalms and his utterances of plain, practical advice, an expression +of quiet but almost luxurious satisfaction stole over the faces of his +aged brethren. With half-closed eyes and motionless bodies, they drank +in the sound like a rich draught, with a sense of exquisite refreshment. +A close connection of ideas, a logical derivation of argument from text, +would have aroused their suspicions that the speaker depended rather +upon his own active, conscious intellect, than upon the moving of the +Spirit; but this aimless wandering of a half-awake soul through the +cadences of a language which was neither song nor speech, was, to their +minds, the evidence of genuine inspiration. + +When the old man sat down, a woman arose and chanted forth the +suggestions which had come to her in the silence, in a voice of +wonderful sweetness and strength. Here Music seemed to revenge herself +for the slight done to her by the sect. The ears of the hearers were so +charmed by the purity of tone, and the delicate, rhythmical cadences of +the sentences, that much of the wise lessons repeated from week to week +failed to reach their consciousness. + +After another interval of silence, the two oldest men reached their +hands to each other,--a sign which the younger members had anxiously +awaited. The spell snapped in an instant; all arose and moved into the +open air, where all things at first appeared to wear the same aspect of +solemnity. The poplar-trees, the stone wall, the bushes in the corners +of the fence, looked grave and respectful for a few minutes. Neighbors +said, “How does thee do?” to each other, in subdued voices, and there +was a conscientious shaking of hands all around before they dared to +indulge in much conversation. + +Gradually, however, all returned to the out-door world and its +interests. The fences became so many posts and rails once more, +the bushes so many elders and blackberries to be cut away, and the +half-green fields so much sod for corn-ground. Opinions in regard to the +weather and the progress of spring labor were freely interchanged, and +the few unimportant items of social news, which had collected in +seven days, were gravely distributed. This was at the men's end of the +meeting-house; on their side, the women were similarly occupied, but +we can only conjecture the subjects of their conversation. The young +men--as is generally the case in religious sects of a rigid and clannish +character--were by no means handsome. Their faces all bore the stamp +of _repression_, in some form or other, and as they talked their eyes +wandered with an expression of melancholy longing and timidity towards +the sweet, maidenly faces, whose bloom, and pure, gentle beauty not even +their hideous bonnets could obscure. + +One by one the elder men came up to the stone platform with the stable +old horses which their wives were to ride home; the huge chair, in which +sat a privileged couple, creaked and swayed from side to side, as it +rolled with ponderous dignity from the yard; and now, while the girls +were waiting their turn, the grave young men plucked up courage, +wandered nearer, greeted, exchanged words, and so were helped into an +atmosphere of youth. + +Gilbert, approaching with them, was first recognized by his old friend, +Sally Fairthorn, whose voice of salutation was so loud and cheery, as +to cause two or three sedate old “women-friends” to turn their heads +in grave astonishment. Mother Fairthorn, with her bright, round face, +followed, and then--serene and strong in her gentle, symmetrical +loveliness--Martha Deane. Gilbert's hand throbbed, as he held hers a +moment, gazing into the sweet blue of her eyes; yet, passionately as he +felt that he loved her in that moment, perfect as was the delight of her +presence, a better joy came to his heart when she turned away to speak +with his mother. Mark Deane--a young giant with curly yellow locks, and +a broad, laughing mouth--had just placed a hand upon his shoulder, and +he could not watch the bearing of the two women to each other; but all +his soul listened to their voices, and he heard in Martha Deane's the +kindly courtesy and respect which he did not see. + +Mother Fairthorn and Sally so cordially insisted that Mary Potter +and her son should ride home with them to dinner, that no denial was +possible. When the horses were brought up to the block the yard was +nearly empty, and the returning procession was already winding up the +hill towards Logtown. + +“Come, Mary,” said Mother Fairthorn, “you and I will ride together, and +you shall tell me all about your ducks and turkeys. The young folks can +get along without us, I guess.” + +Martha Deane had ridden to meeting in company with her cousin Mark and +Sally, but the order of the homeward ride was fated to be different. Joe +and Jake, bestriding a single horse, like two of the Haymon's-children, +were growing inpatient, so they took the responsibility of dashing up to +Mark and Sally, who were waiting in the road, and announcing,-- + +“Cousin Martha says we're to go on; she'll ride with Gilbert.” + +Both well knew the pranks of the boys, but perhaps they found the +message well-invented if not true; for they obeyed with secret alacrity, +although Sally made a becoming show of reluctance. Before they reached +the bottom of the hollow, Joe and Jake, seeing two school-mates in +advance, similarly mounted, dashed off in a canter, to overtake them, +and the two were left alone. + +Gilbert and Martha naturally followed, since not more than two could +conveniently ride abreast. But their movements were so quiet and +deliberate, and the accident which threw them together was accepted so +simply and calmly that no one could guess what warmth of longing, of +reverential tenderness, beat in every muffled throb of one of the two +hearts. + +Martha was an admirable horsewoman, and her slender, pliant figure never +showed to greater advantage than in the saddle. Her broad beaver hat was +tied down over the ears, throwing a cool gray shadow across her clear, +joyous eyes and fresh cheeks. A pleasanter face never touched a young +man's fancy, and every time it turned towards Gilbert it brightened +away the distress of love. He caught, unconsciously, the serenity of her +mood, and foretasted the peace which her being would bring to him if it +were ever intrusted to his hands. + +“Did you do well by your hauling, Gilbert,” she asked, “and are you now +home for the summer?” + +“Until after corn-planting,” he answered. “Then I must take two or three +weeks, as the season turns out. I am not able to give up my team yet.” + +“But you soon will be, I hope. It must be very lonely for your mother to +be on the farm without you.” + +These words touched him gratefully, and led him to a candid openness +of speech which he would not otherwise have ventured,--not from any +inherent lack of candor, but from a reluctance to speak of himself. + +“That's it, Martha,” he said. “It is her work that I have the farm at +all, and I only go away the oftener now, that I may the sooner stay with +her altogether. The thought of her makes each trip lonelier than the +last.” + +“I like to hear you say that, Gilbert. And it must be a comfort to you, +withal, to know that you are working as much for your mother's sake as +your own. I think I should feel so, at least, in your place. I feel my +own mother's loss more now than when she died, for I was then so young +that I can only just remember her face.” + +“But you have a father!” he exclaimed, and the words were scarcely out +of his mouth before he became aware of their significance, uttered by +his lips. He had not meant so much,--only that she, like him, still +enjoyed one parent's care. The blood came into his face; she saw and +understood the sign, and broke a silence which would soon have become +painful. + +“Yes,” she said, “and I am very grateful that he is spared; but we seem +to belong most to our mothers.” + +“That is the truth,” he said firmly, lifting his head with the impulse +of his recovered pride, and meeting her eyes without flinching. “I +belong altogether to mine. She has made me a man and set me upon my +feet. From this time forward, my place is to stand between her and the +world!” + +Martha Deane's blood throbbed an answer to this assertion of himself. +A sympathetic pride beamed in her eyes; she slightly bent her head, in +answer, without speaking, and Gilbert felt that he was understood and +valued. He had drawn a step nearer to the trial which he had resolved to +make, and would now venture no further. + +There was a glimmering spark of courage in his heart. He was surprised, +in recalling the conversation afterwards, to find how much of his plans +he had communicated to her during the ride, encouraged by the kindly +interest she manifested, and the sensible comments she uttered. Joe and +Jake, losing their mates at a cross-road, and finding Sally and Mark +Deane not very lively company for them, rode back and disturbed these +confidences, but not until they had drawn the two into a relation of +acknowledged mutual interest. + +Martha Deane had always, as she confessed to Sally, _liked_ Gilbert +Potter; she liked every young man of character and energy; but now she +began to suspect that there was a rarer worth in his nature than she had +guessed. From that day he was more frequently the guest of her thoughts +than ever before. Instinct, in him, had performed the same service which +men of greater experience of the world would have reached through keen +perception and careful tact,--in confiding to her his position, his +labors and hopes, material as was the theme and seemingly unsuited to +the occasion, he had in reality appreciated the serious, reflective +nature underlying her girlish grace and gayety. What other young man of +her acquaintance, she asked herself, would have done the same thing? + +When they reached Kennett Square, Mother Fairthorn urged Martha to +accompany them, and Sally impetuously seconded the invitation. Dr. +Deane's horse was at his door, however, and his daughter, with her eyes +on Gilbert, as if saying “for my father's sake,” steadfastly declined. +Mark, however, took her place, but there never had been, or could be, +too many guests at the Fairthorn table. + +When they reached the garden-wall, Sally sprang from her horse with such +haste that her skirt caught on the pommel and left her hanging, being +made of stuff too stout to tear. It was well that Gilbert was near, on +the same side, and disengaged her in an instant; but her troubles did +not end here. As she bustled in and out of the kitchen, preparing the +dinner-table in the long sitting-room, the hooks and door-handles seemed +to have an unaccountable habit of thrusting themselves in her way, and +she was ready to cry at each glance of Mark's laughing eyes. She +had never heard the German proverb, “who loves, teases,” and was too +inexperienced, as yet, to have discovered the fact for herself. + +Presently they all sat down to dinner, and after the first solemn +quiet,--no one venturing to eat or speak until the plates of all had +been heaped with a little of everything upon the table,--the meal became +very genial and pleasant. A huge brown pitcher of stinging cider added +its mild stimulus to the calm country blood, and under its mellowing +influence Mark announced the most important fact of his life,--he was to +have the building of Hallowell's barn. + +As Gilbert and his mother rode homewards, that afternoon, neither spoke +much, but both felt, in some indefinite way, better prepared for the +life that lay before them. + + + + +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. The floor was covered with a country-made rag carpet, +in 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 shouldn'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 +reentered 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 Hannah More, and +Miss Betsy, at the front window, 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 isn'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 suspect that the Doctor knew it; +but he nervously dreaded 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 he rode +with her to her very lane-end, as kind and civil a 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 gold 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 in her words his +intellect was too muddy to detect it: her 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 as fully discussed as was +possible without consultation with 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 wouldn'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 course; that is what she means. “Old-man Barton” + had 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 wherefrom 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 IX. + +THE RAISING. + + +Steadily and serenely the Spring advanced. Old people shook their heads +and said: “It will be April, this year, that comes in like a lamb +and goes out like a lion,”--but it was not so. Soft, warm showers and +frostless nights repaid the trustfulness of the early-expanding buds, +and May came clothed completely in pale green, with a wreath of lilac +and hawthorn bloom on her brow. For twenty years no such perfect spring +had been known; and for twenty years afterwards the farmers looked back +to it as a standard of excellence, whereby to measure the forwardness of +their crops. + +By the twentieth of April the young white-oak leaves were the size of +a squirrel's ear,--the old Indian sign of the proper time for +corn-planting, which was still accepted by the new race, and the first +of May saw many fields already specked with the green points of the +springing blades. A warm, silvery vapor hung over the land, mellowing +the brief vistas of the interlacing valleys, touching with a sweeter +pastoral beauty the irregular alternation of field and forest, and +lifting the wooded slopes, far and near, to a statelier and more +imposing height. The park-like region of Kennett, settled originally by +emigrants from Bucks and Warwickshire, reproduced to their eyes--as it +does to this day--the characteristics of their original home, and +they transplanted the local names to which they were accustomed, and +preserved, even long after the War of Independence, the habits of their +rural ancestry. The massive stone farm-houses, the walled gardens, +the bountiful orchards, and, more than all, the well-trimmed hedges of +hawthorn and blackthorn dividing their fields, or bordering their roads +with the living wall, over which the clematis and wild-ivy love to +clamber, made the region beautiful to their eyes. Although the large +original grants, mostly given by the hand of William Penn, had been +divided and subdivided by three or four prolific generations, there was +still enough and to spare,--and even the golden promise held out by “the +Backwoods,” as the new States of Ohio and Kentucky were then called, +tempted very few to leave their homes. + +The people, therefore, loved the soil and clung to it with a fidelity +very rare in any part of our restless nation. And, truly, no one who had +lived through the mild splendor of that spring, seeing, day by day, +the visible deepening of the soft woodland tints, hearing the cheerful +sounds of labor, far and wide, in the vapory air, and feeling at once +the repose and the beauty of such a quiet, pastoral life, could have +turned his back upon it, to battle with the inhospitable wilderness of +the West. Gilbert Potter had had ideas of a new home, to be created by +himself, and a life to which none should deny honor and respect: but now +he gave them up forever. There was a battle to be fought--better here +than elsewhere--here, where every scene was dear and familiar, and every +object that met his eye gave a mute, gentle sense of consolation. + +Restless, yet cheery labor was now the order of life on the farm. From +dawn till dusk, Gilbert and Sam were stirring in field, meadow, and +garden, keeping pace with the season and forecasting what was yet to +come. Sam, although only fifteen, had a manly pride in being equal to +the duty imposed upon him by his master's absence, and when the time +came to harness the wagon-team once more, the mother and son walked over +the fields together and rejoiced in the order and promise of the farm. +The influences of the season had unconsciously touched them both: +everything conspired to favor the fulfilment of their common plan, and, +as one went forward to the repetition of his tedious journeys back and +forth between Columbia and Newport, and the other to her lonely labor +in the deserted farm-house, the arches of bells over the collars of the +leaders chimed at once to the ears of both, an anthem of thanksgiving +and a melody of hope. + +So May and the beginning of June passed away, and no important event +came to any character of this history. When Gilbert had delivered the +last barrels at Newport, and slowly cheered homewards his weary team, he +was nearly two hundred dollars richer than when he started, and--if we +must confess a universal if somewhat humiliating truth--so much the more +a man in courage and determination. + +The country was now covered with the first fresh magnificence of summer. +The snowy pyramids of dog-wood bloom had faded, but the tulip trees were +tall cones of rustling green, lighted with millions of orange-colored +stars, and all the underwood beneath the hemlock-forests by the courses +of streams, was rosy with laurels and azaleas. The vernal-grass in the +meadows was sweeter than any garden-rose, and its breath met that of the +wild-grape in the thickets and struggled for preeminence of sweetness. +A lush, tropical splendor of vegetation, such as England never knew, +heaped the woods and hung the road-side with sprays which grew and +bloomed and wantoned, as if growth were a conscious joy, rather than +blind obedience to a law. + +When Gilbert reached home, released from his labors abroad until +October, he found his fields awaiting their owner's hand. His wheat hung +already heavy-headed, though green, and the grass stood so thick and +strong that it suggested the ripping music of the scythe-blade which +should lay it low. Sam had taken good care of the cornfield, garden, and +the cattle, and Gilbert's few words of quiet commendation were a rich +reward for all his anxiety. His ambition was, to be counted “a full +hand,”--this was the _toga virilis,_ which, once entitled to wear, would +make him feel that he was any man's equal. + +Without a day's rest, the labor commenced again, and the passion of +Gilbert's heart, though it had only strengthened during his absence, +must be thrust aside until the fortune of his harvest was secured. + +In the midst of the haying, however, came a message which he could not +disregard,--a hasty summons from Mark Deane, who, seeing Gilbert in the +upper hill-field, called from the road, bidding him to the raising of +Hallowell's new barn, which was to take place on the following Saturday. +“Be sure and come!” were Mark's closing words--“there's to be both +dinner and supper, and the girls are to be on hand!” + +It was the custom to prepare the complete frame of a barn--sills, +plates, girders, posts, and stays--with all their mortices and pins, +ready for erection, and then to summon all the able-bodied men of the +neighborhood to assist in getting the timbers into place. This service, +of course, was given gratuitously, and the farmer who received it could +do no less than entertain, after the bountiful manner of the country, +his helping neighbors, who therefore, although the occasion implied a +certain amount of hard work, were accustomed to regard it as a sort of +holiday, or merry-making. Their opportunities for recreation, indeed, +were so scanty, that a barn-raising, or a husking-party by moonlight, +was a thing to be welcomed. + +Hallowell's farm was just half-way between Gilbert's and Kennett Square, +and the site of the barn had been well-chosen on a ridge, across the +road, which ran between it and the farm-house. The Hallowells were +what was called “good providers,” and as they belonged to the class of +outside Quakers, which we have already described, the chances were that +both music and dance would reward the labor of the day. + +Gilbert, of course, could not refuse the invitation of so near a +neighbor, and there was a hope in his heart which made it welcome. +When the day came he was early on hand, heartily greeted by Mark, who +exclaimed,--“Give me a dozen more such shoulders and arms as yours, and +I'll make the timbers spin!” + +It was a bright, breezy day, making the wheat roll and the leaves +twinkle. Ranges of cumuli moved, one after the other, like heaps of +silvery wool, across the keen, dark blue of the sky. “A wonderful +hay-day,” the old farmers remarked, with a half-stifled sense of regret; +but the younger men had already stripped themselves to their shirts and +knee-breeches, and set to work with a hearty good-will. Mark, as friend, +half-host and commander, bore his triple responsibility with a mixture +of dash and decision, which became his large frame and ruddy, laughing +face. It was--really, and not in an oratorical sense,--the proudest day +of his life. + +There could be no finer sight than that of these lithe, vigorous +specimens of a free, uncorrupted manhood, taking like sport the rude +labor which was at once their destiny and their guard of safety against +the assaults of the senses. As they bent to their work, prying, rolling, +and lifting the huge sills to their places on the foundation-wall, they +showed in every movement the firm yet elastic action of muscles equal +to their task. Though Hallowell's barn did not rise, like the walls of +Ilium, to music, a fine human harmony aided in its construction. + +There was a plentiful supply of whiskey on hand, but Mark Deane assumed +the charge of it, resolved that no accident or other disturbance should +mar the success of this, his first raising. Everything went well, and +by the time they were summoned to dinner, the sills and some of the +uprights were in place, properly squared and tied. + +It would require a Homeric catalogue to describe the dinner. To say that +the table “groaned,” is to give no idea of its condition. Mrs. Hallowell +and six neighbors' wives moved from kitchen to dining-room, replenishing +the dishes as fast as their contents diminished, and plying the double +row of coatless guests with a most stern and exacting hospitality. The +former would have been seriously mortified had not each man endeavored +to eat twice his usual requirement. + +After the slight rest which nature enforced--though far less than +nature demanded, after such a meal--the work went on again with greater +alacrity, since every timber showed. Rib by rib the great frame grew, +and those perched aloft, pinning the posts and stays, rejoiced in the +broad, bright landscape opened to their view. They watched the roads, +in the intervals of their toil, and announced the approach of delayed +guests, all alert for the sight of the first riding-habit. + +Suddenly two ladies made their appearance, over the rise of the hill, +one cantering lightly and securely, the other bouncing in her seat, from +the rough trot of her horse. + +“Look out! there they come!” cried a watcher. + +“Who is it?” was asked from below. + +“Where's Barton? He ought to be on hand,--it's Martha Deane,--and Sally +with her; they always ride together.” + +Gilbert had one end of a handspike, helping lift a heavy piece of +timber, and his face was dark with the strain; it was well that he dared +not let go until the lively gossip which followed Barton's absence,--the +latter having immediately gone forward to take charge of the +horses,--had subsided. Leaning on the handspike, he panted,--not +entirely from fatigue. A terrible possibility of loss flashed suddenly +across his mind, revealing to him, in a new light, the desperate force +and desire of his love. + +There was no time for meditation; his help was again wanted, and he +expended therein the first hot tumult of his heart. By ones and twos the +girls now gathered rapidly, and erelong they came out in a body to have +a look at the raising. Their coming in no wise interrupted the labor; +it was rather an additional stimulus, and the young men were right. +Although they were not aware of the fact, they were never so handsome +in their uneasy Sunday costume and awkward social ways, as thus in +their free, joyous, and graceful element of labor. Greetings were +interchanged, laughter and cheerful nothings animated the company, and +when Martha Deane said,-- + +“We may be in the way, now--shall we go in?” + +Mark responded,-- + +“No, Martha! No, girls! I'll get twice as much work out o' my +twenty-five 'jours,' if you'll only stand where you are and look at +'em.” + +“Indeed!” Sally Fairthorn exclaimed. “But we have work to do as well as +you. If you men can't get along without admiring spectators, we girls +can.” + +The answer which Mark would have made to this pert speech was cut short +by a loud cry of pain or terror from the old half-dismantled barn on the +other side of the road. All eyes were at once turned in that direction, +and beheld Joe Fairthorn rushing at full speed down the bank, making +for the stables below. Mark, Gilbert Potter, and Sally, being nearest, +hastened to the spot. + +“You're in time!” cried Joe, clapping his hands in great glee. “I was +awfully afeard he'd let go before I could git down to see him fall. Look +quick--he can't hold on much longer!” + +Looking into the dusky depths, they saw Jake, hanging by his hands to +the edges of a hole in the floor above, yelling and kicking for dear +life. + +“You wicked, wicked boy!” exclaimed Sally, turning to Joe, “what have +you been doing?” + +“Oh,” he answered, jerking and twisting with fearful delight, “there was +such a nice hole in the floor! I covered it all over with straw, but +I had to wait ever so long before Jake stepped onto it, and then he +ketched hold goin' down, and nigh spoilt the fun.” + +Gilbert made for the barn-floor, to succor the helpless victim; but +just as his step was heard on the boards, Jake's strength gave way. +His fingers slipped, and with a last howl down he dropped, eight or ten +feet, upon a bed of dry manure. Then his terror was instantly changed +to wrath; he bounced upon his feet, seized a piece of rotten board, and +made after Joe, who, anticipating the result, was already showing his +heels down the road. + +Meanwhile the other young ladies had followed, and so, after discussing +the incident with a mixture of amusement and horror, they betook +themselves to the house, to assist in the preparations for supper. +Martha Deane's eyes took in the situation, and immediately perceived +that it was capable of a picturesque improvement. In front of the house +stood a superb sycamore, beyond which a trellis of grape-vines divided +the yard from the kitchen-garden. Here, on the cool green turf, under +shade, in the bright summer air, she proposed that the tables should +be set, and found little difficulty in carrying her point. It was quite +convenient to the outer kitchen door, and her ready invention found +means of overcoming all other technical objections. Erelong the tables +were transported to the spot, the cloth laid, and the aspect of the +coming entertainment grew so pleasant to the eye, that there was a +special satisfaction in the labor. + +An hour before sundown the frame was completed; the skeleton of the +great barn rose sharp against the sky, its fresh white-oak timber gilded +by the sunshine. Mark drove in the last pin, gave a joyous shout, which +was answered by an irregular cheer from below, and lightly clambered +down by one of the stays. Then the black jugs were produced, and passed +from mouth to mouth, and the ruddy, glowing young fellows drew their +shirt-sleeves across their faces, and breathed the free, full breath of +rest. + +Gilbert Potter, sitting beside Mark,--the two were mutually drawn +towards each other, without knowing or considering why,--had gradually +worked himself into a resolution to be cool, and to watch the movements +of his presumed rival. More than once, during the afternoon, he had +detected Barton's eyes, fixed upon him with a more than accidental +interest; looking up now, he met them again, but they were quickly +withdrawn, with a shy, uneasy expression, which he could not comprehend. +Was it possible that Barton conjectured the carefully hidden secret of +his heart? Or had the country gossip been free with his name, in some +way, during his absence? Whatever it was, the dearer interests at stake +prevented him from dismissing it from his mind. He was preternaturally +alert, suspicious, and sensitive. + +He was therefore a little startled, when, as they were all rising in +obedience to Farmer Hallowell's summons to supper, Barton suddenly took +hold of his arm. + +“Gilbert,” said he, “we want your name in a list of young men we are +getting together, for the protection of our neighborhood. There are +suspicions, you know, that Sandy Flash has some friends hereabouts, +though nobody seems to know exactly who they are; and our only safety +is in clubbing together, to smoke him out and hunt him down, if he ever +comes near us. Now, you're a good hunter”-- + +“Put me down, of course!” Gilbert interrupted, immensely relieved to +find how wide his suspicions had fallen from the mark. “That would be a +more stirring chase than our last; it is a shame and a disgrace that he +is still at large.” + +“How many have we now?” asked Mark, who was walking on the other side of +Barton. + +“Twenty-one, with Gilbert,” the latter replied. + +“Well, as Sandy is said to count equal to twenty, we can meet him +evenly, and have one to spare,” laughed Mark. + +“Has any one here ever seen the fellow?” asked Gilbert. “We ought to +know his marks.” + +“He's short, thick-set, with a red face, jet-black hair, add heavy +whiskers,” said Barton. + +“Jet-black hair!” Mark exclaimed; “why, it's red as brick-dust! And I +never heard that he wore whiskers.” + +“Pshaw! what was I thinking of? Red, of course--I meant red, all the +time,” Barton hastily assented, inwardly cursing himself for a fool. It +was evident that the less he conversed about Sandy Flash, the better. + +Loud exclamations of surprise and admiration interrupted them. In the +shade of the sycamore, on the bright green floor of the silken turf, +stood the long supper-table, snowily draped, and heaped with the richest +products of cellar, kitchen, and dairy. Twelve chickens, stewed in +cream, filled huge dishes at the head and foot, while hams and rounds +of cold roast-beef accentuated the space between. The interstices were +filled with pickles, pies, jars of marmalade, bowls of honey, and plates +of cheese. Four coffee-pots steamed in readiness on a separate table, +and the young ladies, doubly charming in their fresh white aprons, stood +waiting to serve the tired laborers. Clumps of crown-roses, in blossom, +peered over the garden-paling, the woodbine filled the air with its +nutmeg odors, and a broad sheet of sunshine struck the upper boughs +of the arching sycamore, and turned them into a gilded canopy for the +banquet. It might have been truly said of Martha Deane, that she touched +nothing which she did not adorn. + +In the midst of her duties as directress of the festival, she caught a +glimpse of the three men, as they approached together, somewhat in +the rear of the others. The embarrassed flush had not quite faded from +Barton's face, and Gilbert's was touched by a lingering sign of his new +trouble. Mark, light-hearted and laughing, precluded the least idea of +mystery, but Gilbert's eye met hers with what she felt to be a painfully +earnest, questioning expression. The next moment they were seated at the +table, and her services were required on behalf of all. + +Unfortunately for the social enjoyments of Kennett, eating had come to +be regarded as a part of labor; silence and rapidity were its principal +features. Board and platter were cleared in a marvellously short time, +the plates changed, the dishes replenished, and then the wives and +maidens took the places of the young men, who lounged off to the +road-side, some to smoke their pipes, and all to gossip. + +Before dusk, Giles made his appearance, with an old green bag under his +arm. Barton, of course, had the credit of this arrangement, and it made +him, for the time, very popular. After a pull at the bottle, Giles began +to screw his fiddle, drawing now and then unearthly shrieks from its +strings. The more eager of the young men thereupon stole to the house, +assisted in carrying in the tables and benches, and in other ways busied +themselves to bring about the moment when the aprons of the maidens +could be laid aside, and their lively feet given to the dance. The moon +already hung over the eastern wood, and a light breeze blew the dew-mist +from the hill. + +Finally, they were all gathered on the open bit of lawn between the +house and the road. There was much hesitation at first, ardent coaxing +and bashful withdrawal, until Martha broke the ice by boldly choosing +Mark as her partner, apportioning Sally to Gilbert, and taking her place +for a Scotch reel. She danced well and lightly, though in a more subdued +manner than was then customary. In this respect, Gilbert resembled +her; his steps, gravely measured, though sufficiently elastic, differed +widely from Mark's springs, pigeon-wings, and curvets. Giles played with +a will, swaying head and fiddle up and down and beating time with his +foot; and the reel went off so successfully that there was no hesitation +in getting up the next dance. + +Mark was alert, and secured Sally this time. Perhaps Gilbert would have +made the like exchange, but Mr. Alfred Barton stepped before him, and +bore off Martha. There was no appearance of design about the matter, but +Gilbert felt a hot tingle in his blood, and drew back a little to watch +the pair. Martha moved through the dance as if but half conscious of her +partner's presence, and he seemed more intent on making the proper +steps and flourishes than on improving the few brief chances for a +confidential word. When he spoke, it was with the unnecessary laugh, +which is meant to show ease of manner, and betrays the want of it. +Gilbert was puzzled; either the two were unconscious of the gossip which +linked their names so intimately, (which seemed scarcely possible,) or +they were studiedly concealing an actual tender relation. Among those +simple-hearted people, the shyness of love rivalled the secrecy of +crime, and the ways by which the lover sought to assure himself of his +fortune were made very difficult by the shrinking caution with which he +concealed the evidence of his passion. Gilbert knew how well the secret +of his own heart was guarded, and the reflection, that others might be +equally inscrutable, smote him with sudden pain. + +The figures moved before him in the splendid moonlight, and with every +motion of Martha's slender form the glow of his passion and the torment +of his uncertainty increased. Then the dance dissolved, and while he +still stood with folded arms, Sally Fairthorn's voice whispered eagerly +in his ear,-- + +“Gilbert--Gilbert! now is your chance to engage Martha for the Virginia +reel!” + +“Let me choose my own partners, Sally!” he said, so sternly, that she +opened wide her black eyes. + +Martha, fanning herself with her handkerchief spread over a bent +willow-twig, suddenly passed before him, like an angel in the moonlight. +A soft, tender star sparkled in each shaded eye, a faint rose-tint +flushed her cheeks, and her lips, slightly parted to inhale the +clover-scented air, were touched with a sweet, consenting smile. + +“Martha!” + +The word passed Gilbert's lips almost before he knew he had uttered it. +Almost a whisper, but she heard, and, pausing, turned towards him. + +“Will you dance with me now?” + +“Am I your choice, or Sally's, Gilbert? I overheard your very +independent remark.” + +“Mine!” he said, with only half truth. A deep color, shot into his face, +and he knew the moonlight revealed it, but he forced his eyes to meet +hers. Her face lost its playful expression, and she said, gently,-- + +“Then I accept.” + +They took their places, and the interminable Virginia reel--under which +name the old-fashioned Sir Roger de Coverley was known--commenced. It +so happened that Gilbert and Mr. Alfred Barton had changed their recent +places. The latter stood outside the space allotted to the dance, and +appeared to watch Martha Deane and her new partner. The reviving warmth +in Gilbert's bosom instantly died, and gave way to a crowd of torturing +conjectures. He went through his part in the dance so abstractedly, +that when they reached the bottom of the line, Martha, out of friendly +consideration for him, professed fatigue and asked his permission to +withdraw from the company. He gave her his arm, and they moved to one of +the benches. + +“You, also, seem tired, Gilbert,” she said. + +“Yes--no!” he answered, confusedly, feeling that he was beginning to +tremble. He stood before her as she sat, moved irresolutely, +as if to leave, and then, facing her with a powerful effort, +heexclaimed,--“Martha, do you know what people say about Alfred Barton +and yourself?” + +“It would make no difference if I did,” she answered; “people will say +anything.” + +“But is it--is it true?” + +“Is what true?” she quietly asked. + +“That he is to marry you!” The words were said, and he would have given +his life to recall them. He dropped his head, not daring to meet her +eyes. + +Martha Deane rose to her feet, and stood before him. Then he lifted his +head; the moon shone full upon it, while her face was in shadow, but he +saw the fuller light of her eye, the firmer curve of her lip. + +“Gilbert Potter,” she said, “what right have you to ask me such a +question?” + +“I have no right--none,” he answered, in a voice whose suppressed, husky +tones were not needed to interpret the pain and bitterness of his face. +Then he quickly turned away and left her. + +Martha Deane remained a minute, motionless, standing as he left her. Her +heart was beating fast, and she could not immediately trust herself to +rejoin the gay company. But now the dance was over, and the inseparable +Sally hastened forward. + +“Martha!” cried the latter, hot and indignant, “what is the matter with +Gilbert? He is behaving shamefully; I saw him just now turn away from +you as if you were a--a shock of corn. And the way he snapped me up--it +is really outrageous!” + +“It _seems_ so, truly,” said Martha. But she knew that Gilbert Potter +loved her, and with what a love. + + + + +CHAPTER X. + +THE RIVALS. + + +Due to the abundant harvest of that year, and the universal need of +extra labor for a time, Gilbert Potter would have found his burden too +heavy, but for welcome help from an unexpected quarter. On the very +morning that he first thrust his sickle into the ripened wheat, Deb +Smith made her appearance, in a short-armed chemise and skirt of +tow-cloth. + +“I knowed ye'd want a hand,” she said, “without sendin' to ask. I'll +reap ag'inst the best man in Chester County, and you won't begrudge me +my bushel o' wheat a day, when the harvest's in.” + +With this exordium, and a pull at the black jug under the elder-bushes +in the fence-corner, she took her sickle and bent to work. It was her +boast that she could beat both men and women on their own ground. She +had spun her twenty-four cuts of yarn, in a day, and husked her fifty +shocks of heavy corn. For Gilbert she did her best, amazing him each day +with a fresh performance, and was well worth the additional daily quart +of whiskey which she consumed. + +In this pressing, sweltering labor, Gilbert dulled, though he could not +conquer, his unhappy mood. Mary Potter, with a true mother's instinct, +surmised a trouble, but the indications were too indefinite for +conjecture. She could only hope that her son had not been called upon +to suffer a fresh reproach, from the unremoved stain hanging over his +birth. + +Miss Betsy Lavender's company at this time was her greatest relief, in +a double sense. No ten persons in Kennett possessed half the amount of +confidences which were intrusted to this single lady; there was that in +her face which said: “I only blab what I choose, and what's locked up, +_is_ locked up.” This was true; she was the greatest distributor of +news, and the closest receptacle of secrets--anomalous as the two +characters may seem--that ever blessed a country community. + +Miss Betsy, like Deb Smith, knew that she could be of service on the +Potter farm, and, although her stay was perforce short, on account of an +approaching house-warming near Doe-Run, her willing arms helped to tide +Mary Potter over the heaviest labor of harvest. There were thus hours of +afternoon rest, even in the midst of the busy season, and during one +of these the mother opened her heart in relation to her son's silent, +gloomy moods. + +“You'll perhaps say it's all my fancy, Betsy,” she said, “and indeed I +hope it is; but I know you see more than most people, and two heads are +better than one. How does Gilbert seem to you?” + +Miss Betsy mused awhile, with an unusual gravity on her long face. “I +dunno,” she remarked, at length; “I've noticed that some men have their +vapors and tantrums, jist as some women have, and Gilbert's of an age +to--well, Mary, has the thought of his marryin' ever come into your +head?” + +“No!” exclaimed Mary Potter, with almost a frightened air. + +“I'll be bound! Some women are lookin' out for daughter-in-laws before +their sons have a beard, and others think theirs is only fit to wear +short jackets when they ought to be raisin' up families. I dunno but +what it'll be a cross to you, Mary,--you set so much store by Gilbert, +and it's natural, like, that you should want to have him all to +y'rself,--but a man shall leave his father and mother and cleave unto +his wife,--or somethin' like it. Yes, I say it, although nobody clove +unto me.” + +Mary Potter said nothing. Her face grew very pale, and such an +expression of pain came into it that Miss Betsy, who saw everything +without seeming to look at anything, made haste to add a consoling word. + +“Indeed, Mary,” she said, “now I come to consider upon it, you won't +have so much of a cross. You a'n't the mother you've showed yourself to +be, if you're not anxious to see Gilbert happy, and as for leavin' +his mother, there'll be no leavin' needful, in his case, but on the +contrary, quite the reverse, namely, a comin' to you. And it's no bad +fortin', though I can't say it of my own experience; but never mind, all +the same, I've seen the likes--to have a brisk, cheerful daughter-in-law +keepin' house, and you a-settin' by the window, knittin' and restin' +from mornin' till night, and maybe little caps and clothes to make, and +lots o' things to teach, that young wives don't know o' theirselves. And +then, after awhile you'll be called 'Granny,' but you won't mind it, for +grandchildren's a mighty comfort, and no responsibility like your own. +Why, I've knowed women that never seen what rest or comfort was, till +they'd got to be grandmothers!” + +Something in this homely speech touched Mary Potter's heart, and gave +her the relief of tears. “Betsy,” she said at last, “I have had a heavy +burden to bear, and it has made me weak.” + +“Made me weak,” Miss Betsy repeated. “And no wonder. Don't think I can't +guess that, Mary.” + +Here two tears trickled down the ridge of her nose, and she furtively +wiped them off while adjusting her high comb. Mary Potter's face was +turned towards her with a wistful, appealing expression, which she +understood. + +“Mary,” she said, “I don't measure people with a two-foot rule. I take a +ten-foot pole, and let it cover all that comes under it. Them that does +their dooty to Man, I guess you won't have much trouble in squarin' +accounts with the Lord. You know how I feel towards you without my +tellin' of it, and them that's quick o' the tongue are always full o' +the heart. Now, Mary, I know as plain as if you 'd said it, that there's +somethin' on your mind, and you dunno whether to share it with me +or not. What I say is, don't hurry yourself; I 'd rather show +fellow-feelin' than cur'osity; so, see your way clear first, and when +the tellin' _me_ anything can help, tell it--not before.” + +“It wouldn't help now,” Mary Potter responded. + +“Wouldn't help now. Then wait awhile. Nothin' 's so dangerous as +speakin' before the time, whomsoever and wheresoever. Folks talk o' +bridlin' the tongue; let 'em git a blind halter, say I, and a curb-bit, +and a martingale! Not that I set an example, Goodness knows, for mine +runs like a mill-clapper, rickety-rick, rickety-rick; but never mind, it +may be fast, but it isn't loose!” + +In her own mysterious way, Miss Betsy succeeded in imparting a good +deal of comfort to Mary Potter. She promised “to keep Gilbert under her +eyes,”--which, indeed, she did, quite unconsciously to himself, during +the last two days of her stay. At table she engaged him in conversation, +bringing in references, in the most wonderfully innocent and random +manner, to most of the families in the neighborhood. So skilfully did +she operate that even Mary Potter failed to perceive her strategy. Deb +Smith, sitting bare-armed on the other side of the table, and eating +like six dragoons, was the ostensible target of her speech, and +Gilbert was thus stealthily approached in flank. When she tied her +bonnet-strings to leave, and the mother accompanied her to the gate, she +left this indefinite consolation behind her: + +“Keep up your sperrits, Mary. I think I'm on the right scent about +Gilbert, but these young men are shy foxes. Let me alone, awhile yet, +and whatever you do, let _him_ alone. There's no danger--not even a +snarl, I guess. Nothin' to bother your head about. You weren't his +mother. Good lack! if I'm right, you'll see no more o' his tantrums in +two months' time--and so, good-bye to you!” + +The oats followed close upon the wheat harvest, and there was no respite +from labor until the last load was hauled into the barn, filling its +ample bays to the very rafters. Then Gilbert, mounted on his favorite +Roger, rode up to Kennett Square one Saturday afternoon, in obedience to +a message from Mr. Alfred Barton, informing him that the other gentlemen +would there meet to consult measures for mutual protection against +highwaymen in general and Sandy Flash in particular. As every young +man in the neighborhood owned his horse and musket, nothing more was +necessary than to adopt a system of action. + +The meeting was held in the bar-room of the Unicorn, and as every second +man had his own particular scheme to advocate, it was both long and +noisy. Many thought the action unnecessary, but were willing, for the +sake of the community, to give their services. The simplest plan--to +choose a competent leader, and submit to his management--never occurred +to these free and independent volunteers, until all other means of unity +had failed. Then Alfred Barton, as the originator of the measure, +was chosen, and presented the rude but sufficient plan which had been +suggested to him by Dr. Deane. The men were to meet every Saturday +evening at the Unicorn, and exchange intelligence; but they could be +called together at any time by a summons from Barton. The landlord +of the Unicorn was highly satisfied with this arrangement, but no one +noticed the interest with which the ostler, an Irishman named Dougherty, +listened to the discussion. + +Barton's horse was hitched beside Gilbert's, and as the two were +mounting, the former said,-- + +“If you're going home, Gilbert, why not come down our lane, and go +through by Carson's. We can talk the matter over a little; if there's +any running to do, I depend a good deal on your horse.” + +Gilbert saw no reason for declining this invitation, and the two rode +side by side down the lane to the Barton farm-house. The sun was still +an hour high, but a fragrant odor of broiled herring drifted out of the +open kitchen-window. Barton thereupon urged him to stop and take supper, +with a cordiality which we can only explain by hinting at his secret +intention to become the purchaser of Gilbert's horse. + +“Old-man Barton” was sitting in his arm-chair by the window, feebly +brandishing his stick at the flies, and watching his daughter Ann, as +she transferred the herrings from the gridiron to a pewter platter. + +“Father, this is Gilbert Potter,” said Mr. Alfred, introducing his +guest. + +The bent head was lifted with an effort, and the keen eyes were fixed on +the young man, who came forward to take the crooked, half-extended hand. + +“What Gilbert Potter?” he croaked. + +Mr. Alfred bit his lips, and looked both embarrassed and annoyed. But he +could do no less than say,-- + +“Mary Potter's son.” + +Gilbert straightened himself proudly, as if to face a coming insult. +After a long, steady gaze, the old man gave one of his hieroglyphic +snorts, and then muttered to him self,--“Looks like her.” + +During the meal, he was so occupied with the labor of feeding himself, +that he seemed to forget Gilbert's presence. Bending his head sideways, +from time to time, he jerked out a croaking question, which his son, +whatever annoyance he might feel, was forced to answer according to the +old man's humor. + +“In at the Doctor's, boy?” + +“A few minutes, daddy, before we came together.” + +“See her? Was she at home?” + +“Yes,” came very shortly from Mr. Alfred's lips; he clenched his fists +under the table-cloth. + +“That's right, boy; stick up to her!” and he chuckled and munched +together in a way which it made Gilbert sick to hear. The tail of the +lean herring on his plate remained untasted; he swallowed the thin tea +which Miss Ann poured out, and the heavy “half-Indian” bread with a +choking sensation. He had but one desire,--to get away from the room, +out of human sight and hearing. + +Barton, ill at ease, and avoiding Gilbert's eye, accompanied him to the +lane. He felt that the old man's garrulity ought to be explained, but +knew not what to say. Gilbert spared him the trouble-- + +“When are we to wish you joy, Barton?” he asked, in a cold, hard voice. + +Barton laughed in a forced way, clutched at his tawny whisker, and with +something like a flush on his heavy face, answered in what was meant to +be an indifferent tone: + +“Oh, it's a joke of the old man's--don't mean anything.” + +“It seems to be a joke of the whole neighborhood, then; I have heard it +from others.” + +“Have you?” Barton eagerly asked. “Do people talk about it much? What do +they say?” + +This exhibition of vulgar vanity, as he considered it, was so repulsive +to Gilbert, in his desperate, excited condition, that for a moment he +did not trust himself to speak. Holding the bridle of his horse, he +walked mechanically down the slope, Barton following him. + +Suddenly he stopped, faced the latter, and said, in a stern voice: “I +must know, first, whether you are betrothed to Martha Deane.” + +His manner was so unexpectedly solemn and peremptory that Barton, +startled from his self-possession, stammered,-- + +“N-no: that is, not yet.” + +Another pause. Barton, curious to know how far gossip had already gone, +repeated the question: + +“Well, what do people say?” + +“Some, that you and she will be married,” Gilbert answered, speaking +slowly and with difficulty, “and some that you won't. Which are right?” + +“Damme, if _I_ know!” Barton exclaimed, returning to his customary +swagger. It was quite enough that the matter was generally talked about, +and he had said nothing to settle it, in either way. But his manner, +more than his words, convinced Gilbert that there was no betrothal as +yet, and that the vanity of being regarded as the successful suitor of a +lovely girl had a more prominent place than love, in his rival's heart. +By so much was his torture lightened, and the passion of the moment +subsided, after having so nearly betrayed itself. + +“I say, Gilbert,” Barton presently remarked, walking on towards the bars +which led into the meadow-field; “it's time you were looking around in +that way, hey?” + +“It will be time enough when I am out of debt.” + +“But you ought, now, to have a wife in your house.” + +“I have a mother, Barton.” + +“That's true, Gilbert. Just as I have a father. The old man's queer, as +you saw--kept me out of marrying; when I was young, and now drives me to +it. I might ha' had children grown”-- + +He paused, laying his hand on the young man's shoulder. Gilbert fancied +that he saw on Barton's coarse, dull face the fleeting stamp of some +long-buried regret, and a little of the recent bitterness died out of +his heart. + +“Good-bye!” he said, offering his hand with greater ease than he would +have thought possible, fifteen minutes sooner. + +“Good-bye, Gilbert! Take care of Roger. Sandy Flash has a fine piece of +horse-flesh, but you beat him once--Damnation! You _could_ beat him, I +mean. If he comes within ten miles of us, I'll have the summonses out in +no time.” + +Gilbert cantered lightly down the meadow. The soft breath of the summer +evening fanned his face, and something of the peace expressed in the +rich repose of the landscape fell upon his heart. But peace, he felt, +could only come to him through love. The shame upon his name--the slow +result of labor--even the painful store of memories which the years had +crowded in his brain--might all be lightly borne, or forgotten, could +his arms once clasp the now uncertain treasure. A tender mist came over +his deep, dark eyes, a passionate longing breathed in his softened lips, +and he said to himself,-- + +“I would lie down and die at her feet, if that could make her happy; but +how to live, and live without her?” This was a darkness which his mind +refused to entertain. Love sees no justice on Earth or in Heaven, that +includes not its own fulfilled desire. + +Before reaching home, he tried to review the situation calmly. Barton's +true relation to Martha Deane he partially suspected, so far as regarded +the former's vanity and his slavish subservience to his father's will; +but he was equally avaricious, and it was well known in Kennett that +Martha possessed, or would possess, a handsome property in her own +right. Gilbert, therefore, saw every reason to believe that Barton was +an actual, if not a very passionate wooer. + +That fact, however, was in itself of no great importance, unless Dr. +Deane favored the suit. The result depended on Martha herself; she was +called an “independent girl,” which she certainly was, by contrast with +other girls of the same age. It was this free, firm, independent, yet +wholly womanly spirit which Gilbert honored in her, and which (unless +her father's influence were too powerful) would yet save her to him, if +she but loved him. Then he felt that his nervous, inflammable fear of +Barton was incompatible with true honor for her, with trust in her pure +and lofty nature. If she were so easily swayed, how could she stand +the test which he was still resolved--nay, forced by circumstances--to +apply? + +With something like shame of his past excitement, yet with strength +which had grown out of it, his reflections were terminated by Roger +stopping at the barn-yard gate. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + +GUESTS AT POTTER'S. + + +A week or two later, there was trouble, but not of a very unusual kind, +in the Fairthorn household. It was Sunday, the dinner was on the table, +but Joe and Jake were not to be found. The garden, the corn-crib, the +barn, and the grove below the house, were searched, without detecting +the least sign of the truants. Finally Sally's eyes descried a +remarkable object moving over the edge of the hill, from the direction +of the Philadelphia road. It was a huge round creature, something like a +cylindrical tortoise, slowly advancing upon four short, dark legs. + +“What upon earth is that?” she cried. + +All eyes were brought to bear upon this phenomenon, which gradually +advanced until it reached the fence. Then it suddenly separated into +three parts, the round back falling off, whereupon it was seized by two +figures and lifted upon the fence. + +“It's the best wash-tub, I do declare!” said Sally; “whatever have they +been doing with it?” + +Having crossed the fence, the boys lifted the inverted tub over their +heads, and resumed their march. When they came near enough, it could be +seen that their breeches and stockings were not only dripping wet, +but streaked with black swamp-mud. This accounted for the unsteady, +hesitating course of the tub, which at times seemed inclined to approach +the house, and then tacked away towards the corner of the barn-yard +wall. A few vigorous calls, however, appeared to convince it that the +direct course was the best, for it set out with a grotesque bobbing +trot, which brought it speedily to the kitchen-door. + +Then Joe and Jake crept out, dripping to the very crowns of their heads, +with their Sunday shirts and jackets in a horrible plight. The truth, +slowly gathered from their mutual accusations, was this: they had +resolved to have a boating excursion on Redley Creek, and had abstracted +the tub that morning when nobody was in the kitchen. Slipping down +through the wood, they had launched it in a piece of still water. Joe +got in first, and when Jake let go of the tub, it tilted over; then he +held it for Jake, who squatted in the centre, and floated successfully +down the stream until Joe pushed him with a pole, and made the tub lose +its balance. Jake fell into the mud, and the tub drifted away; they had +chased it nearly to the road before they recovered it. + +“You bad boys, what shall I do with you?” cried Mother Fairthorn. “Put +on your every-day clothes, and go to the garret. Sally, you can ride +down to Potter's with the pears; they won't keep, and I expect Gilbert +has no time to come for any, this summer.” + +“I'll go,” said Sally, “but Gilbert don't deserve it. The way he snapped +me up at Hallowell's--and he hasn't been here since!” + +“Don't be hard on him, Sally!” said the kindly old woman; nor was +Sally's more than a surface grudge. She had quite a sisterly affection +for Gilbert, and was rather hurt than angered by what he had said in the +fret of a mood which she could not comprehend. + +The old mare rejoiced in a new bridle, with a head-stall of scarlet +morocco, and Sally would have made a stately appearance, but for the +pears, which, stowed in the two ends of a grain-bag, and hung over the +saddle, would not quite be covered by her riding-skirt. She trudged on +slowly, down the lonely road, but had barely crossed the level below +Kennett Square, when there came a quick sound of hoofs behind her. + +It was Mark and Martha Deane, who presently drew rein, one on either +side of her. + +“Don't ride fast, please,” Sally begged; “_I_ can't, for fear of +smashing the pears. Where are you going?” + +“To Falconer's,” Martha replied; “Fanny promised to lend me some new +patterns; but I had great trouble in getting Mark to ride with me.” + +“Not, if you will ride along, Sally,” Mark rejoined. “We'll go with you +first, and then you'll come with us. What do you say, Martha?” + +“I'll answer for Martha!” cried Sally; “I am going to Potter's, and it's +directly on your way.” + +“Just the thing,” said Mark; “I have a little business with Gilbert.” + +It was all settled before Martha's vote had been taken, and she accepted +the decision without remark. She was glad, for Sally's sake, that they +had fallen in with her, for she had shrewdly watched Mark, and found +that, little by little, a serious liking for her friend was sending its +roots down through the gay indifference of his surface mood. Perhaps +she was not altogether calm in spirit at the prospect of meeting Gilbert +Potter; but, if so, no sign of the agitation betrayed itself in her +face. + +Gilbert, sitting on the porch, half-hidden behind a mass of blossoming +trumpet-flower, was aroused from his Sabbath reverie by the sound of +hoofs. Sally Fairthorn's voice followed, reaching even the ears of Mary +Potter, who thereupon issued from the house to greet the unexpected +guest. Mark had already dismounted, and although Sally protested that +she would remain in the saddle, the strong arms held out to her proved +too much of a temptation; it was so charming to put her hands on his +shoulders, and to have his take her by the waist, and lift her to the +ground so lightly! + +While Mark was performing this service, (and evidently with as much +deliberation as possible,) Gilbert could do no less than offer his aid +to Martha Deane, whose sudden apparition he had almost incredulously +realized. A bright, absorbing joy kindled his sad, strong features into +beauty, and Martha felt her cheeks grow warm, in spite of herself, as +their eyes met. The hands that touched her waist were firm, but no hands +had ever before conveyed to her heart such a sense of gentleness and +tenderness, and though her own gloved hand rested but a moment on his +shoulder, the action seemed to her almost like a caress. + +“How kind of you--all--to come!” said Gilbert, feeling that his voice +expressed too much, and his words too little. + +“The credit of coming is not mine, Gilbert,” she answered. “We overtook +Sally, and gave her our company for the sake of hers, afterwards. But +I shall like to take a look at your place; how pleasant you are making +it!” + +“You are the first to say so; I shall always remember that!” + +Mary Potter now advanced, with grave yet friendly welcome, and would +have opened her best room to the guests, but the bowery porch, with its +swinging scarlet bloom, haunted by humming-birds and hawk-moths, wooed +them “o take their seats in its shade. The noise of a plunging cascade, +which restored the idle mill-water to its parted stream, made a mellow, +continuous music in the air. The high road was visible at one point, +across the meadow, just where it entered the wood; otherwise, the +seclusion of the place was complete. + +“You could not have found a lovelier home, M--Mary,” said Martha, +terrified to think how near the words “Mrs. Potter” had been to her +lips. But she had recovered herself so promptly that the hesitation was +not noticed. + +“Many people think the house ought to be upon the road,” Mary Potter +replied, “but Gilbert and I like it as it is. Yes, I hope it will be a +good home, when we can call it our own.” + +“Mother is a little impatient,” said Gilbert, “and perhaps I am also. +But if we have health, it won't be very long to wait.” + +“That's a thing soon learned!” cried Mark. “I mean to be impatient. Why, +when I was doing journey-work, I was as careless as the day's long, and +so from hand to mouth didn't trouble me a bit; but now, I ha'n't been +undertaking six months, and it seems that I feel worried if I don't get +all the jobs going!” + +Martha smiled, well pleased at this confession of the change, which +she knew better how to interpret than Mark himself. But Sally, in her +innocence, remarked: + +“Oh Mark! that isn't right.” + +“I suppose it isn't. But maybe you've got to wish for more than you get, +in order to get what you do. I guess I take things pretty easy, on the +whole, for it's nobody's nature to be entirely satisfied. Gilbert, will +you be satisfied when your farm's paid for?” + +“No!” answered Gilbert with an emphasis, the sound of which, as soon as +uttered, smote him to the heart. He had not thought of his mother. She +clasped her hands convulsively, and looked at him, but his face was +turned away. + +“Why, Gilbert!” exclaimed Sally. + +“I mean,” he said, striving to collect his thoughts, “that there is +something more than property”--but how should he go on? Could he speak +of the family relation, then and there? Of honor in the community, the +respect of his neighbors, without seeming to refer to the brand upon his +and his mother's name? No; of none of these things. With sudden energy, +he turned upon himself, and continued: + +“I shall not feel satisfied until I am cured of my own impatience--until +I can better control my temper, and get the weeds and rocks and stumps +out of myself as well as out of my farm.” + +“Then you've got a job!” Mark laughed. “I think your fields are pretty +tolerable clean, what I've seen of 'em. Nobody can say they're not +well fenced in. Why, compared with you, I'm an open common, like the +Wastelands, down on Whitely Creek, and everybody's cattle run over me!” + +Mark's thoughtlessness was as good as tact. They all laughed heartily at +his odd continuation of the simile, and Martha hastened to say: + +“For my part, I don't think you are quite such an open common, Mark, or +Gilbert so well fenced in. But even if you are, a great many things may +be hidden in a clearing, and some people are tall enough to look over +a high hedge. Betsy Lavender says some men tell all about themselves +without saying a word, while others talk till Doomsday and tell +nothing.” + +“And tell nothing,” gravely repeated Mark, whereat no one could repress +a smile, and Sally laughed outright. + +Mary Potter had not mingled much in the society of Kennett, and did not +know that this imitation of good Miss Betsy was a very common thing, and +had long ceased to mean any harm. It annoyed her, and she felt it her +duty to say a word for her friend. + +“There is not a better or kinder-hearted woman in the county,” she said, +“than just Betsy Lavender. With all her odd ways of speech, she talks +the best of sense and wisdom, and I don't know who I'd sooner take for a +guide in times of trouble.” + +“You could not give Betsy a higher place than she deserves,” Martha +answered. “We all esteem her as a dear friend, and as the best helper +where help is needed. She has been almost a mother to me.” + +Sally felt rebuked, and exclaimed tearfully, with her usual impetuous +candor,--“Now you know I meant no harm; it was all Mark's doing!” + +“If you've anything against me, Sally, I forgive you for it. It isn't in +my nature to bear malice,” said Mark, with so serious an air, that poor +Sally was more bewildered than ever. Gilbert and Martha, however, +could not restrain their laughter at the fellow's odd, reckless humor, +whereupon Sally, suddenly comprehending the joke, sprang from her seat. +Mark leaped from the porch, and darted around the house, followed by +Sally with mock-angry cries and brandishings of her riding-whip. + +The scene was instantly changed to Gilbert's eyes. It was wonderful! +There, on the porch of the home he so soon hoped to call his own, sat +his mother, Martha Deane, and himself. The two former had turned towards +each other, and were talking pleasantly; the hum of the hawk-moths, the +mellow plunge of the water, and the stir of the soft summer breeze in +the leaves, made a sweet accompaniment to their voices. His brain grew +dizzy with yearning to fix that chance companionship, and make it the +boundless fortune of his life. Under his habit of repression, his love +for her had swelled and gathered to such an intensity, that it seemed he +must either speak or die. + +Presently the rollicking couple made their appearance. Sally's foot had +caught in her riding-skirt as she ran, throwing her at full length on +the sward, and Mark, in picking her up, had possessed himself of the +whip. She was not hurt in the least, (her life having been a succession +of tears and tumbles,) but Mark's arm found it necessary to encircle her +waist, and she did not withdraw from the support until they came within +sight of the porch. + +It was now time for the guests to leave, but Mary Potter must first +produce her cakes and currant-wine,--the latter an old and highly +superior article, for there had been, alas! too few occasions which +called for its use. + +“Gilbert,” said Mark, as they moved towards the gate, “why can't you +catch and saddle Roger, and ride with us? You have nothing to do?” + +“No; I would like--but where are you going?” + +“To Falconer's; that is, the girls; but we won't stay for supper--I +don't fancy quality company.” + +“Nor I,” said Gilbert, with a gloomy face. “I have never visited +Falconer's, and they might not thank you for introducing me.” + +He looked at Martha, as he spoke. She understood him, and gave him her +entire sympathy and pity,--yet it was impossible for her to propose +giving up the visit, solely for his sake. It was not want of +independence, but a maidenly shrinking from the inference of the act, +which kept her silent. + +Mark, however, cut through the embarrassment. “I'll tell you what, +Gilbert!” he exclaimed, “you go and get Roger from the field, while +we ride on to Falconer's. If the girls will promise not to be too long +about their patterns and their gossip, and what not, we can be back +to the lane-end by the time you get there; then we'll ride up t' other +branch o' Redley Creek, to the cross-road, and out by Hallowell's. I +want to have a squint at the houses and barns down that way; nothing +like business, you know!” + +Mark thought he was very cunning in thus disposing of Martha during +the ride, unconscious of the service he was offering to Gilbert. The +latter's eagerness shone from his eyes, but still he looked at Martha, +trembling for a sign that should decide his hesitation. Her lids fell +before his gaze, and a faint color came into her face, yet she did not +turn away. This time it was Sally Fairthorn who spoke. + +“Five minutes will be enough for us, Mark,” she said. “I'm not much +acquainted with Fanny Falconer. So, Gilbert, hoist Martha into her +saddle, and go for Roger.” + +He opened the gate for them, and then climbed over the fence into the +hill-field above his house. Having reached the crest, he stopped to +watch the three riding abreast, on a smart trot, down the glen. Sally +looked back, saw him, and waved her hand; then Mark and Martha turned, +giving no sign, yet to his eyes there seemed a certain expectancy in the +movement. + +Roger came from the farthest corner of the field at his call, and +followed him down the hill to the bars, with the obedient attachment of +a dog. When he had carefully brushed and then saddled the horse, he went +to seek his mother, who was already making preparations for their early +supper. + +“Mother,” he said, “I am going to ride a little way.” + +She looked at him wistfully and questioningly, as if she would fain have +asked more; but only said,-- + +“Won't you be home to supper, Gilbert?” + +“I can't tell, but don't wait a minute, if I'm not here when it's +ready.” + +He turned quickly, as if fearful of a further question, and the next +moment was in the saddle. + +The trouble in Mary Potter's face increased. Sighing sorely, she +followed to the bridge of the barn, and presently descried him, beyond +the mill, cantering lightly down the road. Then, lifting her arms, as in +a blind appeal for help, she let them fall again, and walked slowly back +to the house. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + +THE EVENTS OF AN EVENING. + + +At the first winding of the creek, Gilbert drew rein, with a vague, +half-conscious sense of escape. The eye which had followed him thus far +was turned away at last. + +For half a mile the road lay through a lovely solitude of shade and +tangled bowery thickets, beside the stream. The air was soft and +tempered, and filled the glen like the breath of some utterly peaceful +and happy creature; yet over Gilbert's heart there brooded another +atmosphere than this. The sultriness that precedes an emotional crisis +weighed heavily upon him. + +No man, to whom Nature has granted her highest gift,--that of +expression,--can understand the pain endured by one of strong feelings, +to whom not only this gift has been denied, but who must also wrestle +with an inherited reticence. It is well that in such cases a kindly law +exists, to aid the helpless heart. The least portion of the love which +lights the world has been told in words; it works, attracts, and binds +in silence. The eye never knows its own desire, the hand its warmth, +the voice its tenderness, nor the heart its unconscious speech through +these, and a thousand other vehicles. Every endeavor to hide the special +fact betrays the feeling from which it sprang. + +Like all men of limited culture, Gilbert felt his helplessness keenly. +His mind, usually clear in its operations, if somewhat slow and +cautious, refused to assist him here; it lay dead or apathetic in an +air surcharged with passion. An anxious expectancy enclosed him with +stifling pressure; he felt that it must be loosened, but knew not how. +His craving for words--words swift, clear, and hot as lightning, through +which his heart might discharge itself--haunted him like a furious +hunger. + +The road, rising out of the glen, passed around the brow of a grassy +hill, whence he could look across a lateral valley to the Falconer +farm-house. Pausing here, he plainly descried a stately “chair” leaning +on its thills, in the shade of the weeping-willow, three horses hitched +side by side to the lane-fence, and a faint glimmer of color between +the mounds of box which almost hid the porch. It was very evident to his +mind that the Falconers had other visitors, and that neither Mark nor +Sally, (whatever might be Martha Deane's inclination,) would be likely +to prolong their stay; so he slowly rode on, past the lane-end, and +awaited them at the ford beyond. + +It was not long--though the wood on the western hill already threw its +shadow into the glen--before the sound of voices and hoofs emerged from +the lane. Sally's remark reached him first: + +“They may be nice people enough, for aught I know, but their ways are +not my ways, and there's no use in trying to mix them.” + +“That's a fact!” said Mark. “Hallo, here's Gilbert, ahead of us!” + +They rode into the stream together, and let their horses drink from the +clear, swift-flowing water. In Mark's and Sally's eyes, Gilbert was +as grave and impassive as usual, but Martha Deane was conscious of a +strange, warm, subtle power, which seemed to envelop her as she drew +near him. Her face glowed with a sweet, unaccustomed flush; his was +pale, and the shadow of his brows lay heavier upon his eyes. Fate +was already taking up the invisible, floating filaments of these two +existences, and weaving them together. + +Of course it happened, and of course by the purest accident, that +Mark and Sally first reached the opposite bank, and took the narrow +wood-road, where the loose, briery sprays of the thickets brushed them +on either side. Sally's hat, and probably her head, would have been +carried off by a projecting branch, had not Mark thrown his arm around +her neck and forcibly bent her forwards. Then she shrieked and struck at +him with her riding-whip, while Mark's laugh woke all the echoes of the +woods. + +“I say, Gilbert!” he cried, turning back in his saddle, “I'll hold +_you_ responsible for Martha's head; it's as much as _I_ can do to keep +Sally's on her shoulders.” + +Gilbert looked at his companion, as she rode slowly by his side, through +the cool, mottled dusk of the woods. She had drawn the strings of her +beaver through a buttonhole of her riding-habit, and allowed it to hang +upon her back. The motion of the horse gave a gentle, undulating grace +to her erect, self-reliant figure, and her lips, slightly parted, +breathed maidenly trust and consent. She turned her face towards him and +smiled, at Mark's words. + +“The warning is unnecessary,” he said. “You will give me no chance to +take care of you, Martha.” + +“Is it not better so?” she asked. + +He hesitated; he would have said “No,” but finally evaded a direct +answer. + +“I would be glad enough to do you a service--even so little as that,” + were his words, and the tender tone in which they were spoken made +itself evident to his own ears. + +“I don't doubt it, Gilbert,” she answered, so kindly and cordially that +he was smitten to the heart. Had she faltered in her reply,--had she +blushed and kept silence,--his hope would have seized the evidence and +rushed to the trial; but this was the frankness of friendship, not the +timidity of love. She could not, then, suspect his passion, and ah, how +the risks of its utterance were multiplied! + +Meanwhile, the wonderful glamour of her presence--that irresistible +influence which at once takes hold of body and spirit--had entered +into every cell of his blood. Thought and memory were blurred into +nothingness by this one overmastering sensation. Riding through the +lonely woods, out of shade into yellow, level sunshine, in the odors of +minty meadows and moist spices of the creekside, they twain seemed to +him to be alone in the world. If they loved not each other, why should +not the leaves shrivel and fall, the hills split asunder, and the sky +rain death upon them? Here she moved at his side--he could stretch out +his hand and touch her; his heart sprang towards her, his arms ached +for very yearning to clasp her,--his double nature demanded her with the +will and entreated for her with the affection! Under all, felt though +not suspected, glowed the vast primal instinct upon which the strength +of manhood and of womanhood is based. + +Sally and Mark, a hundred yards in advance, now thrown into sight and +now hidden by the windings of the road, were so pleasantly occupied with +each other that they took no heed of the pair behind them. Gilbert was +silent; speech was mockery, unless it gave the words which he did not +dare to pronounce. His manner was sullen and churlish in Martha's eyes, +he suspected; but so it must be, unless a miracle were sent to aid him. +She, riding as quietly, seemed to meditate, apparently unconscious +of his presence; how could he know that she had never before been so +vitally conscious of it? + +The long rays of sunset withdrew to the tree-tops, and a deeper hush +fell upon the land. The road which had mounted along the slope of a +stubble-field, now dropped again into a wooded hollow, where a tree, +awkwardly felled, lay across it. Roger pricked up his ears and leaped +lightly over. Martha's horse followed, taking the log easily, but +she reined him up the next moment, uttering a slight exclamation, and +stretched out her hand wistfully towards Gilbert. + +To seize it and bring Roger to a stand was the work of an instant. “What +is the matter, Martha?” he cried. + +“I think the girth is broken,” said she. “The saddle is loose, and I was +nigh losing my balance. Thank you, I can sit steadily now.” + +Gilbert sprang to the ground and hastened to her assistance. + +“Yes, it is broken,” he said, “but I can give you mine. You had better +dismount, though; see, I will hold the pommel firm with one hand, while +I lift you down with the other. Not too fast, I am strong; place your +hands on my shoulders--so!” + +She bent forward and laid her hands upon his shoulders. Then, as she +slid gently down, his right arm crept around her waist, holding her so +firmly and securely that she had left the saddle and hung in its support +while her feet had not yet touched the earth. Her warm breath was on +Gilbert's forehead; her bosom swept his breast, and the arm that until +then had supported, now swiftly, tenderly, irresistibly embraced her. +Trembling, thrilling from head to foot, utterly unable to control the +mad impulse of the moment, he drew her to his heart and laid his lips +to hers. All that he would have said--all, and more than all, that words +could have expressed--was now said, without words. His kiss clung as +if it were the last this side of death--clung until he felt that Martha +feebly strove to be released. + +The next minute they stood side by side, and Gilbert, by a revulsion +equally swift and overpowering, burst into a passion of tears. + +He turned and leaned his head against Roger's neck. Presently a light +touch came upon his shoulder. + +“Gilbert!” + +He faced her then, and saw that her own cheeks were wet. “Martha!” he +cried, “unless you love me with a love like mine for you, you can never +forgive me!” + +She came nearer; she laid her arms around him, and lifted her face to +his. Then she said, in a tender, tremulous whisper,-- + +“Gilbert--Gilbert! I forgive you.” + +A pang of wonderful, incredulous joy shot through his heart. Exalted by +his emotion above the constraints of his past and present life, he arose +and stood free and strong in his full stature as a man. He held her +softly and tenderly embraced, and a purer bliss than the physical +delight of her warm, caressing presence shone upon his face as he +asked,-- + +“Forever, Martha?” + +“Forever.” + +“Knowing what I am?” + +“Because I know what you are, Gilbert!” + +He bowed his head upon her shoulder, and she felt softer tears--tears +which came this time without sound or pang--upon her neck. It was +infinitely touching to see this strong nature so moved, and the best +bliss that a true woman's heart can feel--the knowledge of the boundless +bounty which her love brings with it--opened upon her consciousness. +A swift instinct revealed to her the painful struggles of Gilbert's +life,--the stern, reticent strength they had developed,--the anxiety and +the torture of his long-suppressed passion, and the power and purity of +that devotion with which his heart had sought and claimed her. She +now saw him in his true character,--firm as steel, yet gentle as dew, +patient and passionate, and purposely cold only to guard the sanctity of +his emotions. + +The twilight deepened in the wood, and Roger, stretching and shaking +himself, called the lovers to themselves. Gilbert lifted his head and +looked into Martha's sweet, unshrinking eyes. + +“May the Lord bless you, as you have blessed me!” he said, solemnly. +“Martha, did you guess this before?” + +“Yes,” she answered, “I felt that it must be so.” + +“And you did not draw back from me--you did not shun the thought of me! +You were”-- + +He paused; was there not blessing enough, or must he curiously question +its growth? + +Martha, however, understood the thought in his mind. “No, Gilbert!” + she said, “I cannot truly say that I loved you at the time when I first +discovered your feeling towards me. I had always esteemed and trusted +you, and you were much in my mind; but when I asked myself if I could +look upon you as my husband, my heart hesitated with the answer. I did +not deserve your affection then, because I could not repay it in +the same measure. But, although the knowledge seemed to disturb me, +sometimes, yet it was very grateful, and therefore I could not quite +make up my mind to discourage you. Indeed, I knew not what was right to +do, but I found myself more and more strongly drawn towards you; a power +came from you when we met, that touched and yet strengthened me, and +then I thought, 'Perhaps I _do_ love him.' To-day, when I first saw your +face, I knew that I did. I felt your heart calling to me like one that +cries for help, and mine answered. It has been slow to speak, Gilbert, +but I know it has spoken truly at last!” + +He replaced the broken girth, lifted her into the saddle, mounted his +own horse, and they resumed their ride along the dusky valley. But how +otherwise their companionship now! + +“Martha,” said Gilbert, leaning towards her and touching her softly as +he spoke, as if fearful that some power in his words might drive them +apart,--“Martha, have you considered what I am called? That the family +name I bear is in itself a disgrace? Have you imagined what it is to +love one so dishonored as I am?” + +The delicate line of her upper lip grew clear and firm again, +temporarily losing its relaxed gentleness. “I have thought of it,” she +answered, “but not in that way. Gilbert, I honored you before I loved +you. I will not say that this thing makes no difference, for it does--a +difference in the name men give you, a difference in your work through +life (for you must deserve more esteem to gain as much as other +men)--and a difference in my duty towards you. They call me +'independent,' Gilbert, because, though a woman, I dare to think for +myself; I know not whether they mean praise by the word, or no; but I +think it would frighten away the thought of love from many men. It has +not frightened you; and you, however you were born, are the faithfullest +and best man I know. I love you with my whole heart, and I will be true +to you!” + +With these words, Martha stretched out her hand. Gilbert took and held +it, bowing his head fondly over it, and inwardly thanking God that the +test which his pride had exacted was over at last. He could reward her +truth, spare her the willing sacrifice,--and he would. + +“Martha,” he said, “if I sometimes doubted whether you could share my +disgrace, it was because I had bitter cause to feel how heavy it is +to bear. God knows I would have come to you with a clean and honorable +name, if I could have been patient to wait longer in uncertainty. But I +could not tell how long the time might be,--I could not urge my mother, +nor even ask her to explain”-- + +“No, no, Gilbert! Spare _her!”_ Martha interrupted. + +“I _have,_ Martha,--God bless you for the words!--and I _will_; it would +be the worst wickedness not to be patient, now! But I have not yet told +you”-- + +A loud halloo rang through the dusk. + +“It is Mark's voice,” said Martha; “answer him!” + +Gilbert shouted, and a double cry instantly replied. They had reached +the cross-road from New-Garden, and Mark and Sally, who had been waiting +impatiently for a quarter of an hour, rode to meet them. “Did you lose +the road?” “Whatever kept you so long?” were the simultaneous questions. + +“My girth broke in jumping over the tree,” Martha answered, in her +clear, untroubled voice. “I should have been thrown off, but for +Gilbert's help. He had to give me his own girth, and so we have ridden +slowly, since he has none.” + +“Take my breast-strap,” said Mark. + +“No,” said Gilbert, “I can ride Roger bareback, if need be, with the +saddle on my shoulder.” + +Something in his voice struck Mark and Sally singularly. It was grave +and subdued, yet sweet in its tones as never before; he had not yet +descended from the solemn exaltation of his recent mood. But the dusk +sheltered his face, and its new brightness was visible only to Martha's +eyes. + +Mark and Sally again led the way, and the lovers followed in silence up +the hill, until they struck the Wilmington road, below Hallowell's. Here +Gilbert felt that it was best to leave them. + +“Well, you two are cheerful company!” exclaimed Sally, as they checked +their horses. “Martha, how many words has Gilbert spoken to you this +evening?” + +“As many as I have spoken to him,” Martha answered; “but I will say +three more,--Good-night, Gilbert!” + +“Good-night!” was all he dared say, in return, but the pressure of his +hand burned long upon her fingers. + +He rode homewards in the starlight, transformed by love and gratitude, +proud, tender, strong to encounter any fate. His mother sat in the +lonely kitchen, with the New Testament in her lap; she had tried to +read, but her thoughts wandered from the consoling text. The table was +but half-cleared, and the little old teapot still squatted beside the +coals. + +Gilbert strove hard to assume his ordinary manner, but he could not hide +the radiant happiness that shone from his eyes and sat upon his lips. + +“You've not had supper?” Mary Potter asked. + +“No, mother! but I'm sorry you kept things waiting; I can do well enough +without.” + +“It's not right to go without your regular meals, Gilbert. Sit up to the +table!” + +She poured out the tea, and Gilbert ate and drank in silence. His mother +said nothing, but he knew that her eye was upon him, and that he was +the subject of her thoughts. Once or twice he detected a wistful, +questioning expression, which, in his softened mood, touched him almost +like a reproach. + +When the table had been cleared and everything put away, she resumed her +seat, breathing an unconscious sigh as she dropped her hands into her +lap. Gilbert felt that he must now speak, and only hesitated while he +considered how he could best do so, without touching her secret and +mysterious trouble. + +“Mother!” he said at last, “I have something to tell you.” + +“Ay, Gilbert?” + +“Maybe it'll seem good news to you; but maybe not. I have asked Martha +Deane to be my wife!” + +He paused, and looked at her. She clasped her hands, leaned forward, and +fixed her dark, mournful eyes intently upon his face. + +“I have been drawn towards her for a long time,” Gilbert continued. “It +has been a great trouble to me, because she is so pretty, and withal +so proud in the way a girl should be,--I liked her pride, even while +it made me afraid,--and they say she is rich also. It might seem like +looking too high, mother, but I couldn't help it.” + +“There's no woman too high for you, Gilbert!” Mary Potter exclaimed. +Then she went on, in a hurried, unsteady voice: “It isn't that--I +mistrusted it would come so, some day, but I hoped--only for your good, +my boy, only for that--I hoped not so soon. You're still young--not +twenty-five, and there's debt on the farm;--couldn't you ha' waited a +little, Gilbert?” + +“I have waited, mother,” he said, slightly turning away his head, that +he might not see the tender reproach in her face, which her question +seemed to imply. “I _did_ wait--and for that reason. I wanted first to +be independent, at least; and I doubt that I would have spoken so soon, +but there were others after Martha, and that put the thought of losing +her into my head. It seemed like a matter of life or death. Alfred +Barton tried to keep company with her--he didn't deny it to my face; the +people talked of it. Folks always say more than they know, to be sure, +but then, the chances were so much against _me,_ mother! I was nigh +crazy, sometimes. I tried my best and bravest to be patient, but to-day +we were riding alone,--Mark and Sally gone ahead,--and--and then it came +from my mouth, I don't know how; I didn't expect it. But I shouldn't +have doubted Martha; she let me speak; she answered me--I can't tell you +her words, mother, though I'll never forget one single one of 'em to +my dying day. She gave me her hand and said she would be true to me +forever.” + +Gilbert waited, as if his mother might here speak, but she remained +silent. + +“Do you understand, mother?” he continued. “She pledged herself to +me--she will be my wife. And I asked her--you won't be hurt, for I felt +it to be my duty--whether she knew how disgraced I was in the eyes of +the people,--whether my name would not be a shame for her to bear? She +couldn't know what we know: she took me even with the shame,--and she +looked prouder than ever when she stood by me in the thought of it! She +would despise me, now, if I should offer to give her up on account of +it, but she may know as much as I do, mother? She deserves it.” + +There was no answer. Gilbert looked up. + +Mary Potter sat perfectly still in her high rocking-chair. Her arms hung +passively at her sides, and her head leaned back and was turned to one +side, as if she were utterly exhausted. But in the pale face, the closed +eyes, and the blue shade about the parted lips, he saw that she was +unconscious of his words. She had fainted. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + +DOUBTS AND SURMISES. + + +Gilbert's voice, sharpened by his sudden and mortal fear, recalled Mary +Potter to consciousness. After she had drunk of the cup of water which +he brought, she looked slowly and wearily around the kitchen, as if some +instinct taught her to fix her thoughts on the signs and appliances of +her every-day life, rather than allow them to return to the pang which +had overpowered her. Little by little she recovered her calmness and a +portion of her strength, and at last, noticing her son's anxious face, +she spoke. + +“I have frightened you, Gilbert; but there is no occasion for it. I +wasn't rightly prepared for what you had to say--and--and--but, please, +don't let us talk any more about it to-night. Give me a little time to +think--if I _can_ think. I'm afraid it's but a sad home I'm making for +you, and sure it's a sad load I've put upon you, my poor boy! But oh, +try, Gilbert, try to be patient a little while longer,--it can't be for +long,--for I begin to see now that I've worked out my fault, and that +the Lord in Heaven owes me justice!” + +She clenched her hands wildly, and rose to her feet. Her steps tottered, +and he sprang to her support. + +“Mother,” he said, “let me help you to your room. I'll not speak of +this again; I wouldn't have spoken to-night, if I had mistrusted that it +could give you trouble. Have no fear that I can ever be impatient again; +patience is easy to me now!” + +He spoke kindly and cheerfully, registering a vow in his heart that +his lips should henceforth be closed upon the painful theme, until his +mother's release (whatever it was and whenever it might come) should +open them. + +But competent as he felt in that moment to bear the delay cheerfully, +and determined as he was to cast no additional weight on his mother's +heart, it was not so easy to compose his thoughts, as he lay in the +dusky, starlit bedroom up-stairs. The events of the day, and +their recent consequences, had moved his strong nature to its very +foundations. A chaos of joy, wonder, doubt, and dread surged through +him. Over and over he recalled the sweet pressure of Martha Deane's lip, +the warm curve of her bosom, the dainty, delicate firmness of her +hand. Was this--could this possession really be his? In his mother's +mysterious secret there lay an element of terror. He could not guess why +the revelation of his fortunate love should agitate her so fearfully, +unless--and the suspicion gave him a shock--her history were in some way +involved with that of Martha Deane. + +This thought haunted and perplexed him, continually returning to disturb +the memory of those holy moments in the twilight dell, and to ruffle the +bright current of joy which seemed to gather up and sweep away with +it all the forces of his life. Any fate but to lose her, he said to +himself; let the shadow fall anywhere, except between them! There would +be other troubles, he foresaw,--the opposition of her father; the rage +and hostility of Alfred Barton; possibly, when the story became +known (as it must be in the end), the ill-will or aversion of the +neighborhood. Against all these definite and positive evils, he felt +strong and tolerably courageous, but the Something which evidently +menaced him through his mother made him shrink with a sense of +cowardice. + +Hand in hand with this dread he went into the world of sleep. He stood +upon the summit of the hill behind Falconer's farm-house, and saw Martha +beckoning to him from the hill on the other side of the valley. They +stretched and clasped hands through the intervening space; the hills +sank away, and they found themselves suddenly below, on the banks of the +creek. He threw his arms around her, but she drew back, and then he saw +that it was Betsy Lavender, who said: “I am your father--did you never +guess it before?” Down the road came Dr. Deane and his mother, walking +arm in arm; their eyes were fixed on him, but they did not speak. Then +he heard Martha's voice, saying: “Gilbert, why did you tell Alfred +Barton? Nobody must know that I am engaged to both of you.” Betsy +Lavender said: “He can only marry with my consent--Mary Potter has +nothing to do with it.” Martha then came towards him smiling, and said: +“I will not send back your saddle-girth--see, I am wearing it as a +belt!” He took hold of the buckle and drew her nearer; she began to +weep, and they were suddenly standing side by side, in a dark room, +before his dead mother, in her coffin. + +This dream, absurd and incoherent as it was, made a strange impression +upon Gilbert's mind. He was not superstitious, but in spite of himself +the idea became rooted in his thoughts that the truth of his own +parentage affected, in some way, some member of the Deane family. He +taxed his memory in vain for words or incidents which might help him to +solve this doubt. Something told him that his obligation to his mother +involved the understanding that he would not even attempt to discover +her secret; but he could not prevent his thoughts from wandering around +it, and making blind guesses as to the vulnerable point. + +Among these guesses came one which caused him to shudder; he called it +impossible, incredible, and resolutely barred it from his mind. But with +all his resolution, it only seemed to wait at a little distance, as if +constantly seeking an opportunity to return. What if Dr. Deane were his +own father? In that case Martha would be his half-sister, and the +stain of illegitimacy would rest on her, not on him! There was ruin and +despair in the supposition; but, on the other hand, he asked himself +why should the fact of his love throw his mother into a swoon? Among the +healthy, strong-nerved people of Kennett such a thing as a swoon was of +the rarest occurrence, and it suggested some terrible cause to Gilbert's +mind. It was sometimes hard for him to preserve his predetermined +patient, cheerful demeanor in his mother's presence, but he tried +bravely, and succeeded. + +Although the harvest was well over, there was still much work to do on +the farm, in order that the month of October might be appropriated to +hauling,--the last time, Gilbert hoped, that he should be obliged to +resort to this source of profit. Though the price of grain was sure to +decline, on account of the extraordinary harvest, the quantity would +make up for this deficiency. So far, his estimates had been verified. A +good portion of the money was already on hand, and his coveted freedom +from debt in the following spring became now tolerably secure. His +course, in this respect, was in strict accordance with the cautious, +plodding, conscientious habits of the community in which he lived. They +were satisfied to advance steadily and slowly, never establishing a new +mark until the old one had been reached. + +Gilbert was impatient to see Martha again, not so much for the delight +of love, as from a sense of the duty which he owed to her. His mother +had not answered his question,--possibly not even heard it,--and he did +not dare to approach her with it again. But so much as he knew might be +revealed to the wife of his heart; of that he was sure. If she could but +share his confidence in his mother's words, and be equally patient to +await the solution, it would give their relation a new sweetness, an +added sanctity and trust. + +He made an errand to Fairthorn's at the close of the week, hoping that +chance might befriend him, but almost determined, in any case, to force +an interview. The dread he had trampled down still hung around him, +and it seemed that Martha's presence might dissipate it. Something, +at least, he might learn concerning Dr. Deane's family, and here his +thoughts at once reverted to Miss Betsy Lavender. In her he had the true +friend, the close mouth, the brain crammed with family intelligence! + +The Fairthorns were glad to see their “boy,” as the old woman still +called him. Joe and Jake threw their brown legs over the barn-yard fence +and clamored for a ride upon Roger. “Only along the level, t'other side +o' the big hill, Gilbert!” said Joe, whereupon the two boys punched each +other in the sides and nearly smothered with wicked laughter. Gilbert +understood them; he shook his head, and said: “You rascals, I think I +see you doing that again!” But he turned away his face, to conceal a +smile at the recollection. + +It was, truly, a wicked trick. The boys had been in the habit of +taking the farm-horses out of the field and riding them up and down the +Unionville road. It was their habit, as soon as they had climbed “the +big hill,” to use stick and voice with great energy, force the animals +into a gallop, and so dash along the level. Very soon, the horses knew +what was expected of them, and whenever they came abreast of the +great chestnut-tree on the top of the hill, they would start off as if +possessed. If any business called Farmer Fairthorn to the Street Road, +or up Marlborough way, Joe and Jake, dancing with delight, would dart +around the barn, gain the wooded hollow, climb the big hill behind the +lime-kiln, and hide themselves under the hedge, at the commencement +of the level road. Here they could watch their father, as his benign, +unsuspecting face came in sight, mounting the hill, either upon the +gray mare, Bonnie, or the brown gelding, Peter. As the horse neared the +chestnut-tree, they fairly shook with eager expectancy--then came the +start, the astonishment of the old man, his frantic “Whoa, there, whoa!” + his hat soaring off on the wind, his short, stout body bouncing in the +saddle, as, half-unseated, he clung with one hand to the mane and the +other to the bridle!--while the wicked boys, after breathlessly watching +him out of sight, rolled over and over on the grass, shrieking and +yelling in a perfect luxury of fun. + +Then they knew that a test would come, and prepared themselves to meet +it. When, at dinner, Farmer Fairthorn turned to his wife and said: +“Mammy,” (so he always addressed her) “I don't know what's the matter +with Bonnie; why, she came nigh runnin' off with me!”--Joe, being the +oldest and boldest, would look up in well-affected surprise, and +ask, “Why, how, Daddy?” while Jake would bend down his head and +whimper,--“Somethin' 's got into my eye.” Yet the boys were very +good-hearted fellows, at bottom, and we are sorry that we must chronicle +so many things to their discredit. + +Sally Fairthorn met Gilbert in her usual impetuous way. She was glad to +see him, but she could not help saying: “Well, have you got your tongue +yet, Gilbert? Why, you're growing to be as queer as Dick's hat-band! I +don't know any more where to find you, or how to place you; whatever is +the matter?” + +“Nothing, Sally,” he answered, with something of his old playfulness, +“nothing except that the pears were very good. How's Mark?” + +“Mark!” she exclaimed with a very well assumed sneer. “As if I kept +an account of Mark's comings and goings!” But she could not prevent an +extra color from rising into her face. + +“I wish you did, Sally,” Gilbert gravely remarked. “Mark is a fine +fellow, and one of my best friends, and he'd be all the better, if a +smart, sensible girl like yourself would care a little for him.” + +There was no answer to this, and Sally, with a hasty “I'll tell mother +you're here!” darted into the house. + +Gilbert was careful not to ask many questions during his visit; but +Sally's rattling tongue supplied him with all he would have been likely +to learn, in any case. She had found Martha at home the day before, and +had talked about him, Gilbert. Martha hadn't noticed anything “queer” + in his manner, whereupon she, Sally, had said that Martha was growing +“queer” too; then Martha remarked that--but here Sally found that she +had been talking altogether too fast, so she bit her tongue and blushed +a little. The most important piece of news, however, was that Miss +Lavender was then staying at Dr. Deane's. + +On his way to the village, Gilbert chose the readiest and simplest way +of accomplishing his purpose. He would call on Betsy Lavender, and ask +her to arrange her time so that she could visit his mother during his +approaching absence from home. Leaving his horse at the hitching-post in +front of the store, he walked boldly across the road and knocked at Dr. +Deane's door. + +The Doctor was absent. Martha and Miss Lavender were in the +sitting-room, and a keen, sweet throb in his blood responded to the +voice that bade him enter. + +“Gilbert Potter, I'll be snaked!” exclaimed Miss Lavender, jumping up +with a start that overturned her footstool. + +“Well, Gilbert!” and “Well, Martha!” were the only words the lovers +exchanged, on meeting, but their hands were quick to clasp and loath +to loose. Martha Deane was too clear-headed to be often surprised by an +impulse of the heart, but when the latter experience came to her, she +never thought of doubting its justness. She had not been fully, vitally +aware of her love for Gilbert until the day when he declared it, and +now, in memory, the two circumstances seemed to make but one fact. The +warmth, the beauty, the spiritual expansion which accompany love had +since then dawned upon her nature in their true significance. Proudly +and cautiously as she would have guarded her secret from an intrusive +eye, just as frank, tender, and brave was she to reveal every emotion +of her heart to her lover. She was thoroughly penetrated with the +conviction of his truth, of the integral nobility of his manhood; and +these, she felt, were the qualities her heart had unconsciously craved. +Her mind was made up inflexibly; it rejoiced in his companionship, +it trusted in his fidelity, and if she considered conventional +difficulties, it was only to estimate how they could most speedily be +overthrown. Martha Deane was in advance of her age,--or, at least, of +the community in which she lived. + +They could only exchange common-places, of course, in Miss Lavender's +presence; and perhaps they were not aware of the gentle, affectionate +way in which they spoke of the weather and similar topics. Miss Lavender +was; her eyes opened widely, then nearly closed with an expression +of superhuman wisdom; she looked out of the window and nodded to the +lilac-bush, then exclaiming in desperate awkwardness: “Goodness me, I +must have a bit o' sage!” made for the garden, with long strides. + +Gilbert was too innocent to suspect the artifice--not so Martha. But +while she would have foiled the inference of any other woman, she +accepted Betsy's without the least embarrassment, and took Gilbert's +hand again in her own before the door had fairly closed. + +“O Martha!” he cried, “if I could but see you oftener--but for a minute, +every day! But there--I won't be impatient. I've thought of you ever +since, and I ask myself, the first thing when I wake, morning after +morning, is it really true?” + +“And I say to myself, every morning, it _is_ true,” she answered. Her +lovely blue eyes smiled upon him with a blissful consent, so gentle and +so perfect, that he would fain have stood thus and spoken no word more. + +“Martha,” he said, returning to the thought of his duty, “I have +something to say. You can hear it now. My mother declares that I am her +lawful son, born in wedlock--she gave me her solemn word--but more than +that she will not allow me to ask, saying she's bound for a time, and +something, I don't know what, must happen before she can set herself +right in the eyes of the world. I believe her, Martha, and I want that +you should believe her, for her sake and for mine. I can't make things +clear to you, now, because they're not clear to myself; only, what she +has declared is and must be true! I am not base-born, and it'll be +made manifest, I'm sure; the Lord will open her mouth in his own good +time--and until then, we must wait! Will you wait with me?” + +He spoke earnestly and hurriedly, and his communication was so +unexpected that she scarcely comprehended its full import. But for his +sake, she dared not hesitate to answer. + +“Can you ask it, Gilbert? Whatever your mother declares to you, must be +true; yet I scarcely understand it.” + +“Nor can I! I've wearied my brains, trying to guess why she can't speak, +and what it is that'll give her the liberty at last. I daren't ask her +more--she fainted dead away, the last time.” + +“Strange things sometimes happen in this world,” said Martha, with a +grave tenderness, laying her hand upon his arm, “and this seems to be +one of the strangest. I am glad you have told me, Gilbert,--it will make +so much difference to you!” + +“So it don't take you from me, Martha,” he groaned, in a return of his +terrible dread. + +“Only Death can do that--and then but for a little while.” + +Here Miss Betsy Lavender made her appearance, but without the sage. + +“How far a body can see, Martha,” she exclaimed, “since the big +gum-tree's been cut down. It lays open the sight o' the road across the +creek, and I seen your father ridin' down the hill, as plain as could +be!” + +“Betsy,” said Gilbert, “I wanted to ask you about coming down our way.” + +“Our way. Did you? I see your horse hitched over at the store. I've an +arrand,--sewin'-thread and pearl buttons,--and so I'll git my bonnet and +you can tell me on the way.” + +The lovers said farewell, and Betsy Lavender accompanied Gilbert, +proposing to walk a little way with him and get the articles on her +return. + +“Gilbert Potter,” she said, when they were out of sight and ear-shot of +the village, “I want you to know that I've got eyes in my head. _I_'m a +safe body, as you can see, though it mayn't seem the proper thing in me +to say it, but all other folks isn't, so look out!” + +“Betsy!” he exclaimed, “you seem to know everything about everybody--at +least, you know what I am, perhaps better than I do myself; now suppose +I grant you're right, what do you think of it?” + +“Think of it? Go 'long!--you know what you want me to say, that there +never was such a pair o' lovyers under the firmament! Let my deeds prove +what I think, say I--for here's a case where deeds is wanted!” + +“You can help me, Betsy--you can help me now! Do you know--can you +guess--who was my father?” + +“Good Lord!” was her surprised exclamation--“No, I don't, and that's the +fact.” + +“Who was Martha Deane's mother?” + +“A Blake--Naomi, one o' the Birmingham Blakes, and a nice woman she was, +too. I was at her weddin', and I helped nuss her when Martha was born.” + “Had Dr. Deane been married before?” + +“Married before? Well--no!” Here Miss Betsy seemed to be suddenly put +upon her guard. “Not to that extent, I should say. However, it's neither +here nor there. Good lack, boy!” she cried, noticing a deadly paleness +on Gilbert's face--“a-h-h-h, I begin to understand now. Look here, +Gilbert! Git that nonsense out o' y'r head, jist as soon as _you_ can. +There's enough o' trouble ahead, without borrowin' any more out o' y'r +wanderin' wits. I don't deny but what I was holdin' back somethin', +but it's another thing as ever was. I'll speak _you_ clear o' your +misdoubtin's, if that's y'r present bother. You don't feel quite as much +like a live corpse, now, I reckon, hey?” + +“O, Betsy!” he said, “if you knew how I have been perplexed, you +wouldn't wonder at my fancies!” + +“I can fancy all that, my boy,” she gently answered, “and I'll tell you +another thing, Gilbert--your mother has a heavy secret on her mind, and +I rather guess it concerns your father. No--don't look so eager-like--I +don't know it. All I do know is that you were born in Phildelphy.” + +“In Philadelphia! I never heard that.” + +“Well--it's neither here nor there. I've had my hands too full to spy +out other people's affairs, but many a thing has come to me in a nateral +way, or half-unbeknown. You can't do better than leave all sich wild +guesses and misdoubtin's to me, that's better able to handle 'em. Not +that I'm a-goin' to preach and declare anything until I know the rights +of it, whatever and wherever. Well, as I was sayin'--for there's Beulah +Green comin' up the road, and you must git your usual face onto you, +though Goodness knows, mine's so crooked, I've often said nothin' short +o' Death'll ever make much change in it--but never mind, I'll go down a +few days to your mother, when you're off, though I don't promise to do +much, except, maybe, cheer her up a bit; but we'll see, and so remember +me to her, and good-bye!” + +With these words and a sharp, bony wring of his hand. Bliss Betsy strode +rapidly back to the village. It did not escape Gilbert's eye that, +strongly as she had pronounced against his secret fear, the detection of +it had agitated her. She had spoken hurriedly, and hastened away as if +desiring to avoid further questions. He could not banish the suspicion +that she knew something which might affect his fortune; but she had not +forbidden his love for Martha--she had promised to help him, and that +was a great consolation. His cheerfulness, thenceforth, was not assumed, +and he rejoiced to see a very faint, shadowy reflection of it, at times, +in his mother's face. + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + +ALFRED BARTON BETWEEN TWO FIRES. + + +For some days after Dr. Deane's visit, Old-man Barton was a continual +source of astonishment to his son Alfred and his daughter Ann. The +signs of gradual decay which one of them, at least, had watched with the +keenest interest, had suddenly disappeared; he was brighter, sharper, +more talkative than at any time within the previous five years. The +almost worn-out machinery of his life seemed to have been mysteriously +repaired, whether by Dr. Deane's tinkering, or by one of those freaks of +Nature which sometimes bring new teeth and hair to an aged head, neither +the son nor the daughter could guess. To the former this awakened +activity of the old man's brain was not a little annoying. He had been +obliged to renew his note for the money borrowed to replace that which +had been transferred to Sandy Flash, and in the mean time was concocting +an ingenious device by which the loss should not entirely fall on +his own half-share of the farm-profits. He could not have endured his +father's tyranny without the delight of the cautious and wary revenges +of this kind which he sometimes allowed himself to take. Another +circumstance, which gave him great uneasiness, was this: the old +man endeavored in various ways, both direct and indirect, to obtain +knowledge of the small investments which he had made from time to time. +The most of these had been, through the agency of the old lawyer at +Chester, consolidated into a first-class mortgage; but it was Alfred's +interest to keep his father in ignorance of the other sums, not because +of their importance, but because of their insignificance. He knew that +the old man's declaration was true,--“The more you have, the more you'll +get!” + +The following Sunday, as he was shaving himself at the back +kitchen-window,--Ann being up-stairs, at her threadbare toilet,--Old +Barton, who had been silent during breakfast, suddenly addressed him: + +“Well, boy, how stands the matter now?” + +The son knew very well what was meant, but he thought it best to ask, +with an air of indifference,-- + +“What matter, Daddy?” + +“What matter, eh? The colt's lame leg, or the farrow o' the big sow? +Gad, boy! don't you ever think about the gal, except when I put it into +your head?” + +“Oh, that!” exclaimed Alfred, with a smirk of well-assumed +satisfaction--“that, indeed! Well, I think I may say, Daddy, that all's +right in that quarter.” + +“Spoken to her yet?” + +“N-no, not right out, that is; but since other folks have found out what +I'm after, I guess it's plain enough to her. And a good sign is, that +she plays a little shy.” + +“Shouldn't wonder,” growled the old man. “Seems to me _you_ play a +little shy, too. Have to take it in my own hands, if it ever comes to +anything.” + +“Oh, it isn't at all necessary; I can do my own courting,” Alfred +replied, as he wiped his razor and laid it away. + +“Do it, then, boy, in short order! You're too old to stand in need o' +much billin' and cooin'--but the gal's rayther young, and may expect +it--and I s'pose it's the way. But I'd sooner you'd step up to the +Doctor, bein' as I can only take him when he comes here to me loaded +and primed. He's mighty cute and sharp, but if you've got any gumption, +we'll be even with him.” + +Alfred turned around quickly and looked at his father. + +“Ay, boy, I've had one bout with him, last Sunday, and there's more to +come.” + +“What was it?” + +“Set yourself down on that cheer, and keep your head straight a bit, so +that what goes into one ear, don't fly out at the t'other.” + +While Alfred, with a singular expression of curiosity and distrust, +obeyed this command, the old man deliberated, for the last time, on the +peculiar tactics to be adopted, so that his son should be made an ally, +as against Dr. Deane, and yet be prevented from becoming a second foe, +as against his own property. For it was very evident that while it was +the father's interest to exaggerate the son's presumed wealth, it was +the latter's interest to underrate it. Thus a third element came into +play, making this a triangular game of avarice. If Alfred could have +understood his true position, he would have been more courageous; but +his father had him at a decided advantage. + +“Hark ye, boy!” said he, “I've waited e'en about long enough, and it's +time this thing was either a hit or a flash in the pan. The Doctor's +ready for 't; for all his cunnin' he couldn't help lettin' me see that; +but he tries to cover both pockets with one hand while he stretches +out the t'other. The gal's money's safe, ten thousand of it, and we've +agreed that it'll be share and share; only, your'n bein' more than +her'n, why, of course he must make up the difference.” + +The son was far from being as shrewd as the father, or he would have +instantly chosen the proper tack; but he was like a vessel caught in +stays, and experienced considerable internal pitching and jostling. In +one sense it was a relief that the old man supposed him to be worth +much more than was actually the case, but long experience hinted that +a favorable assumption of this kind often led to a damaging result. So +with a wink and grin, the miserable hypocrisy of which was evident to +his own mind, he said: + +“Of course he must make up the difference, and more too! I know what's +fair and square.” + +“Shut your mouth, boy, till I give you leave to open it. Do you +hear?--the gal's ten thousand dollars must be put ag'inst the ten +thousand you've saved off the profits o' the farm; then, the rest you've +made bein' properly accounted for, he must come down with the same +amount. Then, you must find out to a hair what he's worth of his +own--not that it concerns you, but _I_ must know. What you've got to do +is about as much as you've wits for. Now, open your mouth!” + +“Ten thousand!” exclaimed Alfred, beginning to comprehend the matter +more clearly; “why, it's hardly quite ten thousand altogether, let alone +anything over!” + +“No lies, no lies! I've got it all in my head, if you haven't. Twenty +years on shares--first year, one hundred and thirty-seven dollars--that +was the year the big flood swep' off half the corn on the bottom; second +year, two hundred and fifteen, with interest on the first, say six on +a hundred, allowin' the thirty-seven for your squanderin's, two hundred +and twenty-one; third year, three hundred and five, with interest, +seventeen, makes three hundred and twenty-two, and twenty, your half of +the bay horse sold to Sam Falconer, forty-two; fourth year”-- + +“Never mind, Daddy!” Alfred interrupted; “I've got it all down in my +books; you needn't go over it.” + +The old man struck his hickory staff violently upon the floor. “I _will_ +go over it!” he croaked, hoarsely. “I mean to show you, boy, to your +own eyes and your own ears, that you're now worth thirteen thousand two +hundred and forty-nine dollars and fifteen cents! And ten thousand of it +balances the gal's ten thousand, leavin' three thousand two hundred and +forty-nine and fifteen cents, for the Doctor to make up to _you!_ And +you'll show him your papers, for you're no son of mine if you've put out +your money without securin' it. I don't mind your goin' your own road +with what you've arned, though, for your proper good, you needn't ha' +been so close; but now you've got to show what's in your hand, if you +mean to git it double!” + +Alfred Barton was overwhelmed by the terrors of this unexpected dilemma. +His superficial powers of dissimulation forsook him; he could only +suggest, in a weak voice: + +“Suppose my papers don't show that much?” + +“You've made that, or nigh onto it, and your papers _must_ show it! If +money can't stick to your fingers, do you s'pose I'm goin' to put +more into 'em? Fix it any way you like with the Doctor, so you square +accounts. Then, afterwards, let him come to me--ay, let him come!” + +Here the old man chuckled until he brought on a fit of coughing, which +drove the dark purple blood into his head. His son hastened to restore +him with a glass of brandy. + +“There, that'll do,” he said, presently; “now you know what's what. Go +up to the Doctor's this afternoon, and have it out before you come home. +I can't dance at your weddin', but I wouldn't mind help nuss another +grandchild or two--eh, boy?” + +“Damme, and so you shall, Dad!” the son exclaimed, relapsing into his +customary swagger, as the readiest means of flattering the old man's +more amiable mood. It was an easier matter to encounter Dr. Deane--to +procrastinate and prolong the settlement of terms, or shift the +responsibility of the final result from his own shoulders. Of course the +present command must be obeyed, and it was by no means an agreeable one; +but Alfred Barton had courage enough for any emergency not yet arrived. +So he began to talk and joke very comfortably about his possible +marriage, until Ann, descending to the kitchen in her solemn black gown, +interrupted the conference. + +That afternoon, as Alfred took his way by the foot-path to the village, +he seated himself in the shade, on one end of the log which spanned the +creek, in order to examine his position, before venturing on a further +step. We will not probe the depths of his meditations; probably +they were not very deep, even when most serious; but we may readily +conjecture those considerations which were chiefly obvious to his mind. +The affair, which he had so long delayed, through a powerful and perhaps +a natural dread, was now brought to a crisis. He could not retreat +without extreme risk to his prospects of inheritance; since his father +and Dr. Deane had come to an actual conference, he was forced to assume +the part which was appropriate to him. Sentiment, he was aware, would +not be exacted, but a certain amount of masculine anticipation belonged +to his character of lover; should he assume this, also, or meet Dr. +Deane on a hard business ground? + +It is a matter of doubt whether any vulgar man suspects the full extent +of his vulgarity; but there are few who are not conscious, now and then, +of a very uncomfortable difference between themselves and the refined +natures with whom they come in contact. Alfred Barton had never been so +troubled by this consciousness as when in the presence of Martha Deane. +He was afraid of her; he foresaw that she, as his wife, would place him +in a more painful subjection than that which his father now enforced. He +was weary of bondage, and longed to draw a free, unworried breath. With +all his swagger, his life had not always been easy or agreeable. A year +or two more might see him, in fact and in truth, his own master. He was +fifty years old; his habits of life were fixed; he would have shrunk +from the semi-servitude of marriage, though with a woman after his own +heart, and there was nothing in this (except the money) to attract him. + +“I see no way!” he suddenly exclaimed, after a fit of long and +unsatisfactory musing. + +“Nor I neither, unless you make room for me!” answered a shrill voice at +his side. + +He started as if shot, becoming aware of Miss Betsy Lavender, who had +just emerged from the thicket. + +“Skeered ye, have I?” said she. “Why, how you do color up, to be sure! +I never was that red, even in my blushin' days; but never mind, what's +said to nobody is nobody's business.” + +He laughed a forced laugh. “I was thinking, Miss Betsy,” he said, “how +to get the grain threshed and sent to the mills before prices come down. +Which way are you going?” + +She had been observing him through half-closed eyes, with her head a +little thrown back. First slightly nodding to herself, as if assenting +to some mental remark, she asked,-- + +“Which way are _you_ goin'? For my part I rather think we're changin' +places,--me to see Miss Ann, and you to see Miss Martha.” + +“You're wrong!” he exclaimed. “I was only going to make a little +neighborly call on the Doctor.” + +“On the Doctor! Ah-ha! it's come to that, has it? Well, I won't be in +the way.” + +“Confound the witch!” he muttered to himself, as she sprang upon the log +and hurried over. + +Mr. Alfred Barton was not acquainted with the Greek drama, or he would +have had a very real sense of what is meant by Fate. As it was, he +submitted to circumstances, climbed the hill, and never halted until he +found himself in Dr. Deane's sitting-room. + +Of course, the Doctor was alone and unoccupied; it always happens so. +Moreover he knew, and Alfred Barton knew that he knew, the subject to be +discussed; but it was not the custom of the neighborhood to approach +an important interest except in a very gradual and roundabout manner. +Therefore the Doctor said, after the first greeting,-- + +“Thee'll be getting thy crops to market soon, I imagine?” + +“I'd like to,” Barton replied, “but there's not force enough on our +place, and the threshers are wanted everywhere at once. What would you +do,--hurry off the grain now, or wait to see how it may stand in the +spring?” + +Dr. Deane meditated a moment, and then answered with great deliberation: +“I never like to advise, where the chances are about even. It depends, +thee knows, on the prospect of next year's crops. But, which ever way +thee decides, it will make less difference to thee than to them that +depend altogether upon their yearly earnings.” + +Barton understood this stealthy approach to the important subject, and +met it in the same way. “I don't know,” he said; “it's slow saving on +half-profits. I have to look mighty close, to make anything decent.” + +“Well,” said the Doctor, “what isn't laid up _by_ thee, is laid up _for_ +thee, I should judge.” + +“I should hope so, Doctor; but I guess you know the old man as well as +I do. If anybody could tell what's in his mind, it's Lawyer Stacy, and +he's as close as a steel-trap. I've hardly had a fair chance, and it +ought to be made up to me.” + +“It will be, no doubt.” And then the Doctor, resting his chin upon his +cane, relapsed into a grave, silent, expectant mood, which his guest +well understood. + +“Doctor,” he said at last, with an awkward attempt at a gay, +confidential manner, “you know what I come for today. Perhaps I'm rather +an old boy to be here on such an errand; I've been a bit afraid lest +you might think me so; and for that reason I haven't spoken to Martha at +all, (though I think she's smart enough to guess how my mind turns,) +and won't speak, till I first have your leave. I'm not so young as to be +light-headed in such matters; and, most likely, I'm not everything that +Martha would like; but--but--there's other things to be considered--not +that I mind 'em much, only the old man, you know, is very particular +about 'em, and so I've come up to see if we can't agree without much +trouble.” + +Dr. Deane took a small pinch of Rappee, and then touched his nose +lightly with his lavendered handkerchief. He drew up his hanging +under-lip until it nearly covered the upper, and lifted his nostrils +with an air at once of reticence and wisdom. “I don't deny,” he said +slowly, “that I've suspected something of what is in thy mind, and I +will further say that thee's done right in coming first to me. Martha +being an only d--child, I have her welfare much at heart, and if I had +known anything seriously to thy discredit, I would not have permitted +thy attentions. So far as that goes, thee may feel easy. I _did_ hope, +however, that thee would have some assurance of what thy father intends +to do for thee--and perhaps thee has,--Elisha being established in his +own independence, and Ann not requiring a great deal, thee would inherit +considerable, besides the farm. And it seems to me that I might justly, +in Martha's interest, ask for some such assurance.” + +If Alfred Barton's secret thought had been expressed in words, it would +have been: “Curse the old fool--he knows what the old man is, as well +as I do!” But he twisted a respectful hypocrisy out of his whisker, and +said,-- + +“Ye-e-es, that seems only fair. How am _I_ to get at it, though? I +daren't touch the subject with a ten-foot pole, and yet it stands both +to law and reason that I should come in for a handsome slice o' the +property. You might take it for granted, Doctor?” + +“So I might, if _thy_ father would take for granted what _I_ might be +able to do. I can see, however, that it's hardly thy place to ask him; +that might be left to me.” + +This was an idea which had not occurred to Alfred Barton. A thrill of +greedy curiosity shot through his heart; he saw that, with Dr. Deane's +help, he might be able to ascertain the amount of the inheritance which +must so soon fall to him. This feeling, fed by the impatience of his +long subjection, took complete possession of him, and he resolved to +further his father's desires, without regard to present results. + +“Yes, that might be left to me,” the Doctor repeated, “after the other +matter is settled. Thee knows what I mean. Martha will have ten thousand +dollars in her own right, at twenty-five,--and sooner, if she marries +with my approbation. Now, thee or thy father must bring an equal sum; +that is understood between us--and I think thy father mentioned that +thee could do it without calling upon him. Is that the case?” + +“Not quite--but, yes, very nearly. That is, the old man's been so close +with me, that I'm a little close with him, Doctor, you see! He doesn't +know exactly how much I have got, and as he threatens to leave me +according to what I've saved, why, I rather let him have his own way +about the matter.” + +A keen, shrewd smile flitted over the Doctor's face. + +“But if it isn't quite altogether ten thousand, Doctor,” Barton +continued, “I don't say but what it could be easily made up to that +figure. You and I could arrange all that between our two selves, without +consulting the old man,--and, indeed, it's not _his_ business, in any +way,--and so, you might go straight to the other matter at once.” + +“H'm,” mused the Doctor, with his chin again upon his stick, “I should +perhaps be working in thy interest, as much as in mine. Then thee can +afford to come up fair and square to the mark. Of course, thee has all +the papers to show for thy own property?” + +“I guess there'll be no trouble about that,” Barton answered, +carelessly. “I lend on none but the best security. 'T will take a little +time--must go to Chester--so we needn't wait for that; 't will be all +right!” + +“Oh, no doubt; but hasn't thee overlooked one thing?” + +“What?” + +“That Martha should first know thy mind towards her.” + +It was true, he had overlooked that important fact, and the suggestion +came to him very like an attack of cramp. He laughed, however, took out +a red silk handkerchief, and tried to wipe a little eagerness into his +face. + +“No, Doctor!” he exclaimed, “not forgot, only keeping the best for the +last. I wasn't sure but you might want to speak to her yourself, first; +but she knows, doesn't she?” + +“Not to my direct knowledge; and I wouldn't like to venture to speak in +her name.” + +“Then, I'll--that is, you think I'd better have a talk with her. A +little tough, at my time of life, ha! ha!--but faint heart never won +fair lady; and I hadn't thought of going that far to-day, though +of course, I'm anxious,--been in my thoughts so long,--and +perhaps--perhaps”-- + +“I'll tell thee,” said the Doctor, seeming not to notice Barton's +visible embarrassment, which he found very natural; “do thee come up +again next First-day afternoon prepared to speak thy mind. I will give +Martha a hint of thy purpose beforehand, but only a hint, mind thee; the +girl has a smart head of her own, and thee'll come on faster with her if +thee pleads thy own cause with thy own mouth.” + +“Yes, I'll come then!” cried Barton, so relieved at his present escape +that his relief took the expression of joy. Dr. Deane was a fair judge +of character; he knew all of Alfred Barton's prominent traits, and +imagined that he was now reading him like an open book; but it was like +reading one of those Latin sentences which, to the ear, are made up of +English words. The signs were all correct, only they belonged to another +language. + +The heavy wooer shortly took his departure. While on the return path, he +caught sight of Miss Betsy Lavender's beaver, bobbing along behind the +pickets of the hill-fence, and, rather than encounter its wearer in his +present mood, he stole into the shelter of one of the cross-hedges, and +made his way into the timbered bottom below. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + +MARTHA DEANE. + + +Little did Dr. Deane suspect the nature of the conversation which had +that morning been held in his daughter's room, between herself and Betsy +Lavender. + +When the latter returned from her interview with Gilbert Potter, the +previous evening, she found the Doctor already arrived. Mark came home +at supper-time, and the evening was so prolonged by his rattling tongue +that no room was left for any confidential talk with Martha, although +Miss Betsy felt that something ought to be said, and it properly fell to +her lot to broach the delicate subject. + +After breakfast on Sunday morning, therefore, she slipped up to Martha's +room, on the transparent pretence of looking again at a new dress, +which had been bought some days before. She held the stuff to the +light, turned it this way and that, and regarded it with an importance +altogether out of proportion to its value. + +“It seems as if I couldn't git the color rightly set in my head,” she +remarked; “'t a'n't quiet laylock, nor yit vi'let, and there ought, by +rights, to be quilled ribbon round the neck, though the Doctor might +consider it too gay; but never mind, he'd dress you in drab or slate if +he could, and I dunno, after all”-- + +“Betsy!” exclaimed Martha, with an impetuousness quite unusual to her +calm nature, “throw down the dress! Why won't you speak of what is in +your mind; don't you see I'm waiting for it?” + +“You're right, child!” Miss Betsy cried, flinging the stuff to the +farthest corner of the room; “I'm an awkward old fool, with all my +exper'ence. Of course I seen it with half a wink; there! don't be so +trembly now. I know how you feel, Martha; you wouldn't think it, but I +do. I can tell the real signs from the passin' fancies, and if ever I +see true-love in my born days, I see it in you, child, and in _him.”_ + +Martha's face glowed in spite of herself. The recollection of Gilbert's +embrace in the dusky glen came to her, already for the thousandth time, +but warmer, sweeter at each recurrence. She felt that her hand trembled +in that of the spinster, as they sat knee to knee, and that a tender dew +was creeping into her eyes; leaning forward, she laid her face a moment +on her friend's shoulder, and whispered,-- + +“It is all very new and strange, Betsy; but I am happy.” + +Miss Lavender did not answer immediately. With her hand on Martha's +soft, smooth hair, she was occupied in twisting her arm so that the +sleeve might catch and conceal two troublesome tears which were at that +moment trickling down her nose. Besides, she was not at all sure of her +voice, until something like a dry crust of bread in her throat had been +forcibly swallowed down. + +Martha, however, presently lifted her head with a firm, courageous +expression, though the rosy flush still suffused her cheeks. “I'm not as +independent as people think,” she said, “for I couldn't help myself when +the time came, and I seem to belong to him, ever since.” + +“Ever since. Of course you do!” remarked Miss Betsy, with her head +down and her hands busy at her high comb and thin twist of hair; “every +woman, savin' and exceptin' myself, and no fault o' mine, must play Jill +to somebody's Jack; it's man's way and the Lord's way, but worked out +with a mighty variety, though I say it, but why not, my eyes bein' as +good as anybody else's! Come now, you're lookin' again after your own +brave fashion; and so, you're sure o' your heart, Martha?” + +“Betsy, my heart speaks once and for all,” said Martha, with kindling +eyes. + +“Once and for all. I knowed it--and so the Lord help us! For here I +smell wagon-loads o' trouble; and if you weren't a girl to know her own +mind and stick to it, come weal, come woe, and he with a bull-dog's +jaw that'll never let go, and I mean no runnin' of him down, but on the +contrary, quite the reverse, I'd say to both, git over it somehow for +it won't be, and no matter if no use, it's my dooty,--well, it's t'other +way, and I've got to give a lift where I can, and pull this way, and +shove that way, and hold back everybody, maybe, and fit things to +things, and unfit other things,--Good Lord, child, you've made an awful +job for _me!”_ + +Therewith Miss Betsy laughed, with a dry, crisp, cheerfulness which +quite covered up and concealed her forebodings. Nothing pleased her +better than to see realized in life her own views of what ought to be, +and the possibility of becoming one of the shaping and regulating powers +to that end stirred her nature to its highest and most joyous activity. + +Martha Deane, equally brave, was more sanguine. The joy of her expanding +love foretold its fulfilment to her heart. “I know, Betsy,” she said, +“that father would not hear of it now; but we are both young and can +wait, at least until I come into my property--_ours,_ I ought to say, +for I think of it already as being as much Gilbert's as mine. What other +trouble can there be?” + +“Is there none on his side, Martha?” + +“His birth? Yes, there is--or was, though not to me--never to me! I am +so glad, for his sake,--but, Betsy, perhaps you do not know”-- + +“If there's anything I need to know, I'll find it out, soon or late. +He's worried, that I see, and no wonder, poor boy! But as you say, +there's time enough, and my single and solitary advice to both o' you, +is, don't look at one another before folks, if you can't keep your eyes +from blabbin'. Not a soul suspicions anything now, and if you two'll +only fix it betwixt and between you to keep quiet, and patient, and +as forbearin' in showin' feelin' as people that hate each other like +snakes, why, who knows but somethin' may turn up, all unexpected, to +make the way as smooth for ye as a pitch-pine plank!” + +“Patient!” Martha murmured to herself. A bright smile broke over her +face, as she thought how sweet it would be to match, as best a woman +might, Gilbert's incomparable patience and energy of purpose. The tender +humility of her love, so beautifully interwoven with the texture of its +pride and courage, filled her heart with a balmy softness and peace. She +was already prepared to lay her firm, independent spirit at his feet, +or exercise it only as her new, eternal duty to him might require. Betsy +Lavender's warning could not ripple the bright surface of her happiness; +she knew that no one (hardly even Gilbert, as yet) suspected that in +her heart the love of a strong and faithful and noble man outweighed all +other gifts or consequences of life--that, to keep it, she would give up +home, friends, father, the conventional respect of every one she knew! + +“Well, child!” exclaimed Miss Lavender, after a long lapse of silence; +“the words is said that can't be taken back, accordin' to _my_ views +o' things, though, Goodness knows, there's enough and enough thinks +different, and you must abide by 'em; and what I think of it all I'll +tell you when the end comes, not before, so don't ask me now; but one +thing more, there's another sort of a gust brewin', and goin' to break +soon, if ever, and that is, Alf. Barton,--though you won't believe +it,--he's after you in his stupid way, and your father favors him. And +my advice is, hold him off as much as you please, but say nothin' o' +Gilbert!” + +This warning made no particular impression upon Martha. She playfully +tapped Miss Betsy's high comb, and said: “Now, if you are going to be so +much worried about me, I shall be sorry that you found it out.” + +“Well I won't!--and now let me hook your gownd.” + +Often, after that, however, did Martha detect Miss Betsy's eyes fixed +upon her with a look of wistful, tender interest, and she knew, though +the spinster would not say it, that the latter was alive with sympathy, +and happy in the new confidence between them. With each day, her own +passion grew and deepened, until it seemed that the true knowledge of +love came after its confession. A sweet, warm yearning for Gilbert's +presence took its permanent seat in her heart; not only his sterling +manly qualities, but his form, his face--the broad, square brow; the +large, sad, deep-set gray eyes; the firm, yet impassioned lips--haunted +her fancy. Slowly and almost unconsciously as her affection had been +developed, it now took the full stature and wore the radiant form of her +maiden dream of love. + +If Dr. Deane noticed the physical bloom and grace which those days +brought to his daughter, he was utterly innocent of the true cause. +Perhaps he imagined that his own eyes were first fairly opened to her +beauty by the prospect of soon losing her. Certainly she had never +seemed more obedient and attractive. He had not forgotten his promise to +Alfred Barton; but no very convenient opportunity for speaking to her on +the subject occurred until the following Sunday morning. Mark was not at +home, and he rode with her to Old Kennett Meeting. + +As they reached the top of the long hill beyond the creek, Martha reined +in her horse to enjoy the pleasant westward view over the fair September +landscape. The few houses of the village crowned the opposite hill; but +on this side the winding, wooded vale meandered away, to lose itself +among the swelling slopes of clover and stubble-field; and beyond, over +the blue level of Tuffkenamon, the oak-woods of Avondale slept on the +horizon. It was a landscape such as one may see, in a more cultured +form, on the road from Warwick to Stratford. Every one in Kennett +enjoyed the view, but none so much as Martha Deane, upon whom its +harmonious, pastoral aspect exercised an indescribable charm. + +To the left, on the knoll below, rose the chimneys of the Barton +farm-house, over the round tops of the apple-trees, and in the nearest +field Mr. Alfred's Maryland cattle were fattening on the second growth +of clover. + +“A nice place, Martha!” said Dr. Deane, with a wave of his arm, and a +whiff of sweet herbs. + +“Here, in this first field, is the true place for the house,” she +answered, thinking only of the landscape beauty of the farm. + +“Does thee mean so?” the Doctor eagerly asked, deliberating with himself +how much of his plan it was safe to reveal. “Thee may be right, and +perhaps thee might bring Alfred to thy way of thinking.” + +She laughed. “It's hardly worth the trouble.” + +“I've noticed, of late,” her father continued, “that Alfred seems to set +a good deal of store by thee. He visits us pretty often.” + +“Why, father!” she exclaimed, as they, rode onward, “it's rather _thee_ +that attracts him, and cattle, and crops, and the plans for catching +Sandy Flash! He looks frightened whenever I speak to him.” + +“A little nervous, perhaps. Young men are often so, in the company of +young women, I've observed.” + +Martha laughed so cheerily that her father said to himself: “Well, it +doesn't displease her, at any rate.” On the other hand, is was possible +that she might have failed to see Barton in the light of a wooer, and +therefore a further hint would be required. + +“Now that we happen to speak of him, Martha,” he said, “I might as well +tell thee that, in my judgment, he seems to be drawn towards thee in the +way of marriage. He may be a little awkward in showing it, but that's a +common case. When he was at our house, last First-day, he spoke of thee +frequently, and said that he would like to--well, to see thee soon. I +believe he intends coming up this afternoon.” + +Martha became grave, as Betsy Lavender's warning took so suddenly +a positive form. However, she had thought of this contingency as a +possible thing, and must prepare herself to meet it with firmness. + +“What does thee say?” the Doctor asked, after waiting a few minutes for +an answer. + +“Father, I hope thee's mistaken. Alfred Barton is not overstocked with +wit, I know, but he can hardly be that foolish. He is almost as old as +thee.” + +She spoke quietly, but with that tone of decision which Dr. Deane so +well knew. He set his teeth and drew up his under-lip to a grim pout. +If there was to be resistance, he thought, she would not find him so +yielding as on other points; but he would first try a middle course. + +“Understand me, Martha,” he said; “I do not mean to declare what Alfred +Barton's sentiments really are, but what, in my judgment, they _might_ +be. And thee had better wait and learn, before setting thy mind either +for or against him: It's hardly putting much value upon thyself, to call +him foolish.” + +“It is a humiliation to me, if thee is right, father,” she said. + +“I don't see that. Many young women would be proud of it. I'll only say +one thing, Martha; if he seeks thee, and _does_ speak his mind, do thee +treat him kindly and respectfully.” + +“Have I ever treated thy friends otherwise?” she asked. + +“My friends! thee's right--he _is_ my friend.” + +She made no reply, but her soul was already courageously arming itself +for battle. Her father's face was stern and cold, and she saw, at once, +that he was on the side of the enemy. This struggle safely over, there +would come another and a severer one. It was well that she had given +herself time, setting the fulfilment of her love so far in advance. + +Nothing more was said on this theme, either during the ride to Old +Kennett, or on the return. Martha's plan was very simple: she would +quietly wait until Alfred Barton should declare his sentiments, and then +reject him once and forever. She would speak clearly, and finally; there +should be no possibility of misconception. It was not a pleasant task; +none but a vain and heartless woman would be eager to assume it; and +Martha Deane hoped that it might be spared her. + +But she, no less than her irresolute lover, (if we can apply that word +to Alfred Barton,) was an instrument in the hands of an uncomfortable +Fate. Soon after dinner a hesitating knock was heard at the door, and +Barton entered with a more uneasy air than ever before. Erelong, Dr. +Deane affected to have an engagement with an invalid on the New-Garden +road; Betsy Lavender had gone to Fairthorn's for the afternoon, and the +two were alone. + +For a few moments, Martha was tempted to follow her father's example, +and leave Alfred Barton to his own devices. Then she reflected that this +was a cowardly feeling; it would only postpone her task. He had taken +his seat, as usual, in the very centre of the room; so she came forward +and seated herself at the front window, with her back to the light, +thus, woman-like, giving herself all the advantages of position. + +Having his large, heavy face before her, in full light, she was at +first a little surprised on finding that it expressed not even the fond +anxiety, much less the eagerness, of an aspiring wooer. The hair and +whiskers, it is true, were so smoothly combed back that they made long +lappets on either side of his face; unusual care had been taken with his +cambric cravat and shirt-ruffles, and he wore his best blue coat, +which was entirely too warm for the season. In strong contrast to this +external preparation, were his restless eyes which darted hither and +thither in avoidance of her gaze, the fidgety movements of his thick +fingers, creeping around buttons and in and out of button-holes, and +finally the silly, embarrassed half-smile which now and then came to his +mouth, and made the platitudes of his speech almost idiotic. + +Martha Deane felt her courage rise as she contemplated this picture. +In spite of the disgust which his gross physical appearance, and the +contempt which his awkward helplessness inspired, she was conscious of a +lurking sense of amusement. Even a curiosity, which we cannot +reprehend, to know by what steps and in what manner he would come to the +declaration, began to steal into her mind, now that it was evident her +answer could not possibly wound any other feeling than vanity. + +In this mood, she left the burden of the conversation to him. He might +flounder, or be completely stalled, as often as he pleased; it was no +part of her business to help him. + +In about three minutes after she had taken her seat by the window, he +remarked, with a convulsive smile,-- + +“Apples are going to be good, this year.” + +“Are they?” she said. + +“Yes; do you like 'em? Most girls do.” + +“I believe I do,--except Russets,” Martha replied, with her hands +clasped in her lap, and her eyes full upon his face. + +He twisted the smoothness out of one whisker, very much disconcerted +at her remark, because he could not tell--he never could, when speaking +with her--whether or not she was making fun of him. But he could +think of nothing to say, except his own preferences in the matter of +apples,--a theme which he pursued until Martha was very tired of it. + +He next asked after Mark Deane, expressing at great length his favorable +opinion of the young, carpenter, and relating what pains he had taken +to procure for him the building of Hallowell's barn. But to each +observation Martha made the briefest possible replies, so that in a +short time he was forced to start another topic. + +Nearly an hour had passed, and Martha's sense of the humorous had long +since vanished under the dreary monotony of the conversation, when +Alfred Barton seemed to have come to a desperate resolution to end his +embarrassment. Grasping his knees with both hands, and dropping his +head forward so that the arrows of her eyes might glance from his fat +forehead, he said,-- + +“I suppose you know why I come here to-day, Miss Martha?” + +All her powers were awake and alert in a moment. She scrutinized his +face keenly, and, although his eyes were hidden, there were lines +enough visible, especially about the mouth, to show that the bitter +predominated over the sweet, in his emotions. + +“To see my father, wasn't it? I'm sorry he was obliged to leave home,” + she answered. + +“No, Miss Martha, I come to see you. I have some thing to say to you, +and I 'in sure you know what I mean by this time, don't you?” + +“No. How should I?” she coolly replied. It was not true; but the +truest-hearted woman that ever lived could have given no other answer. + +Alfred Barton felt the sensation of a groan pass through him, and it +very nearly came out of his mouth. Then he pushed on, in a last wild +effort to perform the remainder of his exacted task in one piece: + +“I want you to be--to be--my--wife! That is, my father and yours are +agreed about it, and they think I ought to speak to you. I'm a good deal +older, and--and perhaps you mightn't fancy me in all things, but they +say it'll make little difference; and if you haven't thought about it +much, why, there's no hurry as to making up your mind. I've told you +now, and to be sure you ought to know, while the old folks are trying +to arrange property matters, and it's my place, like, to speak to you +first.” + +Here he paused; his face was very red, and the perspiration was +oozing in great drops from every pore. He drew forth the huge red silk +handkerchief, and mopped his cheeks, his nose, and his forehead; then +lifted his head and stole a quick glance at Martha. Something in his +face puzzled her, and yet a sudden presentiment of his true state of +feeling flashed across her mind. She still sat, looking steadily at him, +and for a few moments did not speak. + +“Well?” he stammered. + +“Alfred Barton,” she said, “I must ask you one question, do you love +me?” + +He seemed to feel a sharp sting. The muscles of his mouth twitched; he +bit his lip, sank his head again, and murmured,-- + +“Y-yes.” + +“He does not,” she said to herself. “I am spared this humiliation. It is +a mean, low nature, and fears mine--fears, and would soon hate. He shall +not see even so much of me as would be revealed by a frank, respectful +rejection. I must punish him a little for the deceit, and I now see how +to do it.” + +While these thoughts passed rapidly through her brain, she waited until +he should again venture to meet her eye. When he lifted his head, she +exclaimed,-- + +“You have told an untruth! Don't turn your head away; look me in the +face, and hear me tell you that you do not love me--that you have not +come to me of your own desire, and that you would rather ten thousand +times I should say No, if it were not for a little property of mine! But +suppose I, too, were of a similar nature; suppose I cared not for what +is called love, but only for money and lands such as you will inherit; +suppose I found the plans of my father and your father very shrewd and +reasonable, and were disposed to enter into them--what then?” + +Alfred Barton was surprised out of the last remnant of his hypocrisy. +His face, so red up to this moment, suddenly became sallow; his chin +dropped, and an expression of amazement and fright came into the eyes +fixed on Martha's. + +The game she was playing assumed a deeper interest; here was something +which she could not yet fathom. She saw what influence had driven him to +her, against his inclination, but his motive for seeming to obey, while +dreading success, was a puzzle. Singularly enough, a slight feeling of +commiseration began to soften her previous contempt, and hastened her +final answer. + +“I see that these suppositions would not please you,” she said, “and +thank you for the fact. Your face is more candid than your speech. I am +now ready to say, Alfred Barton,--because I am sure the knowledge will +be agreeable to you,--that no lands, no money, no command of my father, +no degree of want, or misery, or disgrace, could ever make me your +wife!” + +She had risen from her chair while speaking, and he also started to +his feet. Her words, though such an astounding relief in one sense, had +nevertheless given him pain; there was a sting in them which cruelly +galled his self-conceit. It was enough to be rejected; she need not have +put an eternal gulf between their natures. + +“Well,” said he, sliding the rim of his beaver backwards and forwards +between his fingers, “I suppose I'll have to be going. You're very +plain-spoken, as I might ha' known. I doubt whether we two would make a +good team, and no offence to you, Miss Martha. Only, it'll be a mortal +disappointment to the old man, and--look here, it a'n't worth while to +say anything about it, is it?” + +Alfred Barton was strongly tempted to betray the secret reason which +Martha had not yet discovered. After the strong words he had taken from +her, she owed him a kindness, he thought; if she would only allow the +impression that the matter was still undecided--that more time (which a +coy young maiden might reasonably demand) had been granted! On the other +hand, he feared that her clear, firm integrity of character would be +repelled by the nature of his motive. He was beginning to feel, greatly +to his own surprise, a profound respect for her. + +“If my father questions me about your visit,” she said, “I shall tell +him simply that I have declined your offer. No one else is likely to ask +me.” + +“I don't deny,” he continued, still lingering near the door, “that I've +been urged by my father--yours, too, for that matter--to make the offer. +But I don't want you to think hard of me. I've not had an easy time of +it, and if you knew everything, you'd see that a good deal isn't rightly +to be laid to my account.” + +He spoke sadly, and so genuine a stamp of unhappiness was impressed upon +his face, that Martha's feeling of commiseration rose to the surface. + +“You'll speak to me, when we happen to meet?” he said. + +“If I did not,” she answered, “every one would suspect that something +had occurred. That would be unpleasant for both of us. Do not think that +I shall bear malice against you; on the contrary, I wish you well.” + +He stooped, kissed her hand, and then swiftly, silently, and with +averted head, left the room. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + +CONSULTATIONS. + + +When Dr. Deane returned home, in season for supper, he found Martha and +Betsy Lavender employed about their little household matters. The former +showed no lack of cheerfulness or composure, nor, on the other hand, any +such nervous unrest as would be natural to a maiden whose hand had just +been asked in marriage. The Doctor could not at all guess, from her +demeanor, whether anything had happened during his absence. That Alfred +Barton had not remained was rather an unfavorable circumstance; but +then, possibly, he had not found courage to speak. All things being +considered, it seemed best that he should say nothing to Martha, until +he had had another interview with his prospective son-in-law. + +At this time Gilbert Potter, in ignorance of the cunning plans which +were laid by the old men, was working early and late to accomplish all +necessary farm-labor by the first of October. That month he had resolved +to devote to the road between Columbia and Newport, and if but average +success attended his hauling, the earnings of six round trips, with the +result of his bountiful harvest, would at last place in his hands the +sum necessary to defray the remaining debt upon the farm. His next +year's wheat-crop was already sowed, the seed-clover cut, and the +fortnight which still intervened was to be devoted to threshing. In this +emergency, as at reaping-time, when it was difficult to obtain extra +hands, he depended on Deb. Smith, and she did not fail him. + +Her principal home, when she was not employed on farm-work, was a +log-hut, on the edge of a wood, belonging to the next farm north of +Fairthorn's. This farm--the “Woodrow property,” as it was called--had +been stripped of its stock and otherwise pillaged by the British troops, +(Howe and Cornwallis having had their headquarters at Kennett Square), +the day previous to the Battle of Brandywine, and the proprietor had +never since recovered from his losses. The place presented a ruined +and desolated appearance, and Deb. Smith, for that reason perhaps, had +settled herself in the original log-cabin of the first settler, beside +a swampy bit of ground, near the road. The Woodrow farm-house was on a +ridge beyond the wood, and no other dwelling was in sight. + +The mysterious manner of life of this woman had no doubt given rise +to the bad name which she bore in the neighborhood. She would often +disappear for a week or two at a time, and her return seemed to take +place invariably in the night. Sometimes a belated farmer would see +the single front window of her cabin lighted at midnight, and hear the +dulled sound of voices in the stillness. But no one cared to play the +spy upon her movements very closely; her great strength and fierce, +reckless temper made her dangerous, and her hostility would have been +worse than the itching of ungratified curiosity. So they let her alone, +taking their revenge in the character they ascribed to her, and the +epithets they attached to her name. + +When Gilbert, after hitching his horse in a corner of the zigzag +picket-fence, climbed over and approached the cabin, Deb. Smith issued +from it to meet him, closing the heavy plank door carefully behind her. + +“So, Mr. Gilbert!” she cried, stretching out her hard, red hand, +“I reckon you want me ag'in: I've been holdin off from many jobs o' +thrashin', this week, because I suspicioned ye'd be comin' for me.” + +“Thank you, Deborah!” said he, “you're a friend in need.” + +“Am I? There you speak the truth. Wait till you see me thump the Devil's +tattoo with my old flail on your thrashin'-floor! But you look as cheery +as an Easter-mornin' sun; you've not much for to complain of, these +days, I guess?” + +Gilbert smiled. + +“Take care!” she cried, a kindly softness spreading over her rough face, +“good luck's deceitful! If I had the strands o' your fortin' in _my_ +hands, may be I wouldn't twist 'em even; but I ha'n't, and my fingers is +too thick to manage anything smaller 'n a rope-knot. You're goin'? +Well, look out for me bright and early o' Monday, and my sarvice to your +mother!” + +As he rode over the second hill, on his way to the village, Gilbert's +heart leaped, as he beheld Betsy Lavender just turning into Fairthorn's +gate. Except his mother, she was the only person who knew of his love, +and he had great need of her kind and cautious assistance. + +He had not allowed his heart simply to revel in the ecstasy of its +wonderful fortune, or to yearn with inexpressible warmth for Martha's +dearest presence, though these emotions haunted him constantly; he had +also endeavored to survey the position in which he stood, and to choose +the course which would fulfil both his duty towards her and towards his +mother. His coming independence would have made the prospect hopefully +bright, but for the secret which lay across it like a threatening +shadow. Betsy Lavender's assurances had only partially allayed his +dread; something hasty and uncertain in her manner still lingered +uneasily in his memory, and he felt sure that she knew more than she was +willing to tell. Moreover, he craved with all the strength of his heart +for another interview with Martha, and he knew of no way to obtain it +without Betsy's help. + +Her hand was on the gate-latch when his call reached her ears. Looking +up the road, she saw that he had stopped his horse between the high, +bushy banks, and was beckoning earnestly. Darting a hasty glance at +the ivy-draped windows nearest the road, and finding that she was not +observed, she hurried to meet him. + +“Betsy,” he whispered, “I _must_ see Martha again before I leave, and +you must tell me how.” + +“Tell me how. Folks say that lovyers' wits are sharp,” said she, “but +I wouldn't give much for either o' your'n. I don't like underhanded +goin's-on, for my part, for things done in darkness'll come to light, +or somethin' like it; but never mind, if they're crooked everyway they +won't run in straight tracks, all't once't. This I see, and you see, and +she sees, that we must all keep as dark as sin.” + +“But there must be some way,” Gilbert insisted. “Do you never walk out +together? And couldn't we arrange a time--you, too, Betsy, I want you as +well!” + +“I'm afeard I'd be like the fifth wheel to a wagon.” + +“No, no! You must be there--you must hear a good part of what I have to +say.” + +“A good part--that'll do; thought you didn't mean the whole. Don't fret +so, lad; you'll have Roger trampin' me down, next thing. Martha and +me talk o' walkin' over to Polly Withers's. She promised Martha a +pa'tridge-breasted aloe, and they say you've got to plant it in pewter +sand, and only water it once't a month, and how it can grow I can't see; +but never mind, all the same--s'pose we say Friday afternoon about three +o'clock, goin' through the big woods between the Square and +Witherses, and you might have a gun, for the squirls is plenty, and so +accidental-like, if anybody should come along”-- + +“That's it, Betsy!” Gilbert cried, his face flashing, “thank you, a +thousand times!” + +“A thousand times,” she repeated. “Once't is enough.” + +Gilbert rode homewards, after a pleasant call at Fairthorn's, in a very +joyous mood. Not daring to converse with his mother on the one subject +which filled his heart, he showed her the calculations which positively +assured his independence in a short time. She was never weary of going +over the figures, and although her sad, cautious nature always led her +to anticipate disappointments, there was now so much already in hand +that she was forced to share her son's sanguine views. Gilbert could not +help noticing that this idea of independence, for which she had labored +so strenuously, seemed to be regarded, in her mind, as the first step +towards her mysterious and long-delayed justification; she was so +impatient for its accomplishment, her sad brow lightened so, her breath +came so much freer as she admitted that his calculations were correct! + +Nevertheless, as he frequently referred to the matter on the following +days, she at last said,-- + +“Please, Gilbert, don't always talk so certainly of what isn't over +and settled! It makes me fearsome, so to take Providence for granted +beforehand. I don't think the Lord likes it, for I've often noticed that +it brings disappointment; and I'd rather be humble and submissive in +heart, the better to deserve our good fortune when it comes.” + +“You may be right, mother,” he answered; “but it's pleasant to me to see +you looking a little more hopeful.” + +“Ay, lad, I'd never look otherwise, for your sake, if I could.” And +nothing more was said. + +Before sunrise on Monday morning, the rapid, alternate beats of three +flails, on Gilbert's threshing-floor, made the autumnal music which the +farmer loves to hear. Two of these--Gilbert's and Sam's--kept time with +each other, one falling as the other rose; but the third, quick, loud, +and filling all the pauses with thundering taps, was wielded by the arm +of Deb. Smith. Day by day, the pile of wheat-sheaves lessened in the +great bay, and the cone of golden straw rose higher in the barn-yard. If +a certain black jug, behind the barn-door, needed frequent replenishing, +Gilbert knew that the strength of its contents passed into the red, +bare, muscular arms which shamed his own, and that Deb., while she was +under his roof, would allow herself no coarse excess, either of manner +or speech. The fierce, defiant look left her face, and when she sat, +of an evening, with her pipe in the chimney-corner, both mother and +son found her very entertaining company. In Sam she inspired at +once admiration and despair. She could take him by the slack of the +waist-band and lift him at arm's-length, and he felt that he should +never be “a full hand,” if he were obliged to equal her performances +with the flail. + +Thus, his arm keeping time to the rhythm of joy in his heart, and +tasting the satisfaction of labor as never before in his life, the days +passed to Gilbert Potter. Then came the important Friday, hazy with +“the smoke of burning summer,” and softly colored with the drifts of +golden-rods and crimson sumac leaves along the edges of the yet green +forests. Easily feigning an errand to the village, he walked rapidly up +the road in the warm afternoon, taking the cross-road to New-Garden just +before reaching Hallowell's, and then struck to the right across the +fields. + +After passing the crest of the hill, the land sloped gradually down to +the eastern end of Tuffkenamon valley, which terminates at the ridge +upon which Kennett Square stands. Below him, on the right, lay the field +and hedge, across which he and Fortune (he wondered what had become of +the man) had followed the chase; and before him, on the level, rose the +stately trees of the wood which was to be his trysting-place. It was +a sweet, peaceful scene, and but for the under-current of trouble upon +which all his sensations floated, he could have recognized the beauty +and the bliss of human life, which such golden days suggest. + +It was scarcely yet two o'clock, and he watched the smooth field nearest +the village for full three-quarters of an hour, before his sharp eyes +could detect any moving form upon its surface. To impatience succeeded +doubt, to doubt, at its most cruel height, a shock of certainty. Betsy +Lavender and Martha Deane had entered the field at the bottom, and, +concealed behind the hedge of black-thorn, had walked half-way to the +wood before he discovered them, by means of a lucky break in the hedge. +With breathless haste he descended the slope, entered the wood at its +lower edge, and traversed the tangled thickets of dogwood and haw, until +he gained the foot-path, winding through the very heart of the shade. + +It was not many minutes before the two advancing forms glimmered among +the leaves. As he sprang forward to meet them, Miss Betsy Lavender +suddenly exclaimed,--“Well, I never, Martha! here's wintergreen!” and +was down on her knees, on the dead leaves, with her long nose nearly +touching the plants. + +When the lovers saw each other's eyes, one impulse drew them heart to +heart. Each felt the clasp of the other's arms, and the sweetness of +that perfect kiss, which is mutually given, as mutually taken,--the ripe +fruit of love, which having once tasted, all its first timid tokens +seem ever afterwards immature and unsatisfactory. The hearts of both +had unconsciously grown in warmth, in grace and tenderness; and they +now felt, for the first time, the utter, reciprocal surrender of their +natures which truly gave them to each other. + +As they slowly unwound the blissful embrace, and, holding each other's +hands, drew their faces apart until either's eyes could receive the +other's beloved countenance, no words were spoken,--and none were +needed. Thenceforward, neither would ever say to the other,--“Do you +love me as well as ever?” or “Are you sure you can never change?”--for +theirs were natures to which such tender doubt and curiosity were +foreign. It was not the age of introversion or analytical love; they +were sound, simple, fervent natures, and believed forever in the great +truth which had come to them. + +“Gilbert,” said Martha, presently, “it was right that we should meet +before you leave home. I have much to tell you--for now you must know +everything that concerns me; it is your right.” + +Her words were very grateful. To hear her say “It is your right,” sent +a thrill of purely unselfish pride through his breast. He admitted an +equal right, on her part; the moments were precious, and he hastened to +answer her declaration by one as frank and confiding. + +“And I,” he said, “could not take another step until I had seen you. Do +not fear, Martha, to test my patience or my faith in you, for anything +you may put upon me will be easy to bear. I have turned our love over +and over in my mind; tried to look at it--as we both must, sooner or +later--as something which, though it don't in any wise belong to others, +yet with which others have the power to interfere. The world isn't made +quite right, Martha, and we're living in it.” + +Martha's lip took a firmer curve. “Our love is right, Gilbert,” she +exclaimed, “and the world must give way!” + +“It must--I've sworn it! Now let us try to see what are the mountains in +our path, and how we can best get around or over them. First, this is my +position.” + +Thereupon Gilbert clearly and rapidly explained to her his precise +situation. He set forth his favorable prospects of speedy independence, +the obstacle which his mother's secret threw in their way, and his +inability to guess any means which might unravel the mystery, and hasten +his and her deliverance. The disgrace once removed, he thought, all +other impediments to their union would be of trifling importance. + +“I see all that clearly,” said Martha, when he had finished; “now, this +is _my_ position.” + +She told him frankly her father's plans concerning her and gave him, +with conscientious minuteness, all the details of Alfred Barton's +interview. At first his face grew dark, but at the close he was able to +view the subject in its true character, and to contemplate it with as +careless a merriment as her own. + +“You see, Gilbert,” were Martha's final words, “how we are situated. If +I marry, against my father's consent, before I am twenty-five”-- + +“Don't speak of your property, Martha!” he cried; “I never took that +into mind!” + +“I know you didn't. Gilbert, but _I_ do! It is mine, and must be mine, +to be yours; here you must let me have my own way--I will obey you in +everything else. Four years is not long for us to wait, having faith in +each other; and in that time, I doubt not, your mother's secret will be +revealed. You cannot, must not, press her further; in the meantime we +will see each other as often as possible”-- + +“Four years!” Gilbert interrupted, in a tone almost of despair. + +“Well--not quite,” said Martha, smiling archly; “since you must know my +exact age, Gilbert, I was twenty-one on the second of last February; so +that the time is really three years, four months, and eleven days.” + +“I'd serve seven years, as Jacob served, if need be,” he said. “It's not +alone the waiting; it's the anxiety, the uncertainty, the terrible +fear of that which I don't know. I'm sure that Betsy Lavender guesses +something about it; have you told her what my mother says?” + +“It was _your_ secret, Gilbert.” + +“I didn't think,” he answered, softly. “But it's well she should know. +She is the best friend we have. Betsy!” + +“A mortal long time afore _I_'m wanted!” exclaimed Miss Lavender, with +assumed grimness, as she obeyed the call. “I s'pose you thought there +was no watch needed, and both ends o' the path open to all the world. +Well--what am _I_ to do?--move mountains like a grain o' mustard seed +(or however it runs), dip out th' ocean with a pint-pot, or ketch old +birds with chaff, eh?” + +Gilbert, aware that she was familiar with the particular difficulties on +Martha's side, now made her acquainted with his own. At the mention of +his mother's declaration in regard to his birth, she lifted her hands +and nodded her head, listening, thenceforth to the end, with half-closed +eyes and her loose lips drawn up in a curious pucker. + +“What do you think of it?” he asked, as she remained silent. + +“Think of it? About as pretty a snarl as ever I see. I can't say as I'm +so over and above taken aback by what your mother says. I've all along +had a hankerin' suspicion of it in my bones. Some things seems to me +like the smell o' water-melons, that I've knowed to come with fresh +snow; you know there _is_ no water-melons, but then, there's the smell +of 'em! But it won't do to hurry a matter o' this kind--long-sufferin' +and slow to anger, though that don't quite suit, but never mind, all the +same--my opinion is, ye've both o' ye got to wait!” + +“Betsy, do you know nothing about it? Can you guess nothing?” Gilbert +persisted. + +She stole a quick glance at Martha, which he detected, and a chill ran +through his blood. His face grew pale. + +“Nothin' that fits your case,” said Miss Lavender, presently. She saw +the renewal of Gilbert's suspicion, and was casting about in her mind +how to allay it without indicating something else which she wished +to conceal. “This I'll say,” she exclaimed at last, with desperate +frankness, “that I _do_ know somethin' that may be o' use, when things +comes to the wust, as I hope they won't, but it's neither here nor there +so far as _you two_ are concerned; so don't ask me, for I won't tell, +and if it's to be done, _I'm_ the only one to do it! If I've got my +little secrets, I'm keepin' 'em in your interest, remember that!” + +There was the glimmer of a tear in each of Miss Lavender's eyes before +she knew it. + +“Betsy, my dear friend!” cried Gilbert, “we know you and trust you. +Only say this, for my sake--that you think my mother's secret is nothing +which will part Martha and me!” + +“Martha and me. I _do_ think so--am I a dragon, or a--what's that Job +talks about?--a behemoth? It's no use; we must all wait and see what'll +turn up. But, Martha, I've rather a bright thought, for a wonder; what +if we could bring Alf. Barton into the plot, and git him to help us for +the sake o' _his_ bein' helped?” + +Martha looked surprised, but Gilbert flushed up to the roots of his +hair, and set his lips firmly together. + +“I dunno as it'll do,” continued Miss Betsy, with perfect indifference +to these signs, “but then it _might_. First and foremost, we must try to +find out what he wants, for it isn't you, Martha; so you, Gilbert, might +as well be a little more of a cowcumber than you are at this present +moment. But if it's nothin' ag'inst the law, and not likely, for he's +too cute, we might even use a vessel--well, not exackly o' wrath, but +somethin' like it. There's more 'n one concern at work in all this, it +strikes _me_, and it's wuth while to know 'em all.” + +Gilbert was ashamed of his sensitiveness in regard to Barton, especially +after Martha's frank and merry confession; so he declared himself +entirely willing to abide by her judgment. + +“It would not be pleasant to have Alfred Barton associated with us, even +in the way of help,” she said. “I have a woman's curiosity to know what +he means, I confess, but, unless Betsy could make the discovery without +me, I would not take any steps towards it.” + +“Much would be fittin' to me, child,” said Miss Lavender, “that wouldn't +pass for you, at all. We've got six weeks till Gilbert comes back, and +no need o' hurry, except our arrand to Polly Withers's, which'll come +to nothin', unless you each take leave of other mighty quick, while I'm +lookin' for some more wintergreen.” + +With these words she turned short around and strode away. + +“It had best be our own secret yet, Martha?” he asked. + +“Yes, Gilbert, and all the more precious.” + +They clasped hands and kissed, once, twice, thrice, and then the +underwood slowly deepened between them, and the shadows of the forest +separated them from each other. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + +SANDY FLASH REAPPEARS. + + +During the month of October, while Gilbert Potter was occupied with +his lonely and monotonous task, he had ample leisure to evolve a clear, +calm, happy purpose from the tumult of his excited feelings. This was, +first, to accomplish his own independence, which now seemed inevitably +necessary, for his mother's sake, and its possible consequences to her; +then, strong in the knowledge of Martha Deane's fidelity, to wait with +her. + +With the exception of a few days of rainy weather, his hauling +prospered, and he returned home after five weeks' absence, to count +up the gains of the year and find that very little was lacking of the +entire amount to be paid. + +Mary Potter, as the prospect of release drew so near, became suddenly +anxious and restless. The knowledge that a very large sum of money (as +she considered it) was in the house, filled her with a thousand +new fears. There were again rumors of Sandy Flash lurking around +Marlborough, and she shuddered and trembled whenever his name was +mentioned. Her uneasiness became at last so great that Gilbert finally +proposed writing to the conveyancer in Chester who held the mortgage, +and asking whether the money might not as well be paid at once, since he +had it in hand, as wait until the following spring. + +“It's not the regular way,” said she, “but then, I suppose it'll hold in +law. You can ask Mr. Trainer about that. O Gilbert, if it can be done, +it'll take a great load off my mind!” + +“Whatever puts the mortgage into my hands, mother,” said he, “is legal +enough for us. I needn't even wait to sell the grain; Mark Deane +will lend me the seventy-five dollars still to be made up, if he has +them--or, if he can't, somebody else will. I was going to the Square +this evening; so I'll write the letter at once, and put it in the +office.” + +The first thing Gilbert did, on reaching the village, was to post the +letter in season for the mail-rider, who went once a week to and fro +between Chester and Peach-bottom Ferry, on the Susquehanna. Then he +crossed the street to Dr. Deane's, in order to inquire for Mark, but +with the chief hope of seeing Martha for one sweet moment, at least. In +this, however, he was disappointed; as he reached the gate, Mark issued +from the door. + +“Why, Gilbert, old boy!” he shouted; “the sight o' you's good for sore +eyes! What have you been about since that Sunday evening we rode up +the west branch? I was jist steppin' over to the tavern to see the +fellows--come along, and have a glass o' Rye!” + +He threw his heavy arm over Gilbert's shoulder, and drew him along. + +“In a minute, Mark; wait a bit--I've a little matter of business with +you. I need to borrow seventy-five dollars for a month or six weeks, +until my wheat is sold. Have you that much that you're not using?” + +“That and more comin' to me soon,” said Mark, “and of course you can +have it. Want it right away?” + +“Very likely in ten or twelve days.” + +“Oh, well, never fear--I'll have some accounts squared by that time! +Come along!” And therewith the good-natured fellow hurried his friend +into the bar-room of the Unicorn. + +“Done pretty well, haulin', this time?” asked Mark, as they touched +glasses. + +“Very well,” answered Gilbert, “seeing it's the last time. I'm at an end +with hauling now.” + +“You don't say so? Here's to your good luck!” exclaimed Mark, emptying +his glass. + +A man, who had been tilting his chair against the wall, in the farther +corner of the room, now arose and came forward. It was Alfred Barton. + +During Gilbert's absence, neither this gentleman's plan nor that of his +father, had made much progress. It was tolerably easy, to be sure, to +give the old man the impression that the preliminary arrangements with +regard to money were going on harmoniously; but it was not so easy to +procure Dr. Deane's acceptance of the part marked out for him. Alfred +had sought an interview with the latter soon after that which he had had +with Martha, and the result was not at all satisfactory. The wooer +had been obliged to declare that his suit was unsuccessful; but, he +believed, only temporarily so. Martha had been taken by surprise; the +question had come upon her so suddenly that she could scarcely be +said to know her own mind, and time must be allowed her. Although this +statement seemed probable to Dr. Deane, as it coincided with his own +experience in previously sounding his daughter's mind, yet Alfred's +evident anxiety that nothing should be said to Martha upon the subject, +and that the Doctor should assume to his father that the question of +balancing her legacy was as good as settled, (then proceed at once to +the discussion of the second and more important question,) excited the +Doctor's suspicions. He could not well avoid giving the required promise +in relation to Martha, but he insisted on seeing the legal evidences of +Alfred Barton's property, before going a step further. + +The latter was therefore in a state of great perplexity. The game he +was playing seemed safe enough, so far, but nothing had come of it, and +beyond this point it could not be carried, without great increase of +risk. He was more than once tempted to drop it entirely, confessing +his complete and final rejection, and allowing his father to take what +course he pleased; but presently the itching of his avaricious curiosity +returned in full force, and suggested new expedients. + +No suspicion of Gilbert Potter's relation to Martha Deane had ever +entered his mind. He had always had a liking for the young man, and +would, no doubt, have done him any good service which did not require +the use of money. He now came forward very cordially and shook-hands +with the two. + +Gilbert had self-possession enough to control his first impulse, and +to meet his rival with his former manner. Secure in his own fortune, he +even felt that he could afford to be magnanimous, and thus, by degrees, +the dislike wore off which Martha's confession had excited. + +“What is all this talk about Sandy Flash?” he asked. + +“He's been seen up above,” said Barton; “some say, about Marlborough, +and some, along the Strasburg road. He'll hardly come this way; he's too +cunning to go where the people are prepared to receive him.” + +If either of the three had happened to look steadily at the back window +of the bar-room, they might have detected, in the dusk, the face of +Dougherty, the Irish ostler of the Unicorn Tavern. It disappeared +instantly, but there was a crack nearly half an inch wide between the +bottom of the back-door and the sill under it, and to that crack a +large, flat ear was laid. + +“If he comes any nearer, you must send word around at once,” said +Gilbert,--“not wait until he's already among us.” + +“Let me alone for that!” Barton exclaimed; “Damn him, I only wish he had +pluck enough to come!” + +Mark was indignant “What's the sheriff and constables good for?” he +cried. “It's a burnin' shame that the whole country has been plundered +so long, and the fellow still runnin' at large. Much he cares for the +five hundred dollars on his head.” + +“It's a thousand, now,” said Barton. “They've doubled it.” + +“Come, that'd be a good haul for us. We're not bound to keep inside of +our township; I'm for an up and down chase all over the country, as soon +as the fall work's over!” + +“And I, too,” said Gilbert + +“You 're fellows after my own heart, both o' you!” Barton asserted, +slapping them upon the back. “What'll you take to drink?” + +By this time several others had assembled, and the conversation became +general. While the flying rumors about Sandy Flash were being produced +and discussed, Barton drew Gilbert aside. + +“Suppose we step out on the back-porch,” he said, “I want to have a word +with you.” + +The door closed between them and the noisy bar-room. There was a +rustling noise under the porch, as of a fowl disturbed on its roost, and +then everything was still. + +“Your speaking of your having done well by hauling put it into my head, +Gilbert,” Barton continued. “I wanted to borrow a little money for a +while, and there's reasons why I shouldn't call upon anybody who'd tell +of it. Now, as you've got it, lying idle”-- + +“It happens to be just the other way, Barton,” said Gilbert, +interrupting him. “I came here to-night to borrow.” + +“How's that?” Barton could not help asking, with a momentary sense of +chagrin. But the next moment he added, in a milder tone, “I don't mean +to pry into your business.” + +“I shall very likely have to use my money soon,” Gilbert explained, “and +must at least wait until I hear from Chester. That will be another week, +and then, if the money should not be wanted, I can accommodate you. But, +to tell you the truth, I don't think there's much chance of that.” + +“Shall you have to go down to Chester?” + +“I hope so.” + +“When?” + +“In ten or twelve days from now.” + +“Then,” said Barton, “I 'II fix it this way. 'Tisn't only the money +I want, but to have it paid in Chester, without the old man or Stacy +knowing anything of the matter. If I was to go myself, Stacy'd never +rest till he found out my business--Faith! I believe if I was hid in the +hayloft o' the William Penn Tavern, he'd scent me out. Now, I can get +the money of another fellow I know, if you'll take it down and hand it +over for me. Would you be that obliging?” + +“Of course,” Gilbert answered. “If I go it will be no additional +trouble.” + +“All right,” said Barton, “between ourselves, you understand.” + +A week later, a letter, with the following address was brought to the +post-office by the mail-rider,-- + +_“To Mr. Gilbert Potter, Esq. Kennett Square P. O. These, with Care and +Speed.”_ + +Gilbert, having carefully cut around the wafer and unfolded the sheet of +strong yellowish paper, read this missive,-- + +“Sir: Yr respd favour of ye [Footnote: This form of the article, +though in general disuse at the time, was still frequently employed in +epistolary writing, in that part of Pennsylvania. [ed note: The r in Yr +and e in ye, etc. are superscripted.]] 11th came duly to hand, and ye +proposition wh it contains has been submitted to Mr. Jones, ye present +houlder of ye mortgage. He wishes me to inform you that he did not +anticipate ye payment before ye first day of April, 1797, wh was ye term +agreed upon at ye payment of ye first note; nevertheless, being +required to accept full and lawful payment, whensoever tendered, he +hath impowered me to receive ye moneys at yr convenience, providing ye +settlement be full and compleat, as aforesaid, and not merely ye payment +of a part or portion thereof. + +“Yr obt servt, + +“ISAAC TRAINER.” + +Gilbert, with his limited experience of business matters, had entirely +overlooked the fact, that the permission of the creditor is not +necessary to the payment of a debt. He had a profound respect for all +legal forms, and his indebtedness carried with it a sense of stern and +perpetual responsibility, which, alas! has not always been inherited by +the descendants of that simple and primitive period. + +Mary Potter received the news with a sigh of relief. The money was again +counted, the interest which would be due somewhat laboriously computed, +and finally nothing remained but the sum which Mark Deane had promised +to furnish. This Mark expected to receive on the following Wednesday, +and Gilbert and his mother agreed that the journey to Chester should be +made at the close of the same week. + +They went over these calculations in the quiet of the Sabbath afternoon, +sitting alone in the neat, old-fashioned kitchen, with the dim light of +an Indian-summer sun striking through the leafless trumpet-vines, +and making a quaint network of light and shade on the whitewashed +window-frame. The pendulum ticked drowsily along the opposite wall, and +the hickory back-log on the hearth hummed a lamentable song through all +its simmering pores of sap. Peaceful as the happy landscape without, +dozing in dreams of the departed summer, cheery as the tidy household +signs within, seemed at last the lives of the two inmates. Mary Potter +had not asked how her son's wooing had further sped, but she felt that +he was contented of heart; she, too, indulging finally in the near +consummation of her hopes,--which touched her like the pitying sympathy +of the Power that had dealt so singularly with her life,--was nearer the +feeling of happiness than she had been for long and weary years. + +Gilbert was moved by the serenity of her face, and the trouble, which +he knew it concealed, seemed, to his mind, to be wearing away. Carefully +securing the doors, they walked over the fields together, pausing on +the hilltop to listen to the caw of the gathering crows, or to watch the +ruby disc of the beamless sun stooping to touch the western rim of the +valley. Many a time had they thus gone over the farm together, but never +before with such a sense of peace and security. The day was removed, +mysteriously, from the circle of its fellows, and set apart by a +peculiar influence which prevented either from ever forgetting it, +during all the years that came after. + +They were not aware that at the very moment this influence was +profoundest in their hearts, new rumors of Sandy Flash's movements +had reached Kennett Square, and were being excitedly discussed at the +Unicorn Tavern. He had been met on the Street Road, riding towards the +Red Lion, that very afternoon, by a man who knew his face; and, later +in the evening came a second report, that an individual of his build +had crossed the Philadelphia Road, this side of the Anvil, and gone +southward into the woods. Many were the surmises, and even detailed +accounts, of robberies that either had been or might be committed, but +no one could say precisely how much was true. + +Mark Deane was not at home, and the blacksmith was commissioned to +summon Alfred Barton, who had ridden over to Pennsbury, on a friendly +visit to Mr. Joel Ferris. When he finally made his appearance, towards +ten o'clock, he was secretly horror-stricken at the great danger he had +escaped; but it gave him an admirable opportunity to swagger. He could +do no less than promise to summon the volunteers in the morning, and +provision was made accordingly, for despatching as many messengers as +the village could afford. + +Since the British occupation, nearly twenty years before, Kennett Square +had not known as lively a day as that which followed. The men and boys +were in the street, grouped in front of the tavern, the women at the +windows, watching, some with alarmed, but many with amused faces. Sally +Fairthorn, although it was washing-day, stole up through Dr. Deane's +garden and into Martha's room, for at least half an hour, but Joe and +Jake left their overturned shocks of corn unhusked for the whole day. + +Some of the young farmers to whom the message had been sent, returned +answer that they were very busy and could not leave their work; the +horses of others were lame; the guns of others broken. By ten o'clock, +however, there were nine volunteers, very irregularly armed and mounted, +in attendance; by eleven o'clock, thirteen, and Alfred Barton, whose +place as leader was anything but comfortable, began to swell with an air +of importance, and set about examining the guns of his command. Neither +he nor any one else noticed particularly that the Irish ostler appeared +to be a great connoisseur in muskets, and was especially interested in +the structure of the flints and pans. + +“Let's look over the roll, and see how many are true blue,” said Barton, +drawing a paper from his pocket. “There's failing nine or ten, among 'em +some I fully counted on--Withers, he _may_ come yet; Ferris, hardly time +to get word; but Carson, Potter, and Travilla ought to turn up curst +soon, or we'll have the sport without 'em!” + +“Give me a horse, Mr. Barton, and I'll ride down for Gilbert!” cried Joe +Fairthorn. + +“No use,--Giles went this morning,” growled Barton. + +“It's time we were starting; which road would be best to take?” asked +one of the volunteers. + +“All roads lead to Rome, but all don't lead to Sandy Flash, ha! ha!” + said another, laughing at his own smartness. + +“Who knows where he was seen last?” Barton asked, but it was not easy to +get a coherent answer. One had heard one report, and another another; +he had been seen from the Street Road on the north all the way around +eastward by the Red Lion and the Anvil, and in the rocky glen below the +Barton farm, to the lime-quarries of Tuffkenamon on the west. + +“Unless we scatter, it'll be like looking for a needle in a haystack,” + remarked one of the more courageous volunteers. + +“If they'd all had spunk enough to come,” said Barton, “we might ha' +made four parties, and gone out on each road. As it is, we're only +strong enough for two.” + +“Seven to one?--that's too much odds in Sandy's favor!” cried a +light-headed youth, whereat the others all laughed, and some of them +blushed a little. + +Barton bit his lip, and with a withering glance at the young man, +replied,--“Then we'll make three parties, and you shall be the third.” + +Another quarter of an hour having elapsed, without any accession to the +troop, Barton reluctantly advised the men to get their arms, which had +been carelessly placed along the tavern-porch, and to mount for the +chase. + +Just then Joe and Jake Fairthorn, who had been dodging back and forth +through the village, watching the roads, made their appearance with the +announcement,-- + +“Hurray--there's another--comin' up from below, but it a'n't Gilbert. +He's stuck full o' pistols, but he's a-foot, and you must git him a +horse. I tell you, he looks like a real buster!” + +“Who can it be?” asked Barton. + +“We'll see, in a minute,” said the nearest volunteers, taking up their +muskets. + +“There he is,--there he is!” cried Joe. + +All eyes, turned towards the crossing of the roads, beheld, +just rounding the corner-house, fifty paces distant, a short, +broad-shouldered, determined figure, making directly for the tavern. His +face was red and freckled, his thin lips half-parted with a grin which +showed the flash of white teeth between them, and his eyes sparkled with +the light of a cold, fierce courage. He had a double-barrelled musket +on his shoulder, and there were four pistols in the tight leathern belt +about his waist. + +Barton turned deadly pale as he beheld this man. An astonished silence +fell upon the group, but, the next moment, some voice exclaimed, in an +undertone, which, nevertheless, every one heard,-- + +“By the living Lord! Sandy Flash himself!” + +There was a general confused movement, of which Alfred Barton took +advantage to partly cover his heavy body by one of the porch-pillars. +Some of the volunteers started back, others pressed closer together. The +pert youth, alone, who was to form the third party, brought his musket +to his shoulder. + +Quick as lightning Sandy Flash drew a pistol from his belt and levelled +it at the young man's breast. + +“Ground arms!” he cried, “or you are a dead man.” + +He was obeyed, although slowly and with grinding teeth. + +“Stand aside!” he then commanded. “_You_ have pluck, and I should hate +to shoot you. Make way, the rest o' ye! I've saved ye the trouble o' +ridin' far to find me. Whoever puts finger to trigger, falls. Back, +back, I say, and open the door for me!” + +Still advancing as he spoke, and shifting his pistol so as to cover now +one, now another of the group, he reached the tavern-porch. Some one +opened the door of the barroom, which swung inwards. The highwayman +strode directly to the bar, and there stood, facing the open door, while +he cried to the trembling bar-keeper,-- + +“A glass o' Rye, good and strong!” + +It was set before him. Holding the musket in his arm, he took the glass, +drank, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and then, spinning a +silver dollar into the air, said, as it rang upon the floor,-- + +“_I_ stand treat to-day; let the rest o' the gentlemen drink at my +expense!” + +He then walked out, and slowly retreated backwards towards the +corner-house, covering his retreat with the levelled pistol, and the +flash of his dauntless eye. + +He had nearly reached the corner, when Gilbert Potter dashed up behind +him, with Roger all in a foam. Joe Fairthorn, seized with deadly terror +when he heard the terrible name, had set off at full speed for home; but +descrying Gilbert approaching on a gallop, changed his course, met the +latter, and gasped out the astounding intelligence. All this was the +work of a minute, and when Gilbert reached the corner, a single glance +showed him the true state of affairs. The confused group in front of the +tavern, some faces sallow with cowardice, some red with indignation +and shame; the solitary, retreating figure, alive in every nerve with +splendid courage, told him the whole story, which Joe's broken words had +only half hinted. + +Flinging himself from his horse, he levelled his musket, and cried +out,-- + +“Surrender!” + +Sandy Flash, with a sudden spring, placed his back against the house, +pointed his pistol at Gilbert, and said: “Drop your gun, or I fire!” + +For answer, Gilbert drew the trigger; the crack of the explosion rang +sharp and clear, and a little shower of mortar covered Sandy Flash's +cocked hat. The ball had struck the wall about four inches above his +head. + +He leaped forward; Gilbert clubbed his musket and awaited him. They were +scarcely two yards apart; the highwayman's pistol-barrel was opposite +Gilbert's heart, and the two men were looking into each other's eyes. +The group in front of the tavern stood as if paralyzed, every man +holding his breath. + +“Halt!” said Sandy Flash. “Halt! I hate bloodshed, and besides that, +young Potter, you're not the man that'll take me prisoner. I could blow +your brains out by movin' this finger, but _you_'re safe from any bullet +o' mine, whoever a'n't!” + +At the last words a bright, mocking, malicious grin stole over his face. +Gilbert, amazed to find himself known to the highwayman, and puzzled +with certain familiar marks in the latter's countenance, was swiftly +enlightened by this grin. It was Fortune's face before him, without the +black hair and whiskers,--and Fortune's voice that spoke! + +Sandy Flash saw the recognition. He grinned again. “You'll know your +friend, another time,” he said, sprang five feet backward, whirled, +gained the cover of the house, and was mounting his horse among the +bushes at the bottom of the garden, before any of the others reached +Gilbert, who was still standing as if thunder-struck. + +By this time Sandy Flash had leaped the hedge and was careering like +lightning towards the shelter of the woods. The interest now turned upon +Gilbert Potter, who was very taciturn and thoughtful, and had little +to relate. They noticed, however, that his eyes were turned often and +inquiringly upon Alfred Barton, and that the latter as steadily avoided +meeting them. + +When Gilbert went to bring Roger, who had quietly waited at the crossing +of the roads, Deb. Smith suddenly made her appearance. + +“I seen it all,” she said. “I was a bit up the road, but I seen it. You +shouldn't ha' shot, Mr. Gilbert, though it isn't him that's born to +be hit with a bullet; but _you_'re safe enough from _his_ bullets, +anyhow--whatever happens, _you_'re safe!” + +“What do you mean, Deborah?” he exclaimed, as she almost repeated to him +Sandy Flash's very words. + +“I mean what I say,” she answered. “_You_ wouldn't be afeard, but it'll +be a comfort to your mother. I must have a drink o' whiskey after that +sight.” + +With these words she elbowed her way into the barroom. Most of the +Kennett Volunteers were there engaged in carrying out a similar +resolution. They would gladly have kept the whole occurrence secret, but +that was impossible. It was known all over the country, in three days, +and the story of it has not yet died out of the local annals. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + +THE HUSKING FROLIC. + + +Jake Fairthorn rushed into Dr. Deane's door with a howl of terror. + +“Cousin Martha! Betsy!” he cried; “he's goin' to shoot Gilbert!” + +“None o' your tricks, boy!” Betsy Lavender exclaimed, in her most savage +tone, as she saw the paleness of Martha's face. “I'm up to 'em. Who'd +shoot Gilbert Potter? Not Alf Barton, I'll be bound; he'd be afeard to +shoot even Sandy Flash!” + +“It's Sandy Flash,--he's there! Gilbert shot his hat off!” cried Jake. + +“The Lord have mercy!” And the next minute Miss Betsy found herself, she +scarcely knew how, in the road. + +Both had heard the shot, but supposed that it was some volunteer +discharging an old load from his musket; they knew nothing of Sandy's +visit to the Unicorn, and Jake's announcement seemed simply incredible. + +“O you wicked boy! What'll become o' you?” cried Miss Lavender, as she +beheld Gilbert Potter approaching, leading Roger by the bridle. But at +the same instant she saw, from the faces of the crowd, that something +unusual had happened. While the others instantly surrounded Gilbert, the +young volunteer who alone had made any show of fight, told the story +to the two ladies. Martha Deane's momentary shock of terror disappeared +under the rush of mingled pride and scorn which the narrative called up +in her heart. + +“What a pack of cowards!” she exclaimed, her cheeks flushing,--“to stand +still and see the life of the only man that dares to face a robber at +the mercy of the robber's pistol!” + +Gilbert approached. His face was grave and thoughtful, but his eye +brightened as it met hers. No two hands ever conveyed so many and such +swift messages as theirs, in the single moment when they touched +each other. The other women of the village crowded around, and he was +obliged, though with evident reluctance, to relate his share in the +event. + +In the mean time the volunteers had issued from the tavern, and were +loudly discussing what course to pursue. The most of them were in favor +of instant pursuit. To their credit it must be said that very few of +them were actual cowards; they had been both surprised by the incredible +daring of the highwayman, and betrayed by the cowardly inefficiency +of their own leader. Barton, restored to his usual complexion by two +glasses of whiskey, was nearly ready to head a chase which he suspected +would come to nothing; but the pert young volunteer, who had been +whispering with some of the younger men, suddenly cried out,-- + +“I say, fellows, we've had about enough o' Barton's command; and I, for +one, am a-goin' to enlist under Captain Potter.” + +“Good!” “Agreed!” responded a number of others, and some eight or ten +stepped to one side. The few remaining around Alfred Barton began to +look doubtful, and all eyes were turned curiously upon him. + +Gilbert, however, stepped forward and said: “It's bad policy to divide +our forces just now, when we ought to be off on the hunt. Mr. Barton, +we all know, got up the company, and I am willing to serve under him, +if he'll order us to mount at once! If not, rather than lose more time, +I'll head as many as are ready to go.” + +Barton saw how the tide was turning, and suddenly determined to cover up +his shame, if possible, with a mantle of magnanimity. + +“The fellows are right, Gilbert!” he said. “You deserve to take the lead +to-day, so go ahead; I'll follow you!” + +“Mount, then, all of you!” Gilbert cried, without further hesitation. In +a second he was on Roger's back. “You, Barton,” he ordered, “take three +with you and make for the New-Garden cross-road as fast as you can. +Pratt, you and three more towards the Hammer-and-Trowel; while I, with +the rest, follow the direct trail.” + +No more time was wasted in talking. The men took their guns and mounted, +the two detached commands were told off, and in five minutes the village +was left to its own inhabitants. + +Gilbert had a long and perplexing chase, but very little came of it. The +trail of Sandy Flash's horse was followed without much difficulty until +it struck the west branch of Redley Creek. There it suddenly ceased, and +more than an hour elapsed before some one discovered it, near the road, +a quarter of a mile further up the stream. Thence it turned towards the +Hammer-and-Trowel, but no one at the farm-houses on the road had seen +any one pass except a Quaker, wearing the usual broad-brimmed hat and +drab coat, and mounted on a large, sleepy-looking horse. + +About the middle of the afternoon, Gilbert detected, in one of the lanes +leading across to the Street Road, the marks of a galloping steed, and +those who had a little lingering knowledge of wood-craft noticed that +the gallop often ceased suddenly, changed to a walk, and was then as +suddenly resumed. Along the Street Road no one had been seen except +a Quaker, apparently the same person. Gilbert and his hunters now +suspected the disguise, but the difficulty of following the trail had +increased with every hour of lost time; and after scouring along the +Brandywine and then crossing into the Pocopsin valley, they finally gave +up the chase, late in the day. It was the general opinion that Sandy had +struck northward, and was probably safe in one of his lairs among the +Welch Mountains. + +When they reached the Unicorn tavern at dusk, Gilbert found Joe +Fairthorn impatiently waiting for him. Sally had been “tearin' around +like mad,” (so Joe described his sister's excitement,) having twice +visited the village during the afternoon in the hope of seeing the hero +of the day--after Sandy Flash, of course, who had, and deserved, the +first place. + +“And, Gilbert,” said Joe, “I wasn't to forgit to tell you that we're +a-goin' to have a huskin' frolic o' Wednesday night,--day after +to-morrow, you know. Dad's behindhand with huskin', and the moon's goin' +to be full, and Mark he said Let's have a frolic, and I'm comin' home to +meet Gilbert anyhow, and so I'll be there. And Sally she said I'll have +Martha and lots o' girls, only we shan't come out into the field till +you're nigh about done. Then Mark he said That won't take long, and if +you don't help me with my shocks I won't come, and Sally she hit him, +and so it's all agreed. And you'll come, Gilbert, won't you?” + +“Yes, yes, Joe,” Gilbert answered, a little impatiently; “tell Sally +I'll come.” Then he turned Roger's head towards home. + +He was glad of the solitary ride which allowed him to collect his +thoughts. Fearless as was his nature, the danger he had escaped might +well have been cause for grave self-congratulation; but the thought of +it scarcely lingered beyond the moment of the encounter. The astonishing +discovery that the stranger, Fortune, and the redoubtable Sandy Flash +were one and the same person; the mysterious words which this person had +addressed to him; the repetition of the same words by Deb. Smith,--all +these facts, suggesting, as their common solution, some secret which +concerned himself, perplexed his mind, already more than sufficiently +occupied with mystery. + +It suddenly flashed across his memory, as he rode homeward, that on the +evening when he returned from the fox-chase, his mother had manifested +an unusual interest in the strange huntsman, questioning him minutely +as to the latter's appearance. Was she--or, rather, had she been, at one +time of her life--acquainted with Sandy Flash? And if so-- + +“No!” he cried aloud, “it is impossible! It could not--cannot be!” + The new possibility which assailed him was even more terrible than his +previous belief in the dishonor of his birth. Better, a thousand times, +he thought, be basely born than the son of an outlaw! It seemed that +every attempt he made to probe his mother's secret threatened to +overwhelm him with a knowledge far worse than the fret of his ignorance. +Why not be patient, therefore, leaving the solution to her and to time? + +Nevertheless, a burning curiosity led him to relate to his mother, that +evening, the events of the day. He watched her closely as he described +his encounter with the highwayman, and repeated the latter's words. It +was quite natural that Mary Potter should shudder and turn pale during +the recital--quite natural that a quick expression of relief should +shine from her face at the close; but Gilbert could not be sure that +her interest extended to any one except himself. She suggested no +explanation of Sandy Flash's words, and he asked none. + +“I shall know no peace, child,” she said, “until the money has been +paid, and the mortgage is in your hands.” + +“You won't have long to wait, now, mother,” he answered cheerily. “I +shall see Mark on Wednesday evening, and therefore can start for Chester +on Friday, come rain or shine. As for Sandy Flash, he's no doubt up on +the Welch Mountain by this time. It isn't his way to turn up twice in +succession, in the same place.” + +“You don't know him, Gilbert. He won't soon forget that you shot at +him.” + +“I seem to be safe enough, if he tells the truth.” Gilbert could not +help remarking. + +Mary Potter shook her head, and said nothing. + +Two more lovely Indian-summer days went by, and as the wine-red sun +slowly quenched his lower limb in the denser smoke along the horizon, +the great bronzed moon struggled out of it, on the opposite rim of +the sky. It was a weird light and a weird atmosphere, such as we might +imagine overspreading Babylonian ruins, on the lone plains of the +Euphrates; but no such fancies either charmed or tormented the lusty, +wide-awake, practical lads and lasses, whom the brightening moon beheld +on their way to the Fairthorn farm. “The best night for huskin' that +ever was,” comprised the sum of their appreciation. + +At the old farm-house there was great stir of preparation. Sally, with +her gown pinned up, dodged in and out of kitchen and sitting-room, +catching herself on every door-handle, while Mother Fairthorn, beaming +with quiet content, stood by the fire, and inspected the great kettles +which were to contain the materials for the midnight supper. Both were +relieved when Betsy Lavender made her appearance, saying,-- + +“Let down your gownd, Sally, and give _me_ that ladle. What'd be +a mighty heap o' work for you, in that flustered condition, is +child's-play to the likes o' me, that's as steady as a cart-horse,--not +that self-praise, as the sayin' is, is any recommendation,--but my +kickin' and prancin' days is over, and high time, too.” + +“No, Betsy, I'll not allow it!” cried Sally. “You must enjoy yourself, +too.” But she had parted with the ladle, while speaking, and Miss +Lavender, repeating the words “Enjoy yourself, too!” quietly took her +place in the kitchen. + +The young men, as they arrived, took their way to the corn-field, +piloted by Joe and Jake Fairthorn. These boys each carried a wallet over +his shoulders, the jug in the front end balancing that behind, and the +only casualty that occurred was when Jake, jumping down from a fence, +allowed his jugs to smite together, breaking one of them to shivers. + +“There, that'll come out o' your pig-money,” said Joe. + +“I don't care,” Jake retorted, “if daddy only pays me the rest.” + +The boys, it must be known, received every year the two smallest pigs of +the old sow's litter, with the understanding that these were to be their +separate property, on condition of their properly feeding and fostering +the whole herd. This duty they performed with great zeal and enthusiasm, +and numberless and splendid were the castles which they built with the +coming money; yet, alas! when the pigs were sold, it always happened +that Farmer Fairthorn found some inconvenient debt pressing him, and +the boys' pig-money was therefore taken as a loan,--only as a loan,--and +permanently invested. + +There were between three and four hundred shocks to husk, and the young +men, armed with husking-pegs of hickory, fastened by a leathern strap +over the two middle fingers, went bravely to work. Mark Deane, who had +reached home that afternoon, wore the seventy-five dollars in a buckskin +belt around his waist, and anxiously awaited the arrival of Gilbert +Potter, of whose adventure he had already heard. Mark's presumed +obligations to Alfred Barton prevented him from expressing his +overpowering contempt for that gentleman's conduct, but he was not +obliged to hold his tongue about Gilbert's pluck and decision, and he +did not. + +The latter, detained at the house by Mother Fairthorn and Sally,--both +of whom looked upon him as one arisen from the dead,--did not reach the +field until the others had selected their rows, overturned the shocks, +and were seated in a rustling line, in the moonlight. + +“Gilbert!” shouted Mark, “come here! I've kep' the row next to mine, for +you! And I want to get a grip o' your hand, my bold boy!” + +He sprang up, flinging an armful of stalks behind him, and with +difficulty restrained an impulse to clasp Gilbert to his broad breast. +It was not the custom of the neighborhood; the noblest masculine +friendship would have been described by the people in no other terms +than “They are very thick,” and men who loved each other were accustomed +to be satisfied with the knowledge. The strong moonlight revealed to +Gilbert Potter the honest heart which looked out of Mark's blue eyes, as +the latter held his hand like a vice, and said,-- + +“I've heard all about it.” + +“More than there was occasion for, very likely,” Gilbert replied. “I'll +tell you my story some day, Mark; but tonight we must work and not +talk.” + +“All right, Gilbert. I say, though, I've got the money you wanted; we'll +fix the matter after supper.” + +The rustling of the corn-stalks recommenced, and the tented lines of +shocks slowly fell as the huskers worked their way over the brow of the +hill, whence the ground sloped down into a broad belt of shade, cast by +the woods in the bottom. Two or three dogs which had accompanied their +masters coursed about the field, or darted into the woods in search +of an opossum-trail. Joe and Jake Fairthorn would gladly have followed +them, but were afraid of venturing into the mysterious gloom; so they +amused themselves with putting on the coats which the men had thrown +aside, and gravely marched up and down the line, commending the rapid +and threatening the tardy workers. + +Erelong, the silence was broken by many a shout of exultation or banter, +many a merry sound of jest or fun, as the back of the night's task was +fairly broken. One husker mimicked the hoot of an owl in the thickets +below; another sang a melody popular at the time, the refrain of which +was,-- + + “Be it late or early, be it late or soon, + It's I will enjoy the sweet rose in June!” + +“Sing out, boys!” shouted Mark, “so the girls can hear you! It's time +they were comin' to look after us.” + +“Sing, yourself!” some one replied. “You can out-bellow the whole raft.” + +Without more ado, Mark opened his mouth and began chanting, in a +ponderous voice,-- + + “On yonder mountain summit + My castle you will find, + Renown'd in ann-cient historee,-- + My name it's Rinardine!” + +Presently, from the upper edge of the wood, several feminine voices were +heard, singing another part of the same song:-- + + “Beware of meeting Rinar, + All on the mountains high!” + +Such a shout of fun ran over the field, that the frighted owl ceased his +hooting in the thicket. The moon stood high, and turned the night-haze +into diffused silver. Though the hollows were chill with gathering +frost, the air was still mild and dry on the hills, and the young +ladies, in their warm gowns of home-made flannel, enjoyed both the +splendor of the night and the lively emulation of the scattered +laborers. + +“Turn to, and give us a lift, girls,” said Mark. + +“Beware of meeting Rinar!” Sally laughed. + +“Because you know what you promised him, Sally,” he retorted. “Come, a +bargain's a bargain; there's the outside row standin'--not enough of us +to stretch all the way acrost the field--so let's you and me take that +and bring it down square with th' others. The rest may keep my row +a-goin', if they can.” + +Two or three of the other maidens had cut the supporting stalks of the +next shock, and overturned it with much laughing. “I can't husk, Mark,” + said Martha Deane, “but I'll promise to superintend these, if you will +keep Sally to her word.” + +There was a little running hither and thither, a show of fight, a mock +scramble, and it ended by Sally tumbling over a pumpkin, and then +being carried off by Mark to the end of the outside row of shocks, +some distance in the rear of the line of work. Here he laid the stalks +straight for her, doubled his coat and placed it on the ground for a +seat, and then took his place on the other side of the shock. + +Sally husked a few ears in silence, but presently found it more +agreeable to watch her partner, as he bent to the labor, ripping the +covering from each ear with one or two rapid motions, snapping the cob, +and flinging the ear over his shoulder into the very centre of the heap, +without turning his head. When the shock was finished, there were five +stalks on her side, and fifty on Mark's. + +He laughed at the extent of her help, but, seeing how bright and +beautiful her face looked in the moonlight, how round and supple her +form, contrasted with his own rough proportions, he added, in a lower +tone,-- + +“Never mind the work, Sally--I only wanted to have you with me.” + +Sally was silent, but happy, and Mark proceeded to overthrow the next +shock. + +When they were again seated face to face, he no longer bent so steadily +over the stalks, but lifted his head now and then to watch the gloss of +the moon on her black hair, and the mellow gleam that seemed to slide +along her cheek and chin, playing with the shadows, as she moved. + +“Sally!” he said at last, “you must ha' seen, over and over ag'in, that +I like to be with you. Do you care for me, at all?” + +She flushed and trembled a little as she answered,--“Yes, Mark, I do.” + +He husked half a dozen ears rapidly, then looked up again and asked,-- + +“Do you care enough for me, Sally, to take me for good and all? I can't +put it into fine speech, but I love you dearly and honestly; will you +marry me?” + +Sally bent down her head, so choked with the long-delayed joy that she +found it impossible to speak. Mark finished the few remaining stalks and +put them behind him; he sat upon the ground at her feet. + +“There's my hand, Sally; will you take it, and me with it?” + +Her hand slowly made its way into his broad, hard palm. Once the +surrender expressed, her confusion vanished; she lifted her head for his +kiss, then leaned it on his shoulder and whispered,-- + +“Oh, Mark, I've loved you for ever and ever so long a time!” + +“Why, Sally, deary,” said he, “that's my case, too; and I seemed to feel +it in my bones that we was to be a pair; only, you know, I had to get a +foothold first. I couldn't come to you with empty hands--though, faith! +there's not much to speak of in 'em!” + +“Never mind that, Mark,--I'm _so_ glad you want me!” + +And indeed she was; why should she not, therefore, say so? + +“There's no need o' broken sixpences, or true-lovers' knots, I guess,” + said Mark, giving her another kiss. “I'm a plain-spoken fellow, and +when I say I want you for my wife, Sally, I mean it. But we mustn't be +settin' here, with the row unhusked; that'll never do. See if I don't +make the ears spin! And I guess you can help me a little now, can't +you?” + +With a jolly laugh, Mark picked up the corn-cutter and swung it above +the next shock. In another instant it would have fallen, but a loud +shriek burst out from the bundled stalks, and Joe Fairthorn crept forth +on his hands and knees. + +The lovers stood petrified. “Why, you young devil!” exclaimed Mark, +while the single word “JOE!” which came from Sally's lips, contained the +concentrated essence of a thousand slaps. + +“Don't--don't!” whimpered Joe. “I'll not tell anybody, indeed I wont!” + +“If you do,” threatened Mark, brandishing the corn-cutter, “it isn't +your legs I shall cut off, but your head, even with the shoulders. What +were you doin' in that shock?” + +“I wanted to hear what you and Sally were savin' to each other. Folks +said you two was a-courtin',” Joe answered. + +The comical aspect of the matter suddenly struck Mark, and he burst into +a roar of laughter. + +“Mark, how can you?” said Sally, bridling a little. + +“Well,--it's all in the fam'ly, after all. Joe, tarnation scamp as +he is, is long-headed enough to keep his mouth shut, rather than have +people laugh at his relations--eh, Joe?” + +“I said I'd never say a word,” Joe affirmed, “and I won't. You see if +I even tell Jake. But I say, Mark, when you and Sally get married, will +you be my uncle?” + +“It depends on your behavior,” Mark gravely answered, seating himself +to husk. Joe magnanimously left the lovers, and pitched over the third +shock ahead, upon which he began to husk with might and main, in order +to help them out with their task. + +By the time the outside row was squared, the line had reached the bottom +of the slope, where the air was chill, although the shadows of the +forest had shifted from the field. Then there was a race among the +huskers for the fence, the girls promising that he whose row was first +husked out, should sit at the head of the table, and be called King of +the Corn-field. The stalks rustled, the cobs snapped, the ears fell like +a shower of golden cones, and amid much noise and merriment, not +only the victor's row but all the others were finished, and Farmer +Fairthorn's field stood husked from end to end. + +Gilbert Potter had done his share of the work steadily, and as silently +as the curiosity of the girls, still excited by his recent adventure, +would allow. It was enough for him that he caught a chance word, now +and then, from Martha. The emulation of the race with which the husking +closed favored them, and he gladly lost a very fair chance of becoming +King of the Corn-field for the opportunity of asking her to assist him +in contriving a brief interview, on the way to the house. + +Where two work together to the same end, there is no doubt about the +result, especially as, in this case, the company preferred returning +through the wood instead of crossing the open, high-fenced fields. When +they found themselves together, out of ear-shot of the others, Gilbert +lost no time in relating the particulars of his encounter with Sandy +Flash, the discovery he had made, and the mysterious assurance of Deb. +Smith. + +Martha listened with the keenest interest. “It is very, very strange,” + she said, “and the strangest of all is that he should be that man, +Fortune. As for his words, I do not find them so singular. He has +certainly the grandest courage, robber as he is, and he admires the same +quality in you; no doubt you made a favorable impression upon him on the +day of the fox-chase; and so, although you are hunting him down, he will +not injure you, if he can help it. I find all that very natural, in a +man of his nature.” + +“But Deb. Smith?” Gilbert asked. + +“That,” said Martha, “is rather a curious coincidence, but nothing more, +I think. She is said to be a superstitious creature, and if you have +ever befriended her,--and you may have done so, Gilbert, without your +good heart being aware of it,--she thinks that her spells, or charms, +or what not, will save you from harm. No, I was wrong; it is not so very +strange, except Fortune's intimacy with Alfred Barton, which everybody +was talking about at the time.” + +Gilbert drew a deep breath of relief. How the darkness of his new +fear vanished, in the light of Martha's calm, sensible words! “How +wonderfully you have guessed the truth!”. he cried. “So it is; Deb. +Smith thinks she is beholden to me for kind treatment; she blew upon +my palm, in a mysterious way, and said she would stand by me in time of +need! But that about Fortune puzzles me. I can see that Barton is very +shy of me since he thinks I've made the discovery.” + +“We must ask Betsy Lavender's counsel, there,” said Martha. “It is +beyond my depth.” + +The supper smoked upon the table when they reached the farm-house. +It had been well earned, and it was enjoyed, both in a physical and a +social sense, to the very extent of the guests' capacities. The King sat +at the head of the table, and Gilbert Potter--forced into that position +by Mark--at the foot. Sally Fairthorn insisted on performing her duty +as handmaiden, although, as Betsy Lavender again and again declared, +her room was better than her help. Sally's dark eyes fairly danced and +sparkled; her full, soft lips shone with a scarlet bloom; she laughed +with a wild, nervous joyousness, and yet rushed about haunted with a +fearful dread of suddenly bursting into tears. Her ways were so well +known, however, that a little extra impulsiveness excited no surprise. +Martha Deane was the only person who discovered what had taken place. +As the girls were putting on their hats and cloaks in the bedroom, Sally +drew her into the passage, kissed her a number of times with passionate +vehemence, and then darted off without saying a word. + +Gilbert rode home through the splendid moonlight, in the small hours of +the morning, with a light heart, and Mark's money-belt buckled around +his waist. + + + + +CHAPTER XX. + +GILBERT ON THE ROAD TO CHESTER. + + +Being now fully prepared to undertake his journey to Chester, Gilbert +remembered his promise to Alfred Barton. As the subject had not again +been mentioned between them,--probably owing to the excitement produced +by Sandy Flash's visit to Kennett Square, and its consequences,--he felt +bound to inform Barton of his speedy departure, and to renew his offer +of service. + +He found the latter in the field, assisting Giles, who was hauling home +the sheaves of corn-fodder in a harvest-wagon. The first meeting of +the two men did not seem to be quite agreeable to either. Gilbert's +suspicions had been aroused, although he could give them no definite +form, and Barton shrank from any reference to what had now become a very +sore topic. + +“Giles,” said the latter, after a moment of evident embarrassment, “I +guess you may drive home with that load, and pitch it off; I'll wait for +you here.” + +When the rustling wain had reached a convenient distance, Gilbert +began,-- + +“I only wanted to say that I'm going to Chester tomorrow.” + +“Oh, yes!” Barton exclaimed, “about that money? I suppose you want all +o' yours?” + +“It's as I expected. But you said you could borrow elsewhere, and send +it by me.” + +“The fact is,” said Barton, “that I've both borrowed and sent. I'm +obliged to you, all the same, Gilbert; the will's as good as the deed, +you know; but I got the money from--well, from a friend, who was about +going down on his own business, and so that stone killed both my birds. +I ought to ha' sent you word, by rights.” + +“Is your _friend_,” Gilbert asked, “a safe and trusty man?” + +“Safe enough, I guess--a little wild, at times, maybe; but he's not such +a fool as to lose what he'd never have a chance of getting again.” + +“Then,” said Gilbert, “it's hardly likely that he's the same friend you +took such a fancy to, at the Hammer-and-Trowel, last spring?” + +Alfred Barton started as if he had been shot, and a deep color spread +over his face. His lower jaw slackened and his eyes moved uneasily from +side to side. + +“Who--who do you mean?” he stammered. + +The more evident his embarrassment became, the more Gilbert was +confirmed in his suspicion that there was some secret understanding +between the two men. The thing seemed incredible, but the same point, +he remembered had occurred to Martha Deane's mind, when she so readily +explained the other circumstances. + +“Barton,” he said, sternly, “you know very well whom I mean. What became +of your friend Fortune? Didn't you see him at the tavern, last Monday +morning?” + +“Y-yes--oh, yes! I know who he is _now_, the damned scoundrel! I'd give +a hundred dollars to see him dance upon nothing!” + +He clenched his fists, and uttered a number of other oaths, which +need not be repeated. His rage seemed so real that Gilbert was again +staggered. Looking at the heavy, vulgar face before him,--the small, +restless eyes, the large sensuous mouth, the forehead whose very extent, +in contradiction to ordinary laws, expressed imbecility rather than +intellect, it was impossible to associate great cunning and shrewdness +with such a physiognomy. Every line, at that moment, expressed pain and +exasperation. But Gilbert felt bound to go a step further. + +“Barton,” he said, “didn't you know who Fortune was, on that day?” + +“N-no--no! On that _day_--NO! Blast me if I did!” + +“Not before you left him?” + +“Well, I'll admit that a suspicion of it came to me at the very last +moment--too late to be of any use. But come, damme! that's all over, and +what's the good o' talking? _You_ tried your best to catch the fellow, +too, but he was too much for you! 'T isn't such an easy job, eh?” + +This sort of swagger was Alfred Barton's only refuge, when he was driven +into a corner. Though some color still lingered in his face, he spread +his shoulders with a bold, almost defiant air, and met Gilbert's eye +with a steady gaze. The latter was not prepared to carry his examination +further, although he was still far from being satisfied. + +“Come, come, Gilbert!” Barton presently resumed, “I mean no offence. You +showed yourself to be true blue, and you led the hunt as well as any +man could ha' done; but the very thought o' the fellow makes me mad, and +I'll know no peace till he's strung up. If I was your age, now! A man +seems to lose his spirit as he gets on in years, and I'm only sorry you +weren't made captain at the start, instead o' me. You _shall_ be, from +this time on; I won't take it again!” + +“One thing I'll promise you,” said Gilbert, with a meaning look, “that I +won't let him walk into the bar-room of the Unicorn, without hindrance.” + +“I'll bet you won't!” Barton exclaimed. “All _I'm_ afraid of is, that he +won't try it again.” + +“We'll see; this highway-robbery must have an end. I must now be going. +Good-bye!” + +“Good-bye, Gilbert; take care o' yourself!” said Barton, in a very good +humor, now that the uncomfortable interview was over. “And, I say,” he +added, “remember that I stand ready to do you a good turn, whenever I +can!” + +“Thank you!” responded Gilbert, as he turned Roger's head; but he said +to himself,--“when all other friends fail, I may come to _you_, not +sooner.” + +The next morning showed signs that the Indian Summer had reached its +close. All night long the wind had moaned and lamented in the chimneys, +and the sense of dread in the outer atmosphere crept into the house and +weighed upon the slumbering inmates. There was a sound in the forest as +of sobbing Dryads, waiting for the swift death and the frosty tomb. The +blue haze of dreams which had overspread the land changed into an ashy, +livid mist, dragging low, and clinging to the features of the landscape +like a shroud to the limbs of a corpse. + +The time, indeed, had come for a change. It was the 2nd of November; and +after a summer and autumn beautiful almost beyond parallel, a sudden +and severe winter was generally anticipated. In this way, even the most +ignorant field-hand recognized the eternal balance of Nature. + +Mary Potter, although the day had arrived for which she had so long and +fervently prayed, could not shake off the depressing influence of the +weather. After breakfast, when Gilbert began to make preparations for +the journey, she found herself so agitated that it was with difficulty +she could give him the usual assistance. The money, which was mostly +in silver coin, had been sewed into tight rolls, and was now to be +carefully packed in the saddle-bags: the priming of the pistols was to +be renewed, and the old, shrivelled covers of the holsters so greased, +hammered out, and padded that they would keep the weapons dry in case of +rain. Although Gilbert would reach Chester that evening,--the distance +being not more than twenty-four miles,--the preparations, principally on +account of his errand, were conducted with a grave and solemn sense of +their importance. + +When, finally, everything was in readiness,--the saddle-bags so packed +that the precious rolls could not rub or jingle; the dinner of sliced +bread and pork placed over them, in a folded napkin; the pistols, +intended more for show than use, thrust into the antiquated holsters; +and all these deposited and secured on Roger's back,--Gilbert took his +mother's hand, and said,-- + +“Good-bye, mother! Don't worry, now, if I shouldn't get back until +late to-morrow evening; I can't tell exactly how long the business will +take.” + +He had never looked more strong and cheerful. The tears came to Mary +Potter's eyes, but she held them hack by a powerful effort. All she +could say--and her voice trembled in spite of herself--was,-- + +“Good-bye, my boy! Remember that I've worked, and thought, and prayed, +for you alone,--and that I'd do more--I'd do _all_, if I only could!” + +His look said, “I do not forget!” He sat already in the saddle, and was +straightening the folds of his heavy cloak, so that it might protect his +knees. The wind had arisen, and the damp mist was driving down the glen, +mixed with scattered drops of a coming rain-storm. As he rode slowly +away, Mary Potter lifted her eyes to the dense gray of the sky, +darkening from moment to moment, listened to the murmur of the wind +over the wooded hills opposite, and clasped her hands with the appealing +gesture which had now become habitual to her. + +“Two days more!” she sighed, as she entered the house,--“two days more +of fear and prayer! Lord forgive me that I am so weak of faith--that I +make myself trouble where I ought to be humble and thankful!” + +Gilbert rode slowly, because he feared the contents of his saddle-bags +would be disturbed by much jolting. Proof against wind and weather, +he was not troubled by the atmospheric signs, but rather experienced a +healthy glow and exhilaration of the blood as the mist grew thicker and +beat upon his face like the blown spray of a waterfall. By the time he +had reached the Carson farm, the sky contracted to a low, dark arch of +solid wet, in which there was no positive outline of cloud, and a dull, +universal roar, shorn of all windy sharpness, hummed over the land. + +From the hill behind the farm-house, whence he could overlook the +bottom-lands of Redley Creek, and easily descry, on a clear day, the +yellow front of Dr. Deane's house in Kennett Square, he now beheld a dim +twilight chaos, wherein more and more of the distance was blotted out. +Yet still some spell held up the suspended rain, and the drops that fell +seemed to be only the leakage of the airy cisterns before they burst. +The fields on either hand were deserted. The cattle huddled behind the +stacks or crouched disconsolately in fence-corners. Here and there +a farmer made haste to cut and split a supply of wood for his +kitchen-fire, or mended the rude roof on which his pigs depended for +shelter; but all these signs showed how soon he intended to be snugly +housed, to bide out the storm. + +It was a day of no uncertain promise. Gilbert confessed to himself, +before he reached the Philadelphia road, that he would rather have +chosen another day for the journey; yet the thought of returning was +farthest from his mind. Even when the rain, having created its little +pools and sluices in every hollow of the ground, took courage, and +multiplied its careering drops, and when the wet gusts tore open his +cloak and tugged at his dripping hat, he cheerily shook the moisture +from his cheeks and eyelashes, patted Roger's streaming neck, and +whistled a bar or two of an old carol. + +There were pleasant hopes enough to occupy his mind, without dwelling +on these slight external annoyances. He still tried to believe that his +mother's release would be hastened by the independence which lay folded +in his saddle-bags, and the thud of the wet leather against Roger's hide +was a sound to cheer away any momentary foreboding. Then, Martha--dear, +noble girl! She was his; it was but to wait, and waiting must be easy +when the end was certain. He felt, moreover, that in spite of his +unexplained disgrace, he had grown in the respect of his neighbors; +that his persevering integrity was beginning to bring its reward, and +he thanked God very gratefully that he had been saved from adding to his +name any stain of his own making. + +In an hour or more the force of the wind somewhat abated, but the sky +seemed to dissolve into a massy flood. The rain rushed down, not in +drops, but in sheets, and in spite of his cloak, he was wet to the skin. +For half an hour he was obliged to halt in the wood between Old Kennett +and Chadd's Ford, and here he made the discovery that with all his care +the holsters were nearly full of water. Brown streams careered down +the long, meadowy hollow on his left, wherein many Hessian soldiers lay +buried. There was money buried with them, the people believed, but no +one cared to dig among the dead at midnight, and many a wild tale of +frighted treasure-seekers recurred to his mind. + +At the bottom of the long hill flowed the Brandywine, now rolling swift +and turbid, level with its banks. Roger bravely breasted the flood, +and after a little struggle, reached the opposite side. Then across +the battle-meadow, in the teeth of the storm, along the foot of the low +hill, around the brow of which the entrenchments of the American army +made a clayey streak, until the ill-fated field, sown with grape-shot +and bullets which the farmers turned up every spring with their furrows, +lay behind him. The story of the day was familiar to him, from the +narratives of scores of eye-witnesses, and he thought to himself, as +he rode onward, wet, lashed by the furious rain, yet still of good +cheer,--“Though the fight was lost, the cause was won.” + +After leaving the lovely lateral valley which stretches eastward for +two miles, at right angles to the course of the Brandywine, he entered a +rougher and wilder region, more thickly wooded and deeply indented with +abrupt glens. Thus far he had not met with a living soul. Chester was +now not more than eight or ten miles distant, and, as nearly as he could +guess, it was about two o'clock in the afternoon. With the best luck, he +could barely reach his destination by nightfall, for the rain showed no +signs of abating, and there were still several streams to be crossed. + +His blood leaped no more so nimbly along his veins; the continued +exposure had at last chilled and benumbed him. Letting the reins fall +upon Roger's neck, he folded himself closely in his wet cloak, and bore +the weather with a grim, patient endurance. The road dropped into a +rough glen, crossed a stony brook, and then wound along the side of +a thickly wooded hill. On his right the bank had been cut away like +a wall; on the left a steep slope of tangled thicket descended to the +stream. + +One moment, Gilbert knew that he was riding along this road, Roger +pressing close to the bank for shelter from the wind and rain; the next, +there was a swift and tremendous grip on his collar, Roger slid from +under him, and he was hurled backwards, with great force, upon the +ground. Yet even in the act of falling, he seemed to be conscious that a +figure sprang down upon the road from the bank above. + +It was some seconds before the shock, which sent a crash through his +brain and a thousand fiery sparkles into his eyes, passed away. Then +a voice, keen, sharp, and determined, which it seemed that he knew, +exclaimed,-- + +“Damn the beast! I'll have to shoot him.” + +Lifting his head with some difficulty, for he felt weak and giddy, and +propping himself on his arm, he saw Sandy Flash in the road, three +or four paces off, fronting Roger, who had whirled around, and with +levelled ears and fiery eyes, seemed to be meditating an attack. + +The robber wore a short overcoat, made entirely of musk-rat skins, which +completely protected the arms in his belt. He had a large hunting-knife +in his left hand, and appeared to be feeling with his right for the +stock of a pistol. It seemed to Gilbert that nothing but the singular +force of his eye held back the horse from rushing upon him. + +“Keep as you are, young man!” he cried, without turning his head, “or a +bullet goes into your horse's brain. I know the beast, and don't want to +see him slaughtered. If _you_ don't, order him to be quiet!” + +Gilbert, although he knew every trait of the noble animal's nature +better than those of many a human acquaintance, was both surprised and +touched at the instinct with which he had recognized an enemy, and the +fierce courage with which he stood on the defensive. In that moment of +bewilderment, he thought only of Roger, whose life hung by a thread, +which his silence would instantly snap. He might have seen--had there +been time for reflection--that nothing would have been gained, in any +case, by the animal's death; for, stunned and unarmed as he was, he was +no match for the powerful, wary highwayman. + +Obeying the feeling which entirely possessed him, he cried,--“Roger! +Roger, old boy!” + +The horse neighed a shrill, glad neigh of recognition, and pricked up +his ears. Sandy Flash stood motionless; he had let go of his pistol, and +concealed the knife in a fold of his coat. + +“Quiet, Roger, quiet!” Gilbert again commanded. + +The animal understood the tone, if not the words. He seemed completely +reassured, and advanced a step or two nearer. With the utmost swiftness +and dexterity, combined with an astonishing gentleness,--making no +gesture which might excite Roger's suspicion,--Sandy Flash thrust +his hand into the holsters, smiled mockingly, cut the straps of the +saddle-bags with a single movement of his keen-edged knife, tested +the weight of the bags, nodded, grinned, and then, stepping aside, he +allowed the horse to pass him. But he watched every motion of the head +and ears, as he did so. + +Roger, however, seemed to think only of his master. Bending down his +head, he snorted warmly into Gilbert's pale face, and then swelled his +sides with a deep breath of satisfaction. Tears of shame, grief, and +rage swam in Gilbert's eyes. “Roger,” he said, “I've lost everything but +you!” + +He staggered to his feet and leaned against the bank. The extent of his +loss--the hopelessness of its recovery--the impotence of his burning +desire to avenge the outrage--overwhelmed him. The highwayman still +stood, a few paces off, watching him with a grim curiosity. + +With a desperate effort, Gilbert turned towards him. “Sandy Flash,” he +cried, “do you know what you are doing?” + +“I rather guess so,”--and the highwayman grinned. “I've done it before, +but never quite so neatly as this time.” + +“I've heard it said, to your credit,” Gilbert continued, “that, though +you rob the rich, you sometimes give to the poor. This time you've +robbed a poor man.” + +“I've only borrowed a little from one able to spare a good deal more +than I've got,--and the grudge I owe him isn't paid off yet.” + +“It is not so!” Gilbert cried. “Every cent has been earned by my own +and my mother's hard work. I was taking it to Chester, to pay off a debt +upon the farm; and the loss and the disappointment will well nigh break +my mother's heart. According to your views of things, you owe me a +grudge, but you are outside of the law, and I did my duty as a lawful +man by trying to shoot you!” + +“And I, _bein'_ outside o' the law, as you say, have let you off mighty +easy, young man!” exclaimed Sandy Flash, his eyes shining angrily and +his teeth glittering. “I took you for a fellow o' pluck, not for one +that'd lie, even to the robber they call me! What's all this pitiful +story about Barton's money?” + +“Barton's money!” + +“Oh--ay! You didn't agree to take some o' his money to Chester?” The +mocking expression on the highwayman's face was perfectly diabolical. He +slung the saddle-bags over his shoulders, and turned to leave. + +Gilbert was so amazed that for a moment he knew not what to say. Sandy +Flash took three strides up the road, and then sprang down into the +thicket. + +“It is not Barton's money!” Gilbert cried, with a last desperate +appeal,--“it is mine, mine and my mother's!” + +A short, insulting laugh was the only answer. + +“Sandy Flash!” he cried again, raising his voice almost to a shout, as +the crashing of the robber's steps through the brushwood sounded farther +and farther down the glen, “Sandy Flash! You have plundered a widow's +honest earnings to-day, and a curse goes with such plunder! Hark you! if +never before, you are cursed from this hour forth! I call upon God, in +my mother's name, to mark you!” + +There was no sound in reply, except the dull, dreary hum of the wind and +the steady lashing of the rain. The growing darkness of the sky told +of approaching night, and the wild glen, bleak enough before, was now a +scene of utter and hopeless desolation to Gilbert's eyes. He was almost +unmanned, not only by the cruel loss, but also by the stinging sense +of outrage which it had left behind. A mixed feeling of wretched +despondency and shame filled his heart, as he leaned, chill, weary, and +still weak from the shock of his fall, upon Roger's neck. + +The faithful animal turned his head from time to time, as if to question +his master's unusual demeanor. There was a look of almost human sympathy +in his large eyes; he was hungry and restless, yet would not move until +the word of command had been given. + +“Poor fellow!” said Gilbert, patting his cheek, “we've both fared ill +to-day. But you mustn't suffer any longer for my sake.” + +He then mounted and rode onward through the storm. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. + +ROGER REPAYS HIS MASTER. + + +A mile or more beyond the spot where Gilbert Potter had been waylaid, +there was a lonely tavern, called the “Drovers' Inn.” Here he +dismounted, more for his horse's sake than his own, although he was +sore, weary, and sick of heart. After having carefully groomed Roger +with his own hands, and commended him to the special attentions of +the ostler, he entered the warm public room, wherein three or four +storm-bound drovers were gathered around the roaring fire of hickory +logs. + +The men kindly made way for the pale, dripping, wretched-looking +stranger; and the landlord, with a shrewd glance and a suggestion +of “Something hot, I reckon?” began mixing a compound proper for the +occasion. Laying aside his wet cloak, which was sent to the kitchen +to be more speedily dried, Gilbert presently sat in a cloud of his +own steaming garments, and felt the warmth of the potent liquor in his +chilly blood. + +All at once, it occurred to him that the highwayman had not touched his +person. There was not only some loose silver in his pockets, but Mark +Deane's money-belt was still around his waist. So much, at least, was +rescued, and he began to pluck up a little courage. Should he continue +his journey to Chester, explain the misfortune to the holder of his +mortgage, and give notice to the County Sheriff of this new act of +robbery? Then the thought came into his mind that in that case he might +be detained a day or two, in order to make depositions, or comply with +some unknown legal form. In the mean time the news would spread over +the country, no doubt with many exaggerations, and might possibly +reach Kennett--even the ears of his mother. That reflection decided his +course. She must first hear the truth from his mouth; he would try to +give her cheer and encouragement, though he felt none himself; then, +calling his friends together, he would hunt Sandy Flash like a wild +beast until they had tracked him to his lair. + +“Unlucky weather for ye, it seems?” remarked the curious landlord, +who, seated in a corner of the fireplace, had for full ten minutes been +watching Gilbert's knitted brows, gloomy, brooding eyes, and compressed +lips. + +“Weather?” he exclaimed, bitterly. “It's not the weather. Landlord, will +you have a chance of sending to Chester to-morrow?” + +“I'm going, if it clears up,” said one of the drovers. + +“Then, my friend,” Gilbert continued, “will you take a letter from me to +the Sheriff?” + +“If it's nothing out of the way,” the man replied. + +“It's in the proper course of law--if there is any law to protect us. +Not a mile and a half from here, landlord, I have been waylaid and +robbed on the public road!” + +There was a general exclamation of surprise, and Gilbert's story, which +he had suddenly decided to relate, in order that the people of the +neighborhood might be put upon their guard, was listened to with an +interest only less than the terror which it inspired. The landlady +rushed into the bar-room, followed by the red-faced kitchen wench, and +both interrupted the recital with cries of “Dear, dear!” and “Lord save +us!” The landlord, meanwhile, had prepared another tumbler of hot and +hot, and brought it forward, saying,-- + +“You need it, the Lord knows, and it shall cost you nothing.” + +“What I most need now,” Gilbert said, “is pen, ink, and paper, to +write out my account. Then I suppose you can get me up a cold check, +[Footnote: A local term, in use at the time, signifying a “lunch.”] for +I must start homewards soon.” + +“Not 'a cold check' after all that drenching and mishandling!” the +landlord exclaimed. “We'll have a hot supper in half an hour, and you +shall stay, and welcome. Wife, bring down one of Liddy's pens, the +schoolmaster made for her, and put a little vinegar into th' ink-bottle; +it's most dried up!” + +In a few minutes the necessary materials for a letter, all of the rudest +kind, were supplied, and the landlord and drovers hovered around as +Gilbert began to write, assisting him with the most extraordinary +suggestions. + +“I'd threaten,” said a drover, “to write straight to General Washington, +unless they promise to catch the scoundrel in no time!” + +“And don't forget the knife and pistol!” cried the landlord. + +“And say the Tory farmers' houses ought to be searched!” + +“And give his marks, to a hair!” + +Amid all this confusion, Gilbert managed to write a brief, but +sufficiently circumstantial account of the robbery, calling upon the +County authorities to do their part in effecting the capture of +Sandy Flash. He offered his services and those of the Kennett troop, +announcing that he should immediately start upon the hunt, and expected +to be seconded by the law. + +When the letter had been sealed and addressed, the drovers--some of whom +carried money with them, and had agreed to travel in company, for better +protection--eagerly took charge of it, promising to back the delivery +with very energetic demands for assistance. + +Night had fallen, and the rain fell with it, in renewed torrents. The +dreary, universal hum of the storm rose again, making all accidental +sounds of life impertinent, in contrast with its deep, tremendous +monotone. The windows shivered, the walls sweat and streamed, and the +wild wet blew in under the doors, as if besieging that refuge of warm, +red fire-light. + +“This beats the Lammas flood o' '68,” said the landlord, as he led the +way to supper. “I was a young man at the time, and remember it well. +Half the dams on Brandywine went that night.” + +After a bountiful meal, Gilbert completely dried his garments and +prepared to set out on his return, resisting the kindly persuasion of +the host and hostess that he should stay all night. A restless, feverish +energy filled his frame. He felt that he could not sleep, that to wait +idly would be simple misery, and that only in motion towards the set +aim of his fierce, excited desires, could he bear his disappointment and +shame. But the rain still came down with a volume which threatened +soon to exhaust the cisterns of the air, and in that hope he compelled +himself to wait a little. + +Towards nine o'clock the great deluge seemed to slacken. The wind arose, +and there were signs of its shifting, erelong, to the northwest, which +would bring clear weather in a few hours. The night was dark, but not +pitchy; a dull phosphoric gleam overspread the under surface of the +sky. The woods were full of noises, and every gully at the roadside gave +token, by its stony rattle, of the rain-born streams. + +With his face towards home and his back to the storm, Gilbert rode into +the night. The highway was but a streak of less palpable darkness; the +hills on either hand scarcely detached themselves from the low, black +ceiling of sky behind them. Sometimes the light of a farm-house window +sparkled faintly, like a glow-worm, but whether far or near, he could +not tell; he only knew how blest must be the owner, sitting with wife +and children around his secure hearthstone,--how wretched his own life, +cast adrift in the darkness,--wife, home, and future, things of doubt! + +He had lost more than money; and his wretchedness will not seem unmanly +when we remember the steady strain and struggle of his previous life. +As there is nothing more stimulating to human patience, and courage, +and energy, than the certain prospect of relief at the end, so there is +nothing more depressing than to see that relief suddenly snatched away, +and the same round of toil thrust again under one's feet! This is the +fate of Tantalus and Sisyphus in one. + +Not alone the money; a year, or two years, of labor would no doubt +replace what he had lost. But he had seen, in imagination, his mother's +feverish anxiety at an end; household help procured, to lighten her +over-heavy toil; the possibility of her release from some terrible +obligation brought nearer, as he hoped and trusted, and with it the +strongest barrier broken down which rose between him and Martha Deane. +All these things which he had, as it were, held in his hand, had been +stolen from him, and the loss was bitter because it struck down to +the roots of the sweetest and strongest fibres of his heart. The night +veiled his face, but if some hotter drops than those of the storm were +shaken from his cheek, they left no stain upon his manhood. + +The sense of outrage, of personal indignity, which no man can appreciate +who has not himself been violently plundered, added its sting to +his miserable mood. He thirsted to avenge the wrong; Barton's words +involuntarily came back to him,--“I'll know no peace till the villain +has been strung up!” Barton! How came Sandy Flash to know that Barton +intended to send money by him? Had not Barton himself declared that +the matter should be kept secret? Was there some complicity between +the latter and Sandy Flash? Yet, on the other hand, it seemed that the +highwayman believed that he was robbing Gilbert of Barton's money. Here +was an enigma which he could not solve. + +All at once, a hideous solution presented itself. Was it possible that +Barton's money was to be only _apparently_ stolen--in reality returned +to him privately, afterwards? Possibly the rest of the plunder divided +between the two confederates? Gilbert was not in a charitable mood; +the human race was much more depraved, in his view, than twelve hours +before; and the inference which he would have rejected as monstrous, +that very morning, now assumed a possible existence. One thing, at +least, was certain; he would exact an explanation, and if none should be +furnished, he would make public the evidence in his hands. + +The black, dreary night seemed interminable. He could only guess, here +and there, at a landmark, and was forced to rely more upon Roger's +instinct of the road than upon the guidance of his senses. Towards +midnight, as he judged, by the solitary crow of a cock, the rain almost +entirely ceased. The wind began to blow, sharp and keen, and the hard +vault of the sky to lift a little. He fancied that the hills on his +right had fallen away, and that the horizon was suddenly depressed +towards the north. Roger's feet began to splash in constantly deepening +water, and presently a roar, distinct from that of the wind, filled the +air. + +It was the Brandywine. The stream had overflowed its broad +meadow-bottoms, and was running high and fierce beyond its main channel. +The turbid waters made a dim, dusky gleam around him; soon the fences +disappeared, and the flood reached to his horse's belly. But he knew +that the ford could be distinguished by the break in the fringe of +timber; moreover, that the creek-bank was a little higher than the +meadows behind it, and so far, at least, he might venture. The ford was +not more than twenty yards across, and he could trust Roger to swim that +distance. + +The faithful animal pressed bravely on, but Gilbert soon noticed that he +seemed at fault. The swift water had forced him out of the road, and he +stopped, from time to time, as if anxious and uneasy. The timber could +now be discerned, only a short distance in advance, and in a few minutes +they would gain the bank. + +What was that? A strange rustling, hissing sound, as of cattle trampling +through dry reeds,--a sound which quivered and shook, even in the breath +of the hurrying wind! Roger snorted, stood still, and trembled in every +limb; and a sensation of awe and terror struck a chill through Gilbert's +heart. The sound drew swiftly nearer, and became a wild, seething roar, +filling the whole breadth of the valley. + +“Great God!” cried Gilbert, “the dam!--the dam has given way!” He turned +Roger's head, gave him the rein, struck, spurred, cheered, and shouted. +The brave beast struggled through the impeding flood, but the advance +wave of the coming inundation already touched his side. He staggered; +a line of churning foam bore down upon them, the terrible roar was all +around and over them, and horse and rider were whirled away. + +What happened during the first few seconds, Gilbert could never +distinctly recall. Now they were whelmed in the water, now riding its +careering tide, torn through the tops of brushwood, jostled by +floating logs and timbers of the dam-breast, but always, as it seemed, +remorselessly held in the heart of the tumult and the ruin. + +He saw, at last, that they had fallen behind the furious onset of the +flood, but Roger was still swimming with it, desperately throwing up his +head from time to time, and snorting the water from his nostrils. All +his efforts to gain a foothold failed; his strength was nearly spent, +and unless some help should come in a few minutes, it would come in +vain. And in the darkness, and the rapidity with which they were borne +along, how should help come? + +All at once, Roger's course stopped. He became an obstacle to the flood, +which pressed him against some other obstacle below, and rushed over +horse and rider. Thrusting out his hand, Gilbert felt the rough bark +of a tree. Leaning towards it and clasping the log in his arms, he drew +himself from the saddle, while Roger, freed from his burden, struggled +into the current and instantly disappeared. + +As nearly as Gilbert could ascertain, several timbers, thrown over +each other, had lodged, probably upon a rocky islet in the stream, the +uppermost one projecting slantingly out of the flood. It required all +his strength to resist the current which sucked, and whirled, and tugged +at his body, and to climb high enough to escape its force, without +overbalancing his support. At last, though still half immerged, he found +himself comparatively safe for a time, yet as far as ever from a final +rescue. + +He must await the dawn, and an eternity of endurance lay in those few +hours. Meantime, perhaps, the creek would fall, for the rain had ceased, +and there were outlines of moving cloud in the sky. It was the night +which made his situation so terrible, by concealing the chances of +escape. At first, he thought most of Roger. Was his brave horse drowned, +or had he safely gained the bank below? Then, as the desperate moments +went by, and the chill of exposure and the fatigue of exertion began to +creep over him, his mind reverted, with a bitter sweetness, a mixture +of bliss and agony, to the two beloved women to whom his life +belonged,--the life which, alas! he could not now call his own, to give. + +He tried to fix his thoughts on Death, to commend his soul to Divine +Mercy; but every prayer shaped itself into an appeal that he might once +more see the dear faces and bear the dear voices. In the great shadow of +the fate which hung over him, the loss of his property became as dust in +the balance, and his recent despair smote him with shame. He no longer +fiercely protested against the injuries of fortune, but entreated pardon +and pity for the sake of his love. + +The clouds rolled into distincter masses, and the northwest wind still +hunted them across the sky, until there came, first a tiny rift for a +star, then a gap for a whole constellation, and finally a broad burst of +moonlight. Gilbert now saw that the timber to which he clung was lodged +nearly in the centre of the channel, as the water swept with equal force +on either side of him. Beyond the banks there was a wooded hill on the +left; on the right an overflowed meadow. He was too weak and benumbed +to trust himself to the flood, but he imagined that it was beginning to +subside, and therein lay his only hope. + +Yet a new danger now assailed him, from the increasing cold. There was +already a sting of frost, a breath of ice, in the wind. In another hour +the sky was nearly swept bare of clouds, and he could note the lapse of +the night by the sinking of the moon. But he was by this time hardly +in a condition to note anything more. He had thrown himself, face +downwards, on the top of the log, his arms mechanically clasping it, +while his mind sank into a state of torpid, passive suffering, growing +nearer to the dreamy indifference which precedes death. His cloak had +been torn away in the first rush of the inundation, and the wet coat +began to stiffen in the wind, from the ice gathering over it. + +The moon was low in the west, and there was a pale glimmer of the coming +dawn in the sky, when Gilbert Potter suddenly raised his head. Above +the noise of the water and the whistle of the wind, he heard a familiar +sound,--the shrill, sharp neigh of a horse. Lifting himself, with great +exertion, to a sitting posture, he saw two men, on horseback, in the +flooded meadow, a little below him. They stopped, seemed to consult, and +presently drew nearer. + +Gilbert tried to shout, but the muscles of his throat were stiff, and +his lungs refused to act. The horse neighed again. This time there was +no mistake; it was Roger that he heard! Voice came to him, and he cried +aloud,--a hoarse, strange, unnatural cry. + +The horsemen heard it, and rapidly pushed up the bank, until they +reached a point directly opposite to him. The prospect of escape brought +a thrill of life to his frame; he looked around and saw that the flood +had indeed fallen. + +“We have no rope,” he heard one of the men say. “How shall we reach +him?” + +“There is no time to get one, now,” the other answered. “My horse is +stronger than yours. I'll go into the creek just below, where it's +broader and not so deep, and work my way up to him.” + +“But one horse can't carry both.” + +“His will follow, be sure, when it sees me.” + +As the last speaker moved away, Gilbert saw a led horse plunging +through the water, beside the other. It was a difficult and dangerous +undertaking. The horseman and the loose horse entered the main stream +below, where its divided channel met and broadened, but it was still +above the saddle-girths, and very swift. Sometimes the animals plunged, +losing their foothold; nevertheless, they gallantly breasted the +current, and inch by inch worked their way to a point about six feet +below Gilbert. It seemed impossible to approach nearer. + +“Can you swim?” asked the man. + +Gilbert shook his head. “Throw me the end of Roger's bridle!” he then +cried. + +The man unbuckled the bridle and threw it, keeping the end of the rein +in his hand. Gilbert tried to grasp it, but his hands were too numb. He +managed, however, to get one arm and his head through the opening, and +relaxed his hold on the log. + +A plunge, and the man had him by the collar. He felt himself lifted by a +strong arm and laid across Roger's saddle. With his failing strength and +stiff limbs, it was no slight task to get into place, and the return, +though less laborious to the horses, was equally dangerous, because +Gilbert was scarcely able to support himself without help. + +“You're safe now,” said the man, when they reached the bank, “but it's a +downright mercy of God that you're alive!” + +The other horseman joined them, and they rode slowly across the flooded +meadow. They had both thrown their cloaks around Gilbert, and carefully +steadied him in the saddle, one on each side. He was too much exhausted +to ask how they had found him, or whither they were taking him,--too +numb for curiosity, almost for gratitude. + +“Here's your saviour!” said one of the men, patting Roger's shoulder. +“It was all along of him that we found you. Want to know how? +Well--about three o'clock it was, maybe a little earlier, maybe a little +later, my wife woke me up. 'Do you hear that?' she says. I listened and +heard a horse in the lane before the door, neighing,--I can't tell you +exactly how it was,--like as if he'd call up the house. 'T was rather +queer, I thought, so I got up and looked out of window, and it seemed to +me he had a saddle on. He stamped, and pawed, and then he gave another +yell, and stamped again. Says I to my wife, 'There's something wrong +here,' and I dressed and went out. When he saw me, he acted the +strangest you ever saw; thinks I, if ever an animal wanted to speak, +that animal does. When I tried to catch him, he shot off, run down the +lane a bit, and then came back as strangely acting as ever. I went into +the house and woke up my brother, here, and we saddled our horses and +started. Away went yours ahead, stopping every minute to look round and +see if we followed. When we came to the water, I kind o' hesitated, but +'t was no use; the horse would have us go on, and on, till we found you. +I never heard tell of the like of it, in my born days!” + +Gilbert did not speak, but two large tears slowly gathered in his eyes, +and rolled down his cheeks. The men saw his emotion, and respected it. + +In the light of the cold, keen dawn, they reached a snug farm-house, a +mile from the Brandywine. The men lifted Gilbert from the saddle, and +would have carried him immediately into the house, but he first leaned +upon Roger's neck, took the faithful creature's head in his arms, and +kissed it. + +The good housewife was already up, and anxiously awaiting the return of +her husband and his brother. A cheery fire crackled on the hearth, and +the coffee-pot was simmering beside it. When Gilbert had been partially +revived by the warmth, the men conducted him into an adjoining bed-room, +undressed him, and rubbed his limbs with whiskey. Then, a large bowl of +coffee having been administered, he was placed in bed, covered with half +a dozen blankets, and the curtains were drawn over the windows. In a few +minutes he was plunged in a slumber almost as profound as that of the +death from which he had been so miraculously delivered. + +It was two hours past noon when he awoke, and he no sooner fully +comprehended the situation and learned how the time had sped, than he +insisted on rising, although still sore, weak, and feverish. The good +farmer's wife had kept a huge portion of dinner hot before the fire, +and he knew that without compelling a show of appetite, he would not be +considered sufficiently recovered to leave. He had but one desire,--to +return home. So recently plucked from the jaws of Death, his life still +seemed to be an uncertain possession. + +Finally Roger was led forth, quiet and submissive as of old,--having +forgotten his good deed as soon as it had been accomplished,--and +Gilbert, wrapped in the farmer's cloak, retraced his way to the main +road. As he looked across the meadow, which told of the inundation in +its sweep of bent, muddy grass, and saw, between the creekbank trees, +the lodged timber to which he had clung, the recollection of the night +impressed him like a frightful dream. It was a bright, sharp, wintry +day,--the most violent contrast to that which had preceded it. The hills +on either side, whose outlines he could barely guess in the darkness, +now stood out from the air with a hard, painful distinctness; the sky +was an arch of cold, steel-tinted crystal; and the north wind blew with +a shrill, endless whistle through the naked woods. + +As he climbed the long hill west of Chadd's Ford, Gilbert noticed how +the meadow on his right had been torn by the flood gathered from the +fields above. In one place a Hessian skull had been snapped from the +buried skeleton, and was rolled to light, among the mud and pebbles. +Not far off, something was moving among the bushes, and he involuntarily +drew rein. + +The form stopped, appeared to crouch down for a moment, then suddenly +rose and strode forth upon the grass. It was a woman, wearing a man's +flannel jacket, and carrying a long, pointed staff in her hand. As she +approached with rapid strides, he recognized Deb. Smith. + +“Deborah!” he cried, “what are you doing here?” + +She set her pole to the ground and vaulted over the high picket-fence, +like an athlete. + +“Well,” she said, “if I'd ha' been shy o' you, Mr. Gilbert, you wouldn't +ha' seen me. I'm not one of them as goes prowlin' around among dead +bodies' bones at midnight; what I want, I looks for in the daytime.” + +“Bones?” he asked. “You're surely not digging up the Hessians?” + +“Not exackly; but, you see, the rain's turned out a few, and some on +'em, folks says, was buried with lots o' goold platted up in their +pig-tails. I know o' one man that dug up two or three to git their +teeth, (to sell to the tooth-doctors, you know,) and when he took hold +o' the pig-tail to lift the head by, the hair come off in his hand, and +out rattled ten good goolden guineas. Now, if any money's washed out, +there's no harm in a body's pickin' of it up, as I see.” + +“What luck have you had?” asked Gilbert. + +“Nothin' to speak of; a few buttons, and a thing or two. But I say, Mr. +Gilbert, what luck ha' _you_ had?” She had been keenly and curiously +inspecting his face. + +“Deborah!” he exclaimed, “you're a false prophet! You told me that, +whatever happened, I was safe from Sandy Flash.” + +“Eh?” + +There was a shrill tone of surprise and curiosity in this exclamation. + +“You ought to know Sandy Flash better, before you prophesy in his name,” + Gilbert repeated, in a stern voice. + +“Oh, Mr. Gilbert, tell me what you mean?” She grasped his leg with one +hand, while she twisted the other in Roger's mane, as if to hold both +horse and rider until the words were explained. + +Thereupon he related to her in a brief, fierce way, all that had +befallen him. Her face grew red and her eyes flashed; she shook her fist +and swore under her breath, from time to time, while he spoke. + +“You'll be righted, Mr. Gilbert!” she then cried, “you'll be righted, +never fear! Leave it to me! Haven't I always kep' my word to you? You're +believin' I lied the last time, and no wonder; but I'll prove the truth +o' my words yet--may the Devil git my soul, if I don't!” + +“Don't think that I blame you, Deborah,” he said. “You were too sure of +my good luck, because you wished me to have it--that's all.” + +“Thank ye for that! But it isn't enough for me. When I promise a thing, +I have power to keep my promise. Ax me no more questions; bide quiet +awhile, and if the money isn't back in your pocket by New-Year, I give +ye leave to curse me, and kick me, and spit upon me!” + +Gilbert smiled sadly and incredulously, and rode onward. He made haste +to reach home, for a dull pain began to throb in his head, and chill +shudders ran over his body. He longed to have the worst over which yet +awaited him, and gain a little rest for body, brain, and heart. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. + +MARTHA DEANE TAKES A RESOLUTION. + + +Mary Potter had scarcely slept during the night of her son's absence. A +painful unrest, such as she never remembered to have felt before, took +complete possession of her. Whenever the monotony of the drenching rain +outside lulled her into slumber for a few minutes, she was sure to start +up in bed with a vague, singular impression that some one had called +her name. After midnight, when the storm fell, the shrill wailing of the +rising wind seemed to forebode disaster. Although she believed Gilbert +to be safely housed in Chester, the fact constantly slipped from her +memory, and she shuddered at every change in the wild weather as if he +were really exposed to it. + +The next day, she counted the hours with a feverish impatience. It +seemed like tempting Providence, but she determined to surprise her +son with a supper of unusual luxury for their simple habits, after +so important and so toilsome a journey. Sam had killed a fowl; it was +picked and dressed, but she had not courage to put it into the pot, +until the fortune of the day had been assured. + +Towards sunset she saw, through the back-kitchen-window, a horseman +approaching from the direction of Carson's. It seemed to be Roger, but +could that rider, in the faded brown cloak, be Gilbert? His cloak was +blue; he always rode with his head erect, not hanging like this man's, +whose features she could not see. Opposite the house, he lifted his +head--it _was_ Gilbert, but how old and haggard was his face! + +She met him at the gate. His cheeks were suddenly flushed, his eyes +bright, and the smile with which he looked at her seemed to be joyous; +yet it gave her a sense of pain and terror. + +“Oh, Gilbert!” she cried; “what has happened?” + +He slid slowly and wearily off the horse, whose neck he fondled a moment +before answering her. + +“Mother,” he said at last, “you have to thank Roger that I am here +tonight. I have come back to you from the gates of death; will you be +satisfied with that for a while?” + +“I don't understand you, my boy! You frighten me; haven't you been at +Chester?” + +“No,” he answered, “there was no use of going.” + +A presentiment of the truth came to her, but before she could question +him further, he spoke again. + +“Mother, let us go into the house. I'm cold and tired; I want to sit +in your old rocking-chair, where I can rest my head. Then I'll tell you +everything; I wish I had an easier task!” + +She noticed that his steps were weak and slow, felt that his hands were +like ice, and saw his blue lips and chattering teeth. She removed the +strange cloak, placed her chair in front of the fire, seated him in it, +and then knelt upon the floor to draw off his stiff, sodden top-boots. +He was passive as a child in her hands. Her care for him overcame all +other dread, and not until she had placed his feet upon a stool, in the +full warmth of the blaze, given him a glass of hot wine and lavender, +and placed a pillow under his head, did she sit down at his side to hear +the story. + +“I thought of this, last night,” he said, with a faint smile; “not that +I ever expected to see it. The man was right; it's a mercy of God that I +ever got out alive!” + +“Then be grateful to God, my boy!” she replied, “and let me be grateful, +too. It will balance misfortune,--for that there it misfortune in store +for us. I see plainly.” + +Gilbert then spoke. The narrative was long and painful, and he told it +wearily and brokenly, yet with entire truth, disguising nothing of the +evil that had come upon them. His mother sat beside him, pale, stony, +stifling the sobs that rose in her throat, until he reached the period +of his marvellous rescue, when she bent her head upon his arm and wept +aloud. + +“That's all, mother!” he said at the close; “it's hard to bear, but I'm +more troubled on your account than on my own.” + +“Oh, I feared we were over-sure!” she cried. “I claimed payment before +it was ready. The Lord chooses His own time, and punishes them that +can't wait for His ways to be manifest! It's terribly hard; and yet, +while His left hand smites, His right hand gives mercy! He might ha' +taken you, my boy, but He makes a miracle to save you for me!” + +When she had outwept her passionate tumult of feeling, she grew composed +and serene. “Haven't I yet learned to be patient, in all these years?” + she said. “Haven't I sworn to work out with open eyes the work I took +in blindness? And after waiting twenty-five years, am I to murmur at +another year or two? No, Gilbert! It's to be done; I _will_ deserve my +justice! Keep your courage, my boy; be brave and patient, and the sight +of you will hold me from breaking down!” + +She arose, felt his hands and feet, set his pillow aright, and then +stooped and kissed him. His chills had ceased; a feeling of heavy, +helpless languor crept over him. + +“Let Sam see to Roger, mother!” he murmured. “Tell him not to spare the +oats.” + +“I'd feed him with my own hands, Gilbert, if I could leave you. I'd put +fine wheat-bread into his manger, and wrap him in blankets off my own +bed! To think that Roger,--that I didn't want you to buy,--Lord forgive +me, I was advising your own death!” + +It was fortunate for Mary Potter that she saw a mysterious Providence, +which, to her mind, warned and yet promised while it chastised, in all +that had occurred. This feeling helped her to bear a disappointment, +which would otherwise have been very grievous. The idea of an atoning +ordeal, which she must endure in order to be crowned with the final +justice, and so behold her life redeemed, had become rooted in her +nature. To Gilbert much of this feeling was inexplicable, because he was +ignorant of the circumstances which had called it into existence. But +he saw that his mother was not yet hopeless, that she did not seem to +consider her deliverance as materially postponed, and a glimmer of hope +was added to the relief of having told his tale. + +He was still feverish, dozing and muttering in uneasy dreams, as he lay +back in the old rocking-chair, and Mary Potter, with Sam's help, got him +to bed, after administering a potion which she was accustomed to use in +all complaints, from mumps to typhus fever. + +As for Roger, he stood knee-deep in clean litter, with half a bushel of +oats before him. + +The next morning Gilbert did not arise, and as he complained of great +soreness in every part of his body, Sam was dispatched for Dr. Deane. + +It was the first time this gentleman had ever been summoned to the +Potter farm-house. Mary Potter felt considerable trepidation at +his arrival, both on account of the awe which his imposing presence +inspired, and the knowledge of her son's love for his daughter,--a fact +which, she rightly conjectured, he did not suspect. As he brought +his ivory-headed cane, his sleek drab broadcloth, and his herbaceous +fragrance into the kitchen, she was almost overpowered. + +“How is thy son ailing?” he asked. “He always seemed to me to be a very +healthy young man.” + +She described the symptoms with a conscientious minuteness. + +“How was it brought on?” he asked again. + +She had not intended to relate the whole story, but only so much of it +as was necessary for the Doctor's purposes; but the commencement excited +his curiosity, and he knew so skilfully how to draw one word after +another, suggesting further explanations without directly asking them, +that Mary Potter was led on and on, until she had communicated all the +particulars of her son's misfortune. + +“This is a wonderful tale thee tells me,” said the Doctor--“wonderful! +Sandy Flash, no doubt, has reason to remember thy son, who, I'm told, +faced him very boldly on Second-day morning. It is really time the +country was aroused; we shall hardly be safe in our own houses. And all +night in the Brandywine flood--I don't wonder thy son is unwell. Let me +go up to him.” + +Dr. Deane's prescriptions usually conformed to the practice of his +day,--bleeding and big doses,--and he would undoubtedly have applied +both of these in Gilbert's case, but for the latter's great anxiety to +be in the saddle and on the hunt of his enemy. He stoutly refused to be +bled, and the Doctor had learned, from long observation, that +patients of a certain class must be humored rather than coerced. So +he administered a double dose of Dover's Powders, and prohibited the +drinking of cold water. His report was, on the whole, reassuring to Mary +Potter. Provided his directions were strictly followed, he said, her son +would be up in two or three days; but there _might_ be a turn for the +worse, as the shock to the system had been very great, and she ought to +have assistance. + +“There's no one I can call upon,” said she, “without it's Betsy +Lavender, and I must ask you to tell her for me, if you think she can +come.” + +“I'll oblige thee, certainly,” the Doctor answered. “Betsy _is_ with us, +just now, and I don't doubt but she can spare a day or two. She may be a +little headstrong in her ways, but thee'll find her a safe nurse.” + +It was really not necessary, as the event proved. Rest and warmth were +what Gilbert most needed. But Dr. Deane always exaggerated his patient's +condition a little, in order that the credit of the latter's recovery +might be greater. The present case was a very welcome one, not only +because it enabled him to recite a most astonishing narrative at +second-hand, but also because it suggested a condition far more +dangerous than that which the patient actually suffered. He was the +first person to bear the news to Kennett Square, where it threw the +village into a state of great excitement, which rapidly spread over the +neighborhood. + +He related it at his own tea-table that evening, to Martha and Miss +Betsy Lavender. The former could with difficulty conceal her agitation; +she turned red and pale, until the Doctor finally remarked,-- + +“Why, child, thee needn't be so frightened.” + +“Never mind!” exclaimed Miss Betsy, promptly coming to the rescue, “it's +enough to frighten anybody. It fairly makes me shiver in my shoes. +If Alf. Barton had ha' done his dooty like a man, this wouldn't ha' +happened!” + +“I've no doubt Alfred did the best he could, under the circumstances,” + the Doctor sternly remarked. + +“Fiddle-de-dee!” was Miss Betsy's contemptuous answer. “He's no more +gizzard than a rabbit. But that's neither here nor there; Mary Potter +wants me to go down and help, and go I will!” + +“Yes, I think thee might as well go down to-morrow morning, though I'm +in hopes the young man may be better, if he minds my directions,” said +the Doctor. + +“To-morrow mornin'? Why not next week? When help's wanted, give it +_right away_; don't let the grass grow under your feet, say I! Good luck +that I gev up Mendenhall's home-comin' over t' the Lion, or I wouldn't +ha' been here; so another cup o' tea, Martha, and I'm off!” + +Martha left the table at the same time, and followed Miss Betsy +up-stairs. Her eyes were full of tears, but she did not tremble, and her +voice came firm and clear. + +“I am going with you,” she said. + +Miss Lavender whirled around and looked at her a minute, without saying +a word. + +“I see you mean it, child. Don't think me hard or cruel, for I know your +feelin's as well as if they was mine; but all the same, I've got to look +ahead, and back'ards, and on this side and that, and so lookin', and +so judgin', accordin' to my light, which a'n't all tied up in a napkin, +what I've got to say is, and ag'in don't think me hard, it won't do!” + +“Betsy,” Martha Deane persisted, “a misfortune like this brings my +duty with it. Besides, he may be in great danger; he may have got his +death,”-- + +“Don't begin talkin' that way,” Miss Lavender interrupted, “or you'll +put me out o' patience. I'll say that for your father, he's always +mortal concerned for a bad case, Gilbert Potter or not; and I can mostly +tell the heft of a sickness by the way he talks about it,--so that's +settled; and as to dooties, it's very well and right, I don't deny it, +but never mind, all the same, I said before, the whole thing's a snarl, +and I say it ag'in, and unless you've got the end o' the ravellin's in +your hand, the harder you pull, the wuss you'll make it!” + +There was good sense in these words, and Martha Deane felt it. Her +resolution began to waver, in spite of the tender instinct which told +her that Gilbert Potter now needed precisely the help and encouragement +which she alone could give. + +“Oh, Betsy,” she murmured, her tears falling without restraint, “it's +hard for me to seem so strange to him, at such a time!” + +“Yes,” answered the spinster, setting her comb tight with a fierce +thrust, “it's hard every one of us can't have our own ways in this +world! But don't take on now, Martha dear; we only have your father's +word, and not to be called a friend's, but _I'll_ see how the land lays, +and tomorrow evenin', or next day at th' outside, you'll know everything +fair and square. Neither you nor Gilbert is inclined to do things rash, +and what you _both_ agree on, after a proper understanding I guess'll be +pretty nigh right. There! where's my knittin'-basket?” + +Miss Lavender trudged off, utterly fearless of the night walk of two +miles, down the lonely road. In less than an hour she knocked at the +door of the farm-house, and was received with open arms by Mary Potter. +Gilbert had slept the greater part of the day, but was now awake, and so +restless, from the desire to leave his bed, that his mother could with +difficulty restrain him. + +“Set down and rest yourself, Mary!” Miss Betsy exclaimed. “I'll go up +and put him to rights.” + +She took a lamp and mounted to the bed-room. Gilbert, drenched in +perspiration, and tossing uneasily under a huge pile of blankets, sprang +up as her gaunt figure entered the door. She placed the lamp on a table, +pressed him down on the pillow by main force, and covered him up to the +chin. + +“Martha?” he whispered, his face full of intense, piteous eagerness. + +“Will you promise to lay still and sweat, as you're told + +“Yes, yes!” + +“Now let me feel your pulse. That'll do; now for your tongue! Tut, +tut! the boy's not so bad. I give you my word you may get up and dress +yourself to-morrow mornin', if you'll only hold out to-night. And as for +thorough-stem tea, and what not, I guess you've had enough of 'em; but +you can't jump out of a sick-spell into downright peartness, at one +jump!” + +“Martha, Martha!” Gilbert urged. + +“You're both of a piece, I declare! There was she, this very night, dead +set on comin' down with me, and mortal hard it was to persuade her to be +reasonable!” + +Miss Lavender had not a great deal to relate, but Gilbert compelled +her to make up by repetition what she lacked in quantity. And at every +repetition the soreness seemed to decrease in his body, and the weakness +in his muscles, and hope and courage to increase in his heart. + +“Tell her,” he exclaimed, “it was enough that she wanted to come. That +alone has put new life into me!” + +“I see it has,” said Miss Lavender, “and now, maybe, you've got life +enough to tell me all the ups and downs o' this affair, for I can't say +as I rightly understand it.” + +The conference was long and important. Gilbert related every +circumstance of his adventure, including the mysterious allusion +to Alfred Barton, which he had concealed from his mother. He was +determined, as his first course, to call the volunteers together and +organize a thorough hunt for the highwayman. Until that had been tried, +he would postpone all further plans of action. Miss Lavender did not say +much, except to encourage him in this determination. She felt that there +was grave matter for reflection in what had happened. The threads of +mystery seemed to increase, and she imagined it possible that they might +all converge to one unknown point. + +“Mary,” she said, when she descended to the kitchen, “I don't see but +what the boy's goin' on finely. Go to bed, you, and sleep quietly; I'll +take the settle, here, and I promise you I'll go up every hour through +the night, to see whether he's kicked his coverin's off.” + +Which promise she faithfully kept, and in the morning Gilbert came down +to breakfast, a little haggard, but apparently as sound as ever. +Even the Doctor, when he arrived, was slightly surprised at the rapid +improvement. + +“A fine constitution for medicines to work on,” he remarked. “I wouldn't +wish thee to be sick, but when thee is, it's a pleasure to see how thy +system obeys the treatment.” + +Martha Deane, during Miss Lavender's absence, had again discussed, in +her heart, her duty to Gilbert. Her conscience was hardly satisfied with +the relinquishment of her first impulse. She felt that there was, there +must be, something for her to do in this emergency. She knew that he +had toiled, and dared, and suffered for her sake, while she had done +nothing. It was not pride,--at least not the haughty quality which +bears an obligation uneasily,--but rather the impulse, at once brave and +tender, to stand side by side with him in the struggle, and win an equal +right to the final blessing. + +In the afternoon Miss Lavender returned, and her first business was to +give a faithful report of Gilbert's condition and the true story of his +misfortune, which she repeated, almost word for word, as it came from +his lips. It did not differ materially from that which Martha had +already heard, and the direction which her thoughts had taken, in +the mean time, seemed to be confirmed. The gentle, steady strength of +purpose that looked from her clear blue eyes, and expressed itself in +the firm, sharp curve of her lip, was never more distinct than when she +said,-- + +“Now, Betsy, all is clear to me. You were right before, and I am right +now. I must see Gilbert when he calls the men together, and after that I +shall know how to act.” + +Three days afterwards, there was another assemblage of the Kennett +Volunteers at the Unicorn Tavern. This time, however, Mark Deane was on +hand, and Alfred Barton did not make his appearance. That Gilbert +Potter should take the command was an understood matter. The preliminary +consultation was secretly held, and when Dougherty, the Irish ostler, +mixed himself, as by accident, among the troop, Gilbert sharply ordered +him away. Whatever the plan of the chase was, it was not communicated +to the crowd of country idlers; and there was, in consequence, some +grumbling at, and a great deal of respect for, the new arrangement. + +Miss Betsy Lavender had managed to speak to Gilbert before the others +arrived; therefore, after they had left, to meet the next day, equipped +for a possible absence of a week, he crossed the road and entered Dr. +Deane's house. + +This time the two met, not so much as lovers, but rather as husband +and wife might meet after long absence and escape from imminent danger. +Martha Deane knew how cruel and bitter Gilbert's fate must seem to his +own heart, and she resolved that all the cheer which lay in her buoyant, +courageous nature should be given to him. Never did a woman more sweetly +blend the tones of regret and faith, sympathy and encouragement. + +“The time has come, Gilbert,” she said at last, “when our love for each +other must no longer be kept a secret--at least from the few who, under +other circumstances, would have a right to know it. We must still wait, +though no longer (remember that!) than we were already agreed to wait; +but we should betray ourselves, sooner or later, and then the secret, +discovered by others, would seem to hint at a sense of shame. We shall +gain respect and sympathy, and perhaps help, if we reveal it ourselves. +Even if you do not take the same view, Gilbert, think of this, that it +is my place to stand beside you in your hour of difficulty and trial; +that other losses, other dangers, may come, and you could not, you must +not, hold me apart when my heart tells me we should be together!” + +She laid her arms caressingly over his shoulders, and looked in his +face. A wonderful softness and tenderness touched his pale, worn +countenance. “Martha,” he said, “remember that my disgrace will cover +you, yet awhile.” + +“Gilbert!” + +That one word, proud, passionate, reproachful, yet forgiving, sealed his +lips. + +“So be it!” he cried. “God knows, I think but of you. If I selfishly +considered myself, do you think I would hold back my own honor?” + +“A poor honor,” she said, “that I sit comfortably at home and love you, +while you are face to face with death!” + +Martha Deane's resolution was inflexibly taken. That same evening she +went into the sitting-room, where her father was smoking a pipe before +the open stove, and placed her chair opposite to his. + +“Father,” she said, “thee has never asked any questions concerning +Alfred Barton's visit.” + +The Doctor started, and looked at her keenly, before replying. Her voice +had its simple, natural tone, her manner was calm and self-possessed; +yet something in her firm, erect posture and steady eye impressed him +with the idea that she had determined on a full and final discussion of +the question. + +“No, child,” he answered, after a pause. “I saw Alfred, and he said thee +was rather taken by surprise. He thought, perhaps, thee didn't rightly +know thy own mind, and it would be better to wait a little. That is the +chief reason why I haven't spoken to thee.” + +“If Alfred Barton said that, he told thee false,” said she. “I knew my +own mind, as well then as now. I said to him that nothing could ever +make me his wife.” + +“Martha!” the Doctor exclaimed, “don't be hasty! If Alfred is a little +older”-- + +“Father!” she interrupted, “never mention this thing again! Thee can +neither give me away, nor sell me; though I am a woman, I belong to +myself. Thee knows I'm not hasty in anything. It was a long time before +I rightly knew my own heart; but when I did know it and found that it +had chosen truly, I gave it freely, and it is gone from me forever!” + +“Martha, Martha!” cried Dr. Deane, starting from his seat, “what does +all this mean?” + +“It means something which it is thy right to know, and therefore I have +made up my mind to tell thee, even at the risk of incurring thy lasting +displeasure. It means that I have followed the guidance of my own heart +and bestowed it on a man a thousand times better and nobler than Alfred +Barton ever was, and, if the Lord spares us to each other, I shall one +day be his wife!” + +The Doctor glared at his daughter in speechless amazement. But she +met his gaze steadily, although her face grew a shade paler, and +the expression of the pain she could not entirely suppress, with the +knowledge of the struggle before her, trembled a little about the +corners of her lips. + +“Who is this man?” he asked. + +“Gilbert Potter.” + +Dr. Deane's pipe dropped from his hand and smashed upon the iron hearth. + +“Martha Deane!” he cried. “Does the d---- _what_ possesses thee? Wasn't +it enough that thee should drive away the man I had picked out for thee, +with a single view to thy own interest and happiness; but must thee take +up, as a wicked spite to thy father, with almost the only man in the +neighborhood who brings thee nothing but poverty and disgrace? It shall +not be--it shall never be!” + +“It _must_ be, father,” she said gently. “God hath joined our hearts and +our lives, and no man--not even thee--shall put them asunder. If there +were disgrace, in the eyes of the world,--which I now know there is +not,--Gilbert has wiped it out by his courage, his integrity, and his +sufferings. If he is poor, I am well to do.” + +“Thee forgets,” the Doctor interrupted, in a stern voice, “the time +isn't up!” + +“I know that unless thee gives thy consent, we must wait three years; +but I hope, father, when thee comes to know Gilbert better, thee +will not be so hard. I am thy only child, and my happiness cannot be +indifferent to thee. I have tried to obey thee in all things”-- + +He interrupted her again. “Thee's adding another cross to them I bear +for thee already! Am I not, in a manner, thy keeper, and responsible for +thee, before the world and in the sight of the Lord? But thee hardened +thy heart against the direction of the Spirit, and what wonder, then, +that it's hardened against me?” + +“No, father,” said Martha, rising and laying her hand softly upon +his arm, “I _obeyed_ the Spirit in that other matter, as I obey my +conscience in this. I took my duty into my own hands, and considered it +in a humble, and, I hope, a pious spirit. I saw that there were innocent +needs of nature, pleasant enjoyments of life, which did not conflict +with sincere devotion, and that I was not called upon to renounce them +because others happened to see the world in a different light. In this +sense, thee is not my keeper; I must render an account, not to thee, but +to Him who gave me my soul. Neither is thee the keeper of my heart and +its affections. In the one case and the other my right is equal,--nay, +it stands as far above thine as Heaven is above the earth!” + +In the midst of his wrath, Dr. Deane could not help admiring his +daughter. Foiled and exasperated as he was by the sweet, serene, lofty +power of her words, they excited a wondering respect which he found it +difficult to hide. + +“Ah, Martha!” he said, “thee has a wonderful power, if it were only +directed by the true Light! But now, it only makes the cross heavier. +Don't think that I'll ever consent to see thee carry out thy strange +and wicked fancies! Thee must learn to forget this man, Potter, and the +sooner thee begins the easier it will be!” + +“Father,” she answered, with a sad smile, “I'm sorry thee knows so +little of my nature. The wickedness would be in forgetting. It is very +painful to me that we must differ. Where my duty was wholly owed to +thee, I have never delayed to give it; but here it is owed to Gilbert +Potter,--owed, and will be given.” + +“Enough, Martha!” cried the Doctor, trembling with anger; “don't mention +his name again!” + +“I will not, except when the same duty requires it to be mentioned. But, +father, try to think less harshly of the name; it will one day be mine!” + +She spoke gently and imploringly, with tears in her eyes. The conflict +had been, as she said, very painful; but her course was plain, and she +dared not flinch a step at the outset. The difficulties must be met face +to face, and resolutely assailed, if they were ever to be overcome. + +Dr. Deane strode up and down the room in silence, with his hands behind +his back. Martha stood by the fire, waiting his further speech, but he +did not look at her, and at the end of half an hour, commanded shortly +and sharply, without turning his head,-- + +“Go to bed!” + +“Good-night, father,” she said, in her usual clear sweet voice, and +quietly left the room. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. + +A CROSS-EXAMINATION. + + +The story of Gilbert Potter's robbery and marvellous escape from death +ran rapidly through the neighborhood, and coming, as it did, upon the +heels of his former adventure, created a great excitement. He became +almost a hero in the minds of the people. It was not their habit to +allow any man to _quite_ assume so lofty a character as that, but they +granted to Gilbert fully as much interest as, in their estimation, any +human being ought properly to receive. Dr. Deane was eagerly questioned, +wherever he went; and if his garments could have exhaled the odors of +his feelings, his questioners would have smelled aloes and asafoetida +instead of sweet-marjoram and bergamot. But--in justice to him be it +said--he told and retold the story very correctly; the tide of sympathy +ran so high and strong, that he did not venture to stem it on grounds +which could not be publicly explained. + +The supposed disgrace of Gilbert's birth seemed to be quite forgotten +for the time; and there was no young man of spirit in the four townships +who was not willing to serve under his command. More volunteers offered, +in fact, than could be profitably employed. Sandy Flash was not the game +to be unearthed by a loud, numerous, sweeping hunt; traps, pitfalls, +secret and unwearied following of his many trails, were what was needed. +So much time had elapsed that the beginning must be a conjectural +beating of the bushes, and to this end several small companies were +organized, and the country between the Octorara and the Delaware very +effectually scoured. + +When the various parties reunited, after several days, neither of them +brought any positive intelligence, but all the greater store of guesses +and rumors. Three or four suspicious individuals had been followed and +made to give an account of themselves; certain hiding-places, especially +the rocky lairs along the Brandywine and the North Valley-Hill, were +carefully examined, and some traces of occupation, though none very +recent, were discovered. Such evidence as there was seemed to indicate +that part of the eastern branch of the Brandywine, between the forks of +the stream and the great Chester Valley, as being the probable retreat +of the highwayman, and a second expedition was at once organized. +The Sheriff, with a posse of men from the lower part of the county, +undertook to watch the avenues of escape towards the river. + +This new attempt was not more successful, so far as its main object was +concerned, but it actually stumbled upon Sandy Flash's trail, and only +failed by giving tongue too soon and following too impetuously. Gilbert +and his men had a tantalizing impression (which later intelligence +proved to have been correct) that the robber was somewhere near +them,--buried in the depths of the very wood they were approaching, +dodging behind the next barn as it came into view, or hidden under +dead leaves in some rain-washed gulley. Had they but known, one gloomy +afternoon in late December, that they were riding under the cedar-tree +in whose close, cloudy foliage he was coiled, just above their heads! +Had they but guessed who the deaf old woman was, with her face muffled +from the cold, and six cuts of blue yarn in her basket! But detection +had not then become a science, and they were far from suspecting the +extent of Sandy Flash's devices and disguises. + +Many of the volunteers finally grew tired of the fruitless chase, and +returned home; others could only spare a few days from their winter +labors; but Gilbert Potter, with three or four faithful and courageous +young fellows,--one of whom was Mark Deane,--returned again and again +to the search, and not until the end of December did he confess himself +baffled. By this time all traces of the highwayman were again lost; he +seemed to have disappeared from the country. + +“I believe Pratt's right,” said Mark, as the two issued from the +Marlborough woods, on their return to Kennett Square. “Chester County is +too hot to hold him.” + +“Perhaps so,” Gilbert answered, with a gloomy face. He was more keenly +disappointed at the failure than he would then confess, even to Mark. +The outrage committed upon him was still unavenged, and thus his +loss, to his proud, sensitive nature, carried a certain shame with +it. Moreover, the loss itself must speedily be replaced. He had half +flattered himself with the hope of capturing not only Sandy Flash, but +his plunder; it was hard to forget that, for a day or two, he had been +independent,--hard to stoop again to be a borrower and a debtor! + +“What are the county authorities good for?” Mark exclaimed. “Between +you and me, the Sheriff's a reg'lar puddin'-head. I wish you was in his +place.” + +“If Sandy is safe in Jersey, or down on the Eastern Shore, that would do +no good. It isn't enough that he leaves us alone, from this time on; he +has a heavy back-score to settle.” + +“Come to think on it, Gilbert,” Mark continued, “isn't it rather queer +that you and him should be thrown together in such ways? There was +Barton's fox-chase last spring; then your shootin' at other, at the +Square; and then the robbery on the road. It seems to me as if he picked +you out to follow you, and yet I don't know why.” + +Gilbert started. Mark's words reawakened the dark, incredible suspicion +which Martha Deane had removed. Again he declared to himself that he +would not entertain the thought, but he could not reject the evidence +that there was something more than accident in all these encounters. If +any one besides Sandy Flash were responsible for the last meeting, it +must be Alfred Barton. The latter, therefore, owed him an explanation, +and he would demand it. + +When they reached the top of the “big hill” north of the Fairthorn +farm-house, whence they looked eastward down the sloping corn-field +which had been the scene of the husking-frolic, Mark turned to Gilbert +with an honest blush all over his face, and said,-- + +“I don't see why you shouldn't know it, Gilbert. I'm sure Sally wouldn't +care; you're almost like a brother to her.” + +“What?” Gilbert asked, yet with a quick suspicion of the coming +intelligence. + +“Oh, I guess you know, well enough, old fellow. I asked her that night, +and it's all right between us. What do you say to it, now?” + +“Mark, I'm glad of it; I wish you joy, with all my heart!” Gilbert +stretched out his hand, and as he turned and looked squarely into Mark's +half-bashful yet wholly happy face, he remembered Martha's words, at +their last interview. + +“You are like a brother to me, Mark,” he said, “and you shall have _my_ +secret. What would you say if I had done the same thing?” + +“No?” Mark exclaimed; “who?” + +“Guess!” + +“Not--not Martha?” + +Gilbert smiled. + +“By the Lord! It's the best day's work _you_'ve ever done! Gi' me y'r +hand ag'in; we'll stand by each other faster than ever, now!” + +When they stopped at Fairthorn's, the significant pressure of Gilbert's +hand brought a blush into Sally's cheek; but when Mark met Martha with +his tell-tale face, she answered with a proud and tender smile. + +Gilbert's first business, after his return, was to have a consultation +with Miss Betsy Lavender, who alone knew of the suspicions attaching to +Alfred Barton. The spinster had, in the mean time, made the matter the +subject of profound and somewhat painful cogitation. She had ransacked +her richly stored memory of persons and events, until her brain was +like a drawer of tumbled clothes; had spent hours in laborious mental +research, becoming so absorbed that she sometimes gave crooked answers +when spoken to, and was haunted with a terrible dread of having thought +aloud; and had questioned the oldest gossips right and left, coming as +near the hidden subject as she dared. When they met, she communicated +the result to Gilbert in this wise: + +“'T a'n't agreeable for a body to allow they're flummuxed, but if _I_ +a'n't, this time, I'm mighty near onto it. It's like lookin' for a set +o' buttons that'll match, in a box full o' tail-ends o' things. This'n +'d do, and that'n 'd do; but you can't put this'n and that'n together; +and here's got to be square work, everything fittin' tight and hangin' +plumb, or it'll be throwed back onto your hands, and all to be done +over ag'in. I dunno when I've done so much head-work and to no purpose, +follerin' here and guessin' there, and nosin' into everything that's +past and gone; and so my opinion is, whether you like it or not, but +never mind, all the same, I can't do no more than give it, that we'd +better drop what's past and gone, and look a little more into these +present times!” + +“Well, Betsy,” said Gilbert, with a stern, determined face, “this is +what I shall do. I am satisfied that Barton is connected, in some way, +with Sandy Flash. What it is, or whether the knowledge will help us, I +can't guess; but I shall force Barton to tell me!” + +“To tell me. That might do, as far as it goes,” she remarked, after a +moment's reflection. “It won't be easy; you'll have to threaten as well +as coax, but I guess you can git it out of him in the long run, and +maybe I can help you here, two bein' better than one, if one is but a +sheep's-head.” + +“I don't see, Betsy, that I need to call on you.” + +“This way, Gilbert. It's a strong p'int o' law, I've heerd tell, not +that I know much o' law, Goodness knows, nor ever want to, but never +mind, it's a strong p'int when there's two witnesses to a thing,--one +to clinch what the t'other drives in; and you must have a show o' law to +work on Alf. Barton, or I'm much mistaken!” + +Gilbert reflected a moment. “It can do no harm,” he then said; “can you +go with me, now?” + +“Now's the time! If we only git the light of a farden-candle out o' him, +it'll do me a mortal heap o' good; for with all this rakin' and scrapin' +for nothin', I'm like a heart pantin' after the water-brooks, though a +mouth would be more like it, to my thinkin', when a body's so awful dry +as that comes to!” + +The two thereupon took the foot-path down through the frozen fields and +the dreary timber of the creek-side, to the Barton farm-house. As they +approached the barn, they saw Alfred Barton sitting on a pile of +straw and watching Giles, who was threshing wheat. He seemed a little +surprised at their appearance; but as Gilbert and he had not met since +their interview in the corn-field before the former's departure for +Chester, he had no special cause for embarrassment. + +“Come into the house,” he said, leading the way. + +“No,” Gilbert answered, “I came here to speak with you privately. Will +you walk down the lane?” + +“No objection, of course,” said Barton, looking from Gilbert to Miss +Lavender, with a mixture of curiosity and uneasiness. “Good news, I +hope; got hold of Sandy's tracks, at last?” + +“One of them.” + +“Ah, you don't say so! Where?” + +“Here!” + +Gilbert stopped and faced Barton. They were below the barn, and out of +Giles's hearing. + +“Barton,” he resumed, “you know what interest I have in the arrest of +that man, and you won't deny my right to demand of you an account of +your dealings with him. When did you first make his acquaintance?” + +“I've told you that, already; the matter has been fully talked over +between us,” Barton answered, in a petulant tone. + +“It has not been fully talked over. I require to know, first of all, +precisely when, and under what circumstances, you and Sandy Flash came +together. There is more to come, so let us begin at the beginning.” + +“Damme, Gilbert, _you_ were there, and saw as much as I did. How could I +know who the cursed black-whiskered fellow was?” + +“But you found it out,” Gilbert persisted, “and the manner of your +finding it out must be explained.” + +Barton assumed a bold, insolent manner. “I don't see as that follows,” + he said. “It has nothing in the world to do with his robbery of you; and +as for Sandy Flash, I wish to the Lord you'd get hold of him, yourself, +instead of trying to make me accountable for his comings and goings!” + +“He's tryin' to fly off the handle,” Miss Lavender remarked. “I'd drop +that part o' the business a bit, if I was you, and come to the t'other +proof.” + +“What the devil have _you_ to do here?” asked Barton. + +“Miss Betsy is here because I asked her,” Gilbert said. “Because all +that passes between us may have to be repeated in a court of justice, +and two witnesses are better than one!” + +He took advantage of the shock which these words produced upon Barton, +and repeated to him the highwayman's declarations, with the inference +they might bear if not satisfactorily explained. “I kept my promise,” + he added, “and said nothing to any living soul of your request that +I should carry money for you to Chester. Sandy Flash's information, +therefore, must have come, either directly or indirectly, from you.” + +Barton had listened with open mouth and amazed eyes. + +“Why, the man is a devil!” he cried. “I, neither, never said a word of +the matter to any living soul!” + +“Did you really send any money?” Gilbert asked. + +“That I did! I got it of Joel Ferris, and it happened he was bound for +Chester, the very next day, on his own business; and so, instead +of turning it over to me, he just paid it there, according to my +directions. You'll understand, this is between ourselves?” + +He darted a sharp, suspicious glance at Miss Betsy Lavender, who gravely +nodded her head. + +“The difficulty is not yet explained,” said Gilbert, “and perhaps +you'll _now_ not deny my right to know something more of your first +acquaintance with Sandy Flash?” + +“Have it then!” Barton exclaimed, desperately--“and much good may it +do you! I thought his name was Fortune, as much as you did, till nine +o'clock that night, when he put a pistol to my breast in the woods! If +you think I'm colloguing with him, why did he rob me under threat of +murder,--money, watch, and everything?” + +“Ah-ha!” said Miss Lavender, “and so that's the way your watch has been +gittin' mended all this while? Mainspring broke, as I've heerd say; +well, I don't wonder! Gilbert, I guess this much is true. Alf. Barton'd +never live so long without that watch, and that half-peck o' seals, if +he could help it!” + +“This, too, may as well be kept to ourselves,” Barton suggested. “It +isn't agreeable to a man to have it known that he's been so taken in +as I was, and that's just the reason why I kept it to myself; and, of +course, I shouldn't like it to get around.” + +Gilbert could do no less than accept this part of the story, and it +rendered his later surmises untenable. But the solution which he sought +was as far off as ever. + +“Barton,” he said, after a long pause, “will you do your best to help me +in finding out how Sandy Flash got the knowledge?” + +“Only show me a way! The best would be to catch him and get it from his +own mouth.” + +He looked so earnest, so eager, and--as far as the traces of cunning +in his face would permit--so honest, that Gilbert yielded to a sudden +impulse, and said,-- + +“I believe you, Barton. I've done you wrong in my thoughts,--not +willingly, for I don't want to think badly of you or any one else,--but +because circumstances seemed to drive me to it. It would have been +better if you had told me of your robbery at the start.” + +“You're right there, Gilbert! I believe I was an outspoken fellow +enough, when I was young, and all the better for it, but the old man's +driven me into a curst way of keeping dark about everything, and so I go +on heaping up trouble for myself.” + +“Trouble for myself, Alf. Barton,” said Miss Lavender, “that's the +truest word you've said this many a day. Murder will out, you know, +and so will robbery, and so will--other things. More o' your doin's +is known, not that they're agreeabler, but on the contrary, quite the +reverse, and as full need to be explained, though it don't seem to +matter much, yet it may, who can tell? And now look here, Gilbert; my +crow is to be picked, and you've seen the color of it, but never +mind, all the same, since Martha's told the Doctor, it can't make much +difference to you. And this is all between ourselves, you understand?” + +The last words were addressed to Barton, with a comical, unconscious +imitation of his own manner. He guessed something of what was coming, +though not the whole of it, and again became visibly uneasy; but he +stammered out,--“Yes; oh, yes! of course.” + +Gilbert could form a tolerably correct idea of the shape and size of +Miss Lavender's crow. He did not feel sure that this was the proper +time to have it picked, or even that it should be picked at all; but he +imagined that Miss Lavender had either consulted Martha Deane, or that +she had wise reasons of her own for speaking. He therefore remained +silent. + +“First and foremost,” she resumed, “I'll tell you, Alf. Barton, what we +know o' your doin's, and then it's for you to judge whether we'll know +any more. Well, you've been tryin' to git Martha Deane for a wife, +without wantin' her in your heart, but rather the contrary, though it +seems queer enough when a body comes to think of it, but never mind; +and your father's druv you to it; and you were of a cold shiver for fear +she'd take you, and yet you want to let on it a'n't settled betwixt and +between you--oh, you needn't chaw your lips and look yaller about the +jaws, it's the Lord's truth; and now answer me this, _what do you mean?_ +and maybe you'll say what right have I got to ask, but never mind, all +the same, if I haven't, Gilbert Potter has, for it's him that Martha +Deane has promised to take for a husband!” + +It was a day of surprises for Barton. In his astonishment at the last +announcement, he took refuge from the horror of Miss Lavender's first +revelations. One thing was settled,--all the fruits of his painful and +laborious plotting were scattered to the winds. Denial was of no use, +but neither could an honest explanation, even if he should force himself +to give it, be of any possible service. + +“Gilbert,” he asked, “is this true?--about _you_, I mean.” + +“Martha Deane and I are engaged, and were already at the time when you +addressed her,” Gilbert answered. + +“Good heavens! I hadn't the slightest suspicion of it. Well--I don't +begrudge you your luck, and of course I'll draw back, and never say +another word, now or ever.” + +“_You_ wouldn't ha' been comfortable with Martha Deane, anyhow,” Miss +Lavender grimly remarked. “'T isn't good to hitch a colt-horse and an +old spavined critter in one team. But that's neither here nor there; +you ha'n't told us why you made up to her for a purpose, and kep' on +pretendin' she didn't know her own mind.” + +“I've promised Gilbert that I won't interfere, and that's enough,” said +Barton, doggedly. + +Miss Lavender was foiled for a moment, but she presently returned to the +attack. “I dunno as it's enough, after what's gone before,” she said. +“Couldn't you go a step furder, and lend Gilbert a helpin' hand, +whenever and whatever?” + +“Betsy!” Gilbert exclaimed. + +“Let me alone, lad! I don't speak in Gilbert's name, nor yet in +Martha's; only out o' my own mind. I don't ask you to do anything, but I +want to know how it stands with your willin'ness.” + +“I've offered, more than once, to do him a good turn, if I could; but +I guess my help wouldn't be welcome,” Barton answered. The sting of the +suspicion rankled in his mind, and Gilbert's evident aversion sorely +wounded his vanity. + +“Wouldn't be welcome. Then I'll only say this; maybe I've got it in my +power, and 't isn't sayin' much, for the mouse gnawed the mashes o' the +lion's net, to help you to what you're after, bein' as it isn't Martha, +and can't be her money. S'pose I did it o' my own accord, leavin' you to +feel beholden to me, or not, after all's said and done?” + +But Alfred Barton was proof against even this assault. He was too +dejected to enter, at once, into a new plot, the issue of which would +probably be as fruitless as the others. He had already accepted a +sufficiency of shame, for one day. This last confession, if made, would +place his character in a still grosser and meaner light; while, if +withheld, the unexplained motive might be presented as a partial +justification of his course. He had been surprised into damaging +admissions; but here he would take a firm stand. + +“You're right so far, Betsy,” he said, “that I had a reason--a good +reason, it seemed to me, but I may be mistaken--for what I did. It +concerns no one under Heaven but my own self; and though I don't doubt +your willingness to do me a good turn, it would make no difference--you +couldn't help one bit. I've given the thing up, and so let it be!” + +There was nothing more to be said, and the two cross-examiners took +their departure. As they descended to the creek, Miss Lavender remarked, +as if to herself,-- + +“No use--it can't be screwed out of him! So there's one cur'osity +the less; not that I'm glad of it, for not knowin' worries more than +knowin', whatsoever and whosoever. And I dunno as I think any the wuss +of him for shuttin' his teeth so tight onto it.” + +Alfred Barton waited until the two had disappeared behind the timber +in the bottom. Then he slowly followed, stealing across the fields and +around the stables, to the back-door of the Unicorn bar-room. It +was noticed that, although he drank a good deal that afternoon, his +ill-humor was not, as usual, diminished thereby. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. + +DEB. SMITH TAKES A RESOLUTION. + + +It was a raw, overcast evening in the early part of January. Away to the +west there was a brownish glimmer in the dark-gray sky, denoting sunset, +and from that point there came barely sufficient light to disclose the +prominent features of a wild, dreary, uneven landscape. + +The foreground was a rugged clearing in the forest, just where the crest +of a high hill began to slope rapidly down to the Brandywine. The dark +meadows, dotted with irregular lakes of ice, and long, dirty drifts +of unmelted snow, but not the stream itself, could be seen. Across the +narrow valley rose a cape, or foreland, of the hills beyond, timbered +nearly to the top, and falling, on either side, into deep lateral +glens,--those warm nooks which the first settlers loved to choose, both +from their snug aspect of shelter, and from the cold, sparkling springs +of water which every one of them held in its lap. Back of the summits of +all the hills stretched a rich, rolling upland, cleared and mapped into +spacious fields, but showing everywhere an edge of dark, wintry woods +against the darkening sky. + +In the midst of this clearing stood a rough cabin, or rather half-cabin, +of logs; for the back of it was formed by a ledge of slaty rocks, some +ten or twelve feet in height, which here cropped out of the hill-side. +The raw clay with which the crevices between the logs had been stopped, +had fallen out in many places; the roof of long strips of peeled bark +was shrivelled by wind and sun, and held in its place by stones and +heavy branches of trees, and a square tower of plastered sticks in one +corner very imperfectly suggested a chimney. There was no inclosed patch +of vegetable-ground near, no stable, improvised of corn-shocks, for +the shelter of cow or pig, and the habitation seemed not only to be +untenanted, but to have been forsaken years before. + +Yet a thin, cautious thread of smoke stole above the rocks, and just as +the starless dusk began to deepen into night, a step was heard, slowly +climbing upward through the rustling leaves and snapping sticks of the +forest. A woman's figure, wearily scaling the hill under a load which +almost concealed the upper part of her body, for it consisted of a huge +wallet, a rattling collection of articles tied in a blanket, and two +or three bundles slung over her shoulders with a rope. When at last, +panting from the strain, she stood beside the cabin, she shook herself, +and the articles, with the exception of the wallet, tumbled to the +ground. The latter she set down carefully, thrust her arm into one of +the ends and drew forth a heavy jug, which she raised to her mouth. The +wind was rising, but its voice among the trees was dull and muffled; now +and then a flake of snow dropped out of the gloom, as if some cowardly, +insulting creature of the air were spitting at the world under cover of +the night. + +“It's likely to be a good night,” the woman muttered, “and he'll be on +the way by this time. I must put things to rights.” + +She entered the cabin by a narrow door in the southern end. Her first +care was to rekindle the smouldering fire from a store of boughs and dry +brushwood piled in one corner. When a little flame leaped up from the +ashes, it revealed an interior bare and dismal enough, yet very cheery +in contrast with the threatening weather outside. The walls were naked +logs and rock, the floor of irregular flat stones, and no furniture +remained except some part of a cupboard or dresser, near the chimney. +Two or three short saw-cuts of logs formed as many seats, and the only +sign of a bed was a mass of dry leaves, upon which a blanket had been +thrown, in a hollow under the overhanging base of the rock. + +Untying the blanket, the woman drew forth three or four rude cooking +utensils, some dried beef and smoked sausages, and two huge round loaves +of bread, and arranged them upon the one or two remaining shelves of the +dresser. Then she seated herself in front of the fire, staring into the +crackling blaze, which she mechanically fed from time to time, muttering +brokenly to herself in the manner of one accustomed to be much alone. + +“It was a mean thing, after what I'd said,--my word used to be wuth +somethin', but times seems to ha' changed. If they have, why shouldn't I +change with 'em, as well's anybody else? Well, why need it matter? I've +got a bad name.... No, that'll never do! Stick to what you're about, or +you'll be wuthlesser, even, than they says you are!” + +She shook her hard fist, and took another pull at the jug. + +“It's well I laid in a good lot o' _that_,” she said. “No better company +for a lonesome night, and it'll stop his cussin', I reckon, anyhow. Eh? +What's that?” + +From the wood came a short, quick yelp, as from some stray dog. She +rose, slipped out the door, and peered into the darkness, which was full +of gathering snow. After listening a moment, she gave a low whistle. It +was not answered, but a stealthy step presently approached, and a form, +dividing itself from the gloom, stood at her side. + +“All right, Deb?” + +“Right as I can make it. I've got meat and drink, and I come straight +from the Turk's Head, and Jim says the Sheriff's gone back to Chester, +and there's been nobody out these three days. Come in and take bite and +sup, and then tell me everything.” + +They entered the cabin. The door was carefully barred, and then +Sandy Flash, throwing off a heavy overcoat, such as the drovers were +accustomed to wear, sat down by the fire. His face was redder than its +wont, from cold and exposure, and all its keen, fierce lines were sharp +and hard. As he warmed his feet and hands at the blaze, and watched Deb. +Smith while she set the meat upon the coals, and cut the bread with a +heavy hunting-knife, the wary, defiant look of a hunted animal gradually +relaxed, and he said,-- + +“Faith, Deb., this is better than hidin' in the frost. I believe I'd +ha' froze last night, if I hadn't got down beside an ox for a couple o' +hours. It's a dog's life they've led me, and I've had just about enough +of it.” + +“Then why not give it up, Sandy, for good and all? I'll go out with you +to the Backwoods, after--after things is settled.” + +“And let 'em brag they frightened me away!” he exclaimed, with an oath. +“Not by a long shot, Deb. I owe 'em a score for this last chase--I'll +make the rich men o' Chester County shake in their shoes, and the +officers o' the law, and the Volunteers, damme! before I've done with +'em. When I go away for good, I'll leave somethin' behind me for them to +remember me by!” + +“Well, never mind; eat a bit--the meat's ready, and see here, Sandy! I +carried this all the way.” + +He seized the jug and took a long draught. “You're a good 'un, Deb.,” he +said. “A man isn't half a man when his belly's cold and empty.” + +He fell to, and ate long and ravenously. Warmed at last, both by fire +and fare, and still more by his frequent potations, he commenced the +story of his disguises and escapes, laughing at times with boisterous +self-admiration, swearing brutally and bitterly at others, over the +relentless energy with which he had been pursued. Deb. Smith listened +with eager interest, slapping him upon the back with a force of +approval which would have felled an ordinary man, but which Sandy Flash +cheerfully accepted as a caress. + +“You see,” he said at the close, “after I sneaked between Potter's troop +and the Sheriff's, and got down into the lower corner o' the county, I +managed to jump aboard a grain-sloop bound for Newport, but they were +froze in at the mouth o' Christeen; so I went ashore, dodged around +Wilmington, (where I'm rather too well known,) and come up Whitely Creek +as a drover from Mar'land. But from Grove up to here, I've had to look +out mighty sharp, takin' nigh onto two days for what I could go straight +through in half a day.” + +“Well, I guess you're safe here, Sandy,” she said; “they'll never think +o' lookin' for you twice't in the same place. Why didn't you send word +for me before? You've kep' me a mortal long time a-waitin', and down on +the Woodrow farm would ha' done as well as here.” + +“It's a little too near that Potter. He'd smell me out as quick as if I +was a skunk to windward of him. Besides, it's time I was pitchin' on a +few new holes; we must talk it over together, Deb.” + +He lifted the jug again to his mouth. Deb. Smith, although she had kept +nearly even pace with him, was not so sensible to the potency of the +liquor, and was watching for the proper degree of mellowness, in order +to broach the subject over which she had been secretly brooding since +his arrival. + +“First of all, Sandy,” she now said, “I want to talk to you about +Gilbert Potter. The man's my friend, and I thought you cared enough +about me to let my friends alone.” + +“So I do, Deb., when they let me alone. I had a right to shoot the +fellow, but I let him off easy, as much for your sake as because he was +carryin' another man's money.” + +“That's not true!” she cried. “It was his own money, every cent of +it,--hard-earned money, meant to pay off his debts; and I can say it +because I helped him earn it, mowin' and reapin' beside him in the +harvest-field, thrashin' beside him in the barn, eatin' at his table, +and sleepin' under his roof. I gev him my word he was safe from you, but +you've made me out a liar, with no more thought o' me than if I'd been a +stranger or an enemy!” + +“Come, Deb., don't get into your tantrums. Potter may be a decent +fellow, as men go, for anything I know, but you're not beholden to him +because he treated you like a Christian as you are. You seem to forgit +that he tried to take my life,--that he's hardly yet giv' up huntin' +me like a wild beast! Damn him, if the money _was_ his, which I don't +believe, it wouldn't square accounts between us. You think more o' his +money than o' my life, you huzzy!” + +“No I don't, Sandy!” she protested, “no I don't. You know me better'n +that. What am I here for, to-night? Have I never helped you, and hid +you, and tramped the country for you back and forth, by day and by +night,--and for what? Not for money, but because I'm your wife, whether +or not priest or 'squire has said it. I thought you cared for me, I did, +indeed; I thought you might do one thing to please me!” + +There was a quivering motion in the muscles of her hard face; her lips +were drawn convulsively, with an expression which denoted weeping, +although no tears came to her eyes. + +“Don't be a fool!” Sandy exclaimed. “S'pose you have served me, isn't it +somethin' to have a man to serve? What other husband is there for you in +the world, than me,--the only man that isn't afeard o' your fist? You've +done your duty by me, I'll allow, and so have I done mine by you!” + +“Then,” she begged, “do this one thing over and above your duty. Do it, +Sandy, as a bit o' kindness to me, and put upon me what work you please, +till I've made it up to you! You dunno what it is, maybe, to have one +person in the world as shows a sort o' respect for you--that gives you +his hand honestly, like a gentleman, and your full Chris'en name. It +does good when a body's been banged about as I've been, and more used +to curses than kind words, and not a friend to look after me if I was +layin' at Death's door--and I don't say you wouldn't come, Sandy, but +you can't. And there's no denyin' that he had the law on his side, and +isn't more an enemy than any other man. Maybe he'd even be a friend in +need, as far as he dared, if you'd only do it”-- + +“Do what? What in the Devil's name is the woman drivin' at?” yelled +Sandy Flash. + +“Give back the money; it's his'n, not Barton's,--I know it. Tell me +where it is, and I'll manage the whole thing for you. It's got to be +paid in a month or two, folks says, and they'll come on him for it, +maybe take and sell his farm--sell th' only house, Sandy, where I git +my rights, th' only house where I git a bit o' peace an' comfort! You +wouldn't be that hard on me?” + +The highwayman took another deep drink and rose to his feet. His face +was stern and threatening. “I've had enough o' this foolery,” he said. +“Once and for all, Deb., don't you poke your nose into my affairs! Give +back the money? Tell you where it is? Pay him for huntin' me down? I +could take you by the hair and knock your head ag'in the wall, for them +words!” + +She arose also and confronted him. The convulsive twitching of her mouth +ceased, and her face became as hard and defiant as his. “Sandy Flash, +mark my words!” she exclaimed. “You're a-goin' the wrong way, when you +stop takin' only from the Collectors and the proud rich men, and sparin' +the poor. Instead o' doin' good to balance the bad, it'll soon be all +bad, and you no better 'n a common thief! You needn't show your teeth; +it's true, and I say it square to y'r face!” + +She saw the cruel intensity of his anger, but did not flinch. They had +had many previous quarrels, in which neither could claim any very great +advantage over the other; but the highwayman was now in an impatient and +exasperated mood, and she dared more than she suspected in defying him. + +“You ----!” (the epithet he used cannot be written,) “will you stop your +jaw, or shall I stop it for you? I'm your master, and I give you your +orders, and the first order is, Not another word, now and never, about +Potter or his money!” + +He had never before outraged her by such a word, never before so +brutally asserted his claim to her obedience. All the hot, indignant +force of her fierce, coarse nature rose in resistance. She was +thoroughly aroused and fearless. The moment had come, she felt, when the +independence which had been her compensation amid all the hardships and +wrongs of her life, was threatened,--when she must either preserve it by +a desperate effort, or be trampled under foot by this man, whom she both +loved and feared, and in that moment, hated. + +“I'll not hold my jaw!” she cried, with flashing eyes. “Not even at your +biddin', Sandy Flash! I'll not rest till I have the money out o' you; +there's no law ag'inst stealin' from a thief!” + +The answer was a swift, tremendous blow of the highwayman's fist, +delivered between her eyes. She fell, and lay for a moment stunned, the +blood streaming from her face. Then with a rapid movement, she seized +the hunting-knife which lay beside the fire, and sprang to her feet. + +The knife was raised in her right hand, and her impulse was to plunge it +into his heart. But she could not avoid his eyes; they caught and held +her own, as if by some diabolical fascination. He stood motionless, +apparently awaiting the blow. Nothing in his face or attitude expressed +fear; only all the power of the man seemed to be concentrated in his +gaze, and to hold her back. The impulse once arrested, he knew, it would +not return. The eyes of each were fixed on the other's, and several +minutes of awful silence thus passed. + +Finally, Deb. Smith slightly shuddered, as if with cold, her hand slowly +fell, and without a word she turned away to wash her bloody face. + +Sandy Flash grinned, took another drink of whiskey, resumed his seat +before the fire, and then proceeded to fill his pipe. He lit and smoked +it to the end, without turning his head, or seeming to pay the least +attention to her movements. She, meanwhile, had stopped the flow of +blood from her face, bound a rag around her forehead, and lighted her +own pipe, without speaking. The highwayman first broke the silence. + +“As I was a-sayin',” he remarked, in his ordinary tone, “we've got to +look out for new holes, where the scent isn't so strong as about these. +What do you think o' th' Octorara?” + +“Where?” she asked. Her voice was hoarse and strange, but he took no +notice of it, gazing steadily into the fire as he puffed out a huge +cloud of smoke. + +“Well, pretty well down,” he said. “There's a big bit o' woodland, nigh +onto two thousand acres, belongin' to somebody in Baltimore that doesn't +look at it once't in ten years, and my thinkin' is, it'd be as safe +as the Backwoods. I must go to--it's no difference where--to-morrow +mornin', but I'll be back day after to-morrow night, and you needn't +stir from here till I come. You've grub enough for that long, eh?” + +“It'll do,” she muttered. + +“Then, that's enough. I must be off an hour before day, and I'm devilish +fagged and sleepy, so here goes!” + +With these words he rose, knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and +stretched himself on the bed of leaves. She continued to smoke her pipe. + +“Deb.,” he said, five minutes afterwards, “I'm not sure o' wakin'. You +look out for me,--do you hear?” + +“I hear,” she answered, in the same low, hoarse voice, without turning +her head. In a short time Sandy Flash's deep breathing announced that he +slept. Then she turned and looked at him with a grim, singular smile, +as the wavering fire-light drew clear pictures of his face which the +darkness as constantly wiped out again. By-and-by she noiselessly moved +her seat nearer to the wall, leaned her head against the rough logs, and +seemed to sleep. But, even if it were sleep, she was conscious of +his least movement, and started into alert wakefulness, if he turned, +muttered in dreams, or crooked a finger among the dead leaves. From time +to time she rose, stole out of the cabin and looked at the sky. Thus the +night passed away. + +There was no sign of approaching dawn in the dull, overcast, snowy air; +but a blind, animal instinct of time belonged to her nature, and about +two hours before sunrise, she set about preparing a meal. When all was +ready, she bent over Sandy Flash, seized him by the shoulder, and shook +his eyes open. + +“Time!” was all she said. + +He sprang up, hastily devoured the bread and meat, and emptied the jug +of its last remaining contents. + +“Hark ye, Deb.,” he exclaimed, when he had finished, “you may as well +trudge over to the Turk's Head and fill this while I'm gone. We'll need +all of it, and more, tomorrow night. Here's a dollar, to pay for't. Now +I must be on the tramp, but you may look for me to-morrow, an hour after +sun.” + +He examined his pistols, stuck them in his belt, threw his drover's +cloak over his shoulders, and strode out of the cabin. She waited until +the sound of his footsteps had died away in the cold, dreary gloom, and +then threw herself upon the pallet which he had vacated. This time she +slept soundly, until hours after the gray winter day had come up the +sky. + +Her eyes were nearly closed by the swollen flesh, and she laid handfuls +of snow upon her face, to cool the inflamation. At first, her movements +were uncertain, expressing a fierce conflict, a painful irresolution of +feeling; she picked up the hunting-knife, looked at it with a ghastly +smile, and then threw it from her. Suddenly, however, her features +changed, and every trace of her former hesitation vanished. After +hurriedly eating the fragments left from Sandy's breakfast, she issued +from the cabin and took a straight and rapid course eastward, up and +over the hill. + +During the rest of that day and the greater part of the next, the cabin +was deserted. + +It was almost sunset, and not more than an hour before Sandy Flash's +promised return, when Deb. Smith again made her appearance. Her face was +pale, (except for the dark blotches around the eyes,) worn, and haggard; +she seemed to have grown ten years older in the interval. + +Her first care was to rekindle the fire and place the replenished jug in +its accustomed place. Then she arranged and rearranged the rude blocks +which served for seats, the few dishes and the articles of food on +the shelf, and, when all had been done, paced back and forth along the +narrow floor, as if pushed by some invisible, tormenting power. + +Finally a whistle was heard, and in a minute afterwards Sandy Flash +entered the door. The bright blaze of the hearth shone upon his bold, +daring, triumphant face. + +“That's right, Deb.,” he said. “I'm dry and hungry, and here's a rabbit +you can skin and set to broil in no time. Let's look at you, old gal! +The devil!--I didn't mean to mark you like that. Well, bygones is +bygones, and better times is a-comin'.” + +“Sandy!” she cried, with a sudden, appealing energy, “Sandy--once't +more! Won't you do for me what I want o' you?” + +His face darkened in an instant. “Deb!” was all the word he uttered, but +she understood the tone. He took off his pistol-belt and laid it on the +shelf. “Lay there, pets!” he said; “I won't want you to-night. A long +tramp it was, and I'm glad it's over. Deb., I guess I've nigh tore off +one o' my knee-buckles, comin' through the woods.” + +Placing his foot upon one of the logs, he bent down to examine the +buckle. Quick as lightning, Deb., who was standing behind him, seized +each of his arms, just above the elbows, with her powerful hands, and +drew them towards each other upon his back. At the same time she uttered +a shrill, wild cry,--a scream so strange and unearthly in its character +that Sandy Flash's blood chilled to hear it. + +“Curse you, Deb., what are you doing? Are you clean mad?” he ejaculated, +struggling violently to free his arms. + +“Which is strongest now?” she asked; “my arms, or your'n? I've got you, +I'll hold you, and I'll only let go when I please!” + +He swore and struggled, but he was powerless in her iron grip. In +another minute the door of the cabin was suddenly burst open, and two +armed men sprang upon him. More rapidly than the fact can be related, +they snapped a pair of heavy steel handcuffs upon his wrists, pinioned +his arms at his sides, and bound his knees together. Then, and not till +then, Deb. Smith relaxed her hold. + +Sandy Flash made one tremendous muscular effort, to test the strength +of his bonds, and then stood motionless. His white teeth flashed between +his parted lips, and there was a dull, hard glare in his eyes which +told that though struck dumb with astonishment and impotent rage, he was +still fearless, still unsubdued. Deb. Smith, behind him, leaned against +the wall, pale and panting. + +“A good night's work!” remarked Chaffey, the constable, as he possessed +himself of the musket, pistol-belt, and hunting-knife. “I guess this +pitcher won't go to the well any more.” + +“We'll see,” Sandy exclaimed, with a sneer. “You've got me, not through +any pluck o' your'n, but through black, underhanded treachery. You'd +better double chain and handcuff me, or I may be too much for you yet!” + +“I guess you'll do,” said the constable, examining the cords by the +light of a lantern which his assistant had in the mean time fetched from +without. “I'll even untie your knees, for you've to walk over the hill +to the next farm-house, where we'll find a wagon to carry you to Chester +jail. I promise you more comfortable quarters than these, by daylight.” + +The constable then turned to Deb. Smith, who had neither moved nor +spoken. + +“You needn't come with us without you want to,” he said. “You can get +your share of the money at any time; but you must remember to be ready +to appear and testify, when Court meets.” + +“Must I do that?” she gasped. + +“Why, to be sure! It's a reg'lar part of the trial, and can't be left +out, though there's enough to hang the fellow ten times over, without +you.” + +The two unbound Sandy Flash's knees and placed themselves on each side +of him, the constable holding a cocked pistol in his right hand. + +“March is the word, is it?” said the highwayman. “Well, I'm ready. +Potter was right, after all; he said there'd be a curse on the money, +and there is; but I never guessed the curse'd come upon me through +_you_, Deb!” + +“Oh, Sandy!” she cried, starting forward, “you druv me to it! The curse +was o' your own makin'--and I gev you a last chance to-night, but you +throwed it from you!” + +“Very well, Deb,” he answered, “if I've got my curse, don't think you'll +not have your'n! Go down to Chester and git your blood-money, and see +what'll come of it, and what'll come to you!” + +He turned towards her as he spoke, and the expression of his face seemed +so frightful that she shuddered and covered her eyes. The next moment, +the old cabin door creaked open, fell back with a crash, and she was +alone. + +She stared around at the dreary walls. The sound of their footsteps had +died away, and only the winter night-wind wailed through the crannies of +the hut. Accustomed as she was to solitary life and rudest shelter, and +to the companionship of her superstitious fancies, she had never before +felt such fearful loneliness, such overpowering dread. She heaped sticks +upon the fire, sat down before it, and drank from the jug. Its mouth +was still wet from his lips, and it seemed that she was already drinking +down the commencement of the curse. + +Her face worked, and hard, painful groans burst from her lips. She threw +herself upon the floor and grovelled there, until the woman's relief +which she had almost unlearned forced its forgotten way, through cramps +and agonies, to her eyes. In the violent passion of her weeping and +moaning, God saw and pitied, that night, the struggles of a dumb, +ignorant, yet not wholly darkened nature. + +Two hours afterwards she arose, sad, stern, and determined, packed +together the things she had brought with her, quenched the fire (never +again to be relighted) upon the hearth, and took her way, through cold +and darkness, down the valley. + + + + +CHAPTER XXV. + +TWO ATTEMPTS. + + +The news of Sandy Flash's capture ran like wildfire through the county. +As the details became more correctly known, there was great rejoicing +but greater surprise, for Deb. Smith's relation to the robber, though +possibly surmised by a few, was unsuspected by the community at large. +In spite of the service which she had rendered by betraying her paramour +into the hands of justice, a bitter feeling of hostility towards her +was developed among the people, and she was generally looked upon as an +accomplice to Sandy Flash's crimes, who had turned upon him only when +she had ceased to profit by them. + +The public attention was thus suddenly drawn away from Gilbert Potter, +and he was left to struggle, as he best might, against the difficulties +entailed by his loss. He had corresponded with Mr. Trainer, the +conveyancer in Chester, and had learned that the money still due must +not only be forthcoming on the first of April, but that it probably +could not be obtained there. The excitement for buying lands along the +Alleghany, Ohio, and Beaver rivers, in western Pennsylvania, had seized +upon the few capitalists of the place, and Gilbert's creditor had +already been subjected to inconvenience and possible loss, as one result +of the robbery. Mr. Trainer therefore suggested that he should make a +new loan in his own neighborhood, where the spirit of speculation had +not yet reached. + +The advice was prudent and not unfriendly, although of a kind more +easy to give than to carry into execution. Mark's money-belt had been +restored, greatly against the will of the good-hearted fellow (who would +have cheerfully lent Gilbert the whole amount had he possessed it), and +there was enough grain yet to be threshed and sold, to yield something +more than a hundred dollars; but this was all which Gilbert could count +upon from his own resources. He might sell the wagon and one span of +horses, reducing by their value the sum which he would be obliged to +borrow; yet his hope of recovering the money in another year could +only be realized by retaining them, to continue, from time to time, his +occupation of hauling flour. + +Although the sympathy felt for him was general and very hearty, it never +took the practical form of an offer of assistance, and he was far too +proud to accept that plan of relief which a farmer, whose barn had been +struck by lightning and consumed, had adopted, the previous year,--going +about the neighborhood with a subscription-list, and soliciting +contributions. His nearest friends were as poor as, or poorer than, +himself, and those able to aid him felt no call to tender their +services. + +Martha Deane knew of this approaching trouble, not from Gilbert's own +lips, for she had seen him but once and very briefly since his return +from the chase of Sandy Flash. It was her cousin Mark, who, having +entered into an alliance, offensive and defensive, with her lover, +betrayed (considering that the end sanctioned the means) the confidence +reposed in him. + +The thought that her own coming fortune lay idle, while Gilbert might be +saved by the use of a twentieth part of it, gave Martha Deane no peace. +The whole belonged to him prospectively, yet would probably be of less +service when it should be legally her own to give, than the fragment +which now would lift him above anxiety and humiliation. The money had +been bequeathed to her by a maternal aunt, whose name she bore, and the +provisions by which the bequest was accompanied, so light and reasonable +be fore, now seemed harsh and unkind. The payment of the whole sum, +or any part of it, she saw, could not be anticipated. But she imagined +there must be a way to obtain a loan of the necessary amount, with the +bequest as security. With her ignorance of business matters, she felt +the need of counsel in this emergency; yet her father was her guardian, +and there seemed to be no one else to whom she could properly apply. Not +Gilbert, for she fancied he might reject the assistance she designed, +and therefore she meant to pay the debt before it became due, without +his knowledge; nor Mark, nor Farmer Fairthorn. Betsy Lavender, when +appealed to, shook her head, and remarked,-- + +“Lord bless you, child! a wuss snarl than ever. I'm gittin' a bit +skeary, when you talk o' law and money matters, and that's the fact. +Not that I find fault with your wishin' to do it, but the contrary, and +there might be ways, as you say, only I'm not lawyer enough to find 'em, +and as to advisin' where I don't see my way clear, Defend me from it!” + +Thus thrown back upon herself, Martha was forced to take the alternative +which she would gladly have avoided, and from which, indeed, she hoped +nothing,--an appeal to her father. Gilbert Potter's name had not again +been mentioned between them. She, for her part, had striven to maintain +her usual gentle, cheerful demeanor, and it is probable that Dr. Deane +made a similar attempt; but he could not conceal a certain coldness +and stiffness, which made an uncomfortable atmosphere in their little +household. + +“Well, Betsy,” Martha said (they were in her room, upstairs), “Father +has just come in from the stable, I see. Since there is no other way, I +will go down and ask his advice.” + +“You don't mean it, child!” cried the spinster. + +Martha left the room, without answer. + +“She's got _that_ from him, anyhow,” Miss Betsy remarked, “and which o' +the two is stubbornest, I couldn't undertake to say. If he's dead-set on +the wrong side, why, she's jist as dead-set on the right side, and that +makes a mortal difference. I don't see why I should be all of a trimble, +that only sets here and waits, while she's stickin' her head into the +lion's mouth; but so it is! Isn't about time for _you_ to be doin' +somethin', Betsy Lavender!” + +Martha Deane entered the front sitting-room with a grave, deliberate +step. The Doctor sat at his desk, with a pair of heavy silver-rimmed +spectacles on his nose, looking over an antiquated “Materia Medica.” His +upper lip seemed to have become harder and thinner, at the expense +of the under one, which pouted in a way that expressed vexation and +ill-temper. He was, in fact, more annoyed than he would have confessed +to any human being. Alfred Barton's visits had discontinued, and he +could easily guess the reason. Moreover, a suspicion of Gilbert +Potter's relation to his daughter was slowly beginning to permeate the +neighborhood; and more than once, within the last few days, all his +peculiar diplomacy had been required to parry a direct question. He +foresaw that the subject would soon come to the notice of his elder +brethren among the Friends, who felt self-privileged to rebuke and +remonstrate, even in family matters of so delicate a nature. + +It was useless, the Doctor knew, to attempt coercion with Martha. If +any measure could succeed in averting the threatened shame, it must +be kindly persuasion, coupled with a calm, dispassionate appeal to her +understanding. The quiet, gentle way in which she had met his anger, he +now saw, had left the advantage of the first encounter on her side. +His male nature and long habit of rule made an equal self-control very +difficult, on his part, and he resolved to postpone a recurrence to +the subject until he should feel able to meet his daughter with her own +weapons. Probably some reflection of the kind then occupied his mind, in +spite of the “Materia Medica” before him. + +“Father,” said Martha, seating herself with a bit of sewing in her hand, +“I want to ask thee a few questions about business matters.” + +The Doctor looked at her. “Well, thee's taking a new turn,” he remarked. +“Is it anything very important?” + +“Very important,” she answered; “it's about my own fortune.” + +“I thought thee understood, Martha, that that matter was all fixed and +settled, until thee's twenty-five, unless--unless”-- + +Here the Doctor hesitated. He did not wish to introduce the sore subject +of his daughter's marriage. + +“I know what thee means, father. Unless I should sooner marry, with thy +consent. But I do not expect to marry now, and therefore do not ask thy +permission. What I want to know is, whether I could not obtain a loan of +a small sum of money, on the security of the legacy?” + +“That depends on circumstances,” said the Doctor, slowly, and after a +long pause, during which he endeavored to guess his daughter's design. +“It might be,--yes, it might be; but, Martha, surely thee doesn't want +for money? Why should thee borrow?” + +“Couldn't thee suppose, father, that I need it for some good purpose? +I've always had plenty, it is true; but I don't think thee can say I +ever squandered it foolishly or thoughtlessly. This is a case where I +wish to make an investment,--a permanent investment.” + +“Ah, indeed? I always fancied thee cared less for money than a prudent +woman ought. How much might this investment be?” + +“About six hundred dollars,” she answered. + +“Six hundred!” exclaimed the Doctor; “that's a large sum to venture, a +large sum! Since thee can only raise it with my help, thee'll certainly +admit my right, as thy legal guardian, if not as thy father, to ask +where, how, and on what security the money will be invested?” + +Martha hesitated only long enough to reflect that her father's assertion +was probably true, and without his aid she could do nothing. “Father,” + she then said, “_I_ am the security.” + +“I don't understand thee, child.” + +“I mean that my whole legacy will be responsible to the lender for its +repayment in three years from this time. The security _I_ ask, I have in +advance; it is the happiness of my life!” + +“Martha! thee doesn't mean to say that thee would”-- + +Dr. Deane could get no further. Martha, with a sorrowful half-smile, +took up his word. + +“Yes, father, I would. Lest thee should not have understood me right, +I repeat that I would, and will, lift the mortgage on Gilbert Potter's +farm. He has been very unfortunate, and there is a call for help which +nobody heeds as he deserves. If I give it now, I simply give a part in +advance. The whole will be given afterwards.” + +Dr. Deane's face grew white, and his lip trembled, in spite of himself. +It was a minute or two before he ventured to say, in a tolerably steady +voice,-- + +“Thee still sets up thy right (as thee calls it) against mine, but mine +is older built and will stand. To help thee to this money would only be +to encourage thy wicked fancy for the man. Of course, I can't do it; I +wonder thee should expect it of me. I wonder, indeed, thee should think +of taking as a husband one who borrows money of thee almost as soon as +he has spoken his mind!” + +For an instant Martha Deane's eyes flashed. “Father!” she cried, “it is +not so! Gilbert doesn't even know my desire to help him. I must ask this +of thee, to speak no evil of him in my hearing. It would only give me +unnecessary pain, not shake my faith in his honesty and goodness. I +see thee will not assist me, and so I must endeavor to find whether the +thing cannot be done without thy assistance. In three years more the +legacy will be mine, I shall go to Chester, and consult a lawyer, +whether my own note for that time could not be accepted!” + +“I can spare thee the trouble,” the Doctor said. “In case of thy death +before the three years are out, who is to pay the note? Half the money +falls to me, and half to thy uncle Richard. Thy aunt Martha was wise. It +truly seems as if she had foreseen just what has happened, and meant to +baulk thy present rashness. Thee may go to Chester, and welcome, if thee +doubts my word; but unless thee can give positive assurance that thee +will be alive in three years' time, I don't know of any one foolish +enough to advance thee money.” + +The Doctor's words were cruel enough; he might have spared his +triumphant, mocking smile. Martha's heart sank within her, as she +recognized her utter helplessness. Not yet, however, would she give +up the sweet hope of bringing aid; for Gilbert's sake she would make +another appeal. + +“I won't charge thee, father, with being intentionally unkind. It would +almost seem, from thy words, that thee is rather glad than otherwise, +because my life is uncertain. If I _should_ die, would thee not care +enough for my memory to pay a debt, the incurring of which brought me +peace and happiness during life? _Then_, surely, thee would forgive; +thy heart is not so hard as thee would have me believe; thee wishes me +happiness, I cannot doubt, but thinks it will come in _thy_ way, not +in mine. Is it not possible to grant me this--only this--and leave +everything else to time?” + +Dr. Deane was touched and softened by his daughter's words. Perhaps he +might even have yielded to her entreaty at once, had not a harsh and +selfish condition presented itself in a very tempting form to his mind. + +“Martha,” he said, “I fancy that thee looks upon this matter of the loan +in the light of a duty, and will allow that thy motives may be weighty +to thy own mind. I ask thee to calm thyself, and consider things +clearly. If I grant thy request, I do so against my own judgment, +yea,--since it concerns thy interests,--against my own conscience. +This is not a thing to be lightly done, and if I should yield, I might +reasonably expect some little sacrifice of present inclination--yet +all for thy future good--on thy part. I would cheerfully borrow the six +hundred dollars for thee, or make it up from my own means, if need be, +to know that the prospect of thy disgrace was averted. Thee sees no +disgrace, I am aware, and pity that it is so; but if thy feeling for the +young man is entirely pure and unselfish, it should be enough to know +that thee had saved him from ruin, without considering thyself bound to +him for life.” + +The Doctor sharply watched his daughter's face while he spoke. She +looked up, at first, with an eager, wondering light of hope in her +eyes,--a light that soon died away, and gave place to a cloudy, troubled +expression. Then the blood rose to her cheeks, and her lips assumed the +clear, firm curve which always reflected the decisions of her mind. + +“Father,” she said, “I see thee has learned how to tempt, as well as +threaten. For the sake of doing a present good, thee would have me bind +myself to do a life-long injustice. Thee would have me take an external +duty to balance a violation of the most sacred conscience of my heart. +How little thee knows me! It is not alone that I am necessary to Gilbert +Potter's happiness, but also that he is necessary to mine. Perhaps it +is the will of Heaven that so great a bounty should not come to me too +easily, and I must bear, without murmuring, that my own father is set +against me. Thee may try me, if thee desires, for the coming three +years, but I can tell thee as well, now, what the end will be. Why not +rather tempt me by offering the money Gilbert needs, on the condition of +my giving up the rest of the legacy to thee? That would be a temptation, +I confess.” + +“No!” he exclaimed, with rising exasperation, “if thee has hardened thy +heart against all my counsels for thy good, I will at least keep my +own conscience free. I will not help thee by so much as the moving of a +finger. All I can do is, to pray that thy stubborn mind may be bent, and +gradually led back to the Light!” + +He put away the book, took his cane and broad-brimmed hat, and turned +to leave the room. Martha rose, with a sad but resolute face, and went +up-stairs to her chamber. + +Miss Betsy Lavender, when she learned all that had been said, on both +sides, was thrown into a state of great agitation and perplexity of +mind. She stared at Martha Deane, without seeming to see her, and +muttered from time to time such fragmentary phrases as,--“If I was +right-down sure,” or, “It'd only be another weepon tried and throwed +away, at the wust.” + +“What are you thinking of, Betsy?” Martha finally asked. + +“Thinkin' of? Well, I can't rightly tell you. It's a bit o' knowledge +that come in my way, once't upon a time, never meanin' to make use of +it in all my born days, and I wouldn't now, only for your two sakes; not +that it concerns you a mite; but never mind, there's ten thousand ways +o' workin' on men's minds, and I can't do no more than try my way.” + +Thereupon Miss Lavender arose, and would have descended to the encounter +at once, had not Martha wisely entreated her to wait a day or two, until +the irritation arising from her own interview had had time to subside in +her father's mind. + +“It's puttin' me on nettles, now that I mean fast and firm to do it; but +you're quite right, Martha,” the spinster said. + +Three or four days afterwards she judged the proper time had arrived, +and boldly entered the Doctor's awful presence. “Doctor,” she began, +“I've come to have a little talk, and it's no use beatin' about the +bush, plainness o' speech bein' one o' my ways; not that folks always +thinks it a virtue, but oftentimes the contrary, and so may you, +maybe; but when there's a worry in a house, it's better, whatsoever and +whosoever, to have it come to a head than go on achin' and achin', like +a blind bile!” + +“H'm,” snorted the Doctor, “I see what thee's driving at, and I may as +well tell thee at once, that if thee comes to me from Martha, I've heard +enough from her, and more than enough.” + +“More 'n enough,” repeated Miss Lavender. “But you're wrong. I come +neither from Martha, nor yet from Gilbert Potter; but I've been thinkin' +that you and me, bein' old,--in a measure, that is,--and not so direckly +concerned, might talk the thing over betwixt and between us, and maybe +come to a better understandin' for both sides.” + +Dr. Deane was not altogether disinclined to accept this proposition. +Although Miss Lavender sometimes annoyed him, as she rightly +conjectured, by her plainness of speech, he had great respect for her +shrewdness and her practical wisdom. If he could but even partially win +her to his views, she would be a most valuable ally. + +“Then say thy say, Betsy,” he assented. + +“Thy say, Betsy. Well, first and foremost, I guess we may look upon Alf. +Barton's courtin' o' Martha as broke off for good, the fact bein' that +he never wanted to have her, as he's told me since with his own mouth.” + +“What?” Dr. Deane exclaimed. + +“With his own mouth.” Miss Lavender repeated. “And as to his reasons for +lettin' on, I don't know 'em. Maybe you can guess 'em, as you seem to +ha' had everything cut and dried betwixt and between you; but that's +neither here nor there--Alf. Barton bein' out o' the way, why, the +coast's clear, and so Gilbert's case is to be considered by itself; and +let's come to the p'int, namely, what you've got ag'in him?” + +“I wonder thee can ask, Betsy! He's poor, he's base-born, without +position or influence in the neighborhood,--in no way a husband for +Martha Deane! If her head's turned because he has been robbed, and +marvellously saved, and talked about, I suppose I must wait till she +comes to her right senses.” + +“I rather expect,” Miss Lavender gravely remarked, “that they were +bespoke before all that happened, and it's not a case o' suddent fancy, +but somethin' bred in the bone and not to be cured by plasters. We won't +talk o' that now, but come back to Gilbert Potter, and I dunno as you're +quite right in any way about his bein's and doin's. With that farm o' +his'n, he can't be called poor, and I shouldn't wonder, though I can't +give no proofs, but never mind, wait awhile and you'll see, that he's +not base-born, after all; and as for respect in the neighborhood, +there's not a man more respected nor looked up to,--so the last p'int's +settled, and we'll take the t' other two; and I s'pose you mean his farm +isn't enough?” + +“Thee's right,” Dr. Deane said. “As Martha's guardian, I am bound to +watch over her interests, and every prudent man will agree with me that +her husband ought at least to be as well off as herself.” + +“Well, all I've got to say, is, it's lucky for you that Naomi Blake +didn't think as you do, when she married you. What's sass for the goose +ought to be sass for the gander (meanin' you and Gilbert), and every +prudent man will agree with me.” + +This was a home-thrust, which Dr. Deane was not able to parry. Miss +Lavender had full knowledge whereof she affirmed, and the Doctor knew +it. + +“I admit that there might be other advantages,” he said, rather +pompously, covering his annoyance with a pinch of snuff,--“advantages +which partly balance the want of property. Perhaps Naomi Blake thought +so too. But here, I think, it would be hard for thee to find such. Or +does thee mean that the man's disgraceful birth is a recommendation?” + +“Recommendation? No!” Miss Lavender curtly replied. + +“We need go no further, then. Admitting thee's right in all other +respects, here is cause enough for me. I put it to thee, as a sensible +woman, whether I would not cover both myself and Martha with shame, by +allowing her marriage with Gilbert Potter?” + +Miss Lavender sat silently in her chair and appeared to meditate. + +“Thee doesn't answer,” the Doctor remarked, after a pause. + +“I dunno how it come about,” she said, lifting her head and fixing her +dull eyes on vacancy; “I was thinkin' o' the time I was up at Strasburg, +while your brother was livin', more 'n twenty year ago.” + +With all his habitual self-control and gravity of deportment, Dr. Deane +could not repress a violent start of surprise. He darted a keen, fierce +glance at Miss Betsy's face, but she was staring at the opposite wall, +apparently unconscious of the effect of her words. + +“I don't see what that has to do with Gilbert Potter,” he presently +said, collecting himself with an effort. + +“Nor I, neither,” Miss Lavender absently replied, “only it happened that +I knowed Eliza Little,--her that used to live at the Gap, you know,--and +just afore she died, that fall the fever was so bad, and I nussin' her, +and not another soul awake in the house, she told me a secret about your +brother's boy, and I must say few men would ha' acted as Henry done, and +there's more 'n one mighty beholden to him.” + +Dr. Deane stretched out his hand as if he would close her mouth. His +face was like fire, and a wild expression of fear and pain shot from his +eyes. + +“Betsy Lavender,” he said, in a hollow voice, “thee is a terrible woman. +Thee forces even the secrets of the dying from them, and brings up +knowledge that should be hidden forever. What can all this avail +thee? Why does thee threaten me with appearances, that cannot now be +explained, all the witnesses being dead?” + +“Witnesses bein' dead,” she repeated. “Are you sorry for that?” + +He stared at her in silent consternation. + +“Doctor,” she said, turning towards him for the first time, “there's no +livin' soul that knows, except you and me, and if I seem hard, I'm no +harder than the knowledge in your own heart. What's the difference, in +the sight o' the Lord, between the one that has a bad name and the one +that has a good name? Come, you set yourself up for a Chris'en, and so +I ask you whether you're the one that ought to fling the first stone; +whether repentance--and there's that, of course, for you a'n't a nateral +bad man, Doctor, but rather the contrary--oughtn't to be showed in +deeds, to be wuth much! You're set ag'in Martha, and your pride's +touched, which I can't say as I wonder at, all folks havin' pride, me +among the rest, not that I've much to be proud of, Goodness knows; but +never mind, don't you talk about Gilbert Potter in that style, leastways +before me!” + +During this speech, Dr. Deane had time to reflect. Although aghast at +the unexpected revelation, he had not wholly lost his cunning. It was +easy to perceive what Miss Lavender intended to do with the weapon in +her hands, and his aim was to render it powerless. + +“Betsy,” he said, “there's one thing thee won't deny,--that, if there +was a fault, (which I don't allow), it has been expiated. To make known +thy suspicions would bring sorrow and trouble upon two persons for whom +thee professes to feel some attachment; if thee could prove what thee +thinks, it would be a still greater misfortune for them than for me. +They are young, and my time is nearly spent. We all have serious +burdens which we must bear alone, and thee mustn't forget that the same +consideration for the opinion of men which keeps thee silent, keeps me +from consenting to Martha's marriage with Gilbert Potter. We are bound +alike.” + +“We're not!” she cried, rising from her seat. “But I see it's no use to +talk any more, now. Perhaps since you know that there's a window in +you, and me lookin' in, you'll try and keep th' inside o' your house in +better order. Whether I'll act accordin' to my knowledge or not, depends +on how things turns out, and so sufficient unto the day is the evil +thereof, or however it goes!” + +With these words she left the room, though foiled, not entirely +hopeless. + +“It's like buttin' over an old stone-wall,” she said to Martha. “The +first hit with a rammer seems to come back onto you, and jars y'r own +bones, and may be the next, and the next; and then little stones git out +o' place, and then the wall shakes, and comes down,--and so we've been +a-doin'. I guess I made a crack to-day, but we'll see.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI. + +THE LAST OF SANDY FLASH. + + +The winter crept on, February was drawing to a close, and still Gilbert +Potter had not ascertained whence the money was to be drawn which would +relieve him from embarrassment. The few applications he had made were +failures; some of the persons really had no money to invest, and others +were too cautious to trust a man who, as everybody knew, had been +unfortunate. In five weeks more the sum must be made up, or the mortgage +would be foreclosed. + +Both Mary Potter and her son, in this emergency, seemed to have adopted, +by accident or sympathy, the same policy towards each other,--to cheer +and encourage, in every possible way. Gilbert carefully concealed his +humiliation, on returning home from an unsuccessful appeal for a loan, +and his mother veiled her renewed sinking of the heart, as she heard of +his failure, under a cheerful hope of final success, which she did not +feel. Both had, in fact, one great consolation to fall back upon,--she +that he had been mercifully saved to her, he that he was beloved by a +noble woman. + +All the grain that could be spared and sold placed but little more than +a hundred dollars in Gilbert's hands, and he began seriously to consider +whether he should not be obliged to sell his wagon and team. He had been +offered a hundred and fifty dollars, (a very large sum, in those days,) +for Roger, but he would as soon have sold his own right arm. Not even to +save the farm would he have parted with the faithful animal. Mark Deane +persisted in increasing his seventy-five dollars to a hundred, and +forcing the loan upon his friend; so one third of the amount was secure, +and there was still hope for the rest. + +It is not precisely true that there had been no offer of assistance. +There was _one_, which Gilbert half-suspected had been instigated by +Betsy Lavender. On a Saturday afternoon, as he visited Kennett Square +to have Roger's fore-feet shod, he encountered Alfred Barton at the +blacksmith's shop, on the same errand. + +“The man I wanted to see!” cried the latter, as Gilbert dismounted. +“Ferris was in Chester last week, and he saw Chaffey, the constable, you +know, that helped catch Sandy; and Chaffey told him he was sure, from +something Sandy let fall, that Deb. Smith had betrayed him out of +revenge, because he robbed you. I want to know how it all hangs +together.” + +Gilbert suddenly recalled Deb. Smith's words, on the day after his +escape from the inundation, and a suspicion of the truth entered his +mind for the first time. + +“It must have been so!” he exclaimed. “She has been a better friend to +me than many people of better name.” + +Barton noticed the bitterness of the remark, and possibly drew his +own inference from it. He looked annoyed for a moment, but presently +beckoned Gilbert to one side, and said,-- + +“I don't know whether you've given up your foolish suspicions about +me and Sandy; but the trial comes off next week, and you'll have to be +there as a witness, of course, and can satisfy yourself, if you please, +that my explanation was nothing but the truth. I've not felt so jolly in +twenty years, as when I heard that the fellow was really in the jug!” + +“I told you I believed your words,” Gilbert answered, “and that settles +the matter. Perhaps I shall find out how Sandy learned what you said to +me that evening, on the back-porch of the Unicorn, and if so, I am bound +to let you know it.” + +“See here, Gilbert!” Barton resumed. “Folks say you must borrow the +money you lost, or the mortgage on your farm will be foreclosed. Is +that so? and how much money might it be, altogether, if you don't mind +telling?” + +“Not so much, if those who have it to lend, had a little faith in +me,--some four or five hundred dollars.” + +“That ought to be got, without trouble,” said Barton. “If I had it by +me, I'd lend it to you in a minute; but you know I borrowed from Ferris +myself, and all o' my own is so tied up that I couldn't move it without +the old man getting on my track. I'll tell you what I'll do, though; +I'll indorse your note for a year, if it can be kept a matter between +ourselves and the lender. On account of the old man, you understand.” + +The offer was evidently made in good faith, and Gilbert hesitated, +reluctant to accept it, and yet unwilling to reject it in a manner that +might seem unfriendly. + +“Barton,” he said at last, “I've never yet failed to meet a money +obligation. All my debts, except this last, have been paid on the day I +promised, and it seems a little hard that my own name, alone, shouldn't +be good for as much as I need. Old Fairthorn would give me his +indorsement, but I won't ask for it; and I mean no offence when I say +that I'd rather get along without yours, if I can. It's kind in you to +make the offer, and to show that I'm not ungrateful, I'll beg you to +look round among your rich friends and help me to find the loan.” + +“You're a mighty independent, fellow, Gilbert, but I can't say as I +blame you for it. Yes, I'll look round in a few days, and maybe I'll +stumble on the right man by the time I see you again.” + +When Gilbert returned home, he communicated this slight prospect of +relief to his mother. “Perhaps I am a little too proud,” he said; “but +you've always taught me, mother, to be beholden to no man, if I could +help it; and I should feel more uneasy under an obligation to Barton +than to most other men. You know I must go to Chester in a few days, and +must wait till I'm called to testify. There will then be time to look +around, and perhaps Mr. Trainer may help me yet.” + +“You're right, boy!” Mary Potter cried, with flashing eyes. “Keep +your pride; it's not of the mean kind! Don't ask for or take any man's +indorsement!” + +Two days before the time when Gilbert was summoned to Chester, Deb. +Smith made her appearance at the farm. She entered the barn early one +morning, with a bundle in her hand, and dispatched Sam, whom she found +in the stables, to summon his master. She looked old, weather-beaten, +and haggard, and her defiant show of strength was gone. + +In betraying Sandy Flash into the hands of justice, she had acted from +a fierce impulse, without reflecting upon the inevitable consequences +of the step. Perhaps she did not suspect that she was also betraying +herself, and more than confirming all the worst rumors in regard to her +character. In the universal execration which followed the knowledge of +her lawless connection with Sandy Flash, and her presumed complicity in +his crimes, the merit of her service to the county was lost. The popular +mind, knowing nothing of her temptations, struggles, and sufferings, was +harsh, cold, and cruel, and she felt the weight of its verdict as +never before. A few persons of her own ignorant class, who admired her +strength and courage in their coarse way, advised her to hide until the +first fury of the storm should be blown over. Thus she exaggerated the +danger, and even felt uncertain of her reception by the very man for +whose sake she had done the deed and accepted the curse. + +Gilbert, however, when he saw her worn, anxious face, the eyes, like +those of a dumb animal, lifted to his with an appeal which she knew not +how to speak, felt a pang of compassionate sympathy. + +“Deborah!” he said, “you don't look well; come into the house and warm +yourself!” + +“No!” she cried, “I won't darken your door till you've heerd what I've +got to say. Go 'way, Sam; I want to speak to Mr. Gilbert, alone.” + +Gilbert made a sign, and Sam sprang down the ladder, to the stables +under the threshing-floor. + +“Mayhap you've heerd already,” she said. “A blotch on a body's name +spreads fast and far. Mine was black enough before, God knows, but +they've blackened it more.” + +“If all I hear is true,” Gilbert exclaimed, “you've blackened it for my +sake, Deborah. I'm afraid you thought I blamed you, in some way, for not +preventing my loss; but I'm sure you did what you could to save me from +it!” + +“Ay, lad, that I did! But the devil seemed to ha' got into him. Awful +words passed between us, and then--the devil got into _me_, and--you +know what follered. He wouldn't believe the money was your'n, or I don't +think he'd ha' took it; he wasn't a bad man at heart, Sandy wasn't, only +stubborn at the wrong times, and brung it onto himself by that. But you +know what folks says about me?” + +“I don't care what they say, Deborah!” Gilbert cried. “I know that you +are a true and faithful friend to me, and I've not had so many such in +my life that I'm likely to forget what you've tried to do!” + +Her hard, melancholy face became at once eager and tender. She stepped +forward, put her hand on Gilbert's arm, and said, in a hoarse, earnest, +excited whisper,-- + +“Then maybe you'll take it? I was almost afeard to ax you,--I thought +you might push me away, like the rest of 'em; but you'll take it, and +that'll seem like a liftin' of the curse! You won't mind how it was got, +will you? I had to git it in that way, because no other was left to me!” + +“What do you mean, Deborah?” + +“The money, Mr. Gilbert! They allowed me half, though the constables was +for thirds, but the Judge said I'd arned the full half,--God knows, ten +thousand times wouldn't pay me!--and I've got it here, tied up safe. +It's your'n, you know, and maybe there a'n't quite enough, but as fur as +it goes; and I'll work out the amount o' the rest, from time to time, if +you'll let me come onto your place!” + +Gilbert was powerfully and yet painfully moved. He forgot his +detestation of the relation in which Deb. Smith had stood to the +highwayman, in his gratitude for her devotion to himself. He felt an +invincible repugnance towards accepting her share of the reward, even +as a loan; it was “blood-money,” and to touch it in any way was to be +stained with its color; yet how should he put aside her kindness without +inflicting pain upon her rude nature, made sensitive at last by abuse, +persecution, and remorse? + +His face spoke in advance of his lips, and she read its language with +wonderful quickness. + +“Ah!” she cried, “I mistrusted how it'd be; you don't want to say it +right out, but I'll say it for you! You think the money'd bring you no +luck,--maybe a downright curse,--and how can I say it won't? Ha'n't it +cursed me? Sandy said it would, even as your'n follered him. What's it +good for, then? It burns my hands, and them that's clean, won't touch +it. There, you damned devil's-bait,--my arm's sore, and my heart's sore, +wi' the weight o' you!” + +With these words she flung the cloth, with its bunch of hard silver +coins, upon the threshing-floor. It clashed like the sound of chains. +Gilbert saw that she was sorely hurt. Tears of disappointment, which she +vainly strove to hold back, rose to her eyes, as she grimly folded her +arms, and facing him, said,-- + +“Now, what am I to do?” + +“Stay here for the present, Deborah,” he answered. + +“Eh? A'n't I summonsed? The job I undertook isn't done yet; the wust +part's to come! Maybe they'll let me off from puttin' the rope round his +neck, but I a'n't sure o' that!” + +“Then come to me afterwards,” he said, gently, striving to allay her +fierce, self-accusing mood. “Remember that you always have a home and a +shelter with me, whenever you need them. And I'll take your money,” he +added, picking it up from the floor,--“take it in trust for you, until +the time shall come when you will be willing to use it. Now go in to my +mother.” + +The woman was softened and consoled by his words. But she still +hesitated. + +“Maybe she won't--she won't”-- + +“She will!” Gilbert exclaimed. “But if you doubt, wait here until I come +back.” + +Mary Potter earnestly approved of his decision, to take charge of the +money, without making use of it. A strong, semi-superstitious influence +had so entwined itself with her fate, that she even shrank from help, +unless it came in an obviously pure and honorable form. She measured the +fulness of her coming justification by the strict integrity of the means +whereby she sought to deserve it. Deb. Smith, in her new light, was +no welcome guest, and with all her coarse male strength, she was still +woman enough to guess the fact; but Mary Potter resolved to think +only that her son had been served and befriended. Keeping that service +steadily before her eyes, she was able to take the outcast's hand, to +give her shelter and food, and, better still, to soothe her with that +sweet, unobtrusive consolation which only a woman can bestow,--which +steals by avenues of benevolent cunning into a nature that would repel a +direct expression of sympathy. + +The next morning, however, Deb. Smith left the house, saying to +Gilbert,--“You won't see me ag'in, without it may be in Court, till +after all's over; and then I may have to ask you to hide me for awhile. +Don't mind what I've said; I've no larnin', and can't always make out +the rights o' things,--and sometimes it seems there's two Sandys, a good +'un and a bad 'un, and meanin' to punish one, I've ruined 'em both!” + +When Gilbert reached Chester, the trial was just about to commence. The +little old town on the Delaware was crowded with curious strangers, not +only from all parts of the county, but even from Philadelphia and the +opposite New-Jersey shore. Every one who had been summoned to testify +was beset by an inquisitive circle, and none more so than himself. The +Court-house was packed to suffocation; and the Sheriff, heavily armed, +could with difficulty force a way through the mass. When the clanking of +the prisoner's irons was heard, all the pushing, struggling, murmuring +sounds ceased until the redoubtable highwayman stood in the dock. + +He looked around the Court-room with his usual defiant air, and no one +observed any change of expression, as his eyes passed rapidly over Deb. +Smith's face, or Gilbert Potter's. His hard red complexion was +already beginning to fade in confinement, and his thick hair, formerly +close-cropped for the convenience of disguises, had grown out in not +ungraceful locks. He was decidedly a handsome man, and his bearing +seemed to show that he was conscious of the fact. + +The trial commenced. To the astonishment of all, and, as it was +afterwards reported, against the advice of his counsel, the prisoner +plead guilty to some of the specifications of the indictment, while he +denied others. The Collectors whom he had plundered were then called to +the witness-stand, but the public seemed to manifest less interest +in the loss of its own money, than in the few cases where private +individuals had suffered, and waited impatiently for the latter. + +Deb. Smith had so long borne the curious gaze of hundreds of eyes, +whenever she lifted her head, that when her turn came, she was able to +rise and walk forward without betraying any emotion. Only when she was +confronted with Sandy Flash, and he met her with a wonderfully strange, +serious smile, did she shudder for a moment and hastily turn away. She +gave her testimony in a hard, firm voice, making her statements as brief +as possible, and volunteering nothing beyond what was demanded. + +On being dismissed from the stand, she appeared to hesitate. Her eyes +wandered over the faces of the lawyers, the judges, and the jurymen, as +if with a dumb appeal, but she did not speak. Then she turned towards +the prisoner, and some words passed between them, which, in the general +movement of curiosity, were only heard by the two or three persons who +stood nearest. + +“Sandy!” she was reported to have said, “I couldn't help myself; take +the curse off o' me!” + +“Deb., it's too late,” he answered. “It's begun to work, and it'll work +itself out!” + +Gilbert noticed the feeling of hostility with which Deb. Smith was +regarded by the spectators,--a feeling that threatened to manifest +itself in some violent way, when the restraints of the place should be +removed. He therefore took advantage of the great interest with which +his own testimony was heard, to present her character in the light which +her services to him shed upon it. This was a new phase of the story, and +produced a general movement of surprise. Sandy Flash, it was noticed, +sitting with his fettered hands upon the rail before him, leaned forward +and listened intently, while an unusual flush deepened upon his cheeks. + +The statements, though not strictly in evidence, were permitted by +the Court, and they produced the effect which Gilbert intended. The +excitement reached its height when Deb. Smith, ignorant of rule, +suddenly rose and cried out,-- + +“It's true as Gospel, every word of it! Sandy, do you hear?” + +She was removed by the constable, but the people, as they made way, +uttered no word of threat or insult. On the contrary, many eyes rested +on her hard, violent, wretched face with an expression of very genuine +compassion. + + +The trial took its course, and terminated with the result which +everybody--even the prisoner himself--knew to be inevitable. He was +pronounced guilty, and duly sentenced to be hanged by the neck until he +was dead. + +Gilbert employed the time which he could spare from his attendance +at the Court, in endeavoring to make a new loan, but with no positive +success. The most he accomplished was an agreement, on the part of his +creditor, that the foreclosure might be delayed two or three weeks, +provided there was a good prospect of the money being obtained. In +ordinary times he would have had no difficulty; but, as Mr. Trainer had +written, the speculation in western lands had seized upon capitalists, +and the amount of money for permanent investment was already greatly +diminished. + +He was preparing to return home, when Chaffey, the constable, came to +him with a message from Sandy Flash. The latter begged for an interview, +and both Judge and Sheriff were anxious that Gilbert should comply with +his wishes, in the hope that a full and complete confession might be +obtained. It was evident that the highwayman had accomplices, but he +steadfastly refused to name them, even with the prospect of having his +sentence commuted to imprisonment for life. + +Gilbert did not hesitate a moment. There were doubts of his own to be +solved,--questions to be asked, which Sandy Flash could alone answer. He +followed the constable to the gloomy, high-walled jail-building, and +was promptly admitted by the Sheriff into the low, dark, heavily barred +cell, wherein the prisoner sat upon a wooden stool, the links of his +leg-fetters passed through a ring in the floor. + +Sandy Flash lifted his face to the light, and grinned, but not with +his old, mocking expression. He stretched out his hand which Gilbert +took,--hard and cold as the rattling chain at his wrist. Then, seating +himself with a clash upon the floor, he pushed the stool towards his +visitor, and said,-- + +“Set down, Potter. Limited accommodations, you see. Sheriff, you needn't +wait; it's private business.” + +The Sheriff locked the iron door behind him, and they were alone. + +“Potter,” the highwayman began, “you see I'm trapped and done for, and +all, it seems, on account o' that little affair o' your'n. You won't +think it means much, now, when I say I was in the wrong there; but I +swear I was! I had no particular spite ag'in Barton, but he's a swell, +and I like to take such fellows down; and I was dead sure you were +carryin' his money, as you promised to.” + +“Tell me one thing,” Gilbert interrupted; “how did you know I promised +to take money for him?” + +“I knowed it, that's enough; I can give you, word for word, what both o' +you said, if you doubt me.” + +“Then, as I thought, it was Barton himself!” Gilbert cried. + +Sandy Flash burst into a roaring laugh. “_Him!_ Ah-ha! you think we go +snacks, eh? Do I look like a fool? Barton'd give his eye-teeth to put +the halter round my neck with his own hands! No, no, young man; I have +ways and ways o' learnin' things that you nor him'll never guess.” + +His manner, even more than his words, convinced Gilbert Barton was +absolved, but the mystery remained. “You won't deny that you have +friends?” he said. + +“Maybe,” Sandy replied, in a short, rough tone. “That's nothin' to +you,” he continued; “but what I've got to say is, whether or no you're +a friend to Deb., she thinks you are. Do you mean to look after her, +once't in a while, or are you one o' them that forgits a good turn?” + +“I have told her,” said Gilbert, “that she shall always have a home and +a shelter in my house. If it's any satisfaction to you, here's my hand +on it!” + +“I believe you, Potter. Deb.'s done ill by me; she shouldn't ha' bullied +me when I was sore and tetchy, and fagged out with _your_ curst huntin' +of me up and down! But I'll do that much for her and for you. Here; bend +your head down; I've got to whisper.” + +Gilbert leaned his ear to the highwayman's mouth. + +“You'll only tell _her,_ you understand?” + +Gilbert assented. + +“Say to her these words,--don't forgit a single one of 'em!--Thirty +steps from the place she knowed about, behind the two big +chestnut-trees, goin' towards the first cedar, and a forked sassyfrack +growin' right over it. What she finds, is your'n.” + +“Sandy!” Gilbert exclaimed, starting from his listening posture. + +“Hush, I say! You know what I mean her to do,--give you your money back. +I took a curse with it, as you said. Maybe that's off o' me, now!” + +“It is!” said Gilbert, in a low tone, “and forgiveness--mine and my +mother's--in the place of it. Have you any”--he hesitated to say the +words--“any last messages, to her or anybody else, or anything you would +like to have done?” + +“Thank ye, no!--unless Deb. can find my black hair and whiskers. Then +you may give 'em to Barton, with my dutiful service.” + +He laughed at the idea, until his chains rattled. + +Gilbert's mind was haunted with the other and darker doubt, and +he resolved, in this last interview, to secure himself against its +recurrence. In such an hour he could trust the prisoner's words. + +“Sandy,” he asked, “have you any children?” + +“Not to my knowledge; and I'm glad of it.” + +“You must know,” Gilbert continued, “what the people say about my birth. +My mother is bound from telling me who my father was, and I dare not +ask her any questions. Did you ever happen to know her, in your younger +days, or can you remember anything that will help me to discover his +name?” + +The highwayman sat silent, meditating, and Gilbert felt that his heart +was beginning to beat painfully fast, as he waited for the answer. + +“Yes,” said Sandy, at last, “I did know Mary Potter when I was a boy, +and she knowed me, under another name. I may say I liked her, too, in a +boy's way, but she was older by three or four years, and never thought +o' lookin' at me. But I can't remember anything more; if I was out o' +this, I'd soon find out for you!” + +He looked up with an eager, questioning glance, which Gilbert totally +misunderstood. + +“What was your other name?” he asked, in a barely audible voice. + +“I dunno as I need tell it,” Sandy answered; “what'd be the good? +There's some yet livin', o' the same name, and they wouldn't thank me.” + +“Sandy!” Gilbert cried desperately, “answer this one question,--don't +go out of the world with a false word in your mouth!--You are not my +father?” + +The highwayman looked at him a moment, in blank amazement. “No, so help +me God!” he then said. + +Gilbert's face brightened so suddenly and vividly that Sandy muttered to +himself,--“I never thought I was that bad.” + +“I hear the Sheriff at the outside gate,” he whispered again. “Don't +forgit--thirty steps from the place she knowed about--behind the two big +chestnut-trees, goin' towards the first cedar--and a forked sassyfrack +growin' right over it! Good-bye, and good-luck to the whole o' your +life!” + +The two clasped hands with a warmth and earnestness which surprised the +Sheriff. Then Gilbert went out from his old antagonist. + +That night Sandy Flash made an attempt to escape from the jail, and +very nearly succeeded. It appeared, from some mysterious words which he +afterwards let fall, and which Gilbert alone could have understood, that +he had a superstitious belief that something he had done would bring him +a new turn of fortune. The only result of the attempt was to hasten +his execution. Within ten days from that time he was transformed from a +living terror into a romantic name. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII. + +GILBERT INDEPENDENT. + + +Gilbert Potter felt such an implicit trust in Sandy Flash's promise of +restitution, that, before leaving Chester, he announced the forthcoming +payment of the mortgage to its holder. His homeward ride was like a +triumphal march, to which his heart beat the music. The chill March +winds turned into May-breezes as they touched him; the brown meadows +were quick with ambushed bloom. Within three or four months his life had +touched such extremes of experience, that the fate yet to come seemed to +evolve itself speedily and naturally from that which was over and +gone. Only one obstacle yet remained in his path,--his mother's secret. +Towards that he was powerless; to meet all others he was brimming with +strength and courage. + +Mary Potter recognized, even more keenly and with profounder faith than +her son, the guidance of some inscrutable Power. She did not dare to +express so uncertain a hope, but something in her heart whispered that +the day of her own deliverance was not far off, and she took strength +from it. + +It was nearly a week before Deb. Smith made her appearance. Gilbert, +in the mean time, had visited her cabin on the Woodrow farm, to find it +deserted, and he was burning with impatience to secure, through her, +the restoration of his independence. He would not announce his changed +prospects, even to Martha Deane, until they were put beyond further +risk. The money once in his hands, he determined to carry it to Chester +without loss of time. + +When Deb. arrived, she had a weary, hunted look, but she was unusually +grave and silent, and avoided further reference to the late tragical +episode in her life. Nevertheless, Gilbert led her aside and narrated +to her the particulars of his interview with Sandy Flash. Perhaps he +softened, with pardonable equivocation, the latter's words in regard +to her; perhaps he conveyed a sense of forgiveness which had not been +expressed; for Deb. more than once drew the corners of her hard palms +across her eyes. When he gave the marks by which she was to recognize a +certain spot, she exclaimed,-- + +“It was hid the night I dreamt of him! I knowed he must ha' been nigh, +by that token. O, Mr. Gilbert, he said true! I know the place; it's not +so far away; this very night you'll have y'r money back!” + +After it was dark she set out, with a spade upon her shoulder, +forbidding him to follow, or even to look after her. Both mother and +son were too excited to sleep. They sat by the kitchen-fire, with one +absorbing thought in their minds, and speech presently became easier +than silence. + +“Mother,” said Gilbert, “when--I mean _if_--she brings the money, all +that has happened will have been for good. It has proved to us that we +have true friends (and I count my Roger among them), and I think that +our independence will be worth all the more, since we came so nigh +losing it again.” + +“Ay, my boy,” she replied; “I was over-hasty, and have been lessoned. +When I bend my mind to submit, I make more headway than when I try to +take the Lord's work into my own hands. I'm fearsome still, but it seems +there's a light coming from somewhere,--I don't know where.” + +“Do you feel that way, mother?” he exclaimed. “Do you think--let me +mention it this once!--that the day is near when you will be free to +speak? Will there be anything more you can tell me, when we stand free +upon our own property?” + +Mary Potter looked upon his bright, wistful, anxious face, and +sighed. “I can't tell--I can't tell,” she said. “Ah, my boy, you would +understand it, if I dared say one thing, but that might lead you to +guess what mustn't be told; and I will be faithful to the spirit as +well as the letter. It must come soon, but nothing you or I can do would +hasten it a minute.” + +“One word more, mother,” he persisted, “will our independence be no help +to you?” + +“A great help,” she answered, “or, maybe, a great comfort would be the +true word. Without it, I might be tempted to--but see, Gilbert, how can +I talk? Everything you say pulls at the one thing that cuts my mouth +like a knife, because it's shut tight on it! And the more because I +owe it to you,--because I'm held back from my duty to my child,--maybe, +every day putting a fresh sorrow into his heart! Oh, it's not easy, +Gilbert; it don't grow lighter from use, only my faith is the stronger +and surer, and that helps me to bear it.” + +“Mother, I meant never to have spoken of this again,” he said. “But +you're mistaken; it is no sorrow; I never knew what it was to have a +light heart, until you told me your trouble, and the question came to +my mouth to-night because I shall soon feel strong in my own right as +a man, and able to do more than you might guess. If, as you say, no man +can help you, I will wait and be patient with you.” + +“That's all we can do now, my child. I wasn't reproaching you for +speaking, for you've held your peace a long while, when I know you've +been fretting; but this isn't one of the troubles that's lightened by +speech, because all talking must go around the outside, and never touch +the thing itself.” + +“I understand,” he said, and gazed for a long time into the fire, +without speaking. + +Mary Potter watched his face, in the wavering light of the flame. She +marked the growing decision of the features, the forward, fearless +glance of the large, deep-set eye, the fuller firmness and sweetness of +the mouth, and the general expression, not only of self-reliance, but of +authority, which was spread over the entire countenance. Both her pride +in her son, and her respect for him, increased as she gazed. Heretofore, +she had rather considered her secret as her own property, her right to +which he should not question; but now it seemed as if she were forced +to withhold something that of right belonged to him. Yet no thought that +the mysterious obligation might be broken ever entered her mind. + +Gilbert was thinking of Martha Deane. He had passed that first timidity +of love which shrinks from the knowledge of others, and longed to tell +his mother what noble fidelity and courage Martha had exhibited. Only +the recollection of the fearful swoon into which she had fallen bound +his tongue; he felt that the first return to the subject must come from +her. She lay back in her chair and seemed to sleep; he rose from time +to time, went out into the lane and listened,--and so the hours passed +away. + +Towards midnight a heavy step was heard, and Deb. Smith, hot, panting, +her arms daubed with earth, and a wild light in her eyes, entered the +kitchen. With one hand she grasped the ends of her strong tow-linen +apron, with the other she still shouldered the spade. She knelt upon the +floor between the two, set the apron in the light of the fire, unrolled +the end of a leathern saddle-bag, and disclosed the recovered treasure. + +“See if it's all right!” she said. + +Mary Potter and Gilbert bent over the rolls and counted them. It was the +entire sum, untouched. + +“Have you got a sup o' whiskey, Mr. Gilbert?” Deb. Smith asked. “Ugh! +I'm hot and out o' breath, and yet I feel mortal cold. There was a +screech-owl hootin' in the cedar; and I dunno how't is, but there always +seems to be things around, where money's buried. You can't see 'em, but +you hear 'em. I thought I'd ha' dropped when I turned up the sassyfrack +bush, and got hold on it; and all the way back I feared a big arm'd come +out o' every fence-corner, and snatch it from me!” [Footnote: It does +not seem to have been generally known in the neighborhood that the money +was unearthed. A tradition of that and other treasure buried by Sandy +Flash, is still kept alive; and during the past ten years two midnight +attempts have been made to find it, within a hundred yards of the spot +indicated in the narrative.] + +Mary Potter set the kettle on the fire, and Deb. Smith was soon +refreshed with a glass of hot grog. Then she lighted her pipe and +watched the two as they made preparations for the journey to Chester +on the morrow, now and then nodding her head with an expression which +chased away the haggard sorrow from her features. + +This time the journey was performed without incident. The road was safe, +the skies were propitious, and Gilbert Potter returned from Chester an +independent man, with the redeemed mortgage in his pocket. His first +care was to assure his mother of the joyous fact; his next to seek +Martha Deane, and consult with her about their brightening future. + +On the way to Kennett Square, he fell in with Mark, who was radiant with +the promise of Richard Rudd's new house, secured to him by the shrewd +assistance of Miss Betsy Lavender. + +“I tell you what it is, Gilbert,” said he; “don't you think I might +as well speak to Daddy Fairthorn about Sally? I'm gettin' into good +business now, and I guess th' old folks might spare her pretty soon.” + +“The sooner, Mark, the better for you; and you can buy the wedding-suit +at once, for I have your hundred dollars ready.” + +“You don't mean that you wont use it, Gilbert?” + +Who so delighted as Mark, when he heard Gilbert's unexpected story? “Oh, +glory!” he exclaimed; “the tide's turnin', old fellow! What'll you bet +you're not married before I am? It's got all over the country that you +and Martha are engaged, and that the Doctor's full o' gall and wormwood +about it; I hear it wherever I go, and there's more for you than there +is against you, I tell you that!” + +The fact was as Mark had stated. No one was positively known to have +spread the rumor, but it was afloat and generally believed. The result +was to invest Gilbert with a fresh interest. His courage in confronting +Sandy Flash, his robbery, his wonderful preservation from death, and his +singular connection, through Deb. Smith, with Sandy Flash's capture, had +thrown a romantic halo around his name, which was now softly brightened +by the report of his love. The stain of his birth and the uncertainty of +his parentage did not lessen this interest, but rather increased it; and +as any man who is much talked about in a country community will speedily +find two parties created, one enthusiastically admiring, the other +contemptuously depreciating him, so now it happened in this case. + +The admirers, however, were in a large majority, and they possessed a +great advantage over the detractors, being supported by a multitude +of facts, while the latter were unable to point to any act of Gilbert +Potter's life that was not upright and honorable. Even his love of +Martha Deane was shorn of its presumption by her reciprocal affection. +The rumor that she had openly defied her father's will created great +sympathy, for herself and for Gilbert, among the young people of both +sexes,--a sympathy which frequently was made manifest to Dr. Deane, +and annoyed him not a little. His stubborn opposition to his daughter's +attachment increased, in proportion as his power to prevent it +diminished. + +We may therefore conceive his sensations when Gilbert Potter himself +boldly entered his presence. The latter, after Mark's description, very +imperfect though it was, of Martha's courageous assertion of the rights +of her heart, had swiftly made up his mind to stand beside her in the +struggle, with equal firmness and equal pride. He would openly seek an +interview with her, and if he should find her father at home, as was +probable at that hour, would frankly and respectfully acknowledge his +love, and defend it against any attack. + +On entering the room, he quietly stepped forward with extended hand, and +saluted the Doctor, who was so taken by surprise that he mechanically +answered the greeting before he could reflect what manner to adopt +towards the unwelcome visitor. + +“What might be thy business with me?” he asked, stiffly, recovering from +the first shock. + +“I called to see Martha,” Gilbert answered. “I have some news which she +will be glad to hear.” + +“Young man,” said the Doctor, with his sternest face and voice, “I may +as well come to the point with thee, at once. If thee had had decency +enough to apply to me before speaking thy mind to Martha, it would have +saved us all a great deal of trouble. I could have told thee then, as I +tell thee now, that I will never consent to her marriage with thee. +Thee must give up all thought of such a thing.” + +“I will do so,” Gilbert replied, “when Martha tells me with her own +mouth that such is her will. I am not one of the men who manage their +hearts according to circumstances. I wish, indeed, I were more worthy of +Martha; but I am trying to deserve her, and I know no better way than to +be faithful as she is faithful. I mean no disrespect to you, Dr. Deane. +You are her father; you have every right to care for her happiness, and +I will admit that you honestly think I am not the man who could make her +happy. All I ask is, that you should wait a little and know me better. +Martha and I have both decided that we must wait, and there is time +enough for you to watch my conduct, examine my character, and perhaps +come to a more favorable judgment of me.” + +Dr. Deane saw that it would be harder to deal with Gilbert Potter +than he had imagined. The young man stood before him so honestly and +fearlessly, meeting his angry gaze with such calm, frank eyes, and +braving his despotic will with such a modest, respectful opposal, that +he was forced to withdraw from his haughty position, and to set forth +the same reasons which he had presented to his daughter. + +“I see,” he said, with a tone slightly less arrogant, “that thee +is sensible, in some respects, and therefore I put the case to thy +understanding. It's too plain to be argued. Martha is a rich bait for a +poor man, and perhaps I oughtn't to wonder--knowing the heart of man +as I do--that thee was tempted to turn her head to favor thee; but the +money is not yet hers, and I, as her father, can never allow that thy +poverty shall stand for three years between her and some honorable man +to whom her money would be no temptation! Why, if all I hear be true, +thee hasn't even any certain roof to shelter a wife; thy property, such +as it is, may be taken out of thy hands!” + +Gilbert could not calmly hear these insinuations. All his independent +pride of character was aroused; a dark flush came into his face, the +blood was pulsing hotly through his veins, and indignant speech was +rising to his lips, when the inner door unexpectedly opened, and Martha +entered the room. + +She instantly guessed what was taking place, and summoned up all her +self-possession, to stand by Gilbert, without increasing her father's +exasperation. To the former, her apparition was like oil on troubled +waters. His quick blood struck into warm channels of joy, as he met her +glowing eyes, and felt the throb of her soft, elastic palm against his +own. Dr. Deane set his teeth, drew up his under lip, and handled his +cane with restless fingers. + +“Father,” said Martha, “if you are talking of me, it is better that +I should be present. I am sure there is nothing that either thee or +Gilbert would wish to conceal from me.” + +“No, Martha!” Gilbert exclaimed; “I came to bring you good news. The +mortgage on my farm is lifted, and I am an independent man!” + +“Without my help! Does thee hear that, father?” + +Gilbert did not understand her remark; without heeding it, he +continued,-- + +“Sandy Flash, after his sentence, sent for me and told me where the +money he took from me was to be found. I carried it to Chester, and have +paid off all my remaining debt. Martha, your father has just charged me +with being tempted by your property. I say to you, in his presence, +put it beyond my reach,--give it away, forfeit the conditions of the +legacy,--let me show truly whether I ever thought of money in seeking +you!” + +“Gilbert,” she said, gently, “father doesn't yet know you as I do. +Others will no doubt say the same thing, and we must both make up our +minds to have it said; yet I cannot, for that, relinquish what is mine +of right. We are not called upon to sacrifice to the mistaken opinions +of men; your life and mine will show, and manifest to others in time, +whether it is a selfish tie that binds us together.” + +“Martha!” Dr. Deane exclaimed, feeling that he should lose ground, +unless this turn of the conversation were interrupted; “thee compels me +to show thee how impossible the thing is, even if this man were of the +richest. Admitting that he is able to support a family, admitting that +thee waits three years, comes into thy property, and is still of a +mind to marry him against my will, can thee forget--or has he so little +consideration for thee as to forget--that he bears his mother's name?” + +“Father!” + +“Let me speak, Martha,” said Gilbert, lifting his head, which had +drooped for a moment. His voice was earnest and sorrowful, yet firm. +“It is true that I bear my mother's name. It is the name of a good, an +honest, an honorable, and a God-fearing woman. I wish I could be certain +that the name which legally belongs to me will be as honorable and as +welcome. But Martha knows, and you, her father, have a right to know, +that I shall have another. I have not been inconsiderate. I trampled +down my love for her, as long as I believed it would bring disgrace. I +will not say that now, knowing her as I do, I could ever give her up, +even if the disgrace was not removed,”-- + +“Thank you, Gilbert!” Martha interrupted. + +“But there is none, Dr. Deane,” he continued, “and when the time comes, +my birth will be shown to be as honorable as your own, or Mark's.” + +Dr. Deane was strangely excited at these words. His face colored, and +he darted a piercing, suspicious glance at Gilbert. The latter, however, +stood quietly before him, too possessed by what he had said to notice +the Doctor's peculiar expression; but it returned to his memory +afterwards. + +“Why,” the Doctor at last stammered, “I never heard of this before!” + +“No,” Gilbert answered, “and I must ask of you not to mention it +further, at present. I must beg you to be patient until my mother is +able to declare the truth.” + +“What keeps her from it?” + +“I don't know,” Gilbert sadly replied. + +“Come!” cried the Doctor, as sternly as ever, “this is rather a likely +story! If Potter isn't thy name, what is?” + +“I don't know,” Gilbert repeated. + +“No; nor no one else! How dare thee address my daughter,--talk of +marriage with her,--when thee don't know thy real name? What name would +thee offer to her in exchange for her own? Young man, I don't believe +thee!” + +“I do,” said Martha, rising and moving to Gilbert's side. + +“Martha, go to thy room!” the Doctor cried. “And as for thee, Gilbert +Potter, or Gilbert Anything, I tell thee, once and for all, never speak +of this thing again,--at least, until thee can show a legal name and an +honorable birth! Thee has not prejudiced me in thy favor by thy +devices, and it stands to reason that I should forbid thee to see my +daughter,--to enter my doors!” + +“Dr. Deane,” said Gilbert, with sad yet inflexible dignity, “it is +impossible, after what you have said, that I should seek to enter your +door, until my words are proved true, and I am justified in your eyes. +The day may come sooner than you think. But I will do nothing secretly; +I won't promise anything to you that I can't promise to myself; and so I +tell you, honestly and above-board, that while I shall not ask Martha +to share my life until I can offer her my true name, I must see her from +time to time. I'm not fairly called upon to give up that.” + +“No, Gilbert,” said Martha, who had not yet moved from her place by his +side, “it is as necessary to my happiness as to yours. I will not ask +you to come here again; you cannot, and must not, even for my sake; but +when I need your counsel and your sympathy, and there is no other way +left, I will go to you.” + +“Martha!” Dr. Deane exclaimed; but the word conveys no idea of his wrath +and amazement. + +“Father,” she said, “this is thy house, and it is for thee to direct, +here. Within its walls, I will conduct myself according to thy wishes; I +will receive no guest whom thee forbids, and will even respect thy views +in regard to my intercourse with our friends; but unless thee wants +to deprive me of all liberty, and set aside every right of mine as an +accountable being, thee must allow me sometimes to do what both my heart +and my conscience command!” + +“Is it a woman's place,” he angrily asked, “to visit a man?” + +“When the two have need of each other, and God has joined their hearts +in love and in truth, and the man is held back from reaching the woman, +then it is her place to go to him!” + +Never before had Dr. Deane beheld upon his daughter's sweet, gentle face +such an expression of lofty spiritual authority. While her determination +really outraged his conventional nature, he felt that it came from a +higher source than his prohibition. He knew that nothing which he could +urge at that moment would have the slightest weight in her mind, and +moreover, that the liberal, independent customs of the neighborhood, +as well as the respect of his sect for professed spiritual guidance, +withheld him from any harsh attempt at coercion. He was powerless, but +still inflexible. + +As for Martha, what she had said was simply included in what she was +resolved to do; the greater embraced the less. It was a defiance of her +father's authority, very painful from the necessity of its assertion, +but rendered inevitable by his course. She knew with what tenacity he +would seize and hold every inch of relinquished ground; she felt, as +keenly as Gilbert himself, the implied insult which he could not resent; +and her pride, her sense of justice, and the strong fidelity of her +woman's heart, alike impelled her to stand firm. + +“Good-bye, Martha!” Gilbert said, taking her hand “I must wait.” + +“We wait together, Gilbert!” + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII. + +MISS LAVENDER MAKES A GUESS. + + +There were signs of spring all over the land, and Gilbert resumed his +farm-work with the fresh zest which the sense of complete ownership +gave. He found a purchaser for his wagon, sold one span of horses, and +thus had money in hand for all the coming expenses of the year. His days +of hauling, of anxiety, of painful economy, were over; he rejoiced +in his fully developed and recognized manhood, and was cheered by the +respect and kindly sympathy of his neighbors. + +Meanwhile, the gossip, not only of Kennett, but of Marlborough, +Pennsbury, and New-Garden, was as busy as ever. No subject of country +talk equalled in interest the loves of Gilbert Potter and Martha Deane. +Mark, too open-hearted to be intrusted with any secret, was drawn upon +wherever he went, and he revealed more (although he was by no means +Martha's confidant) than the public had any right to know. The idlers at +the Unicorn had seen Gilbert enter Dr. Deane's house, watched his return +therefrom, made shrewd notes of the Doctor's manner when he came forth +that evening, and guessed the result of the interview almost as well as +if they had been present. + +The restoration of Gilbert's plundered money, and his hardly acquired +independence as a landholder, greatly strengthened the hands of his +friends. There is no logic so convincing as that of good luck; in +proportion as a man is fortunate (so seems to run the law of the world), +he attracts fortune to him. A good deed would not have helped Gilbert so +much in popular estimation, as this sudden and unexpected release from +his threatened difficulties. The blot upon his name was already growing +fainter, and a careful moral arithmetician might have calculated the +point of prosperity at which it would cease to be seen. + +Nowhere was the subject discussed with greater interest and excitement +than in the Fairthorn household. Sally, when she first heard the news, +loudly protested her unbelief; why, the two would scarcely speak to each +other, she said; she had seen Gilbert turn his back on Martha, as if he +couldn't bear the sight of her; it ought to be, and she would be glad if +it was, but it wasn't! + +When, therefore, Mark confirmed the report, and was led on, by degrees, +to repeat Gilbert's own words, Sally rushed out into the kitchen with a +vehemence which left half her apron hanging on the door-handle, torn off +from top to bottom in her whirling flight, and announced the fact to her +mother. + +Joe, who was present, immediately cried out,-- + +“O, Sally! now I may tell about Mark, mayn't I?” + +Sally seized him by the collar, and pitched him out the kitchen-door. +Her face was the color of fire. + +“My gracious, Sally!” exclaimed Mother Fairthorn, in amazement; “what's +that for?” + +But Sally had already disappeared, and was relating her trouble to +Mark, who roared with wicked laughter, whereupon she nearly cried with +vexation. + +“Never mind,” said he; “the boy's right. I told Gilbert this very +afternoon that it was about time to speak to the old man; and he allowed +it was. Come out with me and don't be afeard--I'll do the talkin'.” + +Hand in hand they went into the kitchen, Sally blushing and hanging +back a little. Farmer Fairthorn had just come in from the barn, and +was warming his hands at the fire. Mother Fairthorn might have had her +suspicions, but it was her nature to wait cheerfully, and say nothing. + +“See here, Daddy and Mammy!” said Mark, “have either o' you any +objections to Sally and me bein' a pair?” + +Farmer Fairthorn smiled, rubbed his hands together, and turning to his +wife, asked,--“What has Mammy to say to it?” + +She looked up at Mark with her kindly eyes, in which twinkled something +like a tear, and said,--“I was guessin' it might turn out so between you +two, and if I'd had anything against you, Mark, I wouldn't ha' let it +run on. Be a steady boy, and you'll make Sally a steady woman. She's had +pretty much her own way.” + +Thereupon Farmer Fairthorn, still rubbing his hands, ventured to +remark,--“The girl might ha' done worse.” This was equivalent to a +hearty commendation of the match, and Mark so understood it. Sally +kissed her mother, cried a little, caught her gown on a corner of the +kitchen-table, and thus the betrothal was accepted as a family fact. +Joe and Jake somewhat disturbed the bliss of the evening, it is true, by +bursting into the room from time to time, staring significantly at the +lovers, and then rushing out again with loud whoops and laughter. + +Sally could scarcely await the coming of the next day, to visit Martha +Deane. At first she felt a little piqued that she had not received the +news from Martha's own lips, but this feeling speedily vanished in +the sympathy with her friend's trials. She was therefore all the more +astonished at the quiet, composed bearing of the latter. The tears she +had expected to shed were not once drawn upon. + +“O, Martha!” she cried, after the first impetuous outburst of +feeling,--“to think that it has all turned out just as I wanted! No, I +don't quite mean that; you know I couldn't wish you to have crosses; but +about Gilbert! And it's too bad--Mark has told me dreadful things, but I +hope they're not all true; you don't look like it; and I'm so glad, you +can't think!” + +Martha smiled, readily untangling Sally's thoughts, and said,--“I +mustn't complain, Sally. Nothing has come to pass that I had not +prepared my mind to meet. We will only have to wait a little longer than +you and Mark.” + +“No you won't!” Sally exclaimed. “I'll make Mark wait, too! And +everything must be set right--somebody must do something! Where's Betsy +Lavender?” + +“Here!” answered the veritable voice of the spinster, through the open +door of the small adjoining room. + +“Gracious, how you frightened me!” cried Sally. “But, Betsy, you seem +to be able to help everybody; why can't you do something for Martha and +Gilbert?” + +“Martha and Gilbert. That's what I ask myself, nigh onto a hundred times +a day, child. But there's things that takes the finest kind o' wit to +see through, and you can't make a bead-purse out of a sow's-ear, neither +jerk Time by the forelock, when there a'n't a hair, as you can see, to +hang on to. I dunno as you'll rightly take my meanin'; but never mind, +all the same, I'm flummuxed, and it's the longest and hardest flummux o' +my life!” + +Miss Betsy Lavender, it must here be explained, was more profoundly +worried than she was willing to admit. Towards Martha she concealed the +real trouble of her mind under the garb of her quaint, jocular speech, +which meant much or little, as one might take it. She had just returned +from one of her social pilgrimages, during which she had heard nothing +but the absorbing subject of gossip. She had been questioned and +cross-questioned, entreated by many, as Sally had done, to do something +(for all had great faith in her powers), and warned by a few not to +meddle with what did not concern her. Thus she had come back that +morning, annoyed, discomposed, and more dissatisfied with herself than +ever before, to hear Martha's recital of what had taken place during her +absence. + +In spite of Martha's steady patience and cheerfulness, Miss Lavender +knew that the painful relation in which she stood to her father would +not be assuaged by the lapse of time. She understood Dr. Deane's nature +quite as well as his daughter, and was convinced that, for the present, +neither threats nor persuasions would move his stubborn resistance. +According to the judgment of the world (the older part of it, at least), +he had still right on his side. Facts were wanted; or, rather, the _one_ +fact upon which resistance was based must be removed. + +With all this trouble, Miss Lavender had a presentiment that there was +work for her to do, if she could only discover what it was. Her faith +in her own powers of assistance was somewhat shaken, and she therefore +resolved to say nothing, promise nothing, until she had both hit upon a +plan and carried it into execution. + +Two or three days after Sally's visit, on a mild, sunny morning in the +beginning of April, she suddenly announced her intention of visiting the +Potter farm-house. + +“I ha'n't seen Mary since last fall, you know, Martha,” she said; “and +I've a mortal longin' to wish Gilbert joy o' his good luck, and maybe +say a word to keep him in good heart about you. Have you got no message +to send by me?” + +“Only my love,” Martha answered; “and tell him how you left me. He knows +I will keep my word; when I need his counsel, I will go to him.” + +“If more girls talked and thought that way, us women'd have fairer +shakes,” Miss Lavender remarked, as she put on her cloak and pattens. + +When she reached the top of the hill overlooking the glen, she noticed +fresh furrows in the field on her left. Clambering through the fence, +she waited until the heads of a pair of horses made their appearance, +rising over the verge of the hill. As she conjectured, Gilbert Potter +was behind them, guiding the plough-handle. He was heartily glad to see +her, and halted his team at the corner of the “land.” + +“I didn't know as you'd speak to me,” said she, with assumed grimness. +“Maybe you wouldn't, if I didn't come direct from _her._ Ah, you needn't +look wild; it's only her love, and what's the use, for you had it +already; but never mind, lovyers is never satisfied; and she's chipper +and peart enough, seein' what she has to bear for your sake, but she +don't mind that, on the contrary, quite the reverse, and I'm sure you +don't deserve it!” + +“Did she tell you what passed between us, the last time?” Gilbert asked. + +“The last time. Yes. And jokin' aside, which often means the contrary in +my crooked ways o' talkin', a'n't it about time somethin' was done?” + +“What can be done?” + +“I dunno,” said Miss Lavender, gravely. “You know as well as I do what's +in the way, or rather none of us knows _what_ it is, only _where_ it is; +and a thing unbeknown may be big or little; who can tell? And latterly +I've thought, Gilbert, that maybe your mother is in the fix of a man +I've heerd tell on, that fell into a pit, and ketched by the last bush, +and hung on, and hung on, till he could hold on no longer; so he gev +himself up to death, shet his eyes and let go, and lo and behold! the +bottom was a matter o' six inches under his feet! Leastways, everything +p'ints to a sort o' skeary fancy bein' mixed up with it, not a thing +to laugh at, I can tell you, but as earnest as sin, for I've seen the +likes, and maybe easy to make straight if you could only look into it +yourself; but you think there's no chance o' that?” + +“No,” said Gilbert. “I've tried once too often, already; I shall not try +again.” + +“Try again,” Miss Lavender repeated. “Then why not?”--but here she +paused, and seemed to meditate. The fact was, she had been tempted to +ask Gilbert's advice in regard to the plan she was revolving in her +brain. The tone of his voice, however, was discouraging; she saw that +he had taken a firm and gloomy resolution to be silent,--his uneasy air +hinted that he desired to avoid further talk on this point. So, with a +mental reprimand of the indiscretion into which her sympathy with him +had nearly betrayed her, she shut her teeth and slightly bit her tongue. + +“Well, well,” she said; “I hope it'll come out before you're both old +and sour with waitin', that's all! I don't want such true-love as +your'n to be like firkin-butter at th' end; for as fresh, and firm, and +well-kep' as you please, it ha'n't got the taste o' the clover and the +sweet-grass; but who knows? I may dance at your weddin', after all, +sooner'n I mistrust; and so I'm goin' down to spend the day with y'r +mother!” + +She strode over the furrow and across the weedy sod, and Gilbert resumed +his ploughing. As she approached the house, Miss Lavender noticed that +the secured ownership of the property was beginning to express itself +in various slight improvements and adornments. The space in front of the +porch was enlarged, and new flower-borders set along the garden-paling; +the barn had received a fresh coat of whitewash, as well as the trunks +of the apple-trees, which shone like white pillars; and there was a +bench with bright straw bee-hives under the lilac-bush. Mary Potter was +at work in the garden, sowing her early seeds. + +“Well, I do declare!” exclaimed Miss Lavender, after the first cordial +greetings were over. “Seems almost like a different place, things is so +snugged up and put to rights.” + +“Yes,” said Mary Potter; “I had hardly the heart, before, to make it +everything that we wanted; and you can't think what a satisfaction I +have in it now.” + +“Yes, I can! Give me the redishes, while you stick in them beets. I've +got a good forefinger for plantin' 'em,--long and stiff; and I can't +stand by and see you workin' alone, without fidgets.” + +Miss Lavender threw off her cloak and worked with a will. When the +gardening was finished, she continued her assistance in the house, and +fully earned her dinner before she sat down to it. Then she insisted on +Mary Potter bringing out her sewing, and giving her something more to +do; it was one of her working-days, she said; she had spent rather an +idle winter; and moreover, she was in such spirits at Gilbert's good +fortune, that she couldn't be satisfied without doing something for him, +and to sew up the seams of his new breeches was the very thing! Never +had she been so kind, so cheerful, and so helpful, and Mary Potter's +nature warmed into happy content in her society. + +No one should rashly accuse Miss Lavender if there was a little design +in this. The task she had set herself to attempt was both difficult and +delicate. She had divided it into two portions, requiring very different +tactics, and was shrewd enough to mask, in every possible way, the +one from which she had most hopes of obtaining a result. She made no +reference, at first, to Gilbert's attachment to Martha Deane, but seemed +to be wholly absorbed in the subject of the farm; then, taking wide +sweeps through all varieties of random gossip, preserving a careless, +thoughtless, rattling manner, she stealthily laid her pitfalls for the +unsuspecting prey. + +“I was over't Warren's t' other day,” she said, biting off a thread, +“and Becky had jist come home from Phildelphy. There's new-fashioned +bonnets comin' up, she says. She stayed with Allen's, but who they are +I don't know. Laws! now I think on it, Mary, you stayed at Allen's, too, +when you were there!” + +“No,” said Mary Potter, “it was at--Treadwell's.” + +“Treadwell's? I thought you told me Allen's. All the same to me, Allen +or Treadwell; I don't know either of 'em. It's a long while since I've +been in Phildelphy, and never likely to go ag'in. I don't fancy trampin' +over them hard bricks, though, to be sure, a body sees the fashions; but +what with boxes tumbled in and out o' the stores, and bar'ls rollin', +and carts always goin' by, you're never sure o' y'r neck; and I was +sewin' for Clarissa Lee, Jackson that was, that married a dry goods man, +the noisiest place that ever was; you could hardly hear yourself talk; +but a body gets used to it, in Second Street, close't to Market, and +were you anywheres near there?” + +“I was in Fourth Street,” Mary Potter answered, with a little +hesitation. Miss Lavender secretly noticed her uneasiness, which, she +also remarked, arose not from suspicion, but from memory. + +“What kind o' buttons are you goin' to have, Mary?” she asked. “Horn +splits, and brass cuts the stuff, and mother o' pearl wears to eternity, +but they're so awful dear. Fourth Street, you said? One street's like +another to me, after you get past the corners. I'd always know Second, +though, by the tobacco-shop, with the wild Injun at the door, liftin' +his tommyhawk to skulp you--ugh!--but never mind, all the same, skulp +away for what I care, for I a'n't likely ever to lay eyes on you ag'in!” + +Having thus, with perhaps more volubility than was required, covered up +the traces of her design, Miss Lavender cast about how to commence the +second and more hopeless attack. It was but scant intelligence which she +had gained, but in that direction she dared not venture further. What +she now proposed to do required more courage and less cunning. + +Her manner gradually changed; she allowed lapses of silence to occur, +and restricted her gossip to a much narrower sweep. She dwelt, finally, +upon the singular circumstances of Sandy Flash's robbery of Gilbert, and +the restoration of the money. + +“Talkin' o' Deb. Smith,” she then said, “Mary, do you mind when I was +here last harvest, and the talk we had about Gilbert? I've often thought +on it since, and how I guessed right for once't, for I know the ways o' +men, if I am an old maid, and so it's come out as I said, and a finer +couple than they'll make can't be found in the county!” + +Mary Potter looked up, with a shadow of the old trouble on her face. +“You know all about it, Betsy, then?” she asked. + +“Bless your soul, Mary, everybody knows about it! There's been nothin' +else talked about in the neighborhood for the last three weeks; why, +ha'n't Gilbert told you o' what passed between him and Dr. Deane, and +how Martha stood by him as no woman ever stood by a man?” + +An expression of painful curiosity, such as shrinks from the knowledge +it craves, came into Mary Potter's eyes. “Gilbert has told me nothing,” + she said, “since--since that time.” + +“That time. I won't ask you _what_ time; it's neither here nor there; +but you ought to know the run o' things, when it's common talk.” And +therewith Miss Lavender began at the beginning, and never ceased until +she had brought the history, in all its particulars, down to that very +day. She did not fail to enlarge on the lively and universal Interest in +the fortunes of the lovers which was manifested by the whole community. +Mary Potter's face grew paler and paler as she spoke, but the tears +which some parts of the recital called forth were quenched again, as it +seemed, by flashes of aroused pride. + +“Now,” Miss Lavender concluded, “you see just how the matter stands. +I'm not hard on you, savin' and exceptin' that facts is hard, which +they sometimes are I don't deny; but here we're all alone with our two +selves, and you'll grant I'm a friend, though I may have queer ways +o' showin' it; and why shouldn't I say that all the trouble comes o' +Gilbert bearin' your name?” + +“Don't I know it!” Mary Potter cried. “Isn't my load heaped up heavier +as it comes towards the end? What can I do but wait till the day when I +can give Gilbert his father's name?” + +“His father's name! Then you can do it, some day? I suspicioned as much. +And you've been bound up from doin' it, all this while,--and that's +what's been layin' so heavy on your mind, wasn't it?” + +“Betsy,” said Mary Potter, with sudden energy, “I'll say as much as +I dare, so that I may keep my senses. I fear, sometimes, I'll break +together for want of a friend like you, to steady me while I walk the +last steps of my hard road. Gilbert was born in wedlock; I'm not bound +to deny that; but I committed a sin,--not the sin people charge me +with,--and the one that persuaded me to it has to answer for more than +I have. I bound myself not to tell the name of Gilbert's father,--not to +say where or when I was married, not to do or say anything to put +others On the track, until--but there's the sin and the trouble and the +punishment all in one. If I told that, you might guess the rest. You +know what a name I've had to bear, but I've taken my cross and fought +my way, and put up with all things, that I might deserve the fullest +justification the Lord has in His hands. If I had known all beforehand, +Betsy,--but I expected the release in a month or two, and it hasn't come +in twenty-five years!” + +“Twenty-five years!” repeated Miss Lavender, heedless of the drops +running down her thin face. “If there was a sin, Mary, even as big as a +yearlin' calf, you've worked off the cost of it, years ago! If you break +your word now, you'll stand justified in the sight o' the Lord, and of +all men, and even if you think a scrimption of it's left, remember your +dooty to Gilbert, and take a less justification for his sake!” + +“I've been tempted that way, Betsy, but the end I wanted has been set +in my mind so long I can't get it out. I've seen the Lord's hand so +manifest in these past days, that I'm fearsome to hurry His judgments. +And then, though I try not to, I'm waiting from day to day,--almost from +hour to hour,--and it seems that if I was to give up and break my +vow, He would break it for me the next minute afterwards, to punish my +impatience!” + +“Why,” Miss Lavender exclaimed, “it must be your husband's death you're +waitin' for!” + +Mary Potter started up with a wild look of alarm. “No--no--not his +death!” she cried. “I should want him to--be living! Ask me no more +questions; forget what I've said, if it don't incline you to encourage +me! That's why I've told you so much!” + +Miss Lavender instantly desisted from further appeal. She rose, put her +arm around Mary Potter's waist, and said,--“I didn't mean to frighten or +to worry you, deary. I may think your conscience has worked on itself, +like, till it's ground a bit too sharp; but I see just how you're +fixed, and won't say another word, without it's to give comfort. An open +confession's good for the soul, they say, and half a loaf's better than +no bread, and you haven't violated your word a bit, and so let it do you +good!” + +In fact, when Mary Potter grew calm, she was conscious of a relief the +more welcome because it was so rare in her experience. Miss Lavender, +moreover, hastened to place Gilbert's position in a more cheerful light, +and the same story, repeated for a different purpose, now assumed quite +another aspect. She succeeded so well, that she left behind her only +gratitude for the visit. + +Late in the afternoon she came forth from the farmhouse, and commenced +slowly ascending the hill. She stopped frequently and looked about her; +her narrow forehead was wrinkled, and the base of her long nose was set +between two deep furrows. Her lips were twisted in a pucker of great +perplexity, and her eyes were nearly closed in a desperate endeavor to +solve some haunting, puzzling question. + +“It's queer,” she muttered to herself, when she had nearly reached +the top of the hill,--“it's mortal queer! Like a whip-poor-will on +a moonlight night: you hear it whistlin' on the next fence-rail, it +doesn't seem a yard off; you step up to ketch it, and there's nothin' +there; then you step back ag'in, and 'whip-poor-will! whip-poor-will!' +whistles louder 'n ever,--and so on, the whole night, and some folks +says they can throw their voices outside o' their bodies, but that's +neither here nor there. + +“Now why can't I ketch hold o' this thing? It isn't a yard off me, I'll +be snaked! And I dunno what ever she said that makes me think so, but +I feel it in my bones, and no use o' callin' up words; it's one o' them +things that comes without callin', when they come at all, and I'm so +near guessin' I'll have no peace day or night.” + +With many similar observations she resumed her walk, and presently +reached the border of the ploughed land. Gilbert's back was towards her; +he was on the descending furrow. She looked at him, started, suddenly +lost her breath, and stood with open mouth and wide, fixed eyes. + +“HA-HA-A! HA-HA-A-A!” + +Loud and shrill her cry rang across the valley. It was like the yell of +a war-horse, scenting the battle afar off. All the force of her lungs +and muscles expended itself in the sound. + +The next instant she dropped upon the moist, ploughed earth, and sat +there, regardless of gown and petticoat. “Good Lord!” she repeated to +herself, over and over again. Then, seeing Gilbert approaching, startled +by the cry, she slowly arose to her feet. + +“A good guess,” she said to herself, “and what's more, there's ways +o' provin' it. He's comin', and he mustn't know; you're a fool, Betsy +Lavender, not to keep your wits better about you, and go rousin' up the +whole neighborhood; good look that your face is crooked and don't show +much o' what's goin' on inside!” + +“What's the matter, Betsy?” asked Gilbert. + +“Nothin'--one o' my crazy notions,” she said. “I used to holler like a +kildeer when I was a girl and got out on the Brandywine hills alone, +and I s'pose I must ha' thought about it, and the yell sort o' come +of itself, for it just jerked me off o' my feet; but you needn't tell +anybody that I cut such capers in my old days, not that folks'd much +wonder, but the contrary, for they're used to me.” + +Gilbert laughed heartily, but he hardly seemed satisfied with the +explanation. “You're all of a tremble,” he said. + +“Am I? Well, it's likely,--and my gownd all over mud; but there's one +favor I want to ask o' you, and no common one, neither, namely, the loan +of a horse for a week or so.” + +“A horse?” Gilbert repeated. + +“A horse. Not Roger, by no means; I couldn't ask that, and he don't +know me, anyhow; but the least rough-pacin' o' them two, for I've got +considerable ridin' over the country to do, and I wouldn't ask you, but +it's a busy time o' year, and all folks isn't so friendly.” + +“You shall have whatever you want, Betsy,” he said. “But you've heard +nothing?”-- + +“Nothin' o' one sort or t'other. Make yourself easy, lad.” + +Gilbert, however, had been haunted by new surmises in regard to Dr. +Deane. Certain trifles had returned to his memory since the interview, +and rather than be longer annoyed with them, he now opened his heart to +Miss Lavender. + +A curious expression came over her face. “You've got sharp eyes and ears +Gilbert,” she said. “Now supposin' I wanted your horse o' purpose to +clear up your doubts in a way to satisfy you, would you mind lettin' me +have it?” + +“Take even Roger!” he exclaimed. + +“No, that bay'll do. Keep thinkin' _that's_ what I'm after, and ask me +no more questions.” + +She crossed the ploughed land, crept through the fence, and trudged up +the road. When a clump of bushes on the bank had hid Gilbert from +her sight, she stopped, took breath, and chuckled with luxurious +satisfaction. + +“Betsy Lavender,” she said, with marked approval, “you're a cuter old +thing than I took you to be!” + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX. + +MYSTERIOUS MOVEMENTS. + + +The next morning Sam took Gilbert's bay horse to Kennett Square, and +hitched him in front of Dr. Deane's door. Miss Lavender, who was on the +look-out, summoned the boy into the house, to bring her own side-saddle +down from the garret, and then proceeded to pack a small valise, with +straps corresponding to certain buckles behind the saddle. Martha Deane +looked on with some surprise at this proceeding, but as Miss Lavender +continued silent, she asked no questions. + +“There!” exclaimed the spinster, when everything was ready, “now I'm +good for a week's travel, if need be! You want to know where I'm goin', +child, I see, and you might as well out with the words, though not much +use, for I hardly know myself.” + +“Betsy,” said Martha, “you seem so strange, so unlike yourself, ever +since you came home last evening. What is it?” + +“I remembered somethin', on the way up; my head's been so bothered that +I forgot things, never mind what, for I must have some business o' my +own or I wouldn't seem to belong to myself; and so I've got to trapes +round considerable,--money matters and the likes,--and folks a'n't +always ready for you to the minute; therefore count on more time than +what's needful, say I.” + +“And you can't guess when you will be back?” Martha asked. + +“Hardly under a week. I want to finish up everything and come home for a +good long spell.” + +With these words she descended to the road, valise in hand, buckled it +to the saddle, and mounted the horse. Then she said good-bye to Martha, +and rode briskly away, down the Philadelphia road. + +Several days passed and nothing was heard of her. Gilbert Potter +remained on his farm, busy with the labor of the opening spring; Mark +Deane was absent, taking measurements and making estimates for the new +house, and Sally Fairthorn spent all her spare time in spinning flax for +a store of sheets and table-cloths, to be marked “S. A. F.” in red silk, +when duly woven, hemmed, and bleached. + +One afternoon, during Miss Lavender's absence, Dr. Deane was again +called upon to attend Old-man Barton. It was not an agreeable duty, +for the Doctor suspected that something more than medical advice was +in question. He had not visited the farm-house since his discovery of +Martha's attachment to Gilbert Potter,--had even avoided intercourse +with Alfred Barton, towards whom his manner became cold and constrained. +It was a sore subject in his thoughts, and both the Bartons seemed to +be, in some manner, accessory to his disappointment. + +The old man complained of an attack of “buzzing in the head,” which +molested him at times, and for which bleeding was the Doctor's usual +remedy. His face had a flushed, congested, purple hue, and there was an +unnatural glare in his eyes; but the blood flowed thickly and sluggishly +from his skinny arm, and a much longer time than usual elapsed before he +felt relieved. + +“Gad, Doctor!” he said, when the vein had been closed, “the spring +weather brings me as much fulness as a young buck o' twenty. I'd be +frisky yet, if't wasn't for them legs. Set down, there; you've news to +tell me!” + +“I think, Friend Barton,” Dr. Deane answered, “thee'd better be quiet a +spell. Talking isn't exactly good for thee.” + +“Eh?” the old man growled; “maybe you'd like to think so, Doctor. If I +am house-bound, I pick up some things as they go around. And I know why +you let our little matter drop so suddent.” + +He broke off with a short, malicious laugh, which excited the Doctor's +ire. The latter seated himself, smoothed his garments and his face, +became odorous of bergamot and wintergreen, and secretly determined to +repay the old man for this thrust. + +“I don't know what thee may have heard, Friend Barton,” he remarked, +in his blandest voice. “There is always plenty of gossip in this +neighborhood, and some persons, no doubt, have been too free with my +name,--mine and my daughter's, I may say. But I want thee to know that +that has nothing to do with the relinquishment of my visits to thee. If +thee's curious to learn the reason, perhaps thy son Alfred may be able +to give it more circumstantially than I can.” + +“What, what, what!” exclaimed the old man. “The boy told you not to +come, eh?” + +“Not in so many words, mind thee; but he made it unnecessary,--quite +unnecessary. In the first place, he gave me no legal evidence of any +property, and until that was done, my hands were tied. Further, he +seemed very loath to address Martha at all, which was not so singular, +considering that he never took any steps, from the first, to gain her +favor; and then he deceived me into imagining that she wanted time, +after she had positively refused his addresses. He is mistaken, and thee +too, if you think that I am very anxious to have a man of no spirit and +little property for my son-in-law!” + +The Doctor's words expressed more than he intended. They not only stung, +but betrayed his own sting. Old-man Barton crooked his claws around his +hickory staff, and shook with senile anger; while his small, keen eyes +glared on his antagonist's face. Yet he had force enough to wait until +the first heat of his feeling subsided. + +“Doctor,” he then said, “mayhap my boy's better than a man o' no name +and no property. He's worth, anyways, what I choose to make him worth. +Have you made up y'r mind to take the t'other, that you've begun to run +him down, eh?” + +They were equally matched, this time. The color came into Dr. Deane's +face, and then faded, leaving him slightly livid about the mouth. He +preserved his external calmness, by a strong effort, but there was a +barely perceptible tremor in his voice, as he replied,-- + +“It is not pleasant to a man of my years to be made a fool of, as I have +every reason to believe thy son has attempted. If I had yielded to his +persuasions, I should have spent much time--all to no purpose, I doubt +not--in endeavoring to ascertain what thee means to do for him in thy +will. It was, indeed, the only thing he seemed to think or care much +about. If he has so much money of his own, as thee says, it is certainly +not creditable that he should be so anxious for thy decease.” + +The Doctor had been watching the old man as he spoke, and the increasing +effect of his words was so perceptible that he succeeded in closing +with an agreeable smile and a most luxurious pinch of snuff. He had not +intended to say so much, at the commencement of the conversation, but he +had been sorely provoked, and the temptation was irresistible. + +The effect was greater than he had imagined. Old Barton's face was +so convulsed, that, for a few minutes, the Doctor feared an attack of +complete paralysis. He became the physician again, undid his work as +much as possible, and called Miss Ann into the room, to prevent any +renewal of the discussion. He produced his stores of entertaining +gossip, and prolonged his stay until all threatening symptoms of the +excitement seemed to be allayed. The old man returned to his ordinary +mood, and listened, and made his gruff comments, but with temporary fits +of abstraction. After the Doctor's departure, he scarcely spoke at all, +for the remainder of the evening. + +A day or two afterwards, when Alfred Barton returned in the evening from +a sale in the neighborhood, he was aware of a peculiar change in his +father's manner. His first impression was that the old man, contrary to +Dr. Deane's orders, had resumed his rations of brandy, and exceeded the +usual allowance. There was a vivid color on his flabby cheeks; he was +alert, talkative, and frequently chuckled to himself, shifting the +hickory staff from hand to hand, or rubbing his gums backward and +forward on its rounded end. + +He suddenly asked, as Alfred was smoking his pipe before the fire,-- + +“Know what I've been thinkin' of, to-day, boy?” + +“No, daddy; anything about the crops?” + +“Ha! ha! a pretty good crop for somebody it'll be! Nearly time for me +to make my will, eh? I'm so old and weak--no life left in me--can't last +many days!” + +He laughed with a hideous irony, as he pronounced these words. His son +stared at him, and the fire died out in the pipe between his teeth. Was +the old man getting childish? he asked himself. But no; he had never +looked more diabolically cunning and watchful. + +“Why, daddy,” Alfred said at last, “I thought--I fancied, at least, +you'd done that, long ago.” + +“Maybe I have, boy; but maybe I want to change it. I had a talk with the +Doctor when he came down to bleed me, and since there's to be no match +between you and the girl”-- + +He paused, keeping his eyes on his son's face, which lengthened and grew +vacant with a vague alarm. + +“Why, then,” he presently resumed, “_you_'re so much poorer by the +amount o' her money. Would it be fair, do you think, if I was to put +that much to what I might ha' meant for you before? Don't you allow you +ought to have a little more, on account o' your disapp'intment? + +“If you think so, dad, it's all right,” said the son, relighting his +pipe. “I don't know, though what Elisha'd say to it; but then, he's no +right to complain, for he married full as much as I'd ha' got.” + +“That he did, boy; and when all's said and done, the money's my own to +do with it what I please. There's no law o' the oldest takin' all. Yes, +yes, I'll have to make a new will!” + +A serene joy diffused itself through Alfred Barton's breast. He became +frank, affectionate, and confidential. + +“To tell you the truth, dad,” he said, “I was mighty afraid you'd play +the deuce with me, because all's over between me and Martha Deane. You +seemed so set on it.” + +“So I was--so I was,” croaked the old man, “but I've got over it since +I saw the Doctor. After all I've heerd, she's not the wife for you; +it's better as it is. You'd rayther have the money without her, tell the +truth now, you dog, ha! ha!” + +“Damme, dad, you've guessed it!” Alfred cried, joining in the laugh. +“She's too high-flown for me. I never fancied a woman that's ready to +take you down, every other word you say; and I'll tell you now, that I +hadn't much stomach for the match, at any time; but you wanted it, you +know, and I've done what I could, to please you.” + +“You're a good boy, Alfred,--a mighty good boy.” + +There was nothing very amusing in this opinion, but the old man laughed +over it, by fits and starts, for a long time. + +“Take a drop o' brandy, boy!” he said. “You may as well have my share, +till I'm ready to begin ag'in.” + +This was the very climax of favor. Alfred arose with a broad beam of +triumph on his face, filled the glass, and saying,--“Here's long life to +you, dad!” turned it into his mouth. + +“Long life?” the old man muttered. “It's pretty long as it +is,--eighty-six and over; but it may be ninety-six, or a hundred and +six; who knows? Anyhow, boy, long or short, I'll make a new will.” + +Giles was now summoned, to wheel him into the adjoining room and put him +to bed. Alfred Barton took a second glass of brandy (after the door +was closed), lighted a fresh pipe, and seated himself again before the +embers to enjoy the surprise and exultation of his fortune. To think +that he had worried himself so long for that which finally came of +itself! Half his fear of the old man, he reflected, had been needless; +in many things he had acted like the veriest fool! Well, it was a +consolation to know that all his anxieties were over. The day that +should make him a rich and important man might be delayed (his father's +strength and vitality were marvellous), but it was certain to come. + +Another day or two passed by, and the old man's quick, garrulous, +cheerful mood continued, although he made no further reference to the +subject of the will. Alfred Barton deliberated whether he should +suggest sending for Lawyer Stacy, but finally decided not to hazard +his prospects by a show of impatience. He was therefore not a little +surprised when his sister Ann suddenly made her appearance in the barn, +where he and Giles were mending some dilapidated plough-harness, and +announced that the lawyer was even then closeted with their father. +Moreover, for the first time in his knowledge, Ann herself had been +banished from the house. She clambered into the hay-mow, sat down in a +comfortable spot, and deliberately plied her knitting-needles. + +Ann seemed to take the matter as coolly as if it were an every-day +occurrence, but Alfred could not easily recover from his astonishment. +There was more than accident here, he surmised. Mr. Stacy had made his +usual visit, not a fortnight before; his father's determination had +evidently been the result of his conversation with Dr. Deane; and in the +mean time no messenger had been sent to Chester, neither was there time +for a letter to reach there. Unless Dr. Deane himself were +concerned in secretly bringing about the visit,--a most unlikely +circumstance,--Alfred Barton could not understand how it happened. + +“How did th' old man seem, when you left the house?” he asked. + +“'Pears to me I ha'n't seen him so chipper these twenty years,” said +Ann. + +“And how long are they to be left alone?” + +“No tellin',” she answered, rattling her needles. “Mr. Stacy'll come, +when all's done; and not a soul is to go any nearder the house till he +gives the word.” + +Two hours, three hours, four hours passed away, before the summons came. +Alfred Barton found himself so curiously excited that he was fain to +leave the harness to Giles, and quiet himself with a pipe or two in +the meadow. He would have gone up to the Unicorn for a little stronger +refreshment, but did not dare to venture out of sight of the house. +Miss Ann was the perfect image of Patience in a hay-mow, smiling at his +anxiety. The motion of her needles never ceased, except when she counted +the stitches in narrowing. + +Towards sunset, Mr. Stacy made his appearance at the barn-door, but his +face was a sealed book. + +On the morning of that very day, another mysterious incident occurred. +Jake Fairthorn had been sent to Carson's on the old gray mare, on some +farm-errand,--perhaps to borrow a pick-axe or a post-spade. He had +returned as far as the Philadelphia road, and was entering the thick +wood on the level before descending to Redley Creek, when he perceived +Betsy Lavender leading Gilbert Potter's bay horse through a gap in the +fence, after which she commenced putting up the rails behind her. + +“Why, Miss Betsy! what are you doin'?” cried Jake, spurring up to the +spot. + +“Boys should speak when they're spoken to, and not come where they're +not wanted,” she answered, in a savage tone. “Maybe I'm goin' to hunt +bears.” + +“Oh, please, let me go along!” eagerly cried Jake, who believed in +bears. + +“Go along! Yes, and be eat up.” Miss Lavender looked very much annoyed. +Presently, however, her face became amiable; she took a buckskin purse +out of her pocket, selected a small silver coin, and leaning over the +fence, held it out to Jake. + +“Here!” she said, “here's a 'levenpenny-bit for you, if you'll be a good +boy, and do exackly as I bid you. Can you keep from gabblin', for two +days? Can you hold your tongue and not tell anybody till day after +to-morrow that you seen me here, goin' into the woods?” + +“Why, that's easy as nothin'!” cried Jake, pocketing the coin. Miss +Lavender, leading the horse, disappeared among the trees. + +But it was not quite so easy as Jake supposed. He had not been at home +ten minutes, before the precious piece of silver, transferred back +and forth between his pocket and his hand in the restless ecstasy of +possession, was perceived by Joe. Then, as Jake stoutly refused to tell +where it came from, Joe rushed into the kitchen, exclaiming,-- + +“Mammy, Jake's stole a levy!” + +This brought out Mother Fairthorn and Sally, and the unfortunate Jake, +pressed and threatened on all sides, began to cry lamentably. + +“She'll take it from me ag'in, if I tell,” he whimpered. + +“She? Who?” cried both at once, their curiosity now fully excited; and +the end of it was that Jake told the whole story, and was made wretched. + +“Well!” Sally exclaimed, “this beats all! Gilbert Potter's bay horse, +too! Whatever could she be after? I'll have no peace till I tell Martha, +and so I may as well go up at once, for there's something in the wind, +and if she don't know already, she ought to!” + +Thereupon Sally put on her bonnet, leaving her pewters half scoured, +and ran rather than walked to the village. Martha Deane could give no +explanation of the circumstance, but endeavored, for Miss Lavender's +sake, to conceal her extreme surprise. + +“We shall know what it means,” she said, “when Betsy comes home, and if +it's anything that concerns me, I promise, Sally, to tell you. It may, +however, relate to some business of her own, and so, I think, we had +better quietly wait and say nothing about it.” + +Nevertheless, after Sally's departure, Martha meditated long and +uneasily upon what she had heard. The fact that Miss Lavender had come +back from the Potter farmhouse in so unusual a frame of mind, borrowed +Gilbert's horse, and set forth on some mysterious errand, had already +disquieted her. More than the predicted week of absence had passed, and +now Miss Lavender, instead of returning home, appeared to be hiding in +the woods, anxious that her presence in the neighborhood should not be +made known. Moreover she had been seen by the landlord of the Unicorn, +three days before, near Logtown, riding towards Kennett Square. + +These mysterious movements filled Martha Deane with a sense of anxious +foreboding. She felt sure that they were connected, in some way, +with Gilbert's interests, and Miss Lavender's reticence now seemed to +indicate a coming misfortune which she was endeavoring to avert. If +these fears were correct, Gilbert needed her help also. He could not +come to her; was she not called upon to go to him? + +Her resolution was soon taken, and she only waited until her father +had left on a visit to two or three patients along the Street Road. His +questions, she knew, would bring on another painful conflict of will, +and she would save her strength for Gilbert's necessities. To avoid the +inferences of the tavern loungers, she chose the longer way, eastward +out of the village to the cross-road running past the Carson place. + +All the sweet, faint tokens of Spring cheered her eyes and calmed the +unrest of her heart, as she rode. Among the dead leaves of the woods, +the snowy blossoms of the blood-root had already burst forth in starry +clusters; the anemones trembled between the sheltering knees of the +old oaks, and here and there a single buttercup dropped its gold on the +meadows. These things were so many presentiments of brighter days in +Nature, and they awoke a corresponding faith in her own heart. + +As she approached the Potter farm she slackened her horse's pace, and +deliberated whether she should ride directly to the house or seek for +Gilbert in the fields. She had not seen Mary Potter since that eventful +Sunday, the previous summer, and felt that Gilbert ought to be consulted +before a visit which might possibly give pain. Her doubts were suddenly +terminated by his appearance, with Sam and an ox-cart, in the road +before her. + +Gilbert could with difficulty wait until the slow oxen had removed Sam +out of hearing. + +“Martha! were you coming to me?” he asked. + +“As I promised, Gilbert,” she said. “But do not look so anxious. If +there really is any trouble, I must learn it of you.” + +She then related to him what she had noticed in Miss Lavender's manner, +and learned of her movements. He stood before her, listening, with his +hand on the mane of her horse, and his eyes intently fixed on her +face. She saw the agitation her words produced, and her own vague fears +returned. + +“Can you guess her business, Gilbert?” she asked. + +“Martha,” he answered, “I only know that there is something in her +mind, and I believe it concerns me. I am afraid to guess anything more, +because I have only my own wild fancies to go upon, and it won't do to +give 'em play!” + +“What are those fancies, Gilbert? May I not know?” + +“Can you trust me a little, Martha?” he implored. “Whatever I know, +you shall know; but if I sometimes seek useless trouble for myself, why +should I seek it for you? I'll tell you now one fear I've kept from you, +and you'll see what I mean.” + +He related to her his dread that Sandy Flash might prove to be his +father, and the solution of it in the highwayman's cell. “Have I not +done right?” he asked. + +“I am not sure, Gilbert,” she replied, with a brave smile; “you might +have tested my truth, once more, if you had spoken your fears.” + +“I need no test, Martha; and you won't press me for another, now. I'll +only say, and you'll be satisfied with it, that Betsy seemed to guess +what was in my mind, and promised, or rather expected, to come back with +good news.” + +“Then,” said Martha, “I must wait until she makes her appearance.” + +She had hardly spoken the words, before a figure became visible between +the shock-headed willows, where the road crosses the stream. A bay +horse--and then Betsy Lavender herself! + +Martha turned her horse's head, and Gilbert hastened forward with her, +both silent and keenly excited. + +“Well!” exclaimed Miss Betsy, “what are you two a-doin' here?” + +There was news in her face, both saw; yet they also remarked that the +meeting did not seem to be entirely welcome to her. + +“I came,” said Martha, “to see whether Gilbert could tell me why you +were hiding in the woods, instead of coming home.” + +“It's that--that good-for-nothin' serpent, Jake Fairthorn!” cried Miss +Lavender. “I see it all now. Much Gilbert could tell you, howsever, or +you him, o' _my_ business, and haven't I a right to it, as well as other +folks; but never mind, fine as it's spun it'll come to the sun, as they +say o' flax and sinful doin's; not that such is mine, but you may think +so if you like, and you'll know in a day or two, anyhow!” + +Martha saw that Miss Lavender's lean hands were trembling, and guessed +that her news must be of vital importance. “Betsy,” she said, “I see +you don't mean to tell us; but one word you can't refuse--is it good or +bad?” + +“Good or bad?” Miss Lavender repeated, growing more and more nervous, +as she looked at the two anxious faces. “Well, it isn't bad, so +peart yourselves up, and ask me no more questions, this day, nor yet +to-morrow, maybe; because if you do, I'll just screech with all my +might; I'll holler, Gilbert, wuss 'n you heerd, and much good that'll do +you, givin' me a crazy name all over the country. I'm in dead earnest; +if you try to worm anything more out o' me, I'll screech; and so I +was goin' to bring your horse home, Gilbert, and have a talk with your +mother, but you've made me mortal weak betwixt and between you; and I'll +ride back with Martha, by your leave, and you may send Sam right away +for the horse. No; let Sam come now, and walk alongside, to save me from +Martha's cur'osity.” + +Miss Lavender would not rest until this arrangement was made. The two +ladies then rode away through the pale, hazy sunset, leaving Gilbert +Potter in a fever of impatience, dread, and hope. + + + + +CHAPTER XXX. + +THE FUNERAL. + + +The next morning, at daybreak, Dr. Deane was summoned in haste to the +Barton farm-house. Miss Betsy Lavender, whose secrets, whatever they +were, had interfered with her sleep, heard Giles's first knock, and +thrust her night-cap out the window before he could repeat it. The old +man, so Giles announced, had a bad spell,--a 'plectic fit, Lawyer Stacy +called it, and they didn't know as he'd live from one hour to another. + +Miss Lavender aroused the Doctor, then dressed herself in haste, and +prepared to accompany him. Martha, awakened by the noise, came into the +spinster's room in her night-dress. + +“Must you go, Betsy?” she asked. + +“Child, it's a matter o' life and death, more likely death; and Ann's a +dooless critter at best, hardly ever off the place, and need o' Chris'en +help, if there ever was such; so don't ask me to stay, for I won't, and +all the better for me, for I daresn't open my lips to livin' soul till +I've spoke with Mary Potter!” + +Miss Lavender took the foot-path across the fields, accompanied +by Giles, who gave up his saddled horse to Dr. Deane. The dawn was +brightening in the sky as they reached the farm-house, where they found +Alfred Barton restlessly walking backwards and forwards in the +kitchen, while Ann and Mr. Stacy were endeavoring to apply such scanty +restoratives--consisting principally of lavender and hot bricks--as the +place afforded. + +An examination of the eyes and the pulse, and a last abortive attempt at +phlebotomy, convinced Dr. Deane that his services were no longer needed. +Death, which so many years before had lamed half the body, now asserted +his claim to the whole. A wonderfully persistent principle of vitality +struggled against the clogged functions, for two or three hours, then +yielded, and the small fragment of soul in the old man was cast adrift, +with little chance of finding a comfortable lodging in any other world. + +Ann wandered about the kitchen in a dazed state, dropping tears +everywhere, and now and then moaning,--“O Betsy, how'll I ever get up +the funeral dinner?” while Alfred, after emptying the square bottle of +brandy, threw himself upon the settle and went to sleep. Mr. Stacy and +Miss Lavender, who seemed to know each other thoroughly at the first +sight, took charge of all the necessary arrangements; and as Alfred had +said,--“_I_ can't look after anything; do as you two like, and don't +spare expense!” they ordered the coffin, dispatched messengers to the +relatives and neighbors, and soothed Ann's unquiet soul by selecting the +material for the dinner, and engaging the Unicorn's cook. + +When all was done, late in the day, Miss Lavender called Giles and +said,--“Saddle me a horse, and if no side-saddle, a man's'll do, for go +I must; it's business o' my own, Mr. Stacy, and won't wait for me; not +that I want to do more this day than what I've done. Goodness knows; but +I'll have a fit, myself, if I don't!” + +She reached the Potter farm-house at dark, and both mother and son were +struck with her flushed, excited, and yet weary air. Their supper was +over, but she refused to take anything more than a cup of tea; her +speech was forced, and more rambling and disconnected than ever. +When Mary Potter left the kitchen to bring some fresh cream from the +spring-house, Miss Lavender hastily approached Gilbert, laid her hand on +his shoulder, and said,-- + +“Lad, be good this once't, and do what I tell you. Make a reason for +goin' to bed as soon as you can; for I've been workin' in your interest +all this while, only I've got that to tell your mother, first of all, +which you mustn't hear; and you may hope as much as you please, for the +news isn't bad, as'll soon be made manifest!” + +Gilbert was strangely impressed by her solemn, earnest manner, and +promised to obey. He guessed, and yet feared to believe, that the long +release of which his mother had spoken bad come at last; how else, he +asked himself, should Miss Lavender become possessed of knowledge which +seemed so important? As early as possible he went up to his bedroom, +leaving the two women alone. The sound of voices, now high and hurried, +now, apparently, low and broken, came to his ears. He resisted the +temptation to listen, smothered his head in the pillow to further muffle +the sounds, and after a long, restless struggle with his own mind, fell +asleep. Deep in the night he was awakened by the noise of a shutting +door, and then all was still. + +It was very evident, in the morning, that he had not miscalculated the +importance of Miss Lavender's communication. Was this woman, whose face +shone with such a mingled light of awe and triumph, his mother? Were +these features, where the deep lines of patience were softened into +curves of rejoicing, the dark, smouldering gleam of sorrow kindled into +a flashing light of pride, those he had known from childhood? As he +looked at her, in wonder renewed with every one of her movements and +glances, she took him by the hand and said,-- + +“Gilbert, wait a little!” + +Miss Lavender insisted on having breakfast by sunrise, and as soon as +the meal was over demanded her horse. Then first she announced the +fact of Old-man Barton's death, and that the funeral was to be on the +following day. + +“Mary, you must be sure and come,” she said, as she took leave; “I know +Ann expects it of you. Ten o'clock, remember!” + +Gilbert noticed that his mother laid aside her sewing, and when the +ordinary household labor had been performed, seated herself near the +window with a small old Bible, which he had never before seen in her +hands. There was a strange fixedness in her gaze, as if only her eyes, +not her thoughts, were directed upon its pages. The new expression of +her face remained; it seemed already to have acquired as permanent a +stamp as the old. Against his will he was infected by its power, and +moved about in barn and field all day with a sense of the unreality of +things, which was very painful to his strong, practical nature. + +The day of the old man's funeral came. Sam led up the horses, and waited +at the gate with them to receive his master's parting instructions. +Gilbert remarked with surprise that his mother placed a folded paper +between the leaves of the Bible, tied the book carefully in a linen +handkerchief, and carried it with her. She was ready, but still +hesitated, looking around the kitchen with the manner of one who had +forgotten something. Then she returned to her own room, and after some +minutes, came forth, paler than before, but proud, composed, and firm. + +“Gilbert,” she said, almost in a whisper, “I have tried you sorely, +and you have been wonderfully kind and patient. I have no right to ask +anything more; I _could_ tell you everything now, but this is not the +place nor the time I had thought of, for so many years past. Will you +let me finish the work in the way pointed out to me?” + +“Mother,” he answered, “I cannot judge in this matter, knowing nothing. +I must be led by you; but, pray, do not let it be long?” + +“It will not be long, my boy, or I wouldn't ask it. I have one more duty +to perform, to myself, to you, and to the Lord, and it must be done +in the sight of men. Will you stand by me, not question my words, not +interfere with my actions, however strange they may seem, but simply +believe and obey?” + +“I will, mother,” he said, “because you make me feel that I must.” + +They mounted, and side by side rode up the glen. Mary Potter was silent; +now and then her lips moved, not, as once, in some desperate appeal of +the heart for pity and help, but as with a thanksgiving so profound that +it must needs be constantly renewed, to be credited. + +After passing Carson's, they took the shorter way across the fields, and +approached the Barton farm-house from below. A large concourse of people +was already assembled; and the rude black hearse, awaiting its burden +in the lane, spread the awe and the gloom of death over the scene. The +visitors were grouped around the doors, silent or speaking cautiously +in subdued tones; and all new-comers passed into the house to take their +last look at the face, of the dead. + +The best room, in which the corpse lay, was scarcely used once in a +year, and many of the neighbors had never before had occasion to enter +it. The shabby, antiquated furniture looked cold and dreary from disuse, +and the smell of camphor in the air hardly kept down the musty, mouldy +odors which exhaled from the walls. The head and foot of the coffin +rested on two chairs placed in the centre of the room; and several +women, one of whom was Miss Betsy Lavender, conducted the visitors back +and forth, as they came. The members of the bereaved family were stiffly +ranged around the walls, the chief mourners consisting of the old man's +eldest son, Elisha, with his wife and three married sons, Alfred, and +Ann. + +Mary Potter took her son's arm, and they passed through the throng at +the door, and entered the house. Gilbert silently returned the nods of +greeting; his mother neither met nor avoided the eyes of others. Her +step was firm, her head erect, her bearing full of pride and decision. +Miss Lavender, who met her with a questioning glance at the door, +walked beside her to the room of death, and then--what was remarkable in +her--became very pale. + +They stood by the coffin. It was not a peaceful, solemn sight, that +yellow face, with its wrinkles and creases and dark blotches of +congealed blood, made more pronounced and ugly by the white shroud and +cravat, yet a tear rolled down Mary Potter's cheek as she gazed upon +it. Other visitors came, and Gilbert gently drew her away, to leave the +room; but with a quick pressure upon his arm, as if to remind him of his +promise, she quietly took her seat near the mourners, and by a slight +motion indicated that he should seat himself at her side. + +It was an unexpected and painful position; but her face, firm and calm, +shamed his own embarrassment. He saw, nevertheless, that the grief of +the mourners was not so profound as to suppress the surprise, if +not indignation, which the act called forth. The women had their +handkerchiefs to their eyes, and were weeping in a slow, silent, +mechanical way; the men had handkerchiefs in their hands, but their +faces were hard, apathetic, and constrained. + +By-and-by the visitors ceased; the attending women exchanged glances +with each other and with the mourners, and one of the former stepped up +to Mary Potter and said gently,-- + +“It is only the family, now.” + +This was according to custom, which required that just before the coffin +was closed, the members of the family of the deceased should be left +alone with him for a few minutes, and take their farewell of his face, +undisturbed by other eyes. Gilbert would have risen, but his mother, +with her hand on his arm, quietly replied,-- + +“We belong to the family.” + +The woman withdrew, though with apparent doubt and hesitation, and they +were left alone with the mourners. + +Gilbert could scarcely trust his senses. A swift suspicion of his +mother's insanity crossed his mind; but when he looked around the room +and beheld Alfred Barton gazing upon her with a face more livid than +that of the dead man, this suspicion was followed by another, no less +overwhelming. For a few minutes everything seemed to whirl and +spin before his eyes; a light broke upon him, but so unexpected, so +incredible, that it came with the force of a blow. + +The undertaker entered the room and screwed down the lid of the coffin; +the pall-bearers followed and carried it to the hearse. Then the +mourners rose and prepared to set forth, in the order of their relation +to the deceased. Elisha Barton led the way, with his wife; then Ann, +clad in her Sunday black, stepped forward to take Alfred's arm. + +“Ann,” said Mary Potter, in a low voice, which yet was heard by every +person in the room, “that is my place.” + +She left Gilbert and moved to Alfred Barton's side. Then, slightly +turning, she said,--“Gilbert, give your arm to your aunt.” + +For a full minute no other word was said. Alfred Barton stood +motionless, with Mary Potter's hand on his arm. A fiery flush succeeded +to his pallor; his jaw fell, and his eyes were fixed upon the floor. Ann +took Gilbert's arm in a helpless, bewildered way. + +“Alfred, what does all this mean?” Elisha finally asked. + +He said nothing; Mary Potter answered for him,--“It is right that he +should walk with his wife rather than his sister.” + +The horses and chairs were waiting in the lane, and helping neighbors +were at the door; but the solemn occasion was forgotten, in the shock +produced by this announcement. Gilbert started and almost reeled; Ann +clung to him with helpless terror; and only Elisha, whose face grew dark +and threatening, answered. + +“Woman,” he said, “you are out of your senses! Leave us; you have no +business here!” + +She met him with a proud, a serene and steady countenance. “Elisha,” she +answered, “we are here to bury your father and my father-in-law. Let +be until the grave has closed over him; then ask Alfred whether I could +dare to take my rightful place before to-day.” + +The solemn decision of her face and voice struck him dumb. His wife +whispered a few words in his ear, and he turned away with her, to take +his place in the funeral procession. + +It was Alfred Barton's duty to follow, and if it was not grief which +impelled him to bury his face in his handkerchief as they issued from +the door, it was a torture keener than was ever mingled with grief,--the +torture of a mean nature, pilloried in its meanest aspect for the +public gaze. Mary, (we must not call her Potter, and cannot yet call her +Barton,) rather led him than was led by him, and lifted her face to the +eyes of men. The shame which she might have felt, as his wife, was lost +in the one overpowering sense of the justification for which she had so +long waited and suffered. + +When the pair appeared in the yard, and Gilbert followed with Miss +Ann Barton on his arm, most of the funeral guests looked on in stupid +wonder, unable to conceive the reason of the two thus appearing among +the mourners. But when they had mounted and were moving off, a rumor +of the startling truth ran from lip to lip. The proper order of the +procession was forgotten; some untied their horses in haste and pushed +forward to convince themselves of the astonishing fact; others gathered +into groups and discussed it earnestly. Some had suspected a relation of +the kind, all along, so they said; others scouted at the story, and were +ready with explanations of their own. But not a soul had another thought +to spare for Old-man Barton that day. + +Dr. Deane and Martha heard what had happened as they were mounting +their horses. When they took their places in the line, the singular +companionship, behind the hearse, was plainly visible. Neither spoke +a word, but Martha felt that her heart was beating fast, and that her +thoughts were unsteady. + +Presently Miss Lavender rode up and took her place at her side. Tears +were streaming from her eyes, and she was using her handkerchief freely. +It was sometime before she could command her feelings enough to say, in +a husky whisper,-- + +“I never thought to ha' had a hand in such wonderful doin's, and how I +held up through it, I can't tell. Glory to the Lord, the end has come; +but, no--not yet--not quite; only enough for one day, Martha; isn't it?” + +“Betsy,” said Martha, “please ride a little closer, and explain to me +how it came about. Give me one or two points for my mind to rest on, for +I don't seem to believe even what I see.” + +“What I see. No wonder, who could? Well, it's enough that Mary was +married to Alf. Barton a matter o' twenty-six year ago, and that he +swore her to keep it secret till th' old man died, and he's been her +husband all this while, and knowed it!” + +“Father!” Martha exclaimed in a low, solemn voice, turning to Dr. Deane, +“think, now, what it was thee would have had me do!” + +The Doctor was already aware of his terrible mistake. “Thee was led, +child,” he answered, “thee was led! It was a merciful Providence.” + +“Then might thee not also admit that I have been led in that other +respect, which has been so great a trial to thee?” + +He made no reply. + +The road to Old Kennett never seemed so long; never was a corpse so +impatiently followed. A sense of decency restrained those who were not +relatives from pushing in advance of those who were; yet it was, very +tantalizing to look upon the backs of Alfred Barton and Mary, Gilbert +and Ann, when their faces must be such a sight to see! + +These four, however, rode in silence. Each, it may be guessed, was +sufficiently occupied with his or her own sensations,--except, perhaps, +Ann Barton, who had been thrown so violently out of her quiet, passive +round of life by her father's death, that she was incapable of any great +surprise. Her thoughts were more occupied with the funeral-dinner, yet +to come, than with the relationship of the young man at her side. + +Gilbert slowly admitted the fact into his mind, but he was so unprepared +for it by anything in his mother's life or his own intercourse with +Alfred Barton, that he was lost in a maze of baffled conjectures. While +this confusion lasted, he scarcely thought of his restoration to honor, +or the breaking down of that fatal barrier between him and Martha Deane. +His first sensation was one of humiliation and disappointment. How often +had he been disgusted with Alfred Barton's meanness and swagger! +How much superior, in many of the qualities of manhood, was even the +highwayman, whose paternity he had so feared! As he looked at the broad, +heavy form before him, in which even the lines of the back expressed +cowardice and abject shame, he almost doubted whether his former +disgrace was not preferable to his present claim to respect. + +Then his eyes turned to his mother's figure, and a sweet, proud joy +swept away the previous emotion. Whatever the acknowledged relationship +might be to him, to her it was honor--yea, more than honor; for by so +much and so cruelly as she had fallen below the rights of her pure name +as a woman, the higher would she now be set, not only in respect, but +in the reverence earned by her saintly patience and self-denial. The +wonderful transformation of her face showed him what this day was to +her life, and he resolved that no disappointment of his own should come +between her and her triumph. + +To Gilbert the way was not too long, nor the progress too slow. It gave +him time to grow familiar, not only with the fact, but with his duty. He +forcibly postponed his wandering conjectures, and compelled his mind to +dwell upon that which lay immediately before him. + +It was nearly noon before the hearse reached Old Kennett meeting-house. +The people of the neighborhood, who had collected to await its arrival, +came forward and assisted the mourners to alight. Alfred Barton +mechanically took his place beside his wife, but again buried his face +in his handkerchief. As the wondering, impatient crowd gathered around, +Gilbert felt that all was known, and that all eyes were fixed upon +himself and his mother, and his face reflected her own firmness and +strength. From neither could the spectators guess what might be passing +in their hearts. They were both paler than usual, and their resemblance +to each other became very striking. Gilbert, in fact, seemed to have +nothing of his father except the peculiar turn of his shoulders and the +strong build of his chest. + +They walked over the grassy, briery, unmarked mounds of old graves +to the spot where a pile of yellow earth denoted Old Barton's +resting-place. When the coffin had been lowered, his children, in +accordance with custom, drew near, one after the other, to bend over and +look into the narrow pit. Gilbert led up his trembling aunt, who +might have fallen in, had he not carefully supported her. As he was +withdrawing, his eyes suddenly encountered those of Martha Deane, who +was standing opposite, in the circle of hushed spectators. In spite of +himself a light color shot into his face, and his lips trembled. The +eager gossips, who had not missed even the wink of an eyelid, saw this +fleeting touch of emotion, and whence it came. Thenceforth Martha shared +their inspection; but from the sweet gravity of her face, the untroubled +calm of her eyes, they learned nothing more. + +When the grave had been filled, and the yellow mound ridged and patted +with the spade, the family returned to the grassy space in front of the +meeting-house, and now their more familiar acquaintances, and many who +were not, gathered around to greet them and offer words of condolence. +An overpowering feeling of curiosity was visible upon every face; those +who did not venture to use their tongues, used their eyes the more. + +Alfred Barton was forced to remove the handkerchief from his face, +and its haggard wretchedness (which no one attributed to grief for his +father's death), could no longer be hidden. He appeared to have +suddenly become an old man, with deeper wrinkles, slacker muscles, and +a helpless, tottering air of weakness. The corners of his mouth drooped, +hollowing his cheeks, and his eyes seemed unable to bear up the weight +of the lids; they darted rapidly from side to side, or sought the +ground, not daring to encounter, for more than an instant, those of +others. + +There was no very delicate sense of propriety among the people, and very +soon an inquisitive old Quaker remarked,-- + +“Why, Mary, is this true that I hear? Are you two man and wife?” + +“We are,” she said. + +“Bless us! how did it happen?” + +The bystanders became still as death, and all ears were stretched to +catch the answer. But she, with proud, impenetrable calmness, replied,-- + +“It will be made known.” + +And with these words the people were forced, that day to be satisfied. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI. + +THE WILL. + + +During the homeward journey from the grave, Gilbert and his mother were +still the central figures of interest. That the members of the Barton +family were annoyed and humiliated, was evident to all eyes; but it was +a pitiful, undignified position, which drew no sympathy towards them, +while the proud, composed gravity of the former commanded respect. The +young men and women, especially, were unanimously of the opinion that +Gilbert had conducted himself like a man. They were disappointed, it was +true, that he and Martha Deane had not met, in the sight of all. It was +impossible to guess whether she had been already aware of the secret, +or how the knowledge of it would affect their romantic relation to each +other. + +Could the hearts of the lovers have been laid bare, the people would +have seen that never had each felt such need of the other,--never had +they been possessed with such restless yearning. To the very last, +Gilbert's eyes wandered from time to time towards the slender figure in +the cavalcade before him, hoping for the chance of a word or look; but +Martha's finer instinct told her that she must yet hold herself aloof. +She appreciated the solemnity of the revelation, saw that much was +yet unexplained, and could have guessed, even without Miss Lavender's +mysterious hints, that the day would bring forth other and more +important disclosures. + +As the procession drew nearer Kennett Square, the curiosity of the +funeral guests, baulked and yet constantly stimulated, began to grow +disorderly. Sally Fairthorn was in such a flutter that she scarcely knew +what she said or did; Mark's authority alone prevented her from dashing +up to Gilbert, regardless of appearances. The old men, especially those +in plain coats and broad-brimmed hats, took every opportunity to press +near the mourners; and but for Miss Betsy Lavender, who hovered around +the latter like a watchful dragon, both Gilbert and his mother would +have been seriously annoyed. Finally the gate at the lane-end closed +upon them, and the discomfited public rode on to the village, tormented +by keen envy of the few who had been bidden to the funeral-dinner. + +When Mary alighted from her horse, the old lawyer approached her. + +“My name is Stacy, Mrs. Barton,” he said, “and Miss Lavender will have +told you who I am. Will you let me have a word with you in private?” + +She slightly started at the name he had given her; it was the first +symptom of agitation she had exhibited. He took her aside, and began +talking earnestly in a low tone. Elisha Barton looked on with an amazed, +troubled air, and presently turned to his brother. + +“Alfred,” he said, “it is quite time all this was explained.” + +But Miss Lavender interfered. + +“It's your right, Mr. Elisha, no denyin' that, and the right of all +the fam'ly; so we've agreed to have it done afore all together, in the +lawful way, Mr. Stacy bein' a lawyer; but dinner first, if you please, +for eatin' 's good both for grief and cur'osity, and it's hard tellin' +which is uppermost in this case. Gilbert, come here!” + +He was standing alone, beside the paling. He obeyed her call. + +“Gilbert, shake hands with your uncle and aunt Mr. Elisha, this is your +nephew, Gilbert Barton, Mr. Alfred's son.” + +They looked at each other for a moment. There was that in Gilbert's face +which enforced respect. Contrasted with his father, who stood on one +side, darting stealthy glances at the group from the corners of his +eyes, his bearing was doubly brave and noble. He offered his hand in +silence, and both Elisha Barton and his wife felt themselves compelled +to take it. Then the three sons, who knew the name of Gilbert Potter, +and were more astonished than shocked at the new relationship, came up +and greeted their cousin in a grave but not unfriendly way. + +“That's right!” exclaimed Miss Lavender. “And now come in to dinner, all +o' ye! I gev orders to have the meats dished as soon as the first horse +was seen over the rise o' the hill, and it'll all be smokin' on the +table.” + +Though the meal was such as no one had ever before seen in the Barton +farm-house, it was enjoyed by very few of the company. The sense of +something to come after it made them silent and uncomfortable. Mr. +Stacy, Miss Lavender, and the sons of Elisha Barton, with their wives, +carried on a scattering, forced conversation, and there was a general +feeling of relief when the pies, marmalade, and cheese had been +consumed, and the knives and forks laid crosswise over the plates. + +When they arose from the table, Mr. Stacy led the way into the parlor. A +fire, in the mean time, had been made in the chill, open fireplace, but +it scarcely relieved the dreary, frosty aspect of the apartment. The +presence of the corpse seemed to linger there, attaching itself with +ghastly distinctness to the chair and hickory staff in a corner. + +The few dinner-guests who were not relatives understood that this +meeting excluded them, and Elisha Barton was therefore surprised to +notice, after they had taken their seats, that Miss Lavender was one of +the company. + +“I thought,” he said, with a significant look, “that it was to be the +family only.” + +“Miss Lavender is one of the witnesses to the will,” Mr. Stacy answered, +“and her presence is necessary, moreover, as an important testimony in +regard to some of its provisions.” + +Alfred Barton and Gilbert both started at these words, but from very +different feelings. The former, released from public scrutiny, already +experienced a comparative degree of comfort, and held up his head with +an air of courage; yet now the lawyer's announcement threw him into an +agitation which it was not possible to conceal. Miss Lavender looked +around the circle, coolly nodded her head to Elisha Barton, and said +nothing. + +Mr. Stacy arose, unlocked a small niche let into the wall of the house, +and produced the heavy oaken casket in which the old man kept the +documents relating to his property. This he placed upon a small table +beside his chair, opened it, and took out the topmost paper. He was +completely master of the situation, and the deliberation with which he +surveyed the circle of excited faces around him seemed to indicate that +he enjoyed the fact. + +“The last will and testament of Abiah Barton, made the day before his +death,” he said, “revokes all former wills, which were destroyed by his +order, in the presence of myself and Miss Elizabeth Lavender.” + +All eyes were turned upon the spinster, who again nodded, with a face of +preternatural solemnity. + +“In order that you, his children and grandchildren,” Mr. Stacy +continued, “may rightly understand the deceased's intention in making +this last will, when the time comes for me to read it, I must first +inform you that he was acquainted with the fact of his son Alfred's +marriage with Mary Potter.” + +Alfred Barton half sprang from his seat, and then fell back with the +same startled, livid face, which Gilbert already knew. The others held +their breath in suspense,--except Mary, who sat near the lawyer, firm, +cold, and unmoved. + +“The marriage of Alfred Barton and Mary Potter must therefore be +established, to _your_ satisfaction,” Mr. Stacy resumed, turning towards +Elisha. “Alfred Barton, I ask you to declare whether this woman is your +lawfully wedded wife?” + +A sound almost like a groan came from his throat, but it formed the +syllable,--“Yes.” + +“Further, I ask you to declare whether Gilbert Barton, who has until +this day borne his mother's name of Potter, is your lawfully begotten +son?” + +“Yes.” + +“To complete the evidence,” said the lawyer, “Mary Barton, give me the +paper in your hands.” + +She untied the handkerchief, opened the Bible, and handed Mr. Stacy the +slip of paper which Gilbert had seen her place between the leaves that +morning. The lawyer gave it to Elisha Barton, with the request that he +would read it aloud. + +It was the certificate of a magistrate at Burlington, in the Colony of +New Jersey, setting forth that he had united in wedlock Alfred Barton +and Mary Potter. The date was in the month of June, 1771. + +“This paper,” said Elisha, when he had finished reading, “appears to be +genuine. The evidence must have been satisfactory to you, Mr. Stacy, and +to my father, since it appears to have been the cause of his making a +new will; but as this new will probably concerns me and my children, I +demand to know why; if the marriage was legal, it has been kept secret +so long? The fact of the marriage does not explain what has happened +to-day.” + +Mr. Stacy turned towards Gilbert's mother, and made a sign. + +“Shall I explain it in my way, Alfred?” she asked, “or will you, in +yours?” + +“There's but one story,” he answered, “and I guess it falls to your +place to tell it.” + +“It does!” she exclaimed. “You, Elisha and Ann, and you, Gilbert, my +child, take notice that every word of what I shall say is the plain +God's truth. Twenty-seven years ago, when I was a young woman of twenty, +I came to this farm to help Ann with the house-work. You remember it, +Ann; it was just after your mother's death. I was poor; I had neither +father nor mother, but I was as proud as the proudest, and the people +called me good-looking. You were vexed with me, Ann, because the young +men came now and then, of a Sunday afternoon; but I put up with your +hard words. You did not know that I understood what Alfred's eyes meant +when he looked at me; I put up with you because I believed I could be +mistress of the house, in your place. You have had your revenge of me +since, if you felt the want of it--so let that rest!” + +She paused. Ann, with her handkerchief to her eyes, sobbed out,--“Mary, +I always liked you better 'n you thought.” + +“I can believe it,” she continued, “for I have been forced to look into +my heart and learn how vain and mistaken I then was. But I liked Alfred, +in those days; he was a gay young man, and accounted good-looking, +and there were merry times just before the war, and he used to dress +bravely, and was talked about as likely to marry this girl or that. My +head was full of him, and I believed my heart was. I let him see from +the first that it must be honest love between us, or not at all; and the +more I held back, the more eager was he, till others began to notice, +and the matter was brought to his father's ears.” + +“I remember that!” cried Elisha, suddenly. + +“Yet it was kept close,” she resumed. “Alfred told me that the old man +had threatened to cut him out of his will if he should marry me, and I +saw that I must leave the farm; but I gave out that I was tired of the +country, and wanted to find service in Philadelphia. I believed that +Alfred would follow me in a week or two, and he did. He brought news I +didn't expect, and it turned my head upside down. His father had had a +paralytic stroke, and nobody believed he'd live more than a few weeks. +It was in the beginning of June, and the doctors said he couldn't get +over the hot weather. Alfred said to me, Why wait?--you'll be taking up +with some city fellow, and I want you to be my wife at once. On my side +I thought, Let him be made rich and free by his father's death, and +wives will be thrown in his way; he'll lose his liking for me, by little +and little, and somebody else will be mistress of the farm. So I agreed, +and we went to Burlington together, as being more out of the way and +easier to be kept secret; but just before we came to the Squire's, he +seemed to grow fearsome all at once, lest it should be found out, and +he bought a Bible and swore me by my soul's salvation never to say I was +married to him until after his father died. Here's the Bible, Alfred! +Do you remember it? Here, here's the place where I kissed it when I took +the oath!” + +She rose from her seat, and held it towards him. No one could doubt the +solemn truth of her words. He nodded his head mechanically, unable +to speak. Still standing, she turned towards Elisha Barton, and +exclaimed,-- + +“_He_ took the same oath, but what did it mean to him! What does it mean +to a man? I was young and vain; I thought only of holding fast to my +good luck! I never thought of--of”--(here her faced flushed, and her +voice began to tremble)--“of _you_, Gilbert! I fed my pride by hoping +for a man's death, and never dreamed I was bringing a curse on a life +that was yet to come! Perhaps he didn't then, either; the Lord pardon me +if I judge him too hard. What I charge him with, is that he held me +to my oath, when--when the fall went by and the winter, and his father +lived, and his son was to be born! It was always the same,--Wait a +little, a month or so, maybe; the old man couldn't live, and it was the +difference between riches and poverty for us. Then I begged for poverty +and my good name, and after that he kept away from me. Before Gilbert +was born, I hoped I might die in giving him life; then I felt that I +must live for his sake. I saw my sin, and what punishment the Lord +had measured out to me, and that I must earn His forgiveness; and He +mercifully hid from my sight the long path that leads to this day; for +if the release hadn't seemed so near, I never could have borne to wait!” + +All the past agony of her life seemed to discharge itself in these +words. They saw what the woman had suffered, what wonderful virtues of +patience and faith had been developed from the vice of her pride, and +there was no heart in the company so stubborn as to refuse her honor. +Gilbert's eyes were fixed on her face with an absorbing expression +of reverence; he neither knew nor heeded that there were tears on his +cheeks. The women wept in genuine emotion, and even the old lawyer was +obliged to wipe his dimmed spectacles. + +Elisha rose, and approaching Alfred, asked, in a voice which he strove +to make steady,--“Is all this true?” + +Alfred sank his head; his reply was barely audible,-- + +“She has said no more than the truth.” + +“Then,” said Elisha, taking her hand, “I accept you, Mary Barton, and +acknowledge your place in our family.” + +Elisha's wife followed, and embraced her with many tears, and lastly +Ann, who hung totteringly upon her shoulder as she cried,-- + +“Indeed, Mary, indeed I always liked you; I never wished you any harm!” + +Thus encouraged, Alfred Barton made a powerful effort. There seemed but +one course for him to take; it was a hard one, but he took it. + +“Mary,” he said, “you have full right and justice on your side. I've +acted meanly towards you--meaner, I'm afraid, than any man before ever +acted towards his wife. Not only to you, but to Gilbert; but I always +meant to do my duty in the end. I waited from month to month, and year +to year, as you did; and then things got set in their way, and it was +harder and harder to let out the truth. I comforted myself--that wasn't +right, either, I know,--but I comforted myself with the thought that +you were doing well; I never lost sight of you, and I've been proud of +Gilbert, though I didn't dare show it, and always wanted to lend him a +helping hand, if he'd let me.” + +She drew herself up and faced him with flashing eyes. + +“How did you mean to do your duty by me? How did you mean to lend +Gilbert a helping hand? Was it by trying to take a second wife during my +lifetime, and that wife the girl whom Gilbert loves?” + +Her questions cut to the quick, and the shallow protestations he would +have set up were stripped off in a moment, leaving bare every cowardly +shift of his life. Nothing was left but the amplest confession. + +“You won't believe me, Mary,” he stammered, feebly weeping with pity of +his own miserable plight, “and I can't ask to--but it's the truth! Give +me your Bible! I'll kiss the place you kissed, and swear before God that +I never meant to marry Martha Deane! I let the old man think so, because +he hinted it'd make a difference in his will, and he drove me--he and +Dr. Deane together--to speak to her. I was a coward and a fool that I +let myself be driven that far, but I couldn't and wouldn't have married +her!” + +“The whole snarl's comin' undone,” interrupted Miss Lavender. “I see +the end on't. Do you mind that day, Alf. Barton, when I come upon you +suddent, settin' on the log and sayin' 'I can't see the way,'--the +very day, I'll be snaked, that you spoke to the Doctor about Martha +Deane!--and then _you_ so mortal glad that she wouldn't have you! You +_have_ acted meaner 'n dirt; I don't excuse him, Mary; but never mind, +justice is justice, and he's told the truth this once't.” + +“Sit down, friends!” said Mr. Stacy. “Before the will is read, I want +Miss Lavender to relate how it was that Abiah Barton and myself became +acquainted with the fact of the marriage.” + +The reading of the will had been almost forgotten in the powerful +interest excited by Mary Barton's narrative. The curiosity to know its +contents instantly revived, but was still subordinate to that which the +lawyer's statement occasioned. The whole story was so singular, that it +seemed as yet but half explained. + +“Well, to begin at the beginnin',” said Miss Lavender, “it all come +o' my wishin' to help two true-lovyers, and maybe you'll think I'm as +foolish as I'm old, but never mind, I'll allow that; and I saw that +nothin' could be done till Gilbert got his lawful name, and how to get +it was the trouble, bein' as Mary was swore to keep secret. The long and +the short of it is, I tried to worm it out o' her, but no use; she set +her teeth as tight as sin, and all I did learn was, that when she was +in Phildelphy--I knowed Gilbert was born there, but didn't let on--she +lived at Treadwells, in Fourth Street Then turnin' over everything in +my mind, I suspicioned that she must be waitin' for somebody to die, and +that's what held her bound; it seemed to me I must guess right away, +but I couldn't and couldn't, and so goin' up the hill, nigh puzzled +to death, Gilbert ploughin' away from me, bendin' his head for'ard a +little--there! turn round, Gilbert! turn round, Alf. Barton I Look at +them two sets o' shoulders!” + +Miss Lavender's words were scarcely comprehensible, but all saw the +resemblance between father and son, in the outline of the shoulders, and +managed to guess her meaning. + +“Well,” she continued, “it struck me then and there, like a streak o' +lightnin'; I screeched and tumbled like a shot hawk, and so betwixt the +saddle and the ground, as the sayin' is, it come to me--not mercy, but +knowledge, all the same, you know what I mean; and I saw them was Alf. +Barton's shoulders, and I remembered the old man was struck with palsy +the year afore Gilbert was born, and I dunno how many other things come +to me all of a heap; and now you know, Gilbert, what made me holler. I +borrowed the loan o' his bay horse and put off for Phildelphy the very +next day, and a mortal job it was; what with bar'ls and boxes pitched +hither and yon, and people laughin' at y'r odd looks,--don't talk o' +Phildelphy manners to me, for I've had enough of 'em!--and old Treadwell +dead when I did find him, and the daughter married to Greenfield in the +brass and tin-ware business, it's a mercy I ever found out anything.” + +“Come to the point, Betsy,” said Elisha, impatiently. + +“The point, Betsy. The p'int 's this: I made out from the Greenfield +woman that the man who used to come to see Mary Potter was the perfect +pictur' o' young Alf. Barton; then to where she went next, away down to +the t'other end o' Third Street, boardin', he payin' the board till just +afore Gilbert was born--and that's enough, thinks I, let me get out o' +this rackety place. So home I posted, but not all the way, for no use +to tell Mary Potter, and why not go right to Old-man Barton, and let him +know who his daughter-in-law and son is, and see what'll come of it? Th' +old man, you must know, always could abide me better 'n most women, and +I wasn't a bit afeard of him, not lookin' for legacies, and wouldn't +have 'em at any such price; but never mind. I hid my horse in the woods +and sneaked into the house across the fields, the back way, and good +luck that nobody was at home but Ann, here; and so I up and told the old +man the whole story.” + +“The devil!” Alfred Barton could not help exclaiming, as he recalled his +father's singular manner on the evening of the day in question. + +“Devil!” Miss Lavender repeated. “More like an angel put it into my +head. But I see Mr. Elisha's fidgetty, so I'll make short work o' the +rest. He curst and swore awful, callin' Mr. Alfred a mean pup, and +I dunno what all, but he hadn't so much to say ag'in Mary Potter; he +allowed she was a smart lass, and he'd heerd o' Gilbert's doin's, and +the lad had grit in him. 'Then,' says I, 'here's a mighty wrong been +done, and it's for you to set it right afore you die, and if you manage +as I tell you, you can be even with Mr. Alfred;' and he perks up his +head and asks how, and says I 'This way'--but what I said'll be made +manifest by Mr. Stacy, without my jumpin' ahead o' the proper time. The +end of it was, he wound up by sayin',--'Gad, if Stacy was only here!' +'I'll bring him!' says I, and it was fixed betwixt and between us two, +Ann knowin' nothin' o' the matter; and off I trapesed back to Chester, +and brung Mr. Stacy, and if that good-for-nothin' Jake Fairthorn hadn't +ha' seen me”-- + +“That will do, Miss Lavender,” said Mr. Stacy, interrupting her. “I have +only to add that Abiah Barton was so well convinced of the truth of the +marriage, that his new will only requires the proof which has to-day +been furnished, in order to express his intentions fully and completely. +It was his wish that I should visit Mary Barton on the very morning +afterwards; but his sudden death prevented it, and Miss Lavender +ascertained, the same evening, that Mary, in view of the neglect and +disgrace which she had suffered, demanded to take her justification into +her own hands. My opinion coincided with that of Miss Lavender, that she +alone had the right to decide in the matter, and that we must give no +explanation until she had asserted, in her own way, her release from a +most shameful and cruel bond.” + +It was a proud moment of Miss Lavender's life, when, in addition to her +services, the full extent of which would presently be known, a lawyer +of Mr. Stacy's reputation so respectfully acknowledged the wisdom of her +judgment. + +“If further information upon any point is required,” observed the +lawyer, “it may be asked for now; otherwise, I will proceed to the +reading of the will.” + +“Was--was my father of sound mind,--that is, competent to dispose of his +property?” asked Elisha Barton, with a little hesitation. + +“I hope the question will not be raised,” said Mr. Stacy, gravely; +“but if it is I must testify that he was in as full possession of his +faculties as at any time since his first attack, twenty-six years ago.” + +He then read the will, amid the breathless silence of the company. The +old man first devised to his elder son, Elisha Barton, the sum of twenty +thousand dollars, investments secured by mortgages on real estate; an +equal amount to his daughter-in-law, Mary, provided she was able to +furnish legal proof of her marriage to his son, Alfred Barton; five +thousand dollars each to his four grand-children, the three sons of +Elisha, and Gilbert Barton; ten thousand dollars to his daughter Ann; +and to his son Alfred the occupancy and use of the farm during his life, +the property, at his death, to pass into the hands of Gilbert Barton. +There was also a small bequest to Giles, and the reversions of the +estate were to be divided equally among all the heirs. The witnesses to +the will were James Stacy and Elizabeth Lavender. + +Gilbert and his mother now recognized, for the first time, what they +owed to the latter. A sense of propriety kept them silent; the fortune +which had thus unexpectedly fallen into their hands was the least and +poorest part of their justification. Miss Lavender, also, was held to +silence, but it went hard with her. The reading of the will gave her +such an exquisite sense of enjoyment that she felt quite choked in the +hush which followed it. + +“As the marriage is now proven,” Mr. Stacy said, folding up the paper, +“there is nothing to prevent the will from being carried into effect.” + +“No, I suppose not,” said Elisha; “it is as fair as could be expected.” + +“Mother, what do you say?” asked Gilbert, suddenly. + +“Your grandfather wanted to do me justice, my boy,” said she. “Twenty +thousand dollars will not pay me for twenty-five years of shame; no +money could; but it was the only payment he had to offer. I accept +this as I accepted my trials. The Lord sees fit to make my worldly +path smooth to my feet, and I have learned neither to reject mercy nor +wrath.” + +She was not elated; she would not, on that solemn day, even express +gratification in the legacy, for her son's sake. Though her exalted mood +was but dimly understood by the others, they felt its influence. If +any thought of disputing the will, on the ground of his father's +incompetency, had ever entered Elisha Barton's mind, he did not dare, +then or afterwards, to express it. + +The day was drawing to a close, and Elisha Barton, with his sons, who +lived in the adjoining township of Pennsbury, made preparations +to leave. They promised soon to visit Gilbert and his mother. Miss +Lavender, taking Gilbert aside, announced that she was going to return +to Dr. Deane's. + +“I s'pose I may tell her,” she said, trying to hide her feelings under +a veil of clumsy irony, “that it's all up betwixt and between you, now +you're a rich man; and of course as she wouldn't have the father, she +can't think o' takin' the son.” + +“Betsy,” he whispered, “tell her that I never yet needed her love so +much as now, and that I shall come to her tomorrow.” + +“Well, you know the door stands open, even accordin' to the Doctor's +words.” + +As Gilbert went forth to look after the horses, Alfred Barton followed +him. The two had not spoken directly to each other during the whole day. + +“Gilbert,” said the father, putting his hand on the son's shoulder, “you +know, now, why it always cut me, to have you think ill of me. I deserve +it, for I've been no father to you; and after what you've heard to-day, +I may never have a chance to be one. But if you _could_ give me a +chance--if you could”-- + +Here his voice seemed to fail. Gilbert quietly withdrew his shoulder +from the hand, hesitated a moment, and then said,--“Don't ask me +anything now, if you please. I can only think of my mother to-day.” + +Alfred Barton walked to the garden-fence, leaned his arms upon it, and +his head upon them. He was still leaning there, when mother and son rode +by in the twilight, on their way home. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII. + +THE LOVERS. + + +Both mother and son made the homeward ride in silence. A wide space, a +deep gulf of time, separated them from the morning. The events of +the day had been so startling, so pregnant with compressed fate, the +emotions they had undergone had been so profound, so mixed of the +keenest elements of wonder, pain, and pride, that a feeling of +exhaustion succeeded. The old basis of their lives seemed to have +shifted, and the new foundations were not yet firm under their feet. + +Yet, as they sat together before the hearth-fire that evening, and the +stern, proud calm of Gilbert's face slowly melted into a gentler and +tenderer expression, his mother was moved to speak. + +“This has been my day,” she said; “it was appointed and set apart for me +from the first; it belonged to me, and I have used it, in my right, from +sun to sun. But I feel now, that it was not my own strength alone that +held me up. I am weak and weary, and it almost seems that I fail in +thanksgiving. Is it, Gilbert, because you do not rejoice as I had hoped +you would?” + +“Mother,” he answered, “whatever may happen in my life, I can never feel +so proud of myself, as I felt to-day, to be your son. I do rejoice for +your sake, as I shall for my own, no doubt, when I get better used to +the truth. You could not expect me, at once, to be satisfied with a +father who has not only acted so cruelly towards you, but whom I have +suspected of being my own rival and enemy. I don't think I shall ever +like the new name as well as the old, but it is enough for me that the +name brings honor and independence to you!” + +“Perhaps I ought to ha' told you this morning, Gilbert I thought only +of the justification, not of the trial; and it seemed easier to speak in +actions, to you and to all men at once, as I did, than to tell the story +quietly to you alone. I feared it might take away my strength, if I +didn't follow, step by step, the course marked out for me.” + +“You were right, mother!” he exclaimed. “What trial had I, compared with +yours? What tale had I to tell--what pain to feel, except that if I +had not been born, you would have been saved twenty-five years of +suffering!” + +“No, Gilbert!--never say, never think that! I see already the suffering +and the sorrow dying away as if they'd never been, and you left to me +for the rest of life the Lord grants; to me a son has been more than a +husband!” + +“Then,” he asked in an anxious, hesitating tone, “would you consider +that I was not quite so much a son--that any part of my duty to you was +lost--if I wished to bring you a daughter, also?”. + +“I know what you mean, Gilbert Betsy Lavender has told me all. I am glad +you spoke of it, this day; it will put the right feeling of thanksgiving +into my heart and yours. Martha Deane never stood between us, my boy; it +was I that stood between you and her!” + +“Mother!” he cried, a joyous light shining from his face, “you love her? +You are willing that she should be my wife?” + +“Ay, Gilbert; willing, and thankful, and proud.” + +“But the very name of her struck you down! You fell into a deadly faint +when I told you I had spoken my mind to her!” + +“I see, my boy,” she said; “I see now why you never mentioned her name, +from that time. It was not Martha Deane, but the name of the one +you thought wanted to win her away from you,--your father's name, +Gilbert,--that seemed to put a stop to my life. The last trial was the +hardest of all, but don't you see it was only the bit of darkness that +comes before the daylight?” + +While this new happiness brought the coveted sense of thanksgiving to +mother and son, and spread an unexpected warmth and peace over the +close of the fateful day, there was the liveliest excitement in Kennett +Square, over Miss Lavender's intelligence. That lady had been waylaid by +a dozen impatient questioners before she could reach the shelter of Dr. +Deane's roof; and could only purchase release by a hurried statement +of the main facts, in which Alfred Barton's cruelty, and his wife's +wonderful fidelity to her oath, and the justice done to her and Gilbert +by the old man's will, were set forth with an energy that multiplied +itself as the gossip spread. + +In the adjoining townships, it was reported and believed, the very next +day, that Alfred Barton had tried to murder his wife and poison his +father--that Mary had saved the latter, and inherited, as her reward, +the entire property. + +Once safely housed, Miss Lavender enjoyed another triumph. She related +the whole story, in every particular, to Martha Deane, in the Doctor's +presence, taking especial care not to omit Alfred's words in relation to +his enforced wooing. + +“And there's one thing I mustn't forgit, Martha,” she declared, at the +close of her narrative. “Gilbert sends word to you that he needs your +true-love more 'n ever, and he's comin' up to see you to-morrow; and +says I to him, The door's open, even accordin' to the Doctor's words; +and so it is, for he's got his true name, and free to come. You're a man +o' your word, Doctor, and nothin' 's been said or done, thank Goodness, +that can't be easy mended!” + +What impression this announcement made upon Dr. Deane could not be +guessed by either of the women. He rose, went to the window, looked +into the night for a long time without saying a word, and finally betook +himself to his bed. + +The next morning, although there were no dangerous cases on his hands, +he rode away, remarking that he should not be home again until the +evening. Martha knew what this meant, and also what Miss Lavender meant +in hurrying down to Fairthorn's, soon after the Doctor's departure. +She became restless with tender expectation; her cheeks burned, and her +fingers trembled so that she was forced to lay aside her needle-work. It +seemed very long since she had even seen Gilbert; it was a long time +(in the calendar of lovers) since the two had spoken to each other. She +tried to compare the man he had been with the man he now was,--Gilbert +poor, disgraced and in trouble, with Gilbert rich and honorably born; +and it almost seemed as if the latter had impoverished her heart by +taking from it the need of that faithful, passionate sympathy which she +had bestowed upon the former. + +The long hour of waiting came to an end. Roger was once more tethered +at the gate, and Gilbert was in the room. It was not danger, this time, +beyond the brink of which they met, but rather a sudden visitation of +security; yet both were deeply and powerfully agitated. Martha was the +first to recover her composure. Withdrawing herself from Gilbert's arms, +she said,-- + +“It was not right that the tests should be all on my side. Now it is my +turn to try you, Gilbert!” + +Even her arch, happy smile did not enlighten him. “How, Martha?” he +asked. + +“Since you don't know, you are already tested. But how grave you look! +Have I not yet learned all of this wonderful, wonderful history? Did +Betsy Lavender keep something back?” + +“Martha!” he cried, “you shame me out of the words I had meant to say. +But they were doubts of my own position, not of you. Is my new name +better or worse in your ears, than my old one?” + +“To me you are only Gilbert,” she answered, “as I am Martha to you. +What does it matter whether we write Potter or Barton? Either is good in +itself, and so would any other name be; but Barton means something, +as the world goes, and therefore we will take it. Gilbert, I have put +myself in your place, since I learned the whole truth. I guessed you +would come to me with a strange, uncertain feeling,--not a doubt, but +rather a wonder; and I endeavored to make your new circumstances clear +to my mind. Our duty to your mother is plain; she is a woman beside +whom all other women we know seem weak and insignificant. It is not that +which troubled you, I am sure, when you thought of me. Let me say, +then, that so far as our relation to your father is concerned, I will be +guided entirely by your wishes.” + +“Martha,” he said, “that _is_ my trouble,--or, rather, my +disappointment,--that with my true name I must bring to you and fasten +upon you the whole mean and shameful story! One parent must always be +honored at the expense of the other, and my name still belongs to the +one that is disgraced.” + +“I foresaw your feeling, Gilbert. You were on the point of making +another test for me; that is not fair. The truth has come too +suddenly,--the waters of your life have been stirred too deeply; you +must wait until they clear. Leave that to Alfred Barton and your mother. +To me, I confess, he seems very weak rather than very bad. I can now +understand the pains which his addresses to me must have cost him. If +I ever saw fear on a man's face, it was on his when he thought I might +take him at his word. But, to a man like you, a mean nature is no better +than a bad one. Perhaps I feel your disappointment as deeply as you can; +yet it is our duty to keep this feeling to ourselves. For your mother's +sake, Gilbert; you must not let the value of her justification be +lessened in her eyes. She deserves all the happiness you and I can give +her, and if she is willing to receive me, some day, as a daughter”-- + +Gilbert interrupted her words by clasping her in his arms. “Martha!” he +exclaimed, “your heart points out the true way because it is true to the +core! In these things a woman sees clearer than a man; when I am with +you only, I seem to have proper courage and independence--I am twice +myself! Won't you let me claim you--take you--soon? My mother loves +you; she will welcome you as my wife, and will your father still stand +between us?” + +Martha smiled. “My father is a man of strong will,” she said, “and it +is hard for him to admit that his judgment was wrong. We must give him a +little time,--not urge, not seem to triumph, spare his pride, and trust +to his returning sense of what is right. You might claim reparation, +Gilbert, for his cruel words; I could not forbid you; but after so much +strife let there be peace, if possible.” + +“It is at least beyond his power,” Gilbert replied, “to accuse me of +sordid motives. As I said before, Martha, give up your legacy, if need +be, but come to me!” + +“As _I_ said before, Gilbert, the legacy is honestly mine, and I will +come to you with it in my hands.” + +Then they both began to smile, but it was a conflict of purpose which +drew them nearer together, in both senses,--an emulation of unselfish +love, which was compromised by clasping arms and silent lips. + +There was a sudden noise in the back part of the house. A shrill voice +was heard, exclaiming,--“I will--I will! don't hold me!”--the door burst +open, and Sally Fairthorn whirled into the room, with the skirt of her +gown torn loose, on one side, from the body. Behind her followed Miss +Lavender, in a state of mingled amusement and anger. + +Sally kissed Martha, then Gilbert, then threw an arm around the neck of +each, crying and laughing hysterically: “O Martha! O Gilbert! you'll +be married first,--I said it,--but Mark and I must be your bridesmaids; +don't laugh, you know what I mean; and Betsy wouldn't have me break in +upon you; but I waited half an hour, and then off, up here, she after +me, and we're both out o' breath! Did ever, ever such a thing happen!” + +“You crazy thing!” cried Miss Lavender. “No, such a thing never +happened, and wouldn't ha' happened this time, if I'd ha' been a little +quicker on my legs; but never mind, it serves me right; you two are to +blame, for why need I trouble my head furder about ye? There's cases, +they say, where two's company, and three's overmuch; but you may fix +it for yourselves next time, and welcome; and there's one bit o' wisdom +I've got by it,--foller true-lovyers, and they'll wear your feet off, +and then want you to go on the stumps!” + +“We won't relieve you yet, Betsy,” said Gilbert; “will we, Martha? The +good work you've done for us isn't finished.” + +“Isn't finished. Well, you'll gi' me time to make my will, first. How +long d' ye expect me to last, at this rate? Is my bones brass and my +flesh locus'-wood? Am I like a tortle, that goes around the fields a +hundred years?” + +“No,” Gilbert answered, “but you shall be like an angel, dressed all in +white, with roses in your hair. Sally and Mark, you know, want to be the +first bridesmaids”-- + +Sally interrupted him with a slap, but it was not very violent, and he +did not even attempt to dodge it. + +“Do you hear, Betsy?” said Martha. “It must be as Gilbert says.” + +“A pretty fool you'd make o' me,” Miss Lavender remarked, screwing up +her face to conceal her happy emotion. + +Gilbert soon afterwards left for home, but returned towards evening, +determined, before all things, to ascertain his present standing with +Dr. Deane. He did not anticipate that the task had been made easy for +him; but this was really the case. Wherever Dr. Deane had been that day, +whoever he had seen, the current of talk all ran one way. When the first +surprise of the news had been exhausted, and the Doctor had corrected +various monstrous rumors from his own sources of positive knowledge, one +inference was sure to follow,--that now there could be no objection +to his daughter becoming Gilbert Barton's wife. He was sounded, urged, +almost threatened, and finally returned home with the conviction +that any further opposition must result in an immense sacrifice of +popularity. + +Still, he was not ready to act upon that conviction, at once. He met +Gilbert with a bland condescension, and when the latter, after the first +greeting, asked,-- + +“Have I now the right to enter your house?” + +The Doctor answered,-- + +“Certainly. Thee has kept thy word, and I will willingly admit that I +did thee wrong in suspecting thee of unworthy devices. I may say, also, +that so far as I was able to judge, I approved of thy behavior on the +day of thy grandfather's funeral. In all that has happened heretofore, I +have endeavored to act cautiously and prudently; and thee will grant, I +doubt not, that thy family history is so very far out of the common way, +as that no man could be called upon to believe it without the strongest +evidence. Of course, all that I brought forward against thee now falls +to the ground.” + +“I trust, then,” Gilbert said, “that you have no further cause to forbid +my engagement with Martha. My mother has given her consent, and we both +hope for yours.” + +Dr. Deane appeared to reflect, leaning back in his chair, with his cane +across his knees. “It is a very serious thing,” he said, at last,--“very +serious, indeed. Not a subject for hasty decision. Thee offered, if I +remember rightly, to give me time to know thee better; therefore thee +cannot complain if I were now disposed to accept thy offer.” + +Gilbert fortunately remembered Martha's words, and restrained his +impatience. + +“I will readily give you time, Dr. Deane,” he replied, “provided you +will give me opportunities. You are free to question all who know me, of +course, and I suppose you have done so. I will not ask you to take the +trouble to come to me, in order that we may become better acquainted, +but only that you will allow me to come to you.” + +“It would hardly be fair to deny thee that much,” said the Doctor. + +“I will ask no more now. I never meant, from the first, to question your +interest in Martha's happiness, or your right to advise her. It may +be too soon to expect your consent, but at least you'll hold back your +refusal?” + +“Thee's a reasonable young man, Gilbert,” the Doctor remarked, after +a pause which was quite unnecessary. “I like that in thee. We are both +agreed, then, that while I shall be glad to see thee in my house, and +am willing to allow to Martha and thee the intercourse proper to a young +man and woman, it is not yet to be taken for granted that I sanction +your desired marriage. Remember me kindly to thy mother, and say, if +thee pleases, that I shall soon call to see her.” + +Gilbert had scarcely reached home that evening, before Deb. Smith, who +had left the farm-house on the day following the recovery of the money, +suddenly made her appearance. She slipped into the kitchen without +knocking, and crouched down in a corner of the wide chimney-place, +before she spoke. Both mother and son were struck by the singular +mixture of shyness and fear in her manner. + +“I heerd all about it, to-day,” she presently said, “and I wouldn't ha' +come here, if I'd ha' knowed where else to go to. They're after me, this +time, Sandy's friends, in dead earnest; they'll have my blood, if they +can git it; but you said once't you'd shelter me, Mr. Gilbert!” + +“So I will, Deborah!” he exclaimed; “do you doubt my word?” + +“No, I don't; but I dunno how't is--you're rich now, and as well-born as +the best of 'em, and Mary's lawful-married and got her lawful name; and +you both seem to be set among the folks that can't feel for a body like +me; not that your hearts is changed, only it comes different to me, +somehow.” + +“Stay here, Deborah, until you feel sure you're safe,” said Mary. “If +Gilbert or I should refuse to protect you, your blood would be upon our +heads. I won't blame you for doubting us; I know how easy it is to lose +faith in others; but if you think I was a friend to you while my name +was disgraced, you must also remember that I knew the truth then as well +as the world knows it now.” + +“Bless you for sayin' that, Mary! There wasn't much o' my name at any +time; but what little I might ha' had is clean gone--nothin' o' me left +but the strong arm! I'm not a coward, as you know, Mr. Gilbert; I'll +meet any man, face to face, in a fair and open fight. Let 'em come in +broad day, and on the high road!--not lay in wait in bushes and behind +fences, to shoot me down unawares.” + +They strove to quiet her fears, and little by little she grew composed. +The desperate recklessness of her mood contrasted strangely with her +morbid fear of an ambushed enemy. Gilbert suspected that it might be a +temporary insanity, growing out of her remorse for having betrayed Sandy +Flash. When she had been fed, and had smoked a pipe or two, she seemed +quite to forget it, and was almost her own self when she went up to her +bed in the western room. + +The moon, three quarters full, was hanging over the barn, and made a +peaceful, snowy light about the house. She went to the window, opened +it, and breathed the cool air of the April night. The “herring-frogs” + were keeping up an incessant, birdlike chirp down the glen, and nearer +at hand the plunging water of the mill-race made a soothing noise. It +really seemed that the poor creature had found a quiet refuge at last. + +Suddenly, something rustled and moved behind the mass of budding lilacs, +at the farther corner of the garden-paling. She leaned forward; the +next moment there was a flash, the crack of a musket rang sharp and loud +through the dell, followed by a whiz and thud at her very ear. A +thin drift of smoke rose above the bushes, and she saw a man's figure +springing to the cover of the nearest apple-tree. In another minute, +Gilbert made his appearance, gun in hand. + +“Shoot him, Gilbert!” cried Deb. Smith; “it's Dougherty!” + +Whoever it was, the man escaped; but by a singular coincidence, the +Irish ostler disappeared that night from the Unicorn tavern, and was +never again seen in the neighborhood. + +The bullet had buried itself in the window-frame, after having passed +within an inch or two of Deb. Smith's head. [Footnote: The hole made by +the bullet still remains in the window-frame of the old farm-house.] +To Gilbert's surprise, all her fear was gone; she was again fierce and +defiant, and boldly came and went, from that night forth, saying that no +bullet was or would be cast, to take her life. + +Therein she was right; but it was a dreary life and a miserable +death which awaited her. For twenty-five years she wandered about the +neighborhood, achieving wonders in spinning, reaping and threshing, by +the undiminished force of her arm, though her face grew haggard and her +hair gray; sometimes plunging into wild drinking-bouts with the rough +male companions of her younger days; sometimes telling a new generation, +with weeping and violent self-accusation, the story of her treachery; +but always with the fearful conviction of a yet unfulfilled curse +hanging over her life. Whether it was ever made manifest, no man could +tell; but when she was found lying dead on the floor of her lonely +cabin on the Woodrow farm, with staring, stony eyes, and the lines of +unspeakable horror on her white face, there were those who recalled her +own superstitious forebodings, and believed them. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII. + +HUSBAND AND WIFE. + + +It may readily be guessed that such extraordinary developments as those +revealed in the preceding chapters produced more than a superficial +impression upon a quiet community like that of Kennett and the adjoining +townships. People secluded from the active movements of the world +are drawn to take the greater interest in their own little family +histories,--a feeling which by-and-by amounts to a partial sense of +ownership, justifying not only any degree of advice or comment, but +sometimes even actual interference. + +The Quakers, who formed a majority of the population, and generally +controlled public sentiment in domestic matters, through the purity of +their own domestic life, at once pronounced in favor of Mary Barton. The +fact of her having taken an oath was a slight stumbling-block to some; +but her patience, her fortitude, her submission to what she felt to be +the Divine Will, and the solemn strength which had upborne her on the +last trying day, were qualities which none could better appreciate. The +fresh, warm sympathies of the younger people, already given to Gilbert +and Martha, now also embraced her; far and wide went the wonderful +story, carrying with it a wave of pity and respect for her, of contempt +and denunciation for her husband. + +The old Friends and their wives came to visit her, in their stately +chairs; almost daily, for a week or two, the quiet of the farm was +invaded, either by them, or by the few friends who had not forsaken her +in her long disgrace, and were doubly welcome now. She received them +all with the same grave, simple dignity of manner, gratefully +accepting their expressions of sympathy, and quietly turning aside the +inconsiderate questions that would have probed too deeply and painfully. + +To an aged Friend,--a preacher of the sect,--who plumply asked her what +course she intended to pursue towards her husband, she replied,-- + +“I will not trouble my season of thanksgiving. What is right for me to +do will be made manifest when the occasion comes.” + +This reply was so entirely in the Quaker spirit that the old man was +silenced. Dr. Deane, who was present, looked upon her with admiration. + +Whatever conjectures Alfred Barton might have made in advance, of the +consequences which would follow the disclosure of his secret marriage, +they could have borne no resemblance to the reality. It was not in his +nature to imagine the changes which the years had produced in his +wife. He looked forward to wealth, to importance in the community, and +probably supposed that she would only be too glad to share the proud +position with him. There would be a little embarrassment at first, of +course; but his money would soon make everything smooth. + +Now, he was utterly defeated, crushed, overwhelmed. The public judgment, +so much the more terrible where there is no escape from it, rolled down +upon him. Avoided or coldly ignored by the staid, respectable farmers, +openly insulted by his swaggering comrades of the fox-hunt and the +bar-room, jeered at and tortured by the poor and idle hangers-on of the +community, who took a malicious pleasure in thus repaying him for his +former haughtiness and their own humility, he found himself a moral +outcast. His situation became intolerable. He no longer dared to show +himself in the village, or upon the highways, but slunk about the house +and farm, cursing himself, his father and the miserable luck of his +life. + +When, finally, Giles begged to know how soon his legacy would be paid, +and hinted that he couldn't stay any longer than to get possession of +the money, for, hard as it might be to leave an old home, he must stop +going to the mill, or getting the horses shod, or sitting in the Unicorn +bar-room of a Saturday night, and a man might as well be in jail +at once, and be done with it--when Alfred Barton heard all this, he +deliberated, for a few minutes, whether it would not be a good thing to +cut his own throat. + +Either that, or beg for mercy; no other course was left. + +That evening he stole up to the village, fearful, at every step, of +being seen and recognized, and knocked timidly at Dr. Deane's door. +Martha and her father were sitting together, when he came into the room, +and they were equally startled at his appearance. His large frame seemed +to have fallen in, his head was bent, and his bushy whiskers had become +quite gray; deep wrinkles seamed his face; his eyes were hollow, and the +corners of his mouth drooped with an expression of intolerable misery. + +“I wanted to say a word to Miss Martha, if she'll let me,” he said, +looking from one to the other. + +“I allowed thee to speak to my daughter once too often,” Dr. Deane +sternly replied. “What thee has to say now, must be said in my +presence.” + +He hesitated a moment, then took a chair and sat down, turning towards +Martha. “It's come to this,” he said, “that I must have a little mercy, +or lay hands on my own life. I haven't a word to say for myself; I +deserve it all. I'll do anything that's wanted of me--whatever Mary +says, or people think is her right that she hasn't yet got, if it's mine +to give. You said you wished me well, Miss Martha, even at the time I +acted so shamefully; I remember that, and so I ask you to help me.” + +She saw that he spoke truth, at last, and all her contempt and disgust +could not keep down the quick sensation of pity which his wretchedness +inspired. But she was unprepared for his appeal, and uncertain how to +answer it. + +“What would you have me do?” she asked. + +“Go to Mary on my behalf! Ask her to pardon me, if she can, or say what +I can do to earn her pardon--that the people may know it. They won't be +so hard on me, if they know she's done that. Everything depends on her, +and if it's true, as they say, that she's going to sue for a divorce and +take back her own name for herself and Gilbert, and cut loose from me +forever, why, it'll just”-- + +He paused, and buried his face in his hands. + +“I have not heard of that,” said Martha. + +“Haven't you?” he asked. “But it's too likely to be true.” + +“Why not go directly to Mary, yourself?” + +“I will, Miss Martha, if you'll go with me, and maybe say a kind word +now and then,--that is, if you think it isn't too soon for mercy!” + +“It is never too soon to _ask_ for mercy,” she said, coming to a sudden +decision. “I will go with you; let it be tomorrow.” + +“Martha,” warned Dr. Deane, “isn't thee a little hasty?” + +“Father, I decide nothing. It is in Mary's hands. He thinks my presence +will give him courage, and that I cannot refuse.” + +The next morning, the people of Kennett Square were again startled out +of their proprieties by the sight of Alfred Barton, pale, agitated, and +avoiding the gaze of every one, waiting at Dr. Deane's gate, and then +riding side by side with Martha down the Wilmington road. An hour +before, she had dispatched Joe Fairthorn with a note to Gilbert, +informing him of the impending visit. Once on the way, she feared lest +she had ventured too far; it might be, as her father had said, too +hasty; and the coming meeting with Gilbert and his mother disquieted her +not a little. It was a silent, anxious ride for both. + +When they readied the gate, Gilbert was on hand to receive them. His +face always brightened at the sight of Martha, and his hands lifted her +as tenderly as ever from the saddle. “Have I done right?” she anxiously +whispered. + +“It is for mother to say,” he whispered back. + +Alfred Barton advanced, offering his hand. Gilbert looked upon his +father's haggard, imploring face, a moment; a recollection of his own +disgrace shot into his heart, to soften, not to exasperate; and he +accepted the hand. Then he led the way into the house. + +Mary Barton had simply said to her son,--“I felt that he would come, +sooner or later, and that I must give him a hearing--better now, +perhaps, since you and Martha will be with me.” + +They found her awaiting them, pale and resolute. + +Gilbert and Martha moved a little to one side, leaving the husband +and wife facing each other. Alfred Barton was too desperately moved to +shrink from Mary's eyes; he strove to read something in her face, which +might spare him the pain of words; but it was a strange face he looked +upon. Not that of the black-eyed, bright-cheeked girl, with the proud +carriage of her head and the charming scorn of her red lip, who had +mocked, fascinated, and bewildered him. The eyes were there, but they +had sunk into the shade of the brows, and looked upon him with an +impenetrable expression; the cheeks were pale, the mouth firm and rigid, +and out of the beauty which seduced had grown a power to resist and +command. + +“Will you shake hands with me, Mary?” he faltered. + +She said nothing, but moved her right hand slightly towards him. It lay +in his own a moment, cold and passive. + +“Mary!” he cried, falling on his knees at her feet, “I'm a ruined, +wretched man! No one speaks to me but to curse; I've no friend left in +the world; the very farmhand leaves me! I don't know what'll become of +me, unless you feel a little pity--not that I deserve any, but I ask it +of you, in the name of God!” + +Martha clung to Gilbert's arm, trembling, and more deeply moved than she +was willing to show. Mary Barton's face was convulsed by some passing +struggle, and when she spoke, her voice was hoarse and broken. + +“You know what it is, then,” she said, “to be disgraced in the eyes +of the world. If you have suffered so much in these two weeks, you may +guess what I have borne for twenty-five years!” + +“I see it now, Mary!” he cried, “as I never saw it before. Try me! Tell +me what to do!” + +“The Lord has done it, already; there is nothing left.” + +He groaned; his head dropped hopelessly upon his breast. + +Gilbert felt that Martha's agitation ceased. She quietly released her +hold of his arm, lifted her head, and spoke,-- + +“Mother, forgive me if I speak when I should hold my peace; I would only +remind you that there is yet one thing left. It is true, as you say; +the Lord has justified you in His own way, and at His own time, and has +revenged the wrong done to you by branding the sin committed towards +Himself. Now He leaves the rest to your own heart. Think that He holds +back and waits for the words that shall declare whether you understand +the spirit in which He deals towards His children!” + +“Martha, my dear child!” Mary Barton exclaimed,--“what can I do?” + +“It is not for me to advise you, mother. You, who put my impatient pride +to shame, and make my love for Gilbert seem selfish by contrast with +your long self-sacrifice! What right have I, who have done nothing, to +speak to you, who have done so much that we never can reckon it? But, +remember that in the Lord's government of the world pardon follows +repentance, and it is not for us to exact like for like, to the +uttermost farthing!” + +Mary Barton sank into a chair, covered her face with her hands, and wept +aloud. + +There were tears in Martha's eyes; her voice trembled, and her words +came with a softness and tenderness that soothed while they pierced: + +“Mother, I am a woman like yourself; and, as a woman, I feel the +terrible wrong that has been done to you. It may be as hard for you now +to forget, as then to bear; but it is certainly greater and nobler to +forgive than to await justice! Because I reverence you as a strong and +pure and great-hearted woman--because I want to see the last and best +and sweetest grace of our sex added to your name--and lastly, for +Gilbert's sake, who can feel nothing but pain in seeing his father +execrated and shunned--I ask your forgiveness for your husband!” + +“Mary!” Alfred Barton cried, lifting up his head in a last appeal, +“Mary, this much, at least! Don't go to the courts for a divorce! Don't +get back your own name for yourself and Gilbert! Keep mine, and make it +more respectable for me! And I won't ask you to pardon me, for I see you +can't!” + +“It is all clear to me, at last!” said Mary Barton. “I thank you, +Martha, my child, for putting me in the right path. Alfred, don't kneel +to me; if the Lord can pardon, who am I that I should be unforgiving? +I fear me I was nigh to forfeit His mercy. Gilbert, yours was half the +shame; yours is half the wrong; can you join me in pardoning your father +and my husband?” + +Gilbert was powerfully moved by the conflict of equally balanced +emotions, and but for the indication which Martha had given, he might +not at once have been able to decide. But it seemed now that his course +was also clear. He said,-- + +“Mother, since you have asked the question, I know how it should be +answered. If you forgive your husband, I forgive my--my father.” + +He stepped forward, seized Alfred Barton gently by the shoulder, and +raised him to his feet Mary Barton then took her husband's hand in hers, +and said, in a solemn voice,-- + +“I forgive you, Alfred, and will try to forget I know not what you may +have heard said, but I never meant to go before the court for a divorce. +Your name is a part of my right, a part of Gilbert's--our son's--right; +it is true that you have debased the name, but we will keep it and make +it honorable! We will not do that to the name of Barton which you have +done to the name of Potter!” + +It was very evident that though she had forgiven, she had not yet +forgotten. The settled endurance of years could not be unlearned in a +moment. Alfred Barton felt that her forgiveness implied no returning +tenderness, not even an increase of respect; but it was more than he had +dared to hope, and he felt humbly grateful. He saw that a consideration +for Gilbert's position had been the chief element to which he owed +his wife's relenting mood, and this knowledge was perhaps his greatest +encouragement. + +“Mary,” he said, “you are kinder than I deserve. I wish I could make you +and Gilbert understand all that I have felt. Don't think my place was +easy; it wasn't. It was a hell of another kind. I have been punished +in my way, and will be now to the end o' my life, while you two will be +looked up to, and respected beyond any in the neighborhood; and if I'm +not treated like a dog, it'll only be for your sakes! Will you let +me say to the people that you have pardoned me? Will you say it +yourselves?” + +Martha, and perhaps Gilbert also, felt that it was the reflected image +of Alfred Barton's meanness, as it came back to him in the treatment he +had experienced, rather than his own internal consciousness of it, which +occasioned his misery. But his words were true thus far; his life was +branded by it, and the pardon of those he had wronged could not make +that life more than tolerable. + +“Why not?” said Gilbert, replying to him. “There has been enough of +secrets. I am not ashamed of forgiveness--my shame is, that forgiveness +is necessary.” + +Alfred Barton looked from mother to son with a singular, wistful +expression. He seemed uncertain whether to speak or how to select his +words. His vain, arrogant spirit was completely broken, but no finer +moral instinct came in its place to guide him; his impulses were still +coarse, and took, from habit, the selfish color of his nature. There are +some persons whom even humiliation clothes with a certain dignity; +but he was not one of them. There are others whose tact, in such +emergencies, assumes the features of principle, and sets up a feeble +claim to respect; but this quality is a result of culture, which he did +not possess. He simply saw what would relieve him from the insupportable +load of obloquy under which he groaned, and awkwardly hazarded the pity +he had excited, in asking for it. + +“Mary,” he stammered, “I--I hardly know how to say the words, but you'll +understand me; I want to make good to you all the wrong I did, and there +seems no way but this,--if you'll let me care for you, slave for you, +anything you please; you shall have your own say in house and farm; +Ann'll give up everything to you. She always liked you, she says, and +she's lonely since th' old man died and nobody comes near us--not just +at once, I mean, but after awhile, when you've had time to think of it, +and Gilbert's married. You're independent in your own right, I know, +and needn't do it; but, see! it'd give me a chance, and maybe Gilbert +wouldn't feel quite so hard towards me, and”-- + +He stopped, chilled by the increasing coldness of his wife's face. She +did not immediately reply; to Martha's eye she seemed to be battling +with some proud, vindictive instinct. But she spoke at last, and calmly: + +“Alfred, you should not have gone so far. I have pardoned you, and that +means more than the words. It means that I must try to overcome the +bitterness of my recollections, that I must curb the tongues of others +when they are raised against you, must greet you when we meet, and in +all proper ways show the truth of my forgiveness to the world. Anger +and reproach may be taken from the heart, and yet love be as far off as +ever. If anything ever could lead me back to you it would not be love, +but duty to my son, and his desire; but I cannot see the duty now. I may +never see it. Do not propose this thing again. I will only say, if it +be any comfort to you, that if you try to show your repentance as I my +pardon, try to clean your name from the stain you have cast upon it, my +respect shall keep pace with that of your neighbors, and I shall in this +way, and in no other, be drawn nearer to you!” + +“Gilbert,” said Alfred Barton, “I never knew your mother before to-day. +What she says gives me some hope, and yet it makes me afraid. I'll try +to bring her nearer, I will, indeed; but I've been governed so long by +th' old man that I don't seem to have any right strength o' my own. I +must have some help, and you're the only one I can ask it of; will you +come and see me sometimes? I've been so proud of you, all to myself, my +boy! and if I thought you could once call me 'father' before I die”-- + +Gilbert was not proof against these words and the honest tears by which +they were accompanied. Many shy hesitating tokens of affection in his +former intercourse with Alfred Barton, suddenly recurred to his mind, +with their true interpretation. His load had been light, compared to his +mother's; he had only learned the true wrong in the hour of reparation; +and moreover, in assuming his father's name he became sensitive to the +prominence of its shame. + +“Father,” he answered, “if you have forfeited a son's obedience, you +have still a man's claim to be helped. Mother is right; it is in your +power to come nearer to us. She must stand aside and wait; but I can +cross the line which separates you, and from this time on I shall never +cross it to remind you of what is past and pardoned, but to help you, +and all of us, to forget it!” + +Martha laid her hand upon Gilbert's shoulder, leaned up and kissed him +upon the cheek. + +“Rest here!” she said. “Let a good word close the subject! Gilbert, take +your father out and show him your farm. Mother, it is near dinner-time; +I will help you set the table. After dinner, Mr. Barton, you and I will +ride home together.” + +Her words were obeyed; each one felt that no more should be said at that +time. Gilbert showed the barn, the stables, the cattle in the meadow, +and the fields rejoicing in the soft May weather; Martha busied herself +in kitchen and cellar, filling up the pauses of her labor with cheerful +talk; and when the four met at the table, so much of the constraint in +their relation to each other had been conquered, that a stranger would +never have dreamed of the gulf which had separated them a few hours +before. Martha shrewdly judged that when Alfred Barton had eaten at his +wife's table, they would both meet more easily in the future. She did +not expect that the breach could ever be quite filled; but she wished, +for Gilbert's sake, to make it as narrow as possible. + +After dinner, while the horses were being saddled, the lovers +walked down the garden-path, between the borders of blue iris and +mountain-pink. + +“Gilbert,” said Martha, “are you satisfied with what has happened?” + +“Yes,” he answered, “but it has shown to me that something more must be +done.” + +“What?” + +“Martha, are these the only two who should be brought nearer?” + +She looked at him with a puzzled face. There was a laughing light in his +eyes, which brought a new lustre to here, and a delicate blush to her +fair cheeks. + +“Is it not too soon for me to come?” she whispered. + +“You have come,” he answered; “you were in your place; and it will be +empty--the house will be lonely, the farm without its mistress--until +you return to us!” + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV. + +THE WEDDING. + + +The neighborhood had decreed it There was but one just, proper, and +satisfactory conclusion to all these events. The decision of Kennett +was unanimous that its story should be speedily completed. New-Garden, +Marlborough, and Pennsbury, so far as heard from, gave their hearty +consent; and the people would have been seriously disappointed--the tide +of sympathy might even have been checked--had not Gilbert Barton and +Martha Deane prepared to fulfil the parts assigned to them. + +Dr. Deane, of course, floated with the current. He was too shrewd to +stand forth as a conspicuous obstacle to the consummation of the popular +sense of justice. He gave, at once, his full consent to the nuptials, +and took the necessary steps, in advance, for the transfer of his +daughter's fortune into her own hands. In short, as Miss Lavender +observed, there was an end of snarls. The lives of the lovers were taken +up, as by a skilful hand, and evenly reeled together. + +Gilbert now might have satisfied his ambition (and the people, under the +peculiar circumstances of the case, would have sanctioned it) by buying +the finest farm in the neighborhood; but Martha had said,-- + +“No other farm can be so much _yours_, and none so welcome a home to me. +Let us be satisfied with it, at least for the first years.” + +And therein she spoke wisely. + +It was now the middle of May, and the land was clothed in tender green, +and filled with the sweet breath of sap and bud and blossom. The vivid +emerald of the willow-trees, the blush of orchards, and the cones of +snowy bloom along the wood-sides, shone through and illumined even the +days of rain. The Month of Marriage wooed them in every sunny morning, +in every twilight fading under the torch of the lovers' star. + +In spite of Miss Lavender's outcries, and Martha's grave doubts, a +fortnight's delay was all that Gilbert would allow. He would have +dispensed with bridal costumes and merrymakings,--so little do men +understand of these matters; but he was hooted down, overruled, ignored, +and made to feel his proper insignificance. Martha almost disappeared +from his sight during the interval. She was sitting upstairs in a +confusion of lutestring, whalebone, silk, and cambric; and when she came +down to him for a moment, the kiss had scarcely left her lips before +she began to speak of the make of his new coat, and the fashion of the +articles he was still expected to furnish. + +If he visited Fairthorn's, it was even worse. The sight of him threw +Sally into such a flutter that she sewed the right side of one breadth +to the wrong side of another, attempted to clear-starch a woollen +stocking, or even, on one occasion, put a fowl into the pot, unpicked +and undressed. It was known all over the country that Sally and Mark +Deane were to be bridesmaid and groomsman, and they both determined to +make a brave appearance. + +But there was another feature of the coming nuptials which the people +did not know. Gilbert and Martha had determined that Miss Betsy Lavender +should be second bridesmaid, and Martha had sent to Wilmington for a +purple silk, and a stomacher of the finest cambric, in which to array +her. A groomsman of her age was not so easy to find; but young Pratt, +who had stood so faithfully by Gilbert during the chase of Sandy Flash, +merrily avowed his willingness to play the part; and so it was settled +without Miss Lavender's knowledge. + +The appointed morning came, bringing a fair sky, mottled with gentle, +lingering clouds, and a light wind from the west. The wedding company +were to meet at Kennett Square, and then ride to Squire Sinclair's, +where the ceremony would be performed by that magistrate; and before +ten o'clock, the hour appointed for starting, all the surrounding +neighborhood poured into the village. The hitching-bar in front of the +Unicorn, and every post of fence or garden-paling, was occupied by the +tethered horses. The wedding-guests, comprising some ten or fifteen +persons, assembled at Dr. Deane's, and each couple, as they arrived, +produced an increasing excitement among the spectators. + +The fact that Alfred Barton had been formally pardoned by his wife +and son, did not lessen the feeling with which he was regarded, but it +produced a certain amount of forbearance. The people were curious to +know whether he had been bidden to the wedding, and the conviction was +general that he had no business to be there. The truth is, it had been +left free to him whether to come or not, and he had very prudently +chosen to be absent. + +Dr. Deane had set up a “chair,” which was to be used for the first time +on this occasion. It was a ponderous machine, with drab body and wheels, +and curtains of drab camlet looped up under its stately canopy. When it +appeared at the gate, the Doctor came forth, spotless in attire, bland, +smiling, a figure of sober gloss and agreeable odors. He led Mary Barton +by the hand; and her steel-colored silk and white crape shawl so well +harmonized with his appearance, that the two might have been taken for +man and wife. Her face was calm, serene, and full of quiet gratitude. +They took their places in the chair, the lines were handed to the +Doctor, and he drove away, nodding right and left to the crowd. + +Now the horses were brought up in pairs, and the younger guests began +to mount. The people gathered closer and closer; and when Sam appeared, +leading the well-known and beloved Roger, there was a murmur which, in +a more demonstrative community, would have been a cheer. Somebody had +arranged a wreath of lilac and snowy viburnum, and fastened it around +Roger's forehead; and he seemed to wear it consciously and proudly. +Many a hand was stretched forth to pat and stroke the noble animal, +and everybody smiled when he laid his head caressingly over the neck of +Martha's gray. + +Finally, only six horses remained unmounted; then there seemed to be a +little delay in-doors. It was explained when young Pratt appeared, bold +and bright, leading the reluctant Miss Lavender, rustling in purple +splendor, and blushing--actually blushing--as she encountered the eyes +of the crowd. The latter were delighted. There was no irony in the voice +that cried,--“Hurrah for Betsy Lavender!” and the cheer that followed +was the expression of a downright, hearty good will. She looked around +from her saddle, blushing, smiling, and on the point of bursting into +tears; and it was a godsend, as she afterwards remarked, that Mark Deane +and Sally Fairthorn appeared at that moment. + +Mark, in sky-blue coat and breeches, suggested, with his rosy face +and yellow locks, a son of the morning; while Sally's white muslin and +cherry-colored scarf heightened the rich beauty of her dark hair and +eyes, and her full, pouting lips. They were a buxom pair, and both +were too happy in each other and in the occasion, to conceal the least +expression of it. + +There now only remained our hero and heroine, who immediately followed. +No cheer greeted them, for the wonderful chain of circumstances which +had finally brought them together, made the joy of the day solemn, and +the sympathy of the people reverential. Mark and Sally represented the +delight of betrothal; these two the earnest sanctity of wedlock. + +Gilbert was plainly yet richly dressed in a bottle-green coat, with +white waistcoat and breeches; his ruffles, gloves, hat, and boots were +irreproachable. So manly looking a bridegroom had not been seen in +Kennett for many a day. Martha's dress of heavy pearl-gray satin was +looped up over a petticoat of white dimity, and she wore a short cloak +of white crape. Her hat, of the latest style, was adorned with a bunch +of roses and a white, drooping feather. In the saddle, she was charming; +and as the bridal pair slowly rode forward, followed by their attendants +in the proper order, a murmur of admiration, in which there was no envy +and no ill-natured qualification, went after them. + +A soft glitter of sunshine, crossed by the shadows of slow-moving +clouds, lay upon the landscape. Westward, the valley opened in quiet +beauty, the wooded hills on either side sheltering, like protecting +arms, the white farmhouses, the gardens, and rosy orchards scattered +along its floor. On their left, the tall grove rang with the music of +birds, and was gay, through all its light-green depths, with the pink +blossoms of the wild azalea. The hedges, on either side, were purple +with young sprays, and a bright, breathing mass of sweet-brier and wild +grape crowned the overhanging banks, between which the road ascended the +hill beyond. + +At first the company were silent; but the enlivening motion of the +horses, the joy of the coming summer, the affectionate sympathy of +Nature, soon disposed them to a lighter mood. At Hallowell's, the men +left their hoes in the corn-field, and the women their household duties, +to greet them by the roadside. Mark looked up at the new barn, and +exclaimed,-- + +“Not quite a year ago! Do you mind it, Gilbert?” + +Martha pointed to the green turf in front of the house, and said with an +arch voice,-- + +“Gilbert, do you remember the question you put to me, that evening?” + +And finally Sally burst out, in mock indignation,-- + +“Gilbert, there's where you snapped me up, because I wanted you to dance +with Martha; what do you think of yourself now?” + +“You all forget,” he answered, “that you are speaking of somebody else.” + +“How? somebody else?” asked Sally. + +“Yes; I mean Gilbert Potter.” + +“Not a bad turn-off,” remarked Miss Lavender. “He's too much for you. +But I'm glad, anyhow, you've got your tongues, for it was too much like +a buryin' before, and me fixed up like King Solomon, what for, I'd like +to know? and the day made o' purpose for a weddin', and true-love all +right for once't--I'd like just to holler and sing and make merry to +my heart's content, with a nice young man alongside o' me, too, a thing +that don't often happen!” + +They were heartily, but not boisterously, merry after this; but as they +reached the New-Garden road, there came a wild yell from the rear, and +the noise of galloping hoofs. Before the first shock of surprise had +subsided, the Fairthorn gray mare thundered up, with Joe and Jake upon +her back, the scarlet lining of their blue cloaks flying to the wind, +their breeches covered with white hair from the mare's hide, and their +faces wild with delight. They yelled again as they drew rein at the head +of the procession. + +“Why, what upon earth”--began Sally; but Joe saved her the necessity of +a question. + +“Daddy said we shouldn't go!” he cried. “But we _would_,--we got Bonnie +out o' the field, and put off! Cousin Martha, you'll let us go along +and see you get married; won't you, now? Maybe we'll never have another +chance!” + +This incident produced great amusement. The boys received the permission +they coveted, but were ordered to the rear Mark reminding them that as +he was soon to be their uncle, they must learn, betimes, to give heed to +his authority. + +“Be quiet, Mark!” exclaimed Sally, with a gentle slap. + +“Well, I don't begrudge it to 'em,” said Miss Lavender. “It's somethin' +for 'em to remember when they're men-grown; and they belong to the +fam'ly, which I don't; but never mind, all the same, no more do you, Mr. +Pratt; and I wish I was younger, to do credit to you!” + +Merrily trotted the horses along the bit of level upland; and then, as +the land began to fall towards the western branch of Redley Creek, they +saw the Squire's house on a green knoll to the north, and Dr. Deane's +new chair already resting in the shade of the gigantic sycamore at the +door. The lane-gates were open, the Squire's parlor was arranged for +their reception; and after the ladies had put themselves to rights, in +the upper rooms, the company gathered together for the ceremony. + +Sunshine, and hum of bees, and murmur of winds, and scent of flowers, +came in through the open windows, and the bridal pair seemed to stand +in the heart of the perfect spring-time. Yet tears were shed by all the +women except the bride; and Sally Fairthorn was so absorbed by the rush +of her emotions, that she came within an ace of saying “I will!” when +the Squire put the question to Martha. The ceremony was brief and plain, +but the previous history of the parties made it very impressive. When +they had been pronounced man and wife, and the certificate of marriage +had been duly signed and witnessed by all present, Mary Barton stepped +forward and kissed her son and daughter with a solemn tenderness. Then +the pent-up feelings of all the others broke loose, and the amount of +embracing which followed was something quite unusual for Kennett. Betsy +Lavender was not cheated out of her due share; on the contrary, it was +ever afterwards reported that she received more salutes than even the +bride. She was kissed by Gilbert, by Mark, by her young partner, by Dr. +Deane, and lastly by the jolly Squire himself,--to say nothing of the +feminine kisses, which, indeed, being very imperfect gifts, hardly +deserve to be recorded. + +“Well!” she exclaimed, pushing her ruffled hair behind her ears, and +smoothing down her purple skirt, “to think o' my bein' kissed by so many +men, in my old days!--but why not?--it may be my last chance, as Joe +Fairthorn says, and laugh if you please, I've got the best of it; and +I don't belie my natur', for twistin' your head away and screechin' is +only make-believe, and the more some screeches the more they want to be +kissed; but fair and square, say I,--if you want it take it, and that's +just what I've done!” + +There was a fresh rush for Miss Lavender after this, and she stood her +ground with commendable patience, until Mark ventured to fold her in a +good-natured hug, when she pushed him away, saying,-- + +“For the Lord's sake, don't spile my new things! There--go 'way, now! +I've had enough to last me ten year!” + +Dr. Deane soon set out with Mary Barton, in the chair, and the rest of +the company mounted their horses, to ride back to Kennett Square by the +other road, past the quarries and across Tuffkenamon. + +As they halted in the broad, shallow bed of the creek, letting their +horses drink from the sparkling water, while the wind rollicked among +the meadow bloom of golden saxifrage and scarlet painted-cup and blue +spiderwort before them, the only accident of the day occurred; but it +was not of a character to disturb their joyous mood. + +The old Fairthorn mare stretched her neck to its utmost length before +she bent it to drink, obliging Joe to lean forwards over her shoulder, +to retain his hold of the short rein. Jake, holding on to Joe, leaned +with him, and they waited in this painful posture till the mare slowly +filled herself from the stream. Finally she seemed to be satisfied; she +paused, snorted, and then, with wide nostrils, drank an equal amount of +air. Her old sides swelled; the saddle-girth, broken in two places long +before, and mended with tow-strings, suddenly parted, and Joe, Jake, +saddle and all, tumbled down her neck into the water. They scrambled out +in a lamentable plight, soused and dripping, amid the endless laughter +of the company, and were glad to keep to the rear for the remainder of +the ride. + +In Dr. Deane's house, meanwhile, there were great preparations for +the wedding-dinner. A cook had been brought from Wilmington, at an +unheard-of expense, and the village was filled with rumors of the +marvellous dishes she was to produce. There were pippins encased in +orange-peel and baked; a roasted peacock, with tail spread; a stuffed +rock-fish; a whole ham enveloped in dough, like a loaf of bread, and set +in the oven; and a wilderness of the richest and rarest pies, tarts, and +custards. + +Whether all these rumors were justified by the dinner, we will not +undertake to say; it is certain that the meal, which was spread in the +large sitting-room, was most bountiful. No one was then shocked by the +decanters of Port and Canary wine upon the sideboard, or refused to +partake of the glasses of foamy egg-nog offered to them from time to +time, through the afternoon. The bride-cake was considered a miracle of +art, and the fact that Martha divided it with a steady hand, making the +neatest and cleanest of cuts, was considered a good omen for her married +life. Bits of the cake were afterwards in great demand throughout the +neighborhood, not so much to eat, as to dream upon. + +The afternoon passed away rapidly, with mirth and noise, in the +adjoining parlor. Sally Fairthorn found a peculiar pleasure in calling +her friend “Martha Barton!” whereupon Mark said,-- + +“Wait a bit, Martha, and you can pay her back. Daddy Fairthorn promised +this morning to give me a buildin' lot off the field back o' the corner, +and just as soon as Rudd's house is up, I'm goin' to work at mine.” + +“Mark, do hush!” Sally exclaimed, reddening, “and before everybody!” + +Miss Lavender sat in the midst, stately, purple, and so transformed that +she professed she no longer knew her own self. She was, nevertheless, +the life of the company; the sense of what she had done to bring on the +marriage was a continual source of inspiration. Therefore, when songs +were proposed and sung, and Mark finally called upon her, uproariously +seconded by all the rest, she was moved, for the last time in her life, +to comply. + +“I dunno what you mean, expectin' such a thing o' me,” she said. “Tears +to me I'm fool enough already, settin' here in purple and fine linen, +like the Queen o' Rome,--not that I don't like singin', but the +contrary, quite the reverse; but with me it'd be a squawk and nothin' +else; and fine feathers may make fine birds for what I care, more like a +poll-parrot than a nightingale, and they say you must stick thorns +into 'em to make 'em sing; but I guess it'll be t' other way, and my +singin'll stick thorns into you!” + +They would take no denial; she could and must sing them a song. She held +out until Martha said, “for my wedding-day, Betsy!” and Gilbert added, +“and mine, too.” Then she declared, “Well, if I must, I s'pose I must +But as for weddin'-songs, such as I've heerd in my younger days, I dunno +one of 'em, and my head's pretty much cleared o' such things, savin' +and exceptin' one that might be a sort o' warnin' for Mark Deane, who +knows?--not that there's sea-farin' men about these parts; but never +mind, all the same; if you don't like it, Mark, you've brung it onto +yourself!” + +Thereupon, after shaking herself, gravely composing her face, and +clearing her throat, she began, in a high, shrill, piercing voice, +rocking her head to the peculiar lilt of the words, and interpolating +short explanatory remarks, to sing-- + + THE BALLAD OF THE HOUSE-CARPENTER. + + “'Well-met, well-met, my own true-love!' + +“_She_ says,-- + + “'Well-met, well-met, cried _he_; + For't is I have returned from the salt, salt sea, + And it's all for the love of thee!' + + “'It's I might ha' married a king's daughter fair,' + +“_He_ goes on sayin',-- + + “'And fain would she ha' married me, + But it's I have refused those crowns of gold, + And it's all for the love of thee!' + +“Then _she_,-- + + “'If you might ha' married a king's daughter fair,' + I think you are for to blame; + For it's I have married a house-carpentèr, + And I think he's a fine young man!' + +“So look out, Mark! and remember, all o' you, that they're talkin' turn +about; and he begins-- + + “'If you'll forsake your house-carpentèr + And go along with me, + I'll take you to where the grass grows green + On the banks of the sweet Wil-lee!' + + “'If I forsake my house-carpentèr. + And go along with thee, + It's what have you got for to maintain me upon, + And to keep me from slave-ree?' + + “'It's I have sixteen ships at sea, + All sailing for dry land, + And four-and-twenty sailors all on board + Shall be at your command!' + + “She then took up her lovely little babe, + And she gave it kisses three; + 'Lie still, lie still, my lovely little babe, + And keep thy father compa-nee!' + + “She dressed herself in rich array, + And she walked in high degree, + And the four-and-twenty sailors took 'em on board. + And they sailed for the open sea! + + “They had not been at sea two weeks, + And I'm sure it was not three, + Before this maid she began for to weep, + And she wept most bitter-lee. + + “'It's do you weep for your gold?' cries he; + 'Or do you weep for your store, + Or do you weep for your house-carpenter + You never shall see any more?' + + “'I do not weep for my gold,' cries she, + 'Nor I do not weep for my store, + But it's I do weep for my lovely little babe, + I never shall see any more!' + + “They had not been at sea three weeks, + And I'm sure it was not four, + When the vessel it did spring a leak, + And it sank to rise no more!” + +“Now, Mark, here comes the Moral: + + “Oh, cruel be ye, sea-farin' men, + Oh, cruel be your lives,-- + A-robbing of the house-carpenters, + And a-taking of their wives!” + +The shouts and laughter which greeted the conclusion of Miss Lavender's +song brought Dr. Deane into the room. He was a little alarmed lest +his standing in the Society might be damaged by so much and such +unrestrained merriment under his roof. Still he had scarcely the courage +to reprimand the bright, joyous faces before him; he only smiled, shook +his head, and turned to leave. + +“I'm a-goin', too,” said Miss Lavender, rising. “The sun's not an hour +high, and the Doctor, or somebody, must take Mary Barton home; and it's +about time the rest o' you was makin' ready; though they've gone on with +the supper, there's enough to do when you get there!” + +The chair rolled away again, and the bridal party remounted their horses +in the warm, level light of the sinking sun. They were all in their +saddles except Gilbert and Martha. + +“Go on!” he cried, in answer to their calls; “we will follow.” + +“It won't be half a home-comin', without you're along,” said Mark; “but +I see you want it so. Come on, boys and girls!” + +Gilbert returned to the house and met Martha, descending the stairs in +her plain riding-dress. She descended into his open arms, and rested +there, silent, peaceful, filled with happy rest. + +“My wife at last, and forever!” he whispered. + +They mounted and rode out of the village. The fields were already +beginning to grow gray under the rosy amber of the western sky. The +breeze had died away, but the odors it had winnowed from orchard and +meadow still hung in the air. Faint cheeps and chirps of nestling life +came from the hedges and grassy nooks of bank and thicket, but they +deepened, not disturbed, the delicious repose settling upon the land. +Husband and wife rode slowly, and their friendly horses pressed nearer +to each other, and there was none to see how their eyes grew deeper and +darker with perfect tenderness, their lips more sweetly soft and warm, +with the unspoken, because unspeakable, fortune of love. In the breath +of that happy twilight all the pangs of the Past melted away; disgrace, +danger, poverty, trial, were behind them; and before them, nestling yet +unseen in the green dell which divided the glimmering landscape, lay the +peace, the shelter, the life-long blessing of Home. + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Story Of Kennett, by Bayard Taylor + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE STORY OF KENNETT *** + +***** This file should be named 8680-0.txt or 8680-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/8/6/8/8680/ + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Tiffany Vergon, Michelle +Shephard, Charles Franks, and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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