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      The Story of Kennett, by Bayard Taylor
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<pre>

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

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*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE STORY OF KENNETT ***




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</pre>

    <div style="height: 8em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h1>
      THE STORY OF KENNETT
    </h1>
    <h2>
      By Bayard Taylor
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <p>
      <b>CONTENTS</b>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2H_PROL"> PROLOGUE. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I. &mdash; THE CHASE. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II. &mdash; WHO SHALL HAVE THE BRUSH?
      </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III. &mdash; MARY POTTER AND HER SON.
      </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV. &mdash; FORTUNE AND MISFORTUNE. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V. &mdash; GUESTS AT FAIRTHORN'S. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI. &mdash; THE NEW GILBERT. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII. &mdash; OLD KENNETT MEETING. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII. &mdash; AT DR. DEANE'S. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX. &mdash; THE RAISING. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X. &mdash; THE RIVALS. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI. &mdash; GUESTS AT POTTER'S. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII. &mdash; THE EVENTS OF AN EVENING.
      </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII. &mdash; TWO OLD MEN. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV. &mdash; DOUBTS AND SURMISES. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV. &mdash; ALFRED BARTON BETWEEN TWO
      FIRES. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI. &mdash; MARTHA DEANE. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII. &mdash; CONSULTATIONS. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII. &mdash; SANDY FLASH REAPPEARS.
      </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX. &mdash; THE HUSKING FROLIC. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XX. &mdash; GILBERT ON THE ROAD TO
      CHESTER. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XXI. &mdash; ROGER REPAYS HIS MASTER.
      </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER XXII. &mdash; MARTHA DEANE TAKES A
      RESOLUTION. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XXIII. &mdash; A CROSS-EXAMINATION. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER XXIV. &mdash; DEB. SMITH TAKES A
      RESOLUTION. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER XXV. &mdash; TWO ATTEMPTS. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER XXVI. &mdash; THE LAST OF SANDY FLASH.
      </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER XXVII. &mdash; GILBERT INDEPENDENT. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER XXVIII. &mdash; MISS LAVENDER MAKES A
      GUESS. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0029"> CHAPTER XXIX. &mdash; MYSTERIOUS MOVEMENTS. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0030"> CHAPTER XXX. &mdash; THE FUNERAL. &mdash; </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0031"> CHAPTER XXXI. &mdash; THE WILL. &mdash; </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0032"> CHAPTER XXXII. &mdash; THE LOVERS. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0033"> CHAPTER XXXIII. &mdash; HUSBAND AND WIFE. </a>
    </p>
    <p class="toc">
      <a href="#link2HCH0034"> CHAPTER XXXIV. &mdash; THE WEDDING. </a>
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_PROL" id="link2H_PROL"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      PROLOGUE.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      TO MY FRIENDS AND NEIGHBORS OF KENNETT:
    </h3>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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!
    </p>
    <h3>
      BAYARD TAYLOR.
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER I. &mdash; THE CHASE.
    </h2>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;Old Rye,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Evidently, there was no &ldquo;vendue&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Southwest!&rdquo; she said, nodding her head&mdash;&ldquo;Lucky!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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&mdash;now
      a grizzly, weather-beaten man of fifty&mdash;with a jolly grin on his
      face, and a short leather whip in his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Want to see him, Miss Betsy?&rdquo; he asked, touching his mink-skin cap, as
      Miss Lavender crawled through the nearest panel of the lofty picket fence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;See him?&rdquo; she repeated. &ldquo;Don't care if I do, afore goin' into th' house.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&mdash;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo; cried
      Miss Lavender, gathering her narrow petticoats about her legs, and
      surveying the struggling animals before her with some dismay.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ho, Mr. Alfred!&rdquo; said she; &ldquo;Much obliged. Miss Ann's havin' her hands
      full, I reckon?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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: &ldquo;Whet up for a
      start!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Five minutes to one,&rdquo; he said at last. &ldquo;No use in waiting much longer; 't
      isn't good to keep the hounds fretting. Any signs of anybody else?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Another plough-horse!&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pressing the handle of his riding-whip against his chin, he stared
      vacantly up the lane, muttering &ldquo;We must wait, I suppose.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His lids were lifted in wonder the next moment; he seized Ferris by the
      arm, and exclaimed:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Whom have we here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      All eyes turned in the same direction, descried a dashing horseman in the
      lane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Upon my soul I don't know,&rdquo; said Ferris. &ldquo;Anybody expected from the
      Fagg's Manor way?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not of my inviting,&rdquo; Barton answered.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      He rode a large bay gelding, poorly groomed, and apparently not remarkable
      for blood, but with no marks of harness on his rough coat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good-day to you, gentlemen!&rdquo; said the stranger, familiarly knocking the
      handle of his whip against his cocked hat. &ldquo;Squire Barton, how do you do?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How do you do, sir?&rdquo; responded Mr. Barton, instantly flattered by the
      title, to which he had no legitimate right. &ldquo;I believe,&rdquo; he added, &ldquo;you
      have the advantage of me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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,&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All right,&mdash;glad to have you join us. What did you say your name
      was?&rdquo; inquired Mr. Barton.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I didn't say what; it's Fortune,&mdash;a fortune left to me by my father,
      ha! ha! Don't care if I do&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile the other horseman had arrived from the meadow, after
      dismounting and letting down the bars, over which his horse stepped slowly
      and cautiously,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was afraid I should have been too late,&rdquo; said Gilbert; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Breaking your horse in to rough riding, eh?&rdquo; said Mr. Ferris, touching a
      neighbor with his elbow.
    </p>
    <p>
      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: &ldquo;I see&mdash;where did
      you get him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Gilbert returned the speaker's gaze a moment before he answered. &ldquo;From a
      drover,&rdquo; he then said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By the Lord!&rdquo;-ejaculated Mr. Barton, who had again conspicuously
      displayed his watch, &ldquo;it's over half-past one. Look out for the hounds,&mdash;we
      must start, if we mean to do any riding this day!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, we've got Watch, anyhow,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By George! what a fine brush!&rdquo; exclaimed Mr. Ferris.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Cast him off, Giles!&rdquo; the latter cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He's making for the rocks!&rdquo; cried Mr. Ferris; to which the stranger, who
      was now watching the animal with sharp interest, abruptly answered, &ldquo;Hold
      your tongue!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He's a cool one, he is!&rdquo; remarked Giles, admiringly.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;rider,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then Fortune turned his head, nodded approvingly to Gilbert, and muttered
      to himself: &ldquo;He's a gallant fellow,&mdash;I'll not rob him of the brush.&rdquo;
       But he laughed a short, shrill, wicked laugh the next moment.
    </p>
    <p>
      Before they reached the creek, the cry of the hounds ceased. They halted a
      moment on the bank, irresolute.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He must have gone down towards the snuff-mill,&rdquo; said Gilbert, and was
      about to change his course.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stop,&rdquo; said the stranger; &ldquo;if he has, we've lost him any way. Hark!
      hurrah!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A deep bay rang from the westward, through the forest. Gilbert shouted:
      &ldquo;The lime-quarry!&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      The chase was up; and Gilbert Potter, on his &ldquo;plough horse,&rdquo; was the only
      huntsman in at the death.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER II. &mdash; WHO SHALL HAVE THE BRUSH?
    </h2>
    <p>
      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&mdash;the uncultivated rich.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The hunt started well, but it's a poor finish,&rdquo; said one of these.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never mind!&rdquo; Mr. Ferris remarked; &ldquo;such things come by chance.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Fortune was too sharp an observer not to remark the disturbance. He cried
      out, and his words produced an instant, general sense of relief:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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'&mdash;or a 'bigger' for that
      matter&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do look where you are going, Sally!&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Whoa there, Bonnie!&rdquo; she cried. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, Gilbert!&rdquo; exclaimed Miss Sally Fairthorn, after waiting a moment for
      him to speak; &ldquo;did you really earn the brush, or beg it from one of them,
      on the way home?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Begging, you know, is my usual habit,&rdquo; he answered, mockingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know you're as proud as Lucifer, when you've a mind to be so. There!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where was the fox earthed?&rdquo; asked the other lady, after a rapid glance at
      his face.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fairly won, I must say!&rdquo; exclaimed Miss Sally Fairthorn, when the
      narrative was finished. &ldquo;And now, Gilbert, the brush?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The brush?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who's to have it, I mean. Did you never get one before, as you don't seem
      to understand?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I understand,&rdquo; said he, in an indifferent tone; &ldquo;it may be had for
      the asking.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then it's mine!&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Martha!&rdquo; cried the disappointed damsel, &ldquo;Martha! one of us must have it;
      ask him, you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; answered Martha, with her clear blue eyes fixed on Gilbert's face,
      &ldquo;I will not ask.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He returned her gaze, and his eyes seemed to say: &ldquo;Will you take it,
      knowing what the acceptance implies?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well-done, Martha!&rdquo; she exclaimed: &ldquo;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,&mdash;so!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Thereupon Sally pulled off her mittens and crossed her forefingers, an
      action which her companions understood&mdash;in combination with the
      mysterious initials&mdash;to be the rude, primitive symbol of a squint.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's enough, Gilbert,&rdquo; said Martha Deane, presently, &ldquo;go now and pick
      up the rein.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He rode back, picked it up, and handed it to Sally without speaking.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gilbert,&rdquo; she said, with a sudden demure change of tone, as they rode on
      to where Miss Deane was waiting, &ldquo;come and take supper with us, at home.
      Martha has promised. You've hardly been to see us in a month.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know how much I have to do, Sally,&rdquo; he answered. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When you've once promised, I know, oxen couldn't pull you the other way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't often see your mother, Gilbert,&rdquo; said Martha Deane; &ldquo;she is
      well?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you, Martha,&mdash;too well, and yet not well enough.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you mean?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I mean,&rdquo; he answered, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I understand you now. But you should not allow her to go on in that way;
      you should&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You'll not go with us?&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sally, I cannot!&rdquo; he answered. &ldquo;Good-night!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Gilbert found another group in &ldquo;the store&rdquo;&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where's Barton?&rdquo; Gilbert heard some one ask of Ferris, as he mounted.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In his skin!&rdquo; was the answer, &ldquo;unless he's got into that fellow
      Fortune's. They're as thick as two pickpockets!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Gilbert rode down the hill, and allowed his horse to plod leisurely across
      the muddy level, regardless of the deepening twilight.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      By this time his face was sternly set. He clinched his hands, and muttered
      to himself&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It will almost kill me to ask, but I must know, and&mdash;and she must
      tell.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God help me! I cannot ask.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER III. &mdash; MARY POTTER AND HER SON.
    </h2>
    <p>
      While Gilbert was dismounting at the gate leading into his barn-yard, he
      was suddenly accosted by a boyish voice:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Got back, have you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This was Sam, the &ldquo;bound-boy,&rdquo;&mdash;the son of a tenant on the old Carson
      place, who, in consideration of three months' schooling every winter, and
      a &ldquo;freedom suit&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Feed's in the trough,&rdquo; said he, taking hold of the bridle. &ldquo;I'll fix him.
      Better go into th' house. Tea's wanted.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;1727.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You're tired waiting, mother, I suppose?&rdquo; he said, as he hung his hat
      upon a nail over the heavy oak mantel-piece.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, not tired, Gilbert, but it's hungry <i>you'll</i> be. It won't take
      long for the tea to draw. Everything else has been ready this half-hour.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I say, how did Roger go?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mary Potter looked up, as if expecting the question to be answered, and
      Gilbert said:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He took the lead, and kept it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O cracky!&rdquo; exclaimed the delighted Sam.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then you think it's a good bargain, Gilbert. Was it a long chase? Was he
      well tried?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All right, mother. I could sell him for twenty dollars advance&mdash;even
      to Joel Ferris,&rdquo; he answered.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      After supper Sam squatted upon a stool in the corner of the fireplace, and
      resumed his reading of &ldquo;The Old English Baron,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      In half an hour's time, however, Sam's whispering ceased; his head nodded
      violently, and the book fell upon the hearth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I guess I'll go to bed,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Gilbert filliped the ink out of his pen into the fire, laid it in his
      book, and turned away from the table.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Roger has bottom,&rdquo; he said at last, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, you don't mean,&rdquo;&mdash;she commenced.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, mother. You were not for buying him, I know, and you were right,
      inasmuch as there is always <i>some</i> 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,&mdash;and it will be all the
      better for corn, as the field next to Carson's is heavy,&mdash;I can begin
      hauling the week after, and we'll have the interest by the first of April,
      without borrowing a penny.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That would be good,&mdash;very good, indeed,&rdquo; said she, dropping her
      knitting, and hesitating a moment before she continued; &ldquo;only&mdash;only,
      Gilbert, I didn't expect you would be going so soon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The sooner I begin, mother, the sooner I shall finish.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know that, Gilbert,&mdash;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&mdash;but if the money was paid once&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He spoke earnestly, turning his face full upon her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We've talked this over, often and often, but you never can make me see it
      in your way,&rdquo; he then added, in a gentler tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, Gilbert,&rdquo; she replied, somewhat bitterly, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But they are not,&rdquo;&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 <i>thought</i> was betrayed, and his heart was suddenly filled
      with a tumult of shame, pity, and fear.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>What</i> are they not? What word was on your tongue, Gilbert?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He could not answer. He could only shake his head, and bring forth a
      cowardly, evasive word,&mdash;&ldquo;Nothing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But there <i>is</i> something! Oh, I knew it must come some time!&rdquo; she
      cried, rather to herself than to him. &ldquo;Listen to me, Gilbert! Has any one
      dared to say to your face that you are basely born?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not in so many words, mother,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;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 '<i>father</i>' in your hearing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O my boy,&mdash;my boy!&rdquo; she moaned. &ldquo;Ten years?&mdash;and you believed
      it, all that time!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was silent. She leaned forward and grasped his arm.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you,&mdash;<i>do</i> you believe it? Speak, Gilbert!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When he did speak, his voice was singularly low and gentle. &ldquo;Never mind,
      mother!&rdquo; was all he could say. His head was still turned away from her,
      but she knew there were tears on his cheeks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gilbert, it is a lie!&rdquo; she exclaimed, with startling vehemence. &ldquo;A lie,&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He turned towards her, his eyes shining and his lips parted in breathless
      joy and astonishment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it&mdash;is it true?&rdquo; he whispered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;True as there is a God in Heaven.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then, mother, give me my name! Now I ask you, for the first time, who was
      my father?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That, too!&rdquo; She murmured to herself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gilbert,&rdquo; she then said, &ldquo;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,&mdash;to make you comfortable, to spare you
      trouble? Have I ever,&mdash;I'll not say acted, for nobody's judgment is
      perfect,&mdash;but tried to act otherwise than as I thought it might be
      for your good?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have done all that you could say, and more, mother.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then, my boy, is it too much for me to ask that you should believe my
      word,&mdash;that you should let it stand for the truth, without my giving
      proofs and testimonies? For, Gilbert, that I <i>must</i> ask of you, hard
      as it may seem. If you will only be content with the knowledge&mdash;: but
      then, you have felt the shame all this while; it was my fault, mine, and I
      ought to ask your forgiveness&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mother&mdash;mother!&rdquo; he interrupted, &ldquo;don't talk that way! Yes&mdash;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh,&rdquo; she moaned again, &ldquo;if my tongue was not tied&mdash;if my tongue was
      not tied! There was my fault, and what a punishment! Never&mdash;never was
      woman punished as I have been. Gilbert, whatever you do, bind yourself by
      no vow, except in the sight of men!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not understand you, mother,&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;it took no stain from him, in the eyes of
      the world. Yet, now that the painful theme had been opened,&mdash;not less
      painful, it seemed, since the suspected dishonor did not exist,&mdash;he
      craved and decided to ask, enlightenment on one point.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mother,&rdquo; he said, after a pause, &ldquo;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&mdash;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,&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her face brightened a little. &ldquo;Thank you, Gilbert!&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Yes; there
      will come a day when you shall know all,&mdash;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,&mdash;yet, maybe, for oh, I am not allowed even
      to hope for it!&mdash;maybe a few years. It will all come to the light,
      after so long&mdash;so long&mdash;an eternity. If I had but known!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She rose, placed her hands on his shoulders, and kissed him. Nothing more
      was said.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was long past midnight before he slept.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER IV. &mdash; FORTUNE AND MISFORTUNE.
    </h2>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's the talk, Squire!&rdquo; cried Fortune, giving his friend a hearty slap
      between the shoulders. &ldquo;I've seen riding in my day,&rdquo; he continued, &ldquo;both
      down in Loudon and on the Eastern Shore&mdash;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, damme,&rdquo; echoed Mr. Barton, bringing down his fist upon the bar, so
      that the glasses jumped, &ldquo;why didn't you head him off?&rdquo; Mr. Barton's face
      was suspiciously flushed, and he was more excited than the occasion
      justified.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was no answer to the question, except that which none of the young
      bucks dared to make.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I've had about enough of this,&rdquo; said Mr. Joel Ferris, turning on
      his heel; &ldquo;who's for home?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Me!&rdquo; 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:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will you have supper, gentlemen?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That depends on what you've got,&rdquo; said Fortune.
    </p>
    <p>
      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:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There's ham and eggs, and frizzled beef.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing could be better!&rdquo; Fortune exclaimed, jumping up. &ldquo;Come 'Squire&mdash;if
      I stay over Sunday with you, you must at least take supper at my expense.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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?
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They're off on a lark,&rdquo; the landlord remarked to himself, as they rode
      away, &ldquo;and it's a shame, in men of their age.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;After what I told you, 'Squire,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never fear,&rdquo; Barton answered, somewhat thickly; &ldquo;I'm an old bird,
      Fortune.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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, &ldquo;If you stir from this spot in less than one hour, you are a dead
      man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then he rode on, whistling &ldquo;Money Musk&rdquo; 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&mdash;for there were two individuals in
      his bewildered brain&mdash;would surely fulfil their threat if he stirred
      before the appointed time. What under heaven should he do?
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;Old-man
      Barton,&rdquo; as he was generally called,&mdash;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,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;come to a boil,&rdquo; when the
      old man entered, or, strictly speaking, <i>was</i> entered.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Ann&mdash;a gaunt spinster of fifty-five&mdash;had placed the coffee
      on the table, the old man looked around, and asked with a snarl: &ldquo;Where's
      Alfred?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not up yet, but you needn't wait, father.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wait?&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Kennett, meetin'?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not to-day,&rdquo; said his son, &ldquo;I've a sort of chill from yesterday.&rdquo; And he
      folded his arms and shivered very naturally.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did Ferris pay you?&rdquo; the old man again asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Y&mdash;yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where's the money?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was the question, and it must be faced. Alfred Barton worked the
      farm &ldquo;on shares,&rdquo; 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&mdash;thanks to the niggardly system enforced in the
      house&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have not the money with me,&rdquo; he answered, desperately, after a pause,
      during which he felt his father's gaze travelling over him, from head to
      foot.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why not! You haven't spent it?&rdquo; The latter question was a croaking
      shriek, which seemed to forebode, while it scarcely admitted, the
      possibility of such an enormity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I spent only four shillings, father, but&mdash;but&mdash;but the money's
      all gone!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sandy Flash robbed me on the way home,&rdquo; said the son, and now that the
      truth was out, he seemed to pluck up a little courage.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What, what, what!&rdquo; chattered the old man, incredulously; &ldquo;no lies, boy,
      no lies!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This comes o' your races and your expensive company,&rdquo; he growled, after a
      few incoherent sniffs and snarls; &ldquo;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!&mdash;and soon, that I don't lose the use of it too
      long. As for <i>your</i> 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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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,&mdash;very fair,&mdash;but I don't say you couldn't do
      as well, or, maybe, better.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I've been thinking of that, myself,&rdquo; the son replied.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't be anxious, daddy!&rdquo; said he, with assumed playfulness; &ldquo;she's not a
      girl to take the first that offers. She has a mind of her own,&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, well!&rdquo; muttered the old man, &ldquo;we'll see,&mdash;we'll see! A good
      family, too,&mdash;not that I care for that. My family's as good as the
      next. But if you let her slip, boy&rdquo;&mdash;and here he brought down the end
      of his stick with a significant whack, upon the floor. &ldquo;This I'll tell
      you,&rdquo; he added, without finishing the broken sentence, &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;perhaps until&mdash;until&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      We all know what was in his mind. Until the old man should die.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER V. &mdash; GUESTS AT FAIRTHORN'S.
    </h2>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      The front-door opened, and our old friend, Miss Betsy Lavender, walked
      into the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;The very person I
      wanted to see!&rdquo; cried Sally. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said Miss Betsy, with a snort, &ldquo;<i>that's</i> 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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There!&rdquo; 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,&mdash;&ldquo;there! now you'll do! Come into the kitchen and tell
      me the news, while I set my loaves to rise.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Loaves to rise,&rdquo; 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,&mdash;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,&mdash;Miss
      Lavender's &ldquo;keel-mark, [Footnote: Keel, a local term for red chalk.] as
      the farmers said of their sheep.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; she resumed, after taking breath, &ldquo;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,&mdash;you know
      it's low and swampy about the old house,&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Law!&rdquo; exclaimed Sally, &ldquo;what's that to me?&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothin' much, I reckon,&rdquo; the latter answered, in the most matter-of-fact
      way, &ldquo;only I thought you might like to know it, Mark bein' a neighbor,
      like, and a right-down smart young fellow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I <i>am</i> glad of it,&rdquo; said Sally, with sudden candor, &ldquo;he's
      Martha's cousin.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Martha's cousin,&mdash;and I shouldn't wonder if he'd be something more
      to her, some day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, indeed! What are you thinking of, Betsy?&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now we'll have dough-nuts,&rdquo; cried Joe.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No; 'lasses-wax!&rdquo; said Jake. &ldquo;Sally, where's mother? Dad's out at the
      wall, and Bonnie's jumpin' and prancin' like anything!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go along!&rdquo; 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&mdash;a hale, ruddy, honest figure, in
      broad-brimmed hat, brown coat and knee-breeches&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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: &ldquo;Rake the coals and cover 'em up, before going to
      bed, whatever you do!&rdquo;&mdash;they went off, deliberately, up the hill.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Miss Betsy,&rdquo; said Joe, with a very grave air, as they returned to the
      kitchen, &ldquo;I want you to tell me one thing,&mdash;whether it's true or not.
      Sally says I'm a monkey.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm a monkey,&rdquo; repeated the unconscious Miss Lavender, whereupon both
      boys burst into shrieks of laughter, and made their escape.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Much dough-nuts they'll get from me,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;Sequel,&rdquo; and Goldsmith's &ldquo;Rome,&rdquo; 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
      &ldquo;missions&rdquo; in those days; it was fifty or sixty years before the formation
      of the &ldquo;Kennett Psychological Society,&rdquo; and &ldquo;Pamela,&rdquo; &ldquo;Rasselas,&rdquo; and
      &ldquo;Joseph Andrews,&rdquo; were lent and borrowed, as at present &ldquo;Consuelo,&rdquo;
       Buckle, Ruskin, and &ldquo;Enoch Arden.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;herring-bone&rdquo; stitch, a sharp zigzag spray of rose-buds,
      and the following stanza, placed directly underneath the harp and willow:&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
  &ldquo;By Babel's streams we Sat and Wept
     When Zion we thought on;
   For Grief thereof, we Hang our Harp
     The Willow Tree upon.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      Across the bottom of the sampler was embroidered the inscription: &ldquo;Done by
      Sarah Ann Fairthorn, May, 1792, in the 16th year of her age.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Miss Betsy!&rdquo; was his breathless exclamation, &ldquo;Jake! the cherry-tree!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Lord have mercy!&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      She walked unsteadily back to the house. &ldquo;It's given me such a turn,&rdquo; she
      said to Sally, after describing the trick, &ldquo;that I dunno when I'll get
      over it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;would never do such a wicked thing again.&rdquo; Their
      behavior, for the rest of the evening, was irreproachable.
    </p>
    <p>
      Just as candles were being lighted, there was another step on the porch,
      and the door opened on Martha Deane.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm <i>so</i> glad!&rdquo; cried Sally. &ldquo;Never mind your pattens, Martha; Joe
      shall carry them into the kitchen. Come, let me take off your cloak and
      hat.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Martha's coming seemed to restore the fading daylight. Not boisterous or
      impulsive, like Sally, her nature burned with a bright and steady flame,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Joe and Jake came forward with a half-shy delight, to welcome &ldquo;Cousin
      Martha,&rdquo; as she was called in the Fairthorn household, her mother and
      Sally's father having been &ldquo;own&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mark is to put up Barton's new wagon-house, I hear, Martha.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; Martha answered; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sally pricked up her ears. &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo; asked Miss Betsy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, now!&rdquo; Miss Betsy exclaimed, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now pare your peels in one piece, girls,&rdquo; Miss Betsy advised, &ldquo;and then
      whirl 'em to find the <i>initials</i> o' your sweethearts' names.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You, too, Miss Betsy!&rdquo; cried Sally, &ldquo;we must find out the widower's
      name!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The widower's name,&rdquo; Miss Betsy gravely repeated, as she took a knife.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who's A?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alfred!&rdquo; said Sally. &ldquo;Now, Martha, here's yours&mdash;an S, no it's a G!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The curl is the wrong way,&rdquo; said Martha, gravely, &ldquo;it's a figure 3; so, I
      have three of them, have I?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And mine,&rdquo; Sally continued, &ldquo;is a W!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sally snatched it up in affected vexation, and threw it into the fire.
      &ldquo;Oh, I know a new way!&rdquo; she cried; &ldquo;did you ever try it, Martha&mdash;with
      the key and the Bible!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Old as the hills, but awful sure,&rdquo; remarked Miss Lavender. &ldquo;When it's
      done serious, it's never been known to fail.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, Martha,&rdquo; said Sally, &ldquo;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.'&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;as
      she knew how,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Martha picked it up with a quiet smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is easy to see who was in <i>your</i> mind, Sally,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Now let
      me tell your fortune: we will begin at L&mdash;it will save time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Save time,&rdquo; said Miss Lavender, rising. &ldquo;Have it out betwixt and between
      you, girls: I'm a-goin' to bed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Martha,&rdquo; said Sally, after an interval of silence, &ldquo;did you think I <i>made</i>
      the Bible turn at G?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think you thought it would turn, and therefore it did. Gilbert Potter
      was in your mind, of course.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And not in yours, Martha?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I certainly was beginning to think that you liked Gilbert,&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So I do. Anybody may know that who cares for the information.&rdquo; And Martha
      laughed cheerfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Would you say so to Gilbert himself?&rdquo; Sally timidly suggested.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly; but why should he ask? I like a great many young men.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Martha!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Sally!&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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. <i>He</i> 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sally,&rdquo; said Martha, in a tender whisper, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER VI. &mdash; THE NEW GILBERT.
    </h2>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;after such endless, endless submission and suffering&mdash;the
      Event which should set her free.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;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&mdash;oh,
      how she had hoped!&mdash;that he might be spared the knowledge of it.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;but, fortunately, every earnest struggle is
      towards the light, and it now began to dawn upon him.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 <i>he</i> 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now that the brand <i>was</i> 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now,&mdash;although his uncertainty was as great as ever,&mdash;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,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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: &ldquo;I will see if there be love in woman as in
      man!&mdash;love that takes no note of birth or station, but, once having
      found its mate, is faithful from first to last.&rdquo; 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:
      &ldquo;Perhaps it is cruel, but I cannot spare her the trial.&rdquo; He was prouder
      than he knew,&mdash;but we must remember all that he endured.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;which, like his mother, he could not yet feel,&mdash;his
      future, in a material sense, was assured.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good-day, Deborah!&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;if you are going my way, I can give you a
      lift.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He calls me 'Deborah,'&rdquo; she muttered to herself; then aloud&mdash;&ldquo;Ay,
      and thank ye, Mr. Gilbert.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Which way?&rdquo; asked Gilbert.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your'n, as far as you go,&mdash;always providin' you takes me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course, Deborah, you're welcome. I have no load, you see.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mighty clever in you, Mr. Gilbert; but you always was one o' the clever
      ones. Them as thinks themselves better born&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, Deborah, none of that!&rdquo; he exclaimed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ax your pardon,&rdquo; 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,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'Tisn't much difference what <i>I</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 <i>that</i>
      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>I</i> say it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Deborah,&rdquo; he said, after a pause, &ldquo;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,&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, you're a man!&rdquo; she cried. &ldquo;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!&rdquo; She bared her right arm&mdash;hard,
      knitted muscle from wrist to shoulder&mdash;and clenched her fist. &ldquo;What's
      that for?&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She took a bottle out of her pocket, and offered it to Gilbert. When he
      refused, she simply said: &ldquo;You're right!&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, Deborah,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;you shall stop and have some supper, before you
      go any farther.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm obliged, all the same,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The horses had stopped to drink at the creek. He gave her his right hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      She held it in hers a moment, gazing intently on the palm. Then she bent
      her head and blew upon it gently, three times.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never mind: it's my fancy,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER VII. &mdash; OLD KENNETT MEETING.
    </h2>
    <p>
      On the Sunday succeeding his return, Gilbert Potter proposed to his mother
      that they should attend the Friends' Meeting at Old Kennett.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;the plain speech&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;Friends' ceremony,&rdquo; 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
      &ldquo;great cross&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;the world's people,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;Sam having been sent off on a
      visit to his father, with the house-key in his pocket&mdash;the mother and
      son took the road up the creek.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;heavy, cumbrous &ldquo;chairs,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now and then exchanging grave but kindly nods with their acquaintances,
      they rode slowly along the level upland, past the Anvil Tavern, through
      Logtown,&mdash;a cluster of primitive cabins at the junction of the
      Wilmington Road,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;the moving of
      a foot, the drawing forth of a pocket-handkerchief, the lifting or
      lowering of a head,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      After another interval of silence, the two oldest men reached their hands
      to each other,&mdash;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,
      &ldquo;How does thee do?&rdquo; to each other, in subdued voices, and there was a
      conscientious shaking of hands all around before they dared to indulge in
      much conversation.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;as is generally the case in religious
      sects of a rigid and clannish character&mdash;were by no means handsome.
      Their faces all bore the stamp of <i>repression</i>, 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;women-friends&rdquo; to turn their heads in grave
      astonishment. Mother Fairthorn, with her bright, round face, followed, and
      then&mdash;serene and strong in her gentle, symmetrical loveliness&mdash;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&mdash;a
      young giant with curly yellow locks, and a broad, laughing mouth&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, Mary,&rdquo; said Mother Fairthorn, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Cousin Martha says we're to go on; she'll ride with Gilbert.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you do well by your hauling, Gilbert,&rdquo; she asked, &ldquo;and are you now
      home for the summer?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Until after corn-planting,&rdquo; he answered. &ldquo;Then I must take two or three
      weeks, as the season turns out. I am not able to give up my team yet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you soon will be, I hope. It must be very lonely for your mother to
      be on the farm without you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      These words touched him gratefully, and led him to a candid openness of
      speech which he would not otherwise have ventured,&mdash;not from any
      inherent lack of candor, but from a reluctance to speak of himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's it, Martha,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you have a father!&rdquo; 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,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;and I am very grateful that he is spared; but we seem to
      belong most to our mothers.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is the truth,&rdquo; he said firmly, lifting his head with the impulse of
      his recovered pride, and meeting her eyes without flinching. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Martha Deane had always, as she confessed to Sally, <i>liked</i> 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,&mdash;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?
    </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;for my father's sake,&rdquo; steadfastly declined. Mark,
      however, took her place, but there never had been, or could be, too many
      guests at the Fairthorn table.
    </p>
    <p>
      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, &ldquo;who loves, teases,&rdquo; and was too inexperienced, as yet, to
      have discovered the fact for herself.
    </p>
    <p>
      Presently they all sat down to dinner, and after the first solemn quiet,&mdash;no
      one venturing to eat or speak until the plates of all had been heaped with
      a little of everything upon the table,&mdash;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,&mdash;he was to have the
      building of Hallowell's barn.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER VIII. &mdash; AT DR. DEANE'S.
    </h2>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      There were two front doors, side by side,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;an innovation at that
      time,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;even for a man,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just home, father? How did thee leave Dinah Passmore?&rdquo; asked Martha, as
      she untied the strings of her beaver.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Better,&rdquo; he answered, turning from the window; &ldquo;but, Martha, who did I
      see thee riding with?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Does thee mean Gilbert Potter?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do,&rdquo; he said, and paused. Martha, with her cloak over her arm and
      bonnet in her hand, in act to leave the room, waited, saying,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, father?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So frank and serene was her bearing, that the old man felt both relieved
      and softened.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I suppose it happened so,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't think, father,&rdquo; she slowly answered, &ldquo;there is anything against
      Gilbert Potter's life or character, except that which is no just reproach
      to <i>him</i>.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'The sins of the parents shall be visited upon the children, even to the
      third and fourth generation.' That is enough, Martha.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      During her absence another conversation had taken place.
    </p>
    <p>
      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:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Doctor! Judge not that ye be not judged.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thee may think as thee pleases, Betsy,&rdquo; said he, rather sharply: &ldquo;it's
      thy nature, I believe, to take everybody's part.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Put yourself in his place,&rdquo; she continued,&mdash;&ldquo;remember them that's in
      bonds as bound with 'em,&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Dr. Deane did not notice this thrust: it was not his habit to get angry.
      &ldquo;Put <i>thyself</i> in <i>my</i> place, Betsy,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;He's a worthy
      young man, in some respects, I grant thee, but would thee like <i>thy</i>
      daughter to be seen riding home beside him from Meeting? It's one thing
      speaking for thyself, and another for thy daughter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thy daughter!&rdquo; she repeated. &ldquo;Old or young can't make any difference, as
      I see.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;the present of a Virginia Friend, whose acquaintance he had
      made at Yearly Meeting,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Suddenly Miss Betsy lifted up her head and exclaimed, &ldquo;Well, I never!&rdquo; As
      she did so, there was a knock at the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come in!&rdquo; 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&mdash;topaz, agate, and cornelian&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mark isn't at home, I see,&rdquo; said Mr. Barton, after having taken his seat
      in the centre of the room: &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, and we're all greatly obliged to thee, as well as Mark,&rdquo; said the
      Doctor. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo; he asked, in a faint voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good heavens!&rdquo; exclaimed Mr. Barton, starting from his chair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now's your chance,&rdquo; said Miss Betsy. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But he must have many secret friends,&rdquo; said Martha, &ldquo;if what I have heard
      is true,&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take his money. That's a fact,&rdquo; remarked Miss Betsy, &ldquo;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&mdash;and General Washin'ton's cook took one of 'em, but that's
      neither here nor there&mdash;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,'&mdash;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>I</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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Seriously, Alfred,&rdquo; said Dr. Deane, cutting Miss Betsy short before she
      had half expressed her sentiments, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you think so?&rdquo; Barton replied, with an irrepressible reluctance,
      around which he strove to throw an air of modesty. &ldquo;That would be the
      proper way, certainly, but I,&mdash;I don't know,&mdash;that is, I can't
      flatter myself that I'm the best man to undertake it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It requires some courage, you know,&rdquo; Martha remarked, and her glance made
      him feel very uncomfortable, &ldquo;and you are too dashing a fox-hunter not to
      have that. Perhaps the stranger who rode with you to Avondale&mdash;what
      was his name?&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he said, with a forced laugh, rushing desperately into the opposite
      extreme, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then, do thee do what I've recommended. It may be, as thee says, that the
      being prepared is all that is necessary,&rdquo; remarked Dr. Deane.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is that all?&rdquo; she asked, when a list of some eighteen persons had been
      suggested. Involuntarily, she looked at Miss Betsy Lavender.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, indeed!&rdquo; cried the latter. &ldquo;There's Jabez Travilla, up on the ridge,
      and Gilbert Potter, down at the mill.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;H'm, yes; what does thee say, Alfred?&rdquo; asked the Doctor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps thee had better exercise thy own judgment there,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was the feeling which made Alfred Barton uncomfortable in the
      presence of Martha Deane,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What are you reading, Miss Martha?&rdquo; he asked, after a long and somewhat
      awkward pause.
    </p>
    <p>
      She handed him the book in reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! Hannah More,&mdash;a friend of yours? Is she one of the
      West-Whiteland Moores?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Martha could not suppress a light, amused laugh, as she answered: &ldquo;Oh, no,
      she is an English woman.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then it's a Tory book,&rdquo; said he, handing it back; &ldquo;I wouldn't read it, if
      I was you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is a story, and I should think you might.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He heard other words than those she spoke. &ldquo;As Tory as&mdash;what?&rdquo; he
      asked himself. &ldquo;As I am,&rdquo; of course; that is what she means. &ldquo;Old-man
      Barton&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Mr. Alfred, and do <i>you</i> 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 <i>do</i> read?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not much of anything, that's a fact,&rdquo; he answered, recovering himself,
      with a shudder at the fearful mistake he had been on the point of making,
      &ldquo;but I've nothing against women reading stories. I was rather thinking of
      myself when I spoke to you, Miss Martha.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So I supposed,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hallo, Alf! Where from now? Why, you're as fine as a fiddler!&rdquo; cried Mr.
      Joel Ferris, who was fast becoming familiar, on the strength of his
      inheritance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Over the way,&rdquo; answered the landlord, with a wink and a jerk of his
      thumb.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Ferris whistled, and one of the others suggested: &ldquo;He must stand a
      treat, on that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, I say!&rdquo; said the former, &ldquo;how is it you're coming away so soon in
      the evening?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I went very early in the afternoon,&rdquo; Barton answered, with a mysterious,
      meaning smile, as much as to say: &ldquo;It's all right; I know what I'm about.&rdquo;
       Then he added aloud,&mdash;&ldquo;Step up, fellows; what'll you have?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is much easier to start a report, than to counteract it, when once
      started; but the first, only, was his business.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      The old man heard it, and chuckled under his coverlet.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER IX. &mdash; THE RAISING.
    </h2>
    <p>
      Steadily and serenely the Spring advanced. Old people shook their heads
      and said: &ldquo;It will be April, this year, that comes in like a lamb and goes
      out like a lion,&rdquo;&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      By the twentieth of April the young white-oak leaves were the size of a
      squirrel's ear,&mdash;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&mdash;as it does to this day&mdash;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,&mdash;and even the
      golden promise held out by &ldquo;the Backwoods,&rdquo; as the new States of Ohio and
      Kentucky were then called, tempted very few to leave their homes.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;better here than elsewhere&mdash;here,
      where every scene was dear and familiar, and every object that met his eye
      gave a mute, gentle sense of consolation.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;if we
      must confess a universal if somewhat humiliating truth&mdash;so much the
      more a man in courage and determination.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;a full hand,&rdquo;&mdash;this was the
      <i>toga virilis,</i> which, once entitled to wear, would make him feel
      that he was any man's equal.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the midst of the haying, however, came a message which he could not
      disregard,&mdash;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.
      &ldquo;Be sure and come!&rdquo; were Mark's closing words&mdash;&ldquo;there's to be both
      dinner and supper, and the girls are to be on hand!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was the custom to prepare the complete frame of a barn&mdash;sills,
      plates, girders, posts, and stays&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;good providers,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;&ldquo;Give
      me a dozen more such shoulders and arms as yours, and I'll make the
      timbers spin!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;A wonderful hay-day,&rdquo; 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&mdash;really, and
      not in an oratorical sense,&mdash;the proudest day of his life.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      It would require a Homeric catalogue to describe the dinner. To say that
      the table &ldquo;groaned,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      After the slight rest which nature enforced&mdash;though far less than
      nature demanded, after such a meal&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look out! there they come!&rdquo; cried a watcher.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who is it?&rdquo; was asked from below.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where's Barton? He ought to be on hand,&mdash;it's Martha Deane,&mdash;and
      Sally with her; they always ride together.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;the
      latter having immediately gone forward to take charge of the horses,&mdash;had
      subsided. Leaning on the handspike, he panted,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We may be in the way, now&mdash;shall we go in?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mark responded,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed!&rdquo; Sally Fairthorn exclaimed. &ldquo;But we have work to do as well as
      you. If you men can't get along without admiring spectators, we girls
      can.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You're in time!&rdquo; cried Joe, clapping his hands in great glee. &ldquo;I was
      awfully afeard he'd let go before I could git down to see him fall. Look
      quick&mdash;he can't hold on much longer!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You wicked, wicked boy!&rdquo; exclaimed Sally, turning to Joe, &ldquo;what have you
      been doing?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh,&rdquo; he answered, jerking and twisting with fearful delight, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Gilbert Potter, sitting beside Mark,&mdash;the two were mutually drawn
      towards each other, without knowing or considering why,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gilbert,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;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&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Put me down, of course!&rdquo; Gilbert interrupted, immensely relieved to find
      how wide his suspicions had fallen from the mark. &ldquo;That would be a more
      stirring chase than our last; it is a shame and a disgrace that he is
      still at large.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How many have we now?&rdquo; asked Mark, who was walking on the other side of
      Barton.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Twenty-one, with Gilbert,&rdquo; the latter replied.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, as Sandy is said to count equal to twenty, we can meet him evenly,
      and have one to spare,&rdquo; laughed Mark.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Has any one here ever seen the fellow?&rdquo; asked Gilbert. &ldquo;We ought to know
      his marks.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He's short, thick-set, with a red face, jet-black hair, add heavy
      whiskers,&rdquo; said Barton.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jet-black hair!&rdquo; Mark exclaimed; &ldquo;why, it's red as brick-dust! And I
      never heard that he wore whiskers.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pshaw! what was I thinking of? Red, of course&mdash;I meant red, all the
      time,&rdquo; Barton hastily assented, inwardly cursing himself for a fool. It
      was evident that the less he conversed about Sandy Flash, the better.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gilbert&mdash;Gilbert! now is your chance to engage Martha for the
      Virginia reel!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let me choose my own partners, Sally!&rdquo; he said, so sternly, that she
      opened wide her black eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Martha!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will you dance with me now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Am I your choice, or Sally's, Gilbert? I overheard your very independent
      remark.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mine!&rdquo; 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,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then I accept.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They took their places, and the interminable Virginia reel&mdash;under
      which name the old-fashioned Sir Roger de Coverley was known&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You, also, seem tired, Gilbert,&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes&mdash;no!&rdquo; 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,&mdash;&ldquo;Martha,
      do you know what people say about Alfred Barton and yourself?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It would make no difference if I did,&rdquo; she answered; &ldquo;people will say
      anything.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But is it&mdash;is it true?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is what true?&rdquo; she quietly asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That he is to marry you!&rdquo; The words were said, and he would have given
      his life to recall them. He dropped his head, not daring to meet her eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gilbert Potter,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;what right have you to ask me such a
      question?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have no right&mdash;none,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Martha!&rdquo; cried the latter, hot and indignant, &ldquo;what is the matter with
      Gilbert? He is behaving shamefully; I saw him just now turn away from you
      as if you were a&mdash;a shock of corn. And the way he snapped me up&mdash;it
      is really outrageous!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It <i>seems</i> so, truly,&rdquo; said Martha. But she knew that Gilbert Potter
      loved her, and with what a love.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER X. &mdash; THE RIVALS.
    </h2>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I knowed ye'd want a hand,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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: &ldquo;I only blab what I choose, and what's locked up, <i>is</i>
      locked up.&rdquo; This was true; she was the greatest distributor of news, and
      the closest receptacle of secrets&mdash;anomalous as the two characters
      may seem&mdash;that ever blessed a country community.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You'll perhaps say it's all my fancy, Betsy,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Miss Betsy mused awhile, with an unusual gravity on her long face. &ldquo;I
      dunno,&rdquo; she remarked, at length; &ldquo;I've noticed that some men have their
      vapors and tantrums, jist as some women have, and Gilbert's of an age to&mdash;well,
      Mary, has the thought of his marryin' ever come into your head?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No!&rdquo; exclaimed Mary Potter, with almost a frightened air.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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,&mdash;you set so much store by Gilbert, and it's
      natural, like, that you should want to have him all to y'rself,&mdash;but
      a man shall leave his father and mother and cleave unto his wife,&mdash;or
      somethin' like it. Yes, I say it, although nobody clove unto me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed, Mary,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;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&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Something in this homely speech touched Mary Potter's heart, and gave her
      the relief of tears. &ldquo;Betsy,&rdquo; she said at last, &ldquo;I have had a heavy burden
      to bear, and it has made me weak.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Made me weak,&rdquo; Miss Betsy repeated. &ldquo;And no wonder. Don't think I can't
      guess that, Mary.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mary,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;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' <i>me</i> anything can
      help, tell it&mdash;not before.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It wouldn't help now,&rdquo; Mary Potter responded.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In her own mysterious way, Miss Betsy succeeded in imparting a good deal
      of comfort to Mary Potter. She promised &ldquo;to keep Gilbert under her eyes,&rdquo;&mdash;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:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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 <i>him</i> alone. There's no danger&mdash;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&mdash;and so, good-bye to you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;to choose a
      competent leader, and submit to his management&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Barton's horse was hitched beside Gilbert's, and as the two were mounting,
      the former said,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Old-man Barton&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Father, this is Gilbert Potter,&rdquo; said Mr. Alfred, introducing his guest.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What Gilbert Potter?&rdquo; he croaked.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Alfred bit his lips, and looked both embarrassed and annoyed. But he
      could do no less than say,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mary Potter's son.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;&ldquo;Looks like her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In at the Doctor's, boy?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A few minutes, daddy, before we came together.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;See her? Was she at home?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; came very shortly from Mr. Alfred's lips; he clenched his fists
      under the table-cloth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's right, boy; stick up to her!&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;half-Indian&rdquo; bread with a choking sensation. He
      had but one desire,&mdash;to get away from the room, out of human sight
      and hearing.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When are we to wish you joy, Barton?&rdquo; he asked, in a cold, hard voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      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:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, it's a joke of the old man's&mdash;don't mean anything.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It seems to be a joke of the whole neighborhood, then; I have heard it
      from others.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you?&rdquo; Barton eagerly asked. &ldquo;Do people talk about it much? What do
      they say?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Suddenly he stopped, faced the latter, and said, in a stern voice: &ldquo;I must
      know, first, whether you are betrothed to Martha Deane.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His manner was so unexpectedly solemn and peremptory that Barton, startled
      from his self-possession, stammered,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;N-no: that is, not yet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Another pause. Barton, curious to know how far gossip had already gone,
      repeated the question:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, what do people say?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Some, that you and she will be married,&rdquo; Gilbert answered, speaking
      slowly and with difficulty, &ldquo;and some that you won't. Which are right?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Damme, if <i>I</i> know!&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I say, Gilbert,&rdquo; Barton presently remarked, walking on towards the bars
      which led into the meadow-field; &ldquo;it's time you were looking around in
      that way, hey?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It will be time enough when I am out of debt.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you ought, now, to have a wife in your house.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have a mother, Barton.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's true, Gilbert. Just as I have a father. The old man's queer, as
      you saw&mdash;kept me out of marrying; when I was young, and now drives me
      to it. I might ha' had children grown&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good-bye!&rdquo; he said, offering his hand with greater ease than he would
      have thought possible, fifteen minutes sooner.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good-bye, Gilbert! Take care of Roger. Sandy Flash has a fine piece of
      horse-flesh, but you beat him once&mdash;Damnation! You <i>could</i> beat
      him, I mean. If he comes within ten miles of us, I'll have the summonses
      out in no time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;the slow
      result of labor&mdash;even the painful store of memories which the years
      had crowded in his brain&mdash;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,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would lie down and die at her feet, if that could make her happy; but
      how to live, and live without her?&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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
      &ldquo;independent girl,&rdquo; 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&mdash;nay, forced by circumstances&mdash;to apply?
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XI. &mdash; GUESTS AT POTTER'S.
    </h2>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What upon earth is that?&rdquo; she cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's the best wash-tub, I do declare!&rdquo; said Sally; &ldquo;whatever have they
      been doing with it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You bad boys, what shall I do with you?&rdquo; cried Mother Fairthorn. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll go,&rdquo; said Sally, &ldquo;but Gilbert don't deserve it. The way he snapped
      me up at Hallowell's&mdash;and he hasn't been here since!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't be hard on him, Sally!&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was Mark and Martha Deane, who presently drew rein, one on either side
      of her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't ride fast, please,&rdquo; Sally begged; &ldquo;<i>I</i> can't, for fear of
      smashing the pears. Where are you going?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To Falconer's,&rdquo; Martha replied; &ldquo;Fanny promised to lend me some new
      patterns; but I had great trouble in getting Mark to ride with me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not, if you will ride along, Sally,&rdquo; Mark rejoined. &ldquo;We'll go with you
      first, and then you'll come with us. What do you say, Martha?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll answer for Martha!&rdquo; cried Sally; &ldquo;I am going to Potter's, and it's
      directly on your way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just the thing,&rdquo; said Mark; &ldquo;I have a little business with Gilbert.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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!
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How kind of you&mdash;all&mdash;to come!&rdquo; said Gilbert, feeling that his
      voice expressed too much, and his words too little.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The credit of coming is not mine, Gilbert,&rdquo; she answered. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are the first to say so; I shall always remember that!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You could not have found a lovelier home, M&mdash;Mary,&rdquo; said Martha,
      terrified to think how near the words &ldquo;Mrs. Potter&rdquo; had been to her lips.
      But she had recovered herself so promptly that the hesitation was not
      noticed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Many people think the house ought to be upon the road,&rdquo; Mary Potter
      replied, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mother is a little impatient,&rdquo; said Gilbert, &ldquo;and perhaps I am also. But
      if we have health, it won't be very long to wait.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's a thing soon learned!&rdquo; cried Mark. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh Mark! that isn't right.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No!&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, Gilbert!&rdquo; exclaimed Sally.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I mean,&rdquo; he said, striving to collect his thoughts, &ldquo;that there is
      something more than property&rdquo;&mdash;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:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall not feel satisfied until I am cured of my own impatience&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then you've got a job!&rdquo; Mark laughed. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mark's thoughtlessness was as good as tact. They all laughed heartily at
      his odd continuation of the simile, and Martha hastened to say:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And tell nothing,&rdquo; gravely repeated Mark, whereat no one could repress a
      smile, and Sally laughed outright.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is not a better or kinder-hearted woman in the county,&rdquo; she said,
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You could not give Betsy a higher place than she deserves,&rdquo; Martha
      answered. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sally felt rebuked, and exclaimed tearfully, with her usual impetuous
      candor,&mdash;&ldquo;Now you know I meant no harm; it was all Mark's doing!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you've anything against me, Sally, I forgive you for it. It isn't in
      my nature to bear malice,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was now time for the guests to leave, but Mary Potter must first
      produce her cakes and currant-wine,&mdash;the latter an old and highly
      superior article, for there had been, alas! too few occasions which called
      for its use.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gilbert,&rdquo; said Mark, as they moved towards the gate, &ldquo;why can't you catch
      and saddle Roger, and ride with us? You have nothing to do?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No; I would like&mdash;but where are you going?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To Falconer's; that is, the girls; but we won't stay for supper&mdash;I
      don't fancy quality company.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nor I,&rdquo; said Gilbert, with a gloomy face. &ldquo;I have never visited
      Falconer's, and they might not thank you for introducing me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He looked at Martha, as he spoke. She understood him, and gave him her
      entire sympathy and pity,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mark, however, cut through the embarrassment. &ldquo;I'll tell you what,
      Gilbert!&rdquo; he exclaimed, &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Five minutes will be enough for us, Mark,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I'm not much
      acquainted with Fanny Falconer. So, Gilbert, hoist Martha into her saddle,
      and go for Roger.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mother,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;I am going to ride a little way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She looked at him wistfully and questioningly, as if she would fain have
      asked more; but only said,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Won't you be home to supper, Gilbert?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can't tell, but don't wait a minute, if I'm not here when it's ready.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He turned quickly, as if fearful of a further question, and the next
      moment was in the saddle.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XII. &mdash; THE EVENTS OF AN EVENING.
    </h2>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      No man, to whom Nature has granted her highest gift,&mdash;that of
      expression,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;words
      swift, clear, and hot as lightning, through which his heart might
      discharge itself&mdash;haunted him like a furious hunger.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;chair&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was not long&mdash;though the wood on the western hill already threw
      its shadow into the glen&mdash;before the sound of voices and hoofs
      emerged from the lane. Sally's remark reached him first:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's a fact!&rdquo; said Mark. &ldquo;Hallo, here's Gilbert, ahead of us!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I say, Gilbert!&rdquo; he cried, turning back in his saddle, &ldquo;I'll hold <i>you</i>
      responsible for Martha's head; it's as much as <i>I</i> can do to keep
      Sally's on her shoulders.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The warning is unnecessary,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;You will give me no chance to take
      care of you, Martha.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it not better so?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      He hesitated; he would have said &ldquo;No,&rdquo; but finally evaded a direct answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would be glad enough to do you a service&mdash;even so little as that,&rdquo;
       were his words, and the tender tone in which they were spoken made itself
      evident to his own ears.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't doubt it, Gilbert,&rdquo; she answered, so kindly and cordially that he
      was smitten to the heart. Had she faltered in her reply,&mdash;had she
      blushed and kept silence,&mdash;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!
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile, the wonderful glamour of her presence&mdash;that irresistible
      influence which at once takes hold of body and spirit&mdash;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&mdash;he could stretch out his hand
      and touch her; his heart sprang towards her, his arms ached for very
      yearning to clasp her,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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?
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      To seize it and bring Roger to a stand was the work of an instant. &ldquo;What
      is the matter, Martha?&rdquo; he cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think the girth is broken,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;The saddle is loose, and I was
      nigh losing my balance. Thank you, I can sit steadily now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Gilbert sprang to the ground and hastened to her assistance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, it is broken,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;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&mdash;so!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;all, and more than all, that words could have
      expressed&mdash;was now said, without words. His kiss clung as if it were
      the last this side of death&mdash;clung until he felt that Martha feebly
      strove to be released.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next minute they stood side by side, and Gilbert, by a revulsion
      equally swift and overpowering, burst into a passion of tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      He turned and leaned his head against Roger's neck. Presently a light
      touch came upon his shoulder.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gilbert!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He faced her then, and saw that her own cheeks were wet. &ldquo;Martha!&rdquo; he
      cried, &ldquo;unless you love me with a love like mine for you, you can never
      forgive me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She came nearer; she laid her arms around him, and lifted her face to his.
      Then she said, in a tender, tremulous whisper,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gilbert&mdash;Gilbert! I forgive you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Forever, Martha?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Forever.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Knowing what I am?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because I know what you are, Gilbert!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He bowed his head upon her shoulder, and she felt softer tears&mdash;tears
      which came this time without sound or pang&mdash;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&mdash;the knowledge of the boundless
      bounty which her love brings with it&mdash;opened upon her consciousness.
      A swift instinct revealed to her the painful struggles of Gilbert's life,&mdash;the
      stern, reticent strength they had developed,&mdash;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,&mdash;firm as steel, yet gentle as dew, patient and
      passionate, and purposely cold only to guard the sanctity of his emotions.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;May the Lord bless you, as you have blessed me!&rdquo; he said, solemnly.
      &ldquo;Martha, did you guess this before?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she answered, &ldquo;I felt that it must be so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you did not draw back from me&mdash;you did not shun the thought of
      me! You were&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      He paused; was there not blessing enough, or must he curiously question
      its growth?
    </p>
    <p>
      Martha, however, understood the thought in his mind. &ldquo;No, Gilbert!&rdquo; she
      said, &ldquo;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 <i>do</i> 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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Martha,&rdquo; 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,&mdash;&ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The delicate line of her upper lip grew clear and firm again, temporarily
      losing its relaxed gentleness. &ldquo;I have thought of it,&rdquo; she answered, &ldquo;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&mdash;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)&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;and he would.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Martha,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;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,&mdash;I could not urge my mother, nor
      even ask her to explain&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no, Gilbert! Spare <i>her!&rdquo;</i> Martha interrupted.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I <i>have,</i> Martha,&mdash;God bless you for the words!&mdash;and I <i>will</i>;
      it would be the worst wickedness not to be patient, now! But I have not
      yet told you&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      A loud halloo rang through the dusk.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is Mark's voice,&rdquo; said Martha; &ldquo;answer him!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;Did you lose the
      road?&rdquo; &ldquo;Whatever kept you so long?&rdquo; were the simultaneous questions.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My girth broke in jumping over the tree,&rdquo; Martha answered, in her clear,
      untroubled voice. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take my breast-strap,&rdquo; said Mark.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said Gilbert, &ldquo;I can ride Roger bareback, if need be, with the
      saddle on my shoulder.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, you two are cheerful company!&rdquo; exclaimed Sally, as they checked
      their horses. &ldquo;Martha, how many words has Gilbert spoken to you this
      evening?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As many as I have spoken to him,&rdquo; Martha answered; &ldquo;but I will say three
      more,&mdash;Good-night, Gilbert!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good-night!&rdquo; was all he dared say, in return, but the pressure of his
      hand burned long upon her fingers.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You've not had supper?&rdquo; Mary Potter asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, mother! but I'm sorry you kept things waiting; I can do well enough
      without.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's not right to go without your regular meals, Gilbert. Sit up to the
      table!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mother!&rdquo; he said at last, &ldquo;I have something to tell you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, Gilbert?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Maybe it'll seem good news to you; but maybe not. I have asked Martha
      Deane to be my wife!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He paused, and looked at her. She clasped her hands, leaned forward, and
      fixed her dark, mournful eyes intently upon his face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have been drawn towards her for a long time,&rdquo; Gilbert continued. &ldquo;It
      has been a great trouble to me, because she is so pretty, and withal so
      proud in the way a girl should be,&mdash;I liked her pride, even while it
      made me afraid,&mdash;and they say she is rich also. It might seem like
      looking too high, mother, but I couldn't help it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There's no woman too high for you, Gilbert!&rdquo; Mary Potter exclaimed. Then
      she went on, in a hurried, unsteady voice: &ldquo;It isn't that&mdash;I
      mistrusted it would come so, some day, but I hoped&mdash;only for your
      good, my boy, only for that&mdash;I hoped not so soon. You're still young&mdash;not
      twenty-five, and there's debt on the farm;&mdash;couldn't you ha' waited a
      little, Gilbert?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have waited, mother,&rdquo; he said, slightly turning away his head, that he
      might not see the tender reproach in her face, which her question seemed
      to imply. &ldquo;I <i>did</i> wait&mdash;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&mdash;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 <i>me,</i> mother! I was nigh
      crazy, sometimes. I tried my best and bravest to be patient, but to-day we
      were riding alone,&mdash;Mark and Sally gone ahead,&mdash;and&mdash;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Gilbert waited, as if his mother might here speak, but she remained
      silent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you understand, mother?&rdquo; he continued. &ldquo;She pledged herself to me&mdash;she
      will be my wife. And I asked her&mdash;you won't be hurt, for I felt it to
      be my duty&mdash;whether she knew how disgraced I was in the eyes of the
      people,&mdash;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,&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was no answer. Gilbert looked up.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XIII. &mdash; TWO OLD MEN.
    </h2>
    <p>
      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
      &ldquo;Old-man Barton,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who's there?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Dr. Deane entered, smiling, and redolent of sweet-marjoram. &ldquo;Well, Friend
      Barton,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;let's have a look at thee now!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Better, I should say,&mdash;yes, decidedly better,&rdquo; he remarked, nodding
      his head gravely. &ldquo;I had nothing to do this afternoon,&mdash;the
      neighborhood is very healthy,&mdash;and thought I would ride down and see
      how thee's getting on. Only a friendly visit, thee knows.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A friendly visit&mdash;ay!&rdquo; he growled&mdash;&ldquo;not like Doctors' visits
      generally, eh? Better?&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No doubt, no doubt!&rdquo; the Doctor assented. &ldquo;Especially in thy case. I
      often speak of thy wonderful constitution.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Neighborly, you say, Doctor&mdash;only neighborly?&rdquo; asked the old man.
      The Doctor smiled, nodded, and seemed to exhale a more powerful herbaceous
      odor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mayhap, then, you'll take a bit of a dram?&mdash;a thimble-full won't
      come amiss. You know the shelf where it's kep'&mdash;reach to, and help
      yourself, and then help me to a drop.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Dr. Deane rose and took down the square black bottle and the diminutive
      wine-glass beside it. Half-filling the latter,&mdash;a thimble-full in
      verity,&mdash;he drank it in two or three delicate little sips, puckering
      his large under-lip to receive them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's right to have the best, Friend Barton,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;there's more life
      in it!&rdquo; as he filled the glass to the brim and held it to the slit in the
      old man's face.
    </p>
    <p>
      The latter eagerly drew off the top fulness, and then seized the glass in
      his shaky hand. &ldquo;Can help myself,&rdquo; he croaked&mdash;&ldquo;don't need waitin'
      on; not so bad as that!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His color presently grew, and his neck assumed a partial steadiness. &ldquo;What
      news, what news?&rdquo; he asked. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is not much now, I believe,&rdquo; Dr. Deane observed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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,&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I guess he will,&rdquo; the old man answered,&mdash;&ldquo;must make somethin' out o'
      the farm. That pastur'-bottom ought to bring more than it does.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alfred doesn't look to want for much,&rdquo; the Doctor continued. &ldquo;It's a fine
      farm he has.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>Me</i>, I say!&rdquo; old Barton exclaimed, bringing down the end of his
      stick upon the floor. &ldquo;The farm's mine!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But it's the same thing, isn't it?&rdquo; asked Dr. Deane, in his cheeriest
      voice and with his pleasantest smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is all your property the same thing as your daughter's?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well&mdash;well,&rdquo; replied the Doctor, softly rubbing his hands, &ldquo;I should
      hope so&mdash;yes, I should hope so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Besides what she has in her own right?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, that's my rule, too, Doctor,&rdquo; said the old man, after a pause, during
      which he had intently watched his visitor, from under his wrinkled
      eyelids.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thought,&rdquo; the Doctor resumed, &ldquo;thee was pretty safe against another
      marriage, at any rate, and thee had perhaps made up thy mind about
      providing for thy children.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'd do the fair thing, Doctor!&rdquo; he finally exclaimed; &ldquo;whatever it might
      be, it'd be fair. Come, isn't that enough?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;just to illustrate the matter, thee
      understands. Let us say that Friend Paxson&mdash;a widower, thee knows&mdash;had
      a daughter Mary, who had&mdash;well, a nice little penny in her own right,&mdash;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,&mdash;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The old man laughed until his watery eyes twinkled. &ldquo;Friend Paxson is a
      mighty close and cautious one to deal with,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Mayhap he'd like to
      manage to have me bound, and himself go free?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thee's mistaken, indeed!&rdquo; Dr. Deane protested. &ldquo;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&mdash;I'm sure of it, Friend Barton!&mdash;would expect
      <i>him</i> to furnish.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No use beatin' about the bush, Doctor,&rdquo; the old man suddenly said. &ldquo;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&mdash;five thousand, some say.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ten, every cent of it!&rdquo; exclaimed Dr. Deane, very nearly thrown off his
      guard. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For the same reason you talk about Alfred. He hasn't been about your
      house lately, I s'pose, hey?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Doctor smiled, dropping his eyelids in a very sagacious way. &ldquo;He <i>does</i>
      seem drawn a little our way, I must confess to thee,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;but we
      can't always tell how much is meant. Perhaps thee knows his mind better
      than I do?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mayhap I do&mdash;know what it will be, if <i>I</i> choose! But I don't
      begrudge sayin' that he likes your girl, and I shouldn't wonder if he'd
      showed it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then thee sees, Friend Barton,&rdquo; Dr. Deane continued, &ldquo;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,&mdash;Elisha, as I said, being independent, and Ann not
      requiring a great deal,&mdash;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,&mdash;even
      thy mind is liable to change,&mdash;ah, the mind of man is an unstable
      thing!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Doctor delivered these words in his most impressive manner, uplifting
      both eyes and hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      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: &ldquo;Time enough for
      that when we come to it How's the girl inclined? Is the money hers,
      anyhow, at twenty-five,&mdash;how old now? Sure to be a couple, hey?&mdash;settle
      that first!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;Of
      course I've not spoken to Martha,&rdquo; he presently said; &ldquo;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,&mdash;she is twenty-one now,&mdash;but
      I hardly think it necessary to take that into consideration. If thee can
      answer for Alfred, I think I can answer for her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The boy's close about <i>his</i> money,&rdquo; broke in the old man, with a
      sly, husky chuckle. &ldquo;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 <i>my</i> 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&mdash;I'll do what's fair!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There's only this,&rdquo; the Doctor added, meditatively, &ldquo;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 <i>about</i> what thee'll
      do; and I the same. Thee <i>has</i> a starting-point on my side, knowing
      the amount of Martha's fortune&mdash;<i>that</i>, of course, thee must
      come up to first, and then we'll see about the rest!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, well!&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;we needn't hurry. You're right there, Doctor. I
      s'pose you won't do anything to keep the young ones apart?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Suppose I look at thy arm,&mdash;in a neighborly way, of course,&rdquo; he
      said, approaching the old man's chair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never mind&mdash;took the bean off this mornin'&mdash;old blood, you
      know, but lively yet. Gad, Doctor! I've not felt so brisk for a year.&rdquo; His
      eyes twinkled so, under their puffy lids, the flabby folds in which his
      mouth terminated worked so curiously,&mdash;like those of a bellows, where
      they run together towards the nozzle,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Brandy!&rdquo; the old man commanded. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Before they met, she also had disposed of her future, but in a very
      different way.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XIV. &mdash; DOUBTS AND SURMISES.
    </h2>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have frightened you, Gilbert; but there is no occasion for it. I wasn't
      rightly prepared for what you had to say&mdash;and&mdash;and&mdash;but,
      please, don't let us talk any more about it to-night. Give me a little
      time to think&mdash;if I <i>can</i> 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,&mdash;it
      can't be for long,&mdash;for I begin to see now that I've worked out my
      fault, and that the Lord in Heaven owes me justice!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She clenched her hands wildly, and rose to her feet. Her steps tottered,
      and he sprang to her support.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mother,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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&mdash;and the
      suspicion gave him a shock&mdash;her history were in some way involved
      with that of Martha Deane.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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: &ldquo;I am your father&mdash;did you never guess
      it before?&rdquo; 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: &ldquo;Gilbert, why did you tell Alfred Barton? Nobody
      must know that I am engaged to both of you.&rdquo; Betsy Lavender said: &ldquo;He can
      only marry with my consent&mdash;Mary Potter has nothing to do with it.&rdquo;
       Martha then came towards him smiling, and said: &ldquo;I will not send back your
      saddle-girth&mdash;see, I am wearing it as a belt!&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;possibly not even heard it,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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!
    </p>
    <p>
      The Fairthorns were glad to see their &ldquo;boy,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Only along the level, t'other side o' the
      big hill, Gilbert!&rdquo; 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: &ldquo;You rascals, I think I see you doing
      that again!&rdquo; But he turned away his face, to conceal a smile at the
      recollection.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;the big
      hill,&rdquo; 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&mdash;then came the start, the
      astonishment of the old man, his frantic &ldquo;Whoa, there, whoa!&rdquo; 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!&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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: &ldquo;Mammy,&rdquo;
       (so he always addressed her) &ldquo;I don't know what's the matter with Bonnie;
      why, she came nigh runnin' off with me!&rdquo;&mdash;Joe, being the oldest and
      boldest, would look up in well-affected surprise, and ask, &ldquo;Why, how,
      Daddy?&rdquo; while Jake would bend down his head and whimper,&mdash;&ldquo;Somethin'
      's got into my eye.&rdquo; Yet the boys were very good-hearted fellows, at
      bottom, and we are sorry that we must chronicle so many things to their
      discredit.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sally Fairthorn met Gilbert in her usual impetuous way. She was glad to
      see him, but she could not help saying: &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing, Sally,&rdquo; he answered, with something of his old playfulness,
      &ldquo;nothing except that the pears were very good. How's Mark?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mark!&rdquo; she exclaimed with a very well assumed sneer. &ldquo;As if I kept an
      account of Mark's comings and goings!&rdquo; But she could not prevent an extra
      color from rising into her face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wish you did, Sally,&rdquo; Gilbert gravely remarked. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was no answer to this, and Sally, with a hasty &ldquo;I'll tell mother
      you're here!&rdquo; darted into the house.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;queer&rdquo; in his
      manner, whereupon she, Sally, had said that Martha was growing &ldquo;queer&rdquo;
       too; then Martha remarked that&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gilbert Potter, I'll be snaked!&rdquo; exclaimed Miss Lavender, jumping up with
      a start that overturned her footstool.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Gilbert!&rdquo; and &ldquo;Well, Martha!&rdquo; 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,&mdash;or, at least, of the community in which she lived.
    </p>
    <p>
      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: &ldquo;Goodness me, I must
      have a bit o' sage!&rdquo; made for the garden, with long strides.
    </p>
    <p>
      Gilbert was too innocent to suspect the artifice&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O Martha!&rdquo; he cried, &ldquo;if I could but see you oftener&mdash;but for a
      minute, every day! But there&mdash;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I say to myself, every morning, it <i>is</i> true,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Martha,&rdquo; he said, returning to the thought of his duty, &ldquo;I have something
      to say. You can hear it now. My mother declares that I am her lawful son,
      born in wedlock&mdash;she gave me her solemn word&mdash;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&mdash;and
      until then, we must wait! Will you wait with me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Can you ask it, Gilbert? Whatever your mother declares to you, must be
      true; yet I scarcely understand it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;she fainted dead away, the last time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Strange things sometimes happen in this world,&rdquo; said Martha, with a grave
      tenderness, laying her hand upon his arm, &ldquo;and this seems to be one of the
      strangest. I am glad you have told me, Gilbert,&mdash;it will make so much
      difference to you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So it don't take you from me, Martha,&rdquo; he groaned, in a return of his
      terrible dread.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Only Death can do that&mdash;and then but for a little while.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Here Miss Betsy Lavender made her appearance, but without the sage.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How far a body can see, Martha,&rdquo; she exclaimed, &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Betsy,&rdquo; said Gilbert, &ldquo;I wanted to ask you about coming down our way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Our way. Did you? I see your horse hitched over at the store. I've an
      arrand,&mdash;sewin'-thread and pearl buttons,&mdash;and so I'll git my
      bonnet and you can tell me on the way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The lovers said farewell, and Betsy Lavender accompanied Gilbert,
      proposing to walk a little way with him and get the articles on her
      return.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gilbert Potter,&rdquo; she said, when they were out of sight and ear-shot of
      the village, &ldquo;I want you to know that I've got eyes in my head. <i>I</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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Betsy!&rdquo; he exclaimed, &ldquo;you seem to know everything about everybody&mdash;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Think of it? Go 'long!&mdash;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&mdash;for here's a case where deeds is wanted!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You can help me, Betsy&mdash;you can help me now! Do you know&mdash;can
      you guess&mdash;who was my father?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good Lord!&rdquo; was her surprised exclamation&mdash;&ldquo;No, I don't, and that's
      the fact.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who was Martha Deane's mother?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A Blake&mdash;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.&rdquo; &ldquo;Had Dr. Deane been married before?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Married before? Well&mdash;no!&rdquo; Here Miss Betsy seemed to be suddenly put
      upon her guard. &ldquo;Not to that extent, I should say. However, it's neither
      here nor there. Good lack, boy!&rdquo; she cried, noticing a deadly paleness on
      Gilbert's face&mdash;&ldquo;a-h-h-h, I begin to understand now. Look here,
      Gilbert! Git that nonsense out o' y'r head, jist as soon as <i>you</i>
      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 <i>you</i> 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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, Betsy!&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;if you knew how I have been perplexed, you wouldn't
      wonder at my fancies!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can fancy all that, my boy,&rdquo; she gently answered, &ldquo;and I'll tell you
      another thing, Gilbert&mdash;your mother has a heavy secret on her mind,
      and I rather guess it concerns your father. No&mdash;don't look so
      eager-like&mdash;I don't know it. All I do know is that you were born in
      Phildelphy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In Philadelphia! I never heard that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well&mdash;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'&mdash;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&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XV. &mdash; ALFRED BARTON BETWEEN TWO FIRES.
    </h2>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;&ldquo;The
      more you have, the more you'll get!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The following Sunday, as he was shaving himself at the back
      kitchen-window,&mdash;Ann being up-stairs, at her threadbare toilet,&mdash;Old
      Barton, who had been silent during breakfast, suddenly addressed him:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, boy, how stands the matter now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The son knew very well what was meant, but he thought it best to ask, with
      an air of indifference,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What matter, Daddy?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, that!&rdquo; exclaimed Alfred, with a smirk of well-assumed satisfaction&mdash;&ldquo;that,
      indeed! Well, I think I may say, Daddy, that all's right in that quarter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Spoken to her yet?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shouldn't wonder,&rdquo; growled the old man. &ldquo;Seems to me <i>you</i> play a
      little shy, too. Have to take it in my own hands, if it ever comes to
      anything.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, it isn't at all necessary; I can do my own courting,&rdquo; Alfred replied,
      as he wiped his razor and laid it away.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do it, then, boy, in short order! You're too old to stand in need o' much
      billin' and cooin'&mdash;but the gal's rayther young, and may expect it&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Alfred turned around quickly and looked at his father.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, boy, I've had one bout with him, last Sunday, and there's more to
      come.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What was it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hark ye, boy!&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course he must make up the difference, and more too! I know what's
      fair and square.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shut your mouth, boy, till I give you leave to open it. Do you hear?&mdash;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&mdash;not that it
      concerns you, but <i>I</i> must know. What you've got to do is about as
      much as you've wits for. Now, open your mouth!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ten thousand!&rdquo; exclaimed Alfred, beginning to comprehend the matter more
      clearly; &ldquo;why, it's hardly quite ten thousand altogether, let alone
      anything over!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No lies, no lies! I've got it all in my head, if you haven't. Twenty
      years on shares&mdash;first year, one hundred and thirty-seven dollars&mdash;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&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never mind, Daddy!&rdquo; Alfred interrupted; &ldquo;I've got it all down in my
      books; you needn't go over it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The old man struck his hickory staff violently upon the floor. &ldquo;I <i>will</i>
      go over it!&rdquo; he croaked, hoarsely. &ldquo;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 <i>you!</i> 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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Suppose my papers don't show that much?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You've made that, or nigh onto it, and your papers <i>must</i> 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&mdash;ay, let him come!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There, that'll do,&rdquo; he said, presently; &ldquo;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&mdash;eh, boy?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Damme, and so you shall, Dad!&rdquo; 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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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?
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I see no way!&rdquo; he suddenly exclaimed, after a fit of long and
      unsatisfactory musing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nor I neither, unless you make room for me!&rdquo; answered a shrill voice at
      his side.
    </p>
    <p>
      He started as if shot, becoming aware of Miss Betsy Lavender, who had just
      emerged from the thicket.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Skeered ye, have I?&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He laughed a forced laugh. &ldquo;I was thinking, Miss Betsy,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;how to
      get the grain threshed and sent to the mills before prices come down.
      Which way are you going?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Which way are <i>you</i> goin'? For my part I rather think we're changin'
      places,&mdash;me to see Miss Ann, and you to see Miss Martha.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You're wrong!&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;I was only going to make a little
      neighborly call on the Doctor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;On the Doctor! Ah-ha! it's come to that, has it? Well, I won't be in the
      way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Confound the witch!&rdquo; he muttered to himself, as she sprang upon the log
      and hurried over.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thee'll be getting thy crops to market soon, I imagine?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'd like to,&rdquo; Barton replied, &ldquo;but there's not force enough on our place,
      and the threshers are wanted everywhere at once. What would you do,&mdash;hurry
      off the grain now, or wait to see how it may stand in the spring?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Dr. Deane meditated a moment, and then answered with great deliberation:
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Barton understood this stealthy approach to the important subject, and met
      it in the same way. &ldquo;I don't know,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;it's slow saving on
      half-profits. I have to look mighty close, to make anything decent.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said the Doctor, &ldquo;what isn't laid up <i>by</i> thee, is laid up <i>for</i>
      thee, I should judge.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It will be, no doubt.&rdquo; And then the Doctor, resting his chin upon his
      cane, relapsed into a grave, silent, expectant mood, which his guest well
      understood.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Doctor,&rdquo; he said at last, with an awkward attempt at a gay, confidential
      manner, &ldquo;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&mdash;but&mdash;there's
      other things to be considered&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;I don't deny,&rdquo; he said slowly, &ldquo;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&mdash;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 <i>did</i> hope, however, that thee would have
      some assurance of what thy father intends to do for thee&mdash;and perhaps
      thee has,&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      If Alfred Barton's secret thought had been expressed in words, it would
      have been: &ldquo;Curse the old fool&mdash;he knows what the old man is, as well
      as I do!&rdquo; But he twisted a respectful hypocrisy out of his whisker, and
      said,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ye-e-es, that seems only fair. How am <i>I</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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So I might, if <i>thy</i> father would take for granted what <i>I</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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, that might be left to me,&rdquo; the Doctor repeated, &ldquo;after the other
      matter is settled. Thee knows what I mean. Martha will have ten thousand
      dollars in her own right, at twenty-five,&mdash;and sooner, if she marries
      with my approbation. Now, thee or thy father must bring an equal sum; that
      is understood between us&mdash;and I think thy father mentioned that thee
      could do it without calling upon him. Is that the case?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not quite&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A keen, shrewd smile flitted over the Doctor's face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But if it isn't quite altogether ten thousand, Doctor,&rdquo; Barton continued,
      &ldquo;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,&mdash;and, indeed, it's not <i>his</i> business, in any way,&mdash;and
      so, you might go straight to the other matter at once.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;H'm,&rdquo; mused the Doctor, with his chin again upon his stick, &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I guess there'll be no trouble about that,&rdquo; Barton answered, carelessly.
      &ldquo;I lend on none but the best security. 'T will take a little time&mdash;must
      go to Chester&mdash;so we needn't wait for that; 't will be all right!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, no doubt; but hasn't thee overlooked one thing?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That Martha should first know thy mind towards her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Doctor!&rdquo; he exclaimed, &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not to my direct knowledge; and I wouldn't like to venture to speak in
      her name.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then, I'll&mdash;that is, you think I'd better have a talk with her. A
      little tough, at my time of life, ha! ha!&mdash;but faint heart never won
      fair lady; and I hadn't thought of going that far to-day, though of
      course, I'm anxious,&mdash;been in my thoughts so long,&mdash;and perhaps&mdash;perhaps&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll tell thee,&rdquo; said the Doctor, seeming not to notice Barton's visible
      embarrassment, which he found very natural; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I'll come then!&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XVI. &mdash; MARTHA DEANE.
    </h2>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It seems as if I couldn't git the color rightly set in my head,&rdquo; she
      remarked; &ldquo;'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&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Betsy!&rdquo; exclaimed Martha, with an impetuousness quite unusual to her calm
      nature, &ldquo;throw down the dress! Why won't you speak of what is in your
      mind; don't you see I'm waiting for it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You're right, child!&rdquo; Miss Betsy cried, flinging the stuff to the
      farthest corner of the room; &ldquo;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 <i>him.&rdquo;</i>
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is all very new and strange, Betsy; but I am happy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Martha, however, presently lifted her head with a firm, courageous
      expression, though the rosy flush still suffused her cheeks. &ldquo;I'm not as
      independent as people think,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;for I couldn't help myself when
      the time came, and I seem to belong to him, ever since.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ever since. Of course you do!&rdquo; remarked Miss Betsy, with her head down
      and her hands busy at her high comb and thin twist of hair; &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Betsy, my heart speaks once and for all,&rdquo; said Martha, with kindling
      eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Once and for all. I knowed it&mdash;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,&mdash;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,&mdash;Good Lord, child, you've made an awful job for
      <i>me!&rdquo;</i>
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Martha Deane, equally brave, was more sanguine. The joy of her expanding
      love foretold its fulfilment to her heart. &ldquo;I know, Betsy,&rdquo; she said,
      &ldquo;that father would not hear of it now; but we are both young and can wait,
      at least until I come into my property&mdash;<i>ours,</i> I ought to say,
      for I think of it already as being as much Gilbert's as mine. What other
      trouble can there be?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is there none on his side, Martha?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;His birth? Yes, there is&mdash;or was, though not to me&mdash;never to
      me! I am so glad, for his sake,&mdash;but, Betsy, perhaps you do not know&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Patient!&rdquo; 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&mdash;that, to keep it, she would give up home,
      friends, father, the conventional respect of every one she knew!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, child!&rdquo; exclaimed Miss Lavender, after a long lapse of silence;
      &ldquo;the words is said that can't be taken back, accordin' to <i>my</i> 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,&mdash;though you won't believe it,&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This warning made no particular impression upon Martha. She playfully
      tapped Miss Betsy's high comb, and said: &ldquo;Now, if you are going to be so
      much worried about me, I shall be sorry that you found it out.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well I won't!&mdash;and now let me hook your gownd.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;the broad, square brow; the large, sad,
      deep-set gray eyes; the firm, yet impassioned lips&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A nice place, Martha!&rdquo; said Dr. Deane, with a wave of his arm, and a
      whiff of sweet herbs.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here, in this first field, is the true place for the house,&rdquo; she
      answered, thinking only of the landscape beauty of the farm.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Does thee mean so?&rdquo; the Doctor eagerly asked, deliberating with himself
      how much of his plan it was safe to reveal. &ldquo;Thee may be right, and
      perhaps thee might bring Alfred to thy way of thinking.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She laughed. &ldquo;It's hardly worth the trouble.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I've noticed, of late,&rdquo; her father continued, &ldquo;that Alfred seems to set a
      good deal of store by thee. He visits us pretty often.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, father!&rdquo; she exclaimed, as they, rode onward, &ldquo;it's rather <i>thee</i>
      that attracts him, and cattle, and crops, and the plans for catching Sandy
      Flash! He looks frightened whenever I speak to him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A little nervous, perhaps. Young men are often so, in the company of
      young women, I've observed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Martha laughed so cheerily that her father said to himself: &ldquo;Well, it
      doesn't displease her, at any rate.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now that we happen to speak of him, Martha,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;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&mdash;well, to see thee soon. I
      believe he intends coming up this afternoon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What does thee say?&rdquo; the Doctor asked, after waiting a few minutes for an
      answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Understand me, Martha,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;I do not mean to declare what Alfred
      Barton's sentiments really are, but what, in my judgment, they <i>might</i>
      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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is a humiliation to me, if thee is right, father,&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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 <i>does</i> speak his mind, do
      thee treat him kindly and respectfully.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have I ever treated thy friends otherwise?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My friends! thee's right&mdash;he <i>is</i> my friend.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      In about three minutes after she had taken her seat by the window, he
      remarked, with a convulsive smile,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Apples are going to be good, this year.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are they?&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; do you like 'em? Most girls do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I believe I do,&mdash;except Russets,&rdquo; Martha replied, with her hands
      clasped in her lap, and her eyes full upon his face.
    </p>
    <p>
      He twisted the smoothness out of one whisker, very much disconcerted at
      her remark, because he could not tell&mdash;he never could, when speaking
      with her&mdash;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,&mdash;a theme which he pursued until Martha was very tired of it.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I suppose you know why I come here to-day, Miss Martha?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To see my father, wasn't it? I'm sorry he was obliged to leave home,&rdquo; she
      answered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. How should I?&rdquo; she coolly replied. It was not true; but the
      truest-hearted woman that ever lived could have given no other answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      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:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I want you to be&mdash;to be&mdash;my&mdash;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well?&rdquo; he stammered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alfred Barton,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;I must ask you one question, do you love me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He seemed to feel a sharp sting. The muscles of his mouth twitched; he bit
      his lip, sank his head again, and murmured,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Y-yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He does not,&rdquo; she said to herself. &ldquo;I am spared this humiliation. It is a
      mean, low nature, and fears mine&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;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&mdash;what then?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I see that these suppositions would not please you,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;and thank
      you for the fact. Your face is more candid than your speech. I am now
      ready to say, Alfred Barton,&mdash;because I am sure the knowledge will be
      agreeable to you,&mdash;that no lands, no money, no command of my father,
      no degree of want, or misery, or disgrace, could ever make me your wife!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said he, sliding the rim of his beaver backwards and forwards
      between his fingers, &ldquo;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&mdash;look here, it a'n't worth while
      to say anything about it, is it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If my father questions me about your visit,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;I shall tell him
      simply that I have declined your offer. No one else is likely to ask me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't deny,&rdquo; he continued, still lingering near the door, &ldquo;that I've
      been urged by my father&mdash;yours, too, for that matter&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You'll speak to me, when we happen to meet?&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If I did not,&rdquo; she answered, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He stooped, kissed her hand, and then swiftly, silently, and with averted
      head, left the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XVII. &mdash; CONSULTATIONS.
    </h2>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;the &ldquo;Woodrow property,&rdquo; as it was called&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So, Mr. Gilbert!&rdquo; she cried, stretching out her hard, red hand, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you, Deborah!&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;you're a friend in need.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Gilbert smiled.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take care!&rdquo; she cried, a kindly softness spreading over her rough face,
      &ldquo;good luck's deceitful! If I had the strands o' your fortin' in <i>my</i>
      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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Betsy,&rdquo; he whispered, &ldquo;I <i>must</i> see Martha again before I leave, and
      you must tell me how.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell me how. Folks say that lovyers' wits are sharp,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But there must be some way,&rdquo; Gilbert insisted. &ldquo;Do you never walk out
      together? And couldn't we arrange a time&mdash;you, too, Betsy, I want you
      as well!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm afeard I'd be like the fifth wheel to a wagon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no! You must be there&mdash;you must hear a good part of what I have
      to say.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A good part&mdash;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&mdash;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&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's it, Betsy!&rdquo; Gilbert cried, his face flashing, &ldquo;thank you, a
      thousand times!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A thousand times,&rdquo; she repeated. &ldquo;Once't is enough.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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!
    </p>
    <p>
      Nevertheless, as he frequently referred to the matter on the following
      days, she at last said,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You may be right, mother,&rdquo; he answered; &ldquo;but it's pleasant to me to see
      you looking a little more hopeful.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, lad, I'd never look otherwise, for your sake, if I could.&rdquo; And
      nothing more was said.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;Gilbert's and Sam's&mdash;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 &ldquo;a full hand,&rdquo; if he
      were obliged to equal her performances with the flail.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;the smoke of
      burning summer,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;&ldquo;Well, I never, Martha! here's wintergreen!&rdquo; and was down
      on her knees, on the dead leaves, with her long nose nearly touching the
      plants.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;and none were
      needed. Thenceforward, neither would ever say to the other,&mdash;&ldquo;Do you
      love me as well as ever?&rdquo; or &ldquo;Are you sure you can never change?&rdquo;&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gilbert,&rdquo; said Martha, presently, &ldquo;it was right that we should meet
      before you leave home. I have much to tell you&mdash;for now you must know
      everything that concerns me; it is your right.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her words were very grateful. To hear her say &ldquo;It is your right,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;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&mdash;as we both must, sooner or later&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Martha's lip took a firmer curve. &ldquo;Our love is right, Gilbert,&rdquo; she
      exclaimed, &ldquo;and the world must give way!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It must&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I see all that clearly,&rdquo; said Martha, when he had finished; &ldquo;now, this is
      <i>my</i> position.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You see, Gilbert,&rdquo; were Martha's final words, &ldquo;how we are situated. If I
      marry, against my father's consent, before I am twenty-five&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't speak of your property, Martha!&rdquo; he cried; &ldquo;I never took that into
      mind!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know you didn't. Gilbert, but <i>I</i> do! It is mine, and must be
      mine, to be yours; here you must let me have my own way&mdash;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&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Four years!&rdquo; Gilbert interrupted, in a tone almost of despair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well&mdash;not quite,&rdquo; said Martha, smiling archly; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'd serve seven years, as Jacob served, if need be,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was <i>your</i> secret, Gilbert.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I didn't think,&rdquo; he answered, softly. &ldquo;But it's well she should know. She
      is the best friend we have. Betsy!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A mortal long time afore <i>I</i>'m wanted!&rdquo; exclaimed Miss Lavender,
      with assumed grimness, as she obeyed the call. &ldquo;I s'pose you thought there
      was no watch needed, and both ends o' the path open to all the world. Well&mdash;what
      am <i>I</i> to do?&mdash;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you think of it?&rdquo; he asked, as she remained silent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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 <i>is</i> no water-melons, but then, there's the smell of 'em! But
      it won't do to hurry a matter o' this kind&mdash;long-sufferin' and slow
      to anger, though that don't quite suit, but never mind, all the same&mdash;my
      opinion is, ye've both o' ye got to wait!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Betsy, do you know nothing about it? Can you guess nothing?&rdquo; Gilbert
      persisted.
    </p>
    <p>
      She stole a quick glance at Martha, which he detected, and a chill ran
      through his blood. His face grew pale.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothin' that fits your case,&rdquo; 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.
      &ldquo;This I'll say,&rdquo; she exclaimed at last, with desperate frankness, &ldquo;that I
      <i>do</i> 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 <i>you
      two</i> are concerned; so don't ask me, for I won't tell, and if it's to
      be done, <i>I'm</i> the only one to do it! If I've got my little secrets,
      I'm keepin' 'em in your interest, remember that!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was the glimmer of a tear in each of Miss Lavender's eyes before she
      knew it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Betsy, my dear friend!&rdquo; cried Gilbert, &ldquo;we know you and trust you. Only
      say this, for my sake&mdash;that you think my mother's secret is nothing
      which will part Martha and me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Martha and me. I <i>do</i> think so&mdash;am I a dragon, or a&mdash;what's
      that Job talks about?&mdash;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' <i>his</i> bein' helped?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Martha looked surprised, but Gilbert flushed up to the roots of his hair,
      and set his lips firmly together.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I dunno as it'll do,&rdquo; continued Miss Betsy, with perfect indifference to
      these signs, &ldquo;but then it <i>might</i>. 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&mdash;well, not exackly o' wrath, but
      somethin' like it. There's more 'n one concern at work in all this, it
      strikes <i>me</i>, and it's wuth while to know 'em all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It would not be pleasant to have Alfred Barton associated with us, even
      in the way of help,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Much would be fittin' to me, child,&rdquo; said Miss Lavender, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With these words she turned short around and strode away.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It had best be our own secret yet, Martha?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Gilbert, and all the more precious.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XVIII. &mdash; SANDY FLASH REAPPEARS.
    </h2>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's not the regular way,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Whatever puts the mortgage into my hands, mother,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, Gilbert, old boy!&rdquo; he shouted; &ldquo;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&mdash;come
      along, and have a glass o' Rye!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He threw his heavy arm over Gilbert's shoulder, and drew him along.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In a minute, Mark; wait a bit&mdash;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That and more comin' to me soon,&rdquo; said Mark, &ldquo;and of course you can have
      it. Want it right away?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very likely in ten or twelve days.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, well, never fear&mdash;I'll have some accounts squared by that time!
      Come along!&rdquo; And therewith the good-natured fellow hurried his friend into
      the bar-room of the Unicorn.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Done pretty well, haulin', this time?&rdquo; asked Mark, as they touched
      glasses.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well,&rdquo; answered Gilbert, &ldquo;seeing it's the last time. I'm at an end
      with hauling now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don't say so? Here's to your good luck!&rdquo; exclaimed Mark, emptying his
      glass.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is all this talk about Sandy Flash?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He's been seen up above,&rdquo; said Barton; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If he comes any nearer, you must send word around at once,&rdquo; said Gilbert,&mdash;&ldquo;not
      wait until he's already among us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let me alone for that!&rdquo; Barton exclaimed; &ldquo;Damn him, I only wish he had
      pluck enough to come!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mark was indignant &ldquo;What's the sheriff and constables good for?&rdquo; he cried.
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's a thousand, now,&rdquo; said Barton. &ldquo;They've doubled it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I, too,&rdquo; said Gilbert
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You 're fellows after my own heart, both o' you!&rdquo; Barton asserted,
      slapping them upon the back. &ldquo;What'll you take to drink?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Suppose we step out on the back-porch,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;I want to have a word
      with you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your speaking of your having done well by hauling put it into my head,
      Gilbert,&rdquo; Barton continued. &ldquo;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&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It happens to be just the other way, Barton,&rdquo; said Gilbert, interrupting
      him. &ldquo;I came here to-night to borrow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How's that?&rdquo; Barton could not help asking, with a momentary sense of
      chagrin. But the next moment he added, in a milder tone, &ldquo;I don't mean to
      pry into your business.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall very likely have to use my money soon,&rdquo; Gilbert explained, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shall you have to go down to Chester?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hope so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In ten or twelve days from now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then,&rdquo; said Barton, &ldquo;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&mdash;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course,&rdquo; Gilbert answered. &ldquo;If I go it will be no additional trouble.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All right,&rdquo; said Barton, &ldquo;between ourselves, you understand.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A week later, a letter, with the following address was brought to the
      post-office by the mail-rider,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>&ldquo;To Mr. Gilbert Potter, Esq. Kennett Square P. O. These, with Care and
      Speed.&rdquo;</i>
    </p>
    <p>
      Gilbert, having carefully cut around the wafer and unfolded the sheet of
      strong yellowish paper, read this missive,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yr obt servt,
    </p>
    <h3>
      &ldquo;ISAAC TRAINER.&rdquo;
     </h3>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;which
      touched her like the pitying sympathy of the Power that had dealt so
      singularly with her life,&mdash;was nearer the feeling of happiness than
      she had been for long and weary years.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let's look over the roll, and see how many are true blue,&rdquo; said Barton,
      drawing a paper from his pocket. &ldquo;There's failing nine or ten, among 'em
      some I fully counted on&mdash;Withers, he <i>may</i> 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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Give me a horse, Mr. Barton, and I'll ride down for Gilbert!&rdquo; cried Joe
      Fairthorn.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No use,&mdash;Giles went this morning,&rdquo; growled Barton.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's time we were starting; which road would be best to take?&rdquo; asked one
      of the volunteers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All roads lead to Rome, but all don't lead to Sandy Flash, ha! ha!&rdquo; said
      another, laughing at his own smartness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who knows where he was seen last?&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Unless we scatter, it'll be like looking for a needle in a haystack,&rdquo;
       remarked one of the more courageous volunteers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If they'd all had spunk enough to come,&rdquo; said Barton, &ldquo;we might ha' made
      four parties, and gone out on each road. As it is, we're only strong
      enough for two.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Seven to one?&mdash;that's too much odds in Sandy's favor!&rdquo; cried a
      light-headed youth, whereat the others all laughed, and some of them
      blushed a little.
    </p>
    <p>
      Barton bit his lip, and with a withering glance at the young man, replied,&mdash;&ldquo;Then
      we'll make three parties, and you shall be the third.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hurray&mdash;there's another&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who can it be?&rdquo; asked Barton.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We'll see, in a minute,&rdquo; said the nearest volunteers, taking up their
      muskets.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There he is,&mdash;there he is!&rdquo; cried Joe.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By the living Lord! Sandy Flash himself!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Quick as lightning Sandy Flash drew a pistol from his belt and levelled it
      at the young man's breast.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ground arms!&rdquo; he cried, &ldquo;or you are a dead man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was obeyed, although slowly and with grinding teeth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stand aside!&rdquo; he then commanded. &ldquo;<i>You</i> 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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A glass o' Rye, good and strong!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>I</i> stand treat to-day; let the rest o' the gentlemen drink at my
      expense!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Flinging himself from his horse, he levelled his musket, and cried out,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Surrender!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sandy Flash, with a sudden spring, placed his back against the house,
      pointed his pistol at Gilbert, and said: &ldquo;Drop your gun, or I fire!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Halt!&rdquo; said Sandy Flash. &ldquo;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 <i>you</i>'re safe from any bullet
      o' mine, whoever a'n't!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;and Fortune's voice that spoke!
    </p>
    <p>
      Sandy Flash saw the recognition. He grinned again. &ldquo;You'll know your
      friend, another time,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Gilbert went to bring Roger, who had quietly waited at the crossing
      of the roads, Deb. Smith suddenly made her appearance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I seen it all,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;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 <i>you</i>'re safe enough from <i>his</i> bullets,
      anyhow&mdash;whatever happens, <i>you</i>'re safe!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you mean, Deborah?&rdquo; he exclaimed, as she almost repeated to him
      Sandy Flash's very words.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I mean what I say,&rdquo; she answered. &ldquo;<i>You</i> wouldn't be afeard, but
      it'll be a comfort to your mother. I must have a drink o' whiskey after
      that sight.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XIX. &mdash; THE HUSKING FROLIC.
    </h2>
    <p>
      Jake Fairthorn rushed into Dr. Deane's door with a howl of terror.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Cousin Martha! Betsy!&rdquo; he cried; &ldquo;he's goin' to shoot Gilbert!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;None o' your tricks, boy!&rdquo; Betsy Lavender exclaimed, in her most savage
      tone, as she saw the paleness of Martha's face. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's Sandy Flash,&mdash;he's there! Gilbert shot his hat off!&rdquo; cried
      Jake.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Lord have mercy!&rdquo; And the next minute Miss Betsy found herself, she
      scarcely knew how, in the road.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O you wicked boy! What'll become o' you?&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What a pack of cowards!&rdquo; she exclaimed, her cheeks flushing,&mdash;&ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I say, fellows, we've had about enough o' Barton's command; and I, for
      one, am a-goin' to enlist under Captain Potter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good!&rdquo; &ldquo;Agreed!&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Gilbert, however, stepped forward and said: &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Barton saw how the tide was turning, and suddenly determined to cover up
      his shame, if possible, with a mantle of magnanimity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The fellows are right, Gilbert!&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;You deserve to take the lead
      to-day, so go ahead; I'll follow you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mount, then, all of you!&rdquo; Gilbert cried, without further hesitation. In a
      second he was on Roger's back. &ldquo;You, Barton,&rdquo; he ordered, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      When they reached the Unicorn tavern at dusk, Gilbert found Joe Fairthorn
      impatiently waiting for him. Sally had been &ldquo;tearin' around like mad,&rdquo; (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&mdash;after
      Sandy Flash, of course, who had, and deserved, the first place.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And, Gilbert,&rdquo; said Joe, &ldquo;I wasn't to forgit to tell you that we're
      a-goin' to have a huskin' frolic o' Wednesday night,&mdash;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, yes, Joe,&rdquo; Gilbert answered, a little impatiently; &ldquo;tell Sally I'll
      come.&rdquo; Then he turned Roger's head towards home.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;all
      these facts, suggesting, as their common solution, some secret which
      concerned himself, perplexed his mind, already more than sufficiently
      occupied with mystery.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;or, rather, had she been, at one
      time of her life&mdash;acquainted with Sandy Flash? And if so&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No!&rdquo; he cried aloud, &ldquo;it is impossible! It could not&mdash;cannot be!&rdquo;
       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?
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall know no peace, child,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;until the money has been paid,
      and the mortgage is in your hands.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You won't have long to wait, now, mother,&rdquo; he answered cheerily. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don't know him, Gilbert. He won't soon forget that you shot at him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I seem to be safe enough, if he tells the truth.&rdquo; Gilbert could not help
      remarking.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mary Potter shook her head, and said nothing.
    </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;The best night for huskin' that ever was,&rdquo; comprised the sum of
      their appreciation.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let down your gownd, Sally, and give <i>me</i> 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,&mdash;not that
      self-praise, as the sayin' is, is any recommendation,&mdash;but my kickin'
      and prancin' days is over, and high time, too.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Betsy, I'll not allow it!&rdquo; cried Sally. &ldquo;You must enjoy yourself,
      too.&rdquo; But she had parted with the ladle, while speaking, and Miss
      Lavender, repeating the words &ldquo;Enjoy yourself, too!&rdquo; quietly took her
      place in the kitchen.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There, that'll come out o' your pig-money,&rdquo; said Joe.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't care,&rdquo; Jake retorted, &ldquo;if daddy only pays me the rest.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;only as a loan,&mdash;and
      permanently invested.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      The latter, detained at the house by Mother Fairthorn and Sally,&mdash;both
      of whom looked upon him as one arisen from the dead,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gilbert!&rdquo; shouted Mark, &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;They are very thick,&rdquo;
       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,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I've heard all about it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;More than there was occasion for, very likely,&rdquo; Gilbert replied. &ldquo;I'll
      tell you my story some day, Mark; but tonight we must work and not talk.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All right, Gilbert. I say, though, I've got the money you wanted; we'll
      fix the matter after supper.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
  &ldquo;Be it late or early, be it late or soon,
   It's I will enjoy the sweet rose in June!&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sing out, boys!&rdquo; shouted Mark, &ldquo;so the girls can hear you! It's time they
      were comin' to look after us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sing, yourself!&rdquo; some one replied. &ldquo;You can out-bellow the whole raft.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Without more ado, Mark opened his mouth and began chanting, in a ponderous
      voice,&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
  &ldquo;On yonder mountain summit
     My castle you will find,
   Renown'd in ann-cient historee,&mdash;
     My name it's Rinardine!&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      Presently, from the upper edge of the wood, several feminine voices were
      heard, singing another part of the same song:&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
  &ldquo;Beware of meeting Rinar,
    All on the mountains high!&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Turn to, and give us a lift, girls,&rdquo; said Mark.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Beware of meeting Rinar!&rdquo; Sally laughed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because you know what you promised him, Sally,&rdquo; he retorted. &ldquo;Come, a
      bargain's a bargain; there's the outside row standin'&mdash;not enough of
      us to stretch all the way acrost the field&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Two or three of the other maidens had cut the supporting stalks of the
      next shock, and overturned it with much laughing. &ldquo;I can't husk, Mark,&rdquo;
       said Martha Deane, &ldquo;but I'll promise to superintend these, if you will
      keep Sally to her word.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never mind the work, Sally&mdash;I only wanted to have you with me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sally was silent, but happy, and Mark proceeded to overthrow the next
      shock.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sally!&rdquo; he said at last, &ldquo;you must ha' seen, over and over ag'in, that I
      like to be with you. Do you care for me, at all?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She flushed and trembled a little as she answered,&mdash;&ldquo;Yes, Mark, I
      do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He husked half a dozen ears rapidly, then looked up again and asked,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There's my hand, Sally; will you take it, and me with it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Mark, I've loved you for ever and ever so long a time!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, Sally, deary,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;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&mdash;though,
      faith! there's not much to speak of in 'em!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never mind that, Mark,&mdash;I'm <i>so</i> glad you want me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And indeed she was; why should she not, therefore, say so?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There's no need o' broken sixpences, or true-lovers' knots, I guess,&rdquo;
       said Mark, giving her another kiss. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      The lovers stood petrified. &ldquo;Why, you young devil!&rdquo; exclaimed Mark, while
      the single word &ldquo;JOE!&rdquo; which came from Sally's lips, contained the
      concentrated essence of a thousand slaps.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't&mdash;don't!&rdquo; whimpered Joe. &ldquo;I'll not tell anybody, indeed I
      wont!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you do,&rdquo; threatened Mark, brandishing the corn-cutter, &ldquo;it isn't your
      legs I shall cut off, but your head, even with the shoulders. What were
      you doin' in that shock?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wanted to hear what you and Sally were savin' to each other. Folks said
      you two was a-courtin',&rdquo; Joe answered.
    </p>
    <p>
      The comical aspect of the matter suddenly struck Mark, and he burst into a
      roar of laughter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mark, how can you?&rdquo; said Sally, bridling a little.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&mdash;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&mdash;eh, Joe?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I said I'd never say a word,&rdquo; Joe affirmed, &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It depends on your behavior,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Martha listened with the keenest interest. &ldquo;It is very, very strange,&rdquo; she
      said, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But Deb. Smith?&rdquo; Gilbert asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That,&rdquo; said Martha, &ldquo;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,&mdash;and you may have done so, Gilbert, without your good
      heart being aware of it,&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Gilbert drew a deep breath of relief. How the darkness of his new fear
      vanished, in the light of Martha's calm, sensible words! &ldquo;How wonderfully
      you have guessed the truth!&rdquo;. he cried. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We must ask Betsy Lavender's counsel, there,&rdquo; said Martha. &ldquo;It is beyond
      my depth.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;forced into that position by
      Mark&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XX. &mdash; GILBERT ON THE ROAD TO CHESTER.
    </h2>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;probably owing to the excitement produced by
      Sandy Flash's visit to Kennett Square, and its consequences,&mdash;he felt
      bound to inform Barton of his speedy departure, and to renew his offer of
      service.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Giles,&rdquo; said the latter, after a moment of evident embarrassment, &ldquo;I
      guess you may drive home with that load, and pitch it off; I'll wait for
      you here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When the rustling wain had reached a convenient distance, Gilbert began,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I only wanted to say that I'm going to Chester tomorrow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, yes!&rdquo; Barton exclaimed, &ldquo;about that money? I suppose you want all o'
      yours?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's as I expected. But you said you could borrow elsewhere, and send it
      by me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The fact is,&rdquo; said Barton, &ldquo;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is your <i>friend</i>,&rdquo; Gilbert asked, &ldquo;a safe and trusty man?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Safe enough, I guess&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then,&rdquo; said Gilbert, &ldquo;it's hardly likely that he's the same friend you
      took such a fancy to, at the Hammer-and-Trowel, last spring?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who&mdash;who do you mean?&rdquo; he stammered.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Barton,&rdquo; he said, sternly, &ldquo;you know very well whom I mean. What became
      of your friend Fortune? Didn't you see him at the tavern, last Monday
      morning?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Y-yes&mdash;oh, yes! I know who he is <i>now</i>, the damned scoundrel!
      I'd give a hundred dollars to see him dance upon nothing!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Barton,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;didn't you know who Fortune was, on that day?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;N-no&mdash;no! On that <i>day</i>&mdash;NO! Blast me if I did!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not before you left him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I'll admit that a suspicion of it came to me at the very last
      moment&mdash;too late to be of any use. But come, damme! that's all over,
      and what's the good o' talking? <i>You</i> tried your best to catch the
      fellow, too, but he was too much for you! 'T isn't such an easy job, eh?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, come, Gilbert!&rdquo; Barton presently resumed, &ldquo;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 <i>shall</i> be, from this
      time on; I won't take it again!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One thing I'll promise you,&rdquo; said Gilbert, with a meaning look, &ldquo;that I
      won't let him walk into the bar-room of the Unicorn, without hindrance.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll bet you won't!&rdquo; Barton exclaimed. &ldquo;All <i>I'm</i> afraid of is, that
      he won't try it again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We'll see; this highway-robbery must have an end. I must now be going.
      Good-bye!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good-bye, Gilbert; take care o' yourself!&rdquo; said Barton, in a very good
      humor, now that the uncomfortable interview was over. &ldquo;And, I say,&rdquo; he
      added, &ldquo;remember that I stand ready to do you a good turn, whenever I
      can!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you!&rdquo; responded Gilbert, as he turned Roger's head; but he said to
      himself,&mdash;&ldquo;when all other friends fail, I may come to <i>you</i>, not
      sooner.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;the distance being not
      more than twenty-four miles,&mdash;the preparations, principally on
      account of his errand, were conducted with a grave and solemn sense of
      their importance.
    </p>
    <p>
      When, finally, everything was in readiness,&mdash;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,&mdash;Gilbert took his
      mother's hand, and said,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;and her voice trembled in spite of herself&mdash;was,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good-bye, my boy! Remember that I've worked, and thought, and prayed, for
      you alone,&mdash;and that I'd do more&mdash;I'd do <i>all</i>, if I only
      could!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His look said, &ldquo;I do not forget!&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Two days more!&rdquo; she sighed, as she entered the house,&mdash;&ldquo;two days
      more of fear and prayer! Lord forgive me that I am so weak of faith&mdash;that
      I make myself trouble where I ought to be humble and thankful!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;&ldquo;Though
      the fight was lost, the cause was won.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Damn the beast! I'll have to shoot him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Keep as you are, young man!&rdquo; he cried, without turning his head, &ldquo;or a
      bullet goes into your horse's brain. I know the beast, and don't want to
      see him slaughtered. If <i>you</i> don't, order him to be quiet!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;had there been time for
      reflection&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Obeying the feeling which entirely possessed him, he cried,&mdash;&ldquo;Roger!
      Roger, old boy!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quiet, Roger, quiet!&rdquo; Gilbert again commanded.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;making no
      gesture which might excite Roger's suspicion,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;Roger,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;I've lost everything but you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He staggered to his feet and leaned against the bank. The extent of his
      loss&mdash;the hopelessness of its recovery&mdash;the impotence of his
      burning desire to avenge the outrage&mdash;overwhelmed him. The highwayman
      still stood, a few paces off, watching him with a grim curiosity.
    </p>
    <p>
      With a desperate effort, Gilbert turned towards him. &ldquo;Sandy Flash,&rdquo; he
      cried, &ldquo;do you know what you are doing?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I rather guess so,&rdquo;&mdash;and the highwayman grinned. &ldquo;I've done it
      before, but never quite so neatly as this time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I've heard it said, to your credit,&rdquo; Gilbert continued, &ldquo;that, though you
      rob the rich, you sometimes give to the poor. This time you've robbed a
      poor man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I've only borrowed a little from one able to spare a good deal more than
      I've got,&mdash;and the grudge I owe him isn't paid off yet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is not so!&rdquo; Gilbert cried. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I, <i>bein''</i> outside o' the law, as you say, have let you off
      mighty easy, young man!&rdquo; exclaimed Sandy Flash, his eyes shining angrily
      and his teeth glittering. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Barton's money!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh&mdash;ay! You didn't agree to take some o' his money to Chester?&rdquo; The
      mocking expression on the highwayman's face was perfectly diabolical. He
      slung the saddle-bags over his shoulders, and turned to leave.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is not Barton's money!&rdquo; Gilbert cried, with a last desperate appeal,&mdash;&ldquo;it
      is mine, mine and my mother's!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A short, insulting laugh was the only answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sandy Flash!&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor fellow!&rdquo; said Gilbert, patting his cheek, &ldquo;we've both fared ill
      to-day. But you mustn't suffer any longer for my sake.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He then mounted and rode onward through the storm.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXI. &mdash; ROGER REPAYS HIS MASTER.
    </h2>
    <p>
      A mile or more beyond the spot where Gilbert Potter had been waylaid,
      there was a lonely tavern, called the &ldquo;Drovers' Inn.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      The men kindly made way for the pale, dripping, wretched-looking stranger;
      and the landlord, with a shrewd glance and a suggestion of &ldquo;Something hot,
      I reckon?&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Unlucky weather for ye, it seems?&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Weather?&rdquo; he exclaimed, bitterly. &ldquo;It's not the weather. Landlord, will
      you have a chance of sending to Chester to-morrow?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm going, if it clears up,&rdquo; said one of the drovers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then, my friend,&rdquo; Gilbert continued, &ldquo;will you take a letter from me to
      the Sheriff?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If it's nothing out of the way,&rdquo; the man replied.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's in the proper course of law&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;Dear, dear!&rdquo; and &ldquo;Lord save us!&rdquo;
       The landlord, meanwhile, had prepared another tumbler of hot and hot, and
      brought it forward, saying,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You need it, the Lord knows, and it shall cost you nothing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What I most need now,&rdquo; Gilbert said, &ldquo;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 &ldquo;lunch.&rdquo;] for I must start
      homewards soon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not 'a cold check' after all that drenching and mishandling!&rdquo; the
      landlord exclaimed. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'd threaten,&rdquo; said a drover, &ldquo;to write straight to General Washington,
      unless they promise to catch the scoundrel in no time!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And don't forget the knife and pistol!&rdquo; cried the landlord.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And say the Tory farmers' houses ought to be searched!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And give his marks, to a hair!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the letter had been sealed and addressed, the drovers&mdash;some of
      whom carried money with them, and had agreed to travel in company, for
      better protection&mdash;eagerly took charge of it, promising to back the
      delivery with very energetic demands for assistance.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This beats the Lammas flood o' '68,&rdquo; said the landlord, as he led the way
      to supper. &ldquo;I was a young man at the time, and remember it well. Half the
      dams on Brandywine went that night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;how wretched his own life,
      cast adrift in the darkness,&mdash;wife, home, and future, things of
      doubt!
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;&ldquo;I'll know no peace till the villain
      has been strung up!&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      All at once, a hideous solution presented itself. Was it possible that
      Barton's money was to be only <i>apparently</i> stolen&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      What was that? A strange rustling, hissing sound, as of cattle trampling
      through dry reeds,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Great God!&rdquo; cried Gilbert, &ldquo;the dam!&mdash;the dam has given way!&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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?
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;the life which,
      alas! he could not now call his own, to give.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;a hoarse, strange, unnatural cry.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We have no rope,&rdquo; he heard one of the men say. &ldquo;How shall we reach him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is no time to get one, now,&rdquo; the other answered. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But one horse can't carry both.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;His will follow, be sure, when it sees me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Can you swim?&rdquo; asked the man.
    </p>
    <p>
      Gilbert shook his head. &ldquo;Throw me the end of Roger's bridle!&rdquo; he then
      cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You're safe now,&rdquo; said the man, when they reached the bank, &ldquo;but it's a
      downright mercy of God that you're alive!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;too
      numb for curiosity, almost for gratitude.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here's your saviour!&rdquo; said one of the men, patting Roger's shoulder. &ldquo;It
      was all along of him that we found you. Want to know how? Well&mdash;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,&mdash;I can't tell you
      exactly how it was,&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;to
      return home. So recently plucked from the jaws of Death, his life still
      seemed to be an uncertain possession.
    </p>
    <p>
      Finally Roger was led forth, quiet and submissive as of old,&mdash;having
      forgotten his good deed as soon as it had been accomplished,&mdash;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,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Deborah!&rdquo; he cried, &ldquo;what are you doing here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She set her pole to the ground and vaulted over the high picket-fence,
      like an athlete.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bones?&rdquo; he asked. &ldquo;You're surely not digging up the Hessians?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What luck have you had?&rdquo; asked Gilbert.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothin' to speak of; a few buttons, and a thing or two. But I say, Mr.
      Gilbert, what luck ha' <i>you</i> had?&rdquo; She had been keenly and curiously
      inspecting his face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Deborah!&rdquo; he exclaimed, &ldquo;you're a false prophet! You told me that,
      whatever happened, I was safe from Sandy Flash.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eh?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was a shrill tone of surprise and curiosity in this exclamation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You ought to know Sandy Flash better, before you prophesy in his name,&rdquo;
       Gilbert repeated, in a stern voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Mr. Gilbert, tell me what you mean?&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You'll be righted, Mr. Gilbert!&rdquo; she then cried, &ldquo;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&mdash;may the Devil git my soul, if I don't!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't think that I blame you, Deborah,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;You were too sure of my
      good luck, because you wished me to have it&mdash;that's all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXII. &mdash; MARTHA DEANE TAKES A RESOLUTION.
    </h2>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;it
      <i>was</i> Gilbert, but how old and haggard was his face!
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Gilbert!&rdquo; she cried; &ldquo;what has happened?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He slid slowly and wearily off the horse, whose neck he fondled a moment
      before answering her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mother,&rdquo; he said at last, &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't understand you, my boy! You frighten me; haven't you been at
      Chester?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; he answered, &ldquo;there was no use of going.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A presentiment of the truth came to her, but before she could question him
      further, he spoke again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thought of this, last night,&rdquo; he said, with a faint smile; &ldquo;not that I
      ever expected to see it. The man was right; it's a mercy of God that I
      ever got out alive!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then be grateful to God, my boy!&rdquo; she replied, &ldquo;and let me be grateful,
      too. It will balance misfortune,&mdash;for that there it misfortune in
      store for us. I see plainly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's all, mother!&rdquo; he said at the close; &ldquo;it's hard to bear, but I'm
      more troubled on your account than on my own.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I feared we were over-sure!&rdquo; she cried. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When she had outwept her passionate tumult of feeling, she grew composed
      and serene. &ldquo;Haven't I yet learned to be patient, in all these years?&rdquo; she
      said. &ldquo;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 <i>will</i> deserve my
      justice! Keep your courage, my boy; be brave and patient, and the sight of
      you will hold me from breaking down!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let Sam see to Roger, mother!&rdquo; he murmured. &ldquo;Tell him not to spare the
      oats.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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,&mdash;that I didn't want you to buy,&mdash;Lord
      forgive me, I was advising your own death!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      As for Roger, he stood knee-deep in clean litter, with half a bushel of
      oats before him.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How is thy son ailing?&rdquo; he asked. &ldquo;He always seemed to me to be a very
      healthy young man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She described the symptoms with a conscientious minuteness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How was it brought on?&rdquo; he asked again.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is a wonderful tale thee tells me,&rdquo; said the Doctor&mdash;&ldquo;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&mdash;I don't wonder thy son is unwell. Let me go up
      to him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Dr. Deane's prescriptions usually conformed to the practice of his day,&mdash;bleeding
      and big doses,&mdash;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 <i>might</i> be a turn for the worse, as the shock
      to the system had been very great, and she ought to have assistance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There's no one I can call upon,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;without it's Betsy Lavender,
      and I must ask you to tell her for me, if you think she can come.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll oblige thee, certainly,&rdquo; the Doctor answered. &ldquo;Betsy <i>is</i> 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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, child, thee needn't be so frightened.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never mind!&rdquo; exclaimed Miss Betsy, promptly coming to the rescue, &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I've no doubt Alfred did the best he could, under the circumstances,&rdquo; the
      Doctor sternly remarked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fiddle-de-dee!&rdquo; was Miss Betsy's contemptuous answer. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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,&rdquo; said the
      Doctor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To-morrow mornin'? Why not next week? When help's wanted, give it <i>right
      away</i>; 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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am going with you,&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Lavender whirled around and looked at her a minute, without saying a
      word.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Betsy,&rdquo; Martha Deane persisted, &ldquo;a misfortune like this brings my duty
      with it. Besides, he may be in great danger; he may have got his death,&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't begin talkin' that way,&rdquo; Miss Lavender interrupted, &ldquo;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,&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Betsy,&rdquo; she murmured, her tears falling without restraint, &ldquo;it's hard
      for me to seem so strange to him, at such a time!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; answered the spinster, setting her comb tight with a fierce thrust,
      &ldquo;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>I'll</i> 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 <i>both</i> agree on, after a proper understanding I guess'll be
      pretty nigh right. There! where's my knittin'-basket?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Set down and rest yourself, Mary!&rdquo; Miss Betsy exclaimed. &ldquo;I'll go up and
      put him to rights.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Martha?&rdquo; he whispered, his face full of intense, piteous eagerness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will you promise to lay still and sweat, as you're told
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, yes!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Martha, Martha!&rdquo; Gilbert urged.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell her,&rdquo; he exclaimed, &ldquo;it was enough that she wanted to come. That
      alone has put new life into me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I see it has,&rdquo; said Miss Lavender, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mary,&rdquo; she said, when she descended to the kitchen, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A fine constitution for medicines to work on,&rdquo; he remarked. &ldquo;I wouldn't
      wish thee to be sick, but when thee is, it's a pleasure to see how thy
      system obeys the treatment.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;at least not the haughty quality which bears an
      obligation uneasily,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The time has come, Gilbert,&rdquo; she said at last, &ldquo;when our love for each
      other must no longer be kept a secret&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She laid her arms caressingly over his shoulders, and looked in his face.
      A wonderful softness and tenderness touched his pale, worn countenance.
      &ldquo;Martha,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;remember that my disgrace will cover you, yet awhile.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gilbert!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      That one word, proud, passionate, reproachful, yet forgiving, sealed his
      lips.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So be it!&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;God knows, I think but of you. If I selfishly
      considered myself, do you think I would hold back my own honor?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A poor honor,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;that I sit comfortably at home and love you,
      while you are face to face with death!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Father,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;thee has never asked any questions concerning Alfred
      Barton's visit.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, child,&rdquo; he answered, after a pause. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If Alfred Barton said that, he told thee false,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;I knew my own
      mind, as well then as now. I said to him that nothing could ever make me
      his wife.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Martha!&rdquo; the Doctor exclaimed, &ldquo;don't be hasty! If Alfred is a little
      older&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Father!&rdquo; she interrupted, &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Martha, Martha!&rdquo; cried Dr. Deane, starting from his seat, &ldquo;what does all
      this mean?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who is this man?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gilbert Potter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Dr. Deane's pipe dropped from his hand and smashed upon the iron hearth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Martha Deane!&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;Does the d&mdash;&mdash; <i>what</i> 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&mdash;it shall never be!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It <i>must</i> be, father,&rdquo; she said gently. &ldquo;God hath joined our hearts
      and our lives, and no man&mdash;not even thee&mdash;shall put them
      asunder. If there were disgrace, in the eyes of the world,&mdash;which I
      now know there is not,&mdash;Gilbert has wiped it out by his courage, his
      integrity, and his sufferings. If he is poor, I am well to do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thee forgets,&rdquo; the Doctor interrupted, in a stern voice, &ldquo;the time isn't
      up!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      He interrupted her again. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, father,&rdquo; said Martha, rising and laying her hand softly upon his arm,
      &ldquo;I <i>obeyed</i> 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,&mdash;nay, it stands as far
      above thine as Heaven is above the earth!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, Martha!&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Father,&rdquo; she answered, with a sad smile, &ldquo;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,&mdash;owed,
      and will be given.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Enough, Martha!&rdquo; cried the Doctor, trembling with anger; &ldquo;don't mention
      his name again!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go to bed!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good-night, father,&rdquo; she said, in her usual clear sweet voice, and
      quietly left the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXIII. &mdash; A CROSS-EXAMINATION.
    </h2>
    <p>
      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 <i>quite</i>
      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&mdash;in justice to him be it said&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;one of whom was Mark Deane,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I believe Pratt's right,&rdquo; said Mark, as the two issued from the
      Marlborough woods, on their return to Kennett Square. &ldquo;Chester County is
      too hot to hold him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps so,&rdquo; 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,&mdash;hard to
      stoop again to be a borrower and a debtor!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What are the county authorities good for?&rdquo; Mark exclaimed. &ldquo;Between you
      and me, the Sheriff's a reg'lar puddin'-head. I wish you was in his
      place.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come to think on it, Gilbert,&rdquo; Mark continued, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      When they reached the top of the &ldquo;big hill&rdquo; 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,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What?&rdquo; Gilbert asked, yet with a quick suspicion of the coming
      intelligence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mark, I'm glad of it; I wish you joy, with all my heart!&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are like a brother to me, Mark,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;and you shall have <i>my</i>
      secret. What would you say if I had done the same thing?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No?&rdquo; Mark exclaimed; &ldquo;who?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Guess!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not&mdash;not Martha?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Gilbert smiled.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By the Lord! It's the best day's work <i>you</i>'ve ever done! Gi' me y'r
      hand ag'in; we'll stand by each other faster than ever, now!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'T a'n't agreeable for a body to allow they're flummuxed, but if <i>I</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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Betsy,&rdquo; said Gilbert, with a stern, determined face, &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To tell me. That might do, as far as it goes,&rdquo; she remarked, after a
      moment's reflection. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't see, Betsy, that I need to call on you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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,&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Gilbert reflected a moment. &ldquo;It can do no harm,&rdquo; he then said; &ldquo;can you go
      with me, now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come into the house,&rdquo; he said, leading the way.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; Gilbert answered, &ldquo;I came here to speak with you privately. Will you
      walk down the lane?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No objection, of course,&rdquo; said Barton, looking from Gilbert to Miss
      Lavender, with a mixture of curiosity and uneasiness. &ldquo;Good news, I hope;
      got hold of Sandy's tracks, at last?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One of them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, you don't say so! Where?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Gilbert stopped and faced Barton. They were below the barn, and out of
      Giles's hearing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Barton,&rdquo; he resumed, &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I've told you that, already; the matter has been fully talked over
      between us,&rdquo; Barton answered, in a petulant tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Damme, Gilbert, <i>you</i> were there, and saw as much as I did. How
      could I know who the cursed black-whiskered fellow was?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you found it out,&rdquo; Gilbert persisted, &ldquo;and the manner of your finding
      it out must be explained.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Barton assumed a bold, insolent manner. &ldquo;I don't see as that follows,&rdquo; he
      said. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He's tryin' to fly off the handle,&rdquo; Miss Lavender remarked. &ldquo;I'd drop
      that part o' the business a bit, if I was you, and come to the t'other
      proof.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What the devil have <i>you</i> to do here?&rdquo; asked Barton.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Miss Betsy is here because I asked her,&rdquo; Gilbert said. &ldquo;Because all that
      passes between us may have to be repeated in a court of justice, and two
      witnesses are better than one!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;I kept my promise,&rdquo; he added,
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Barton had listened with open mouth and amazed eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, the man is a devil!&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;I, neither, never said a word of the
      matter to any living soul!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you really send any money?&rdquo; Gilbert asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He darted a sharp, suspicious glance at Miss Betsy Lavender, who gravely
      nodded her head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The difficulty is not yet explained,&rdquo; said Gilbert, &ldquo;and perhaps you'll
      <i>now</i> not deny my right to know something more of your first
      acquaintance with Sandy Flash?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have it then!&rdquo; Barton exclaimed, desperately&mdash;&ldquo;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,&mdash;money,
      watch, and everything?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah-ha!&rdquo; said Miss Lavender, &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This, too, may as well be kept to ourselves,&rdquo; Barton suggested. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Barton,&rdquo; he said, after a long pause, &ldquo;will you do your best to help me
      in finding out how Sandy Flash got the knowledge?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Only show me a way! The best would be to catch him and get it from his
      own mouth.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He looked so earnest, so eager, and&mdash;as far as the traces of cunning
      in his face would permit&mdash;so honest, that Gilbert yielded to a sudden
      impulse, and said,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I believe you, Barton. I've done you wrong in my thoughts,&mdash;not
      willingly, for I don't want to think badly of you or any one else,&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Trouble for myself, Alf. Barton,&rdquo; said Miss Lavender, &ldquo;that's the truest
      word you've said this many a day. Murder will out, you know, and so will
      robbery, and so will&mdash;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;&ldquo;Yes; oh, yes! of course.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;First and foremost,&rdquo; she resumed, &ldquo;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&mdash;oh,
      you needn't chaw your lips and look yaller about the jaws, it's the Lord's
      truth; and now answer me this, <i>what do you mean?</i> 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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gilbert,&rdquo; he asked, &ldquo;is this true?&mdash;about <i>you</i>, I mean.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Martha Deane and I are engaged, and were already at the time when you
      addressed her,&rdquo; Gilbert answered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good heavens! I hadn't the slightest suspicion of it. Well&mdash;I don't
      begrudge you your luck, and of course I'll draw back, and never say
      another word, now or ever.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>You</i> wouldn't ha' been comfortable with Martha Deane, anyhow,&rdquo; Miss
      Lavender grimly remarked. &ldquo;'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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I've promised Gilbert that I won't interfere, and that's enough,&rdquo; said
      Barton, doggedly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Lavender was foiled for a moment, but she presently returned to the
      attack. &ldquo;I dunno as it's enough, after what's gone before,&rdquo; she said.
      &ldquo;Couldn't you go a step furder, and lend Gilbert a helpin' hand, whenever
      and whatever?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Betsy!&rdquo; Gilbert exclaimed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I've offered, more than once, to do him a good turn, if I could; but I
      guess my help wouldn't be welcome,&rdquo; Barton answered. The sting of the
      suspicion rankled in his mind, and Gilbert's evident aversion sorely
      wounded his vanity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You're right so far, Betsy,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;that I had a reason&mdash;a good
      reason, it seemed to me, but I may be mistaken&mdash;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&mdash;you
      couldn't help one bit. I've given the thing up, and so let it be!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No use&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXIV. &mdash; DEB. SMITH TAKES A RESOLUTION.
    </h2>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's likely to be a good night,&rdquo; the woman muttered, &ldquo;and he'll be on the
      way by this time. I must put things to rights.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was a mean thing, after what I'd said,&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She shook her hard fist, and took another pull at the jug.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's well I laid in a good lot o' <i>that</i>,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;No better
      company for a lonesome night, and it'll stop his cussin', I reckon,
      anyhow. Eh? What's that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All right, Deb?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then why not give it up, Sandy, for good and all? I'll go out with you to
      the Backwoods, after&mdash;after things is settled.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And let 'em brag they frightened me away!&rdquo; he exclaimed, with an oath.
      &ldquo;Not by a long shot, Deb. I owe 'em a score for this last chase&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, never mind; eat a bit&mdash;the meat's ready, and see here, Sandy!
      I carried this all the way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He seized the jug and took a long draught. &ldquo;You're a good 'un, Deb.,&rdquo; he
      said. &ldquo;A man isn't half a man when his belly's cold and empty.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You see,&rdquo; he said at the close, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I guess you're safe here, Sandy,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;First of all, Sandy,&rdquo; she now said, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's not true!&rdquo; she cried. &ldquo;It was his own money, every cent of it,&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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,&mdash;that he's hardly yet giv' up huntin' me like a wild
      beast! Damn him, if the money <i>was</i> 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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No I don't, Sandy!&rdquo; she protested, &ldquo;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,&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't be a fool!&rdquo; Sandy exclaimed. &ldquo;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,&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then,&rdquo; she begged, &ldquo;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&mdash;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&mdash;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&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do what? What in the Devil's name is the woman drivin' at?&rdquo; yelled Sandy
      Flash.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Give back the money; it's his'n, not Barton's,&mdash;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&mdash;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The highwayman took another deep drink and rose to his feet. His face was
      stern and threatening. &ldquo;I've had enough o' this foolery,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She arose also and confronted him. The convulsive twitching of her mouth
      ceased, and her face became as hard and defiant as his. &ldquo;Sandy Flash, mark
      my words!&rdquo; she exclaimed. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You &mdash;&mdash;!&rdquo; (the epithet he used cannot be written,) &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'll not hold my jaw!&rdquo; she cried, with flashing eyes. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As I was a-sayin',&rdquo; he remarked, in his ordinary tone, &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where?&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, pretty well down,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;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&mdash;it's no difference where&mdash;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It'll do,&rdquo; she muttered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then, that's enough. I must be off an hour before day, and I'm devilish
      fagged and sleepy, so here goes!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Deb.,&rdquo; he said, five minutes afterwards, &ldquo;I'm not sure o' wakin'. You
      look out for me,&mdash;do you hear?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hear,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Time!&rdquo; was all she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      He sprang up, hastily devoured the bread and meat, and emptied the jug of
      its last remaining contents.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hark ye, Deb.,&rdquo; he exclaimed, when he had finished, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      During the rest of that day and the greater part of the next, the cabin
      was deserted.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's right, Deb.,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;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!&mdash;I didn't mean to mark you like that. Well, bygones is
      bygones, and better times is a-comin'.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sandy!&rdquo; she cried, with a sudden, appealing energy, &ldquo;Sandy&mdash;once't
      more! Won't you do for me what I want o' you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His face darkened in an instant. &ldquo;Deb!&rdquo; was all the word he uttered, but
      she understood the tone. He took off his pistol-belt and laid it on the
      shelf. &ldquo;Lay there, pets!&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;a scream so strange and unearthly in its character that
      Sandy Flash's blood chilled to hear it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Curse you, Deb., what are you doing? Are you clean mad?&rdquo; he ejaculated,
      struggling violently to free his arms.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Which is strongest now?&rdquo; she asked; &ldquo;my arms, or your'n? I've got you,
      I'll hold you, and I'll only let go when I please!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A good night's work!&rdquo; remarked Chaffey, the constable, as he possessed
      himself of the musket, pistol-belt, and hunting-knife. &ldquo;I guess this
      pitcher won't go to the well any more.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We'll see,&rdquo; Sandy exclaimed, with a sneer. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I guess you'll do,&rdquo; said the constable, examining the cords by the light
      of a lantern which his assistant had in the mean time fetched from
      without. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The constable then turned to Deb. Smith, who had neither moved nor spoken.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You needn't come with us without you want to,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Must I do that?&rdquo; she gasped.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;March is the word, is it?&rdquo; said the highwayman. &ldquo;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 <i>you</i>, Deb!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Sandy!&rdquo; she cried, starting forward, &ldquo;you druv me to it! The curse
      was o' your own makin'&mdash;and I gev you a last chance to-night, but you
      throwed it from you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well, Deb,&rdquo; he answered, &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXV. &mdash; TWO ATTEMPTS.
    </h2>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Betsy,&rdquo; Martha said (they were in her room, upstairs), &ldquo;Father has
      just come in from the stable, I see. Since there is no other way, I will
      go down and ask his advice.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don't mean it, child!&rdquo; cried the spinster.
    </p>
    <p>
      Martha left the room, without answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She's got <i>that</i> from him, anyhow,&rdquo; Miss Betsy remarked, &ldquo;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 <i>you</i> to be doin'
      somethin', Betsy Lavender!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;Materia Medica.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;Materia Medica&rdquo; before him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Father,&rdquo; said Martha, seating herself with a bit of sewing in her hand,
      &ldquo;I want to ask thee a few questions about business matters.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Doctor looked at her. &ldquo;Well, thee's taking a new turn,&rdquo; he remarked.
      &ldquo;Is it anything very important?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very important,&rdquo; she answered; &ldquo;it's about my own fortune.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thought thee understood, Martha, that that matter was all fixed and
      settled, until thee's twenty-five, unless&mdash;unless&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      Here the Doctor hesitated. He did not wish to introduce the sore subject
      of his daughter's marriage.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That depends on circumstances,&rdquo; said the Doctor, slowly, and after a long
      pause, during which he endeavored to guess his daughter's design. &ldquo;It
      might be,&mdash;yes, it might be; but, Martha, surely thee doesn't want
      for money? Why should thee borrow?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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,&mdash;a permanent investment.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, indeed? I always fancied thee cared less for money than a prudent
      woman ought. How much might this investment be?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;About six hundred dollars,&rdquo; she answered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Six hundred!&rdquo; exclaimed the Doctor; &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Martha hesitated only long enough to reflect that her father's assertion
      was probably true, and without his aid she could do nothing. &ldquo;Father,&rdquo; she
      then said, &ldquo;<i>I</i> am the security.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't understand thee, child.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I mean that my whole legacy will be responsible to the lender for its
      repayment in three years from this time. The security <i>I</i> ask, I have
      in advance; it is the happiness of my life!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Martha! thee doesn't mean to say that thee would&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      Dr. Deane could get no further. Martha, with a sorrowful half-smile, took
      up his word.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      For an instant Martha Deane's eyes flashed. &ldquo;Father!&rdquo; she cried, &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can spare thee the trouble,&rdquo; the Doctor said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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 <i>should</i> die, would thee not care
      enough for my memory to pay a debt, the incurring of which brought me
      peace and happiness during life? <i>Then</i>, 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 <i>thy</i> way, not
      in mine. Is it not possible to grant me this&mdash;only this&mdash;and
      leave everything else to time?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Martha,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;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,&mdash;since it
      concerns thy interests,&mdash;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&mdash;yet all for thy future
      good&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Father,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No!&rdquo; he exclaimed, with rising exasperation, &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;&ldquo;If I was right-down
      sure,&rdquo; or, &ldquo;It'd only be another weepon tried and throwed away, at the
      wust.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What are you thinking of, Betsy?&rdquo; Martha finally asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's puttin' me on nettles, now that I mean fast and firm to do it; but
      you're quite right, Martha,&rdquo; the spinster said.
    </p>
    <p>
      Three or four days afterwards she judged the proper time had arrived, and
      boldly entered the Doctor's awful presence. &ldquo;Doctor,&rdquo; she began, &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;H'm,&rdquo; snorted the Doctor, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;More 'n enough,&rdquo; repeated Miss Lavender. &ldquo;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,&mdash;in a measure, that is,&mdash;and not so
      direckly concerned, might talk the thing over betwixt and between us, and
      maybe come to a better understandin' for both sides.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then say thy say, Betsy,&rdquo; he assented.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What?&rdquo; Dr. Deane exclaimed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;With his own mouth.&rdquo; Miss Lavender repeated. &ldquo;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&mdash;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wonder thee can ask, Betsy! He's poor, he's base-born, without position
      or influence in the neighborhood,&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I rather expect,&rdquo; Miss Lavender gravely remarked, &ldquo;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,&mdash;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thee's right,&rdquo; Dr. Deane said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I admit that there might be other advantages,&rdquo; he said, rather pompously,
      covering his annoyance with a pinch of snuff,&mdash;&ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Recommendation? No!&rdquo; Miss Lavender curtly replied.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Miss Lavender sat silently in her chair and appeared to meditate.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thee doesn't answer,&rdquo; the Doctor remarked, after a pause.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I dunno how it come about,&rdquo; she said, lifting her head and fixing her
      dull eyes on vacancy; &ldquo;I was thinkin' o' the time I was up at Strasburg,
      while your brother was livin', more 'n twenty year ago.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't see what that has to do with Gilbert Potter,&rdquo; he presently said,
      collecting himself with an effort.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nor I, neither,&rdquo; Miss Lavender absently replied, &ldquo;only it happened that I
      knowed Eliza Little,&mdash;her that used to live at the Gap, you know,&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Betsy Lavender,&rdquo; he said, in a hollow voice, &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Witnesses bein' dead,&rdquo; she repeated. &ldquo;Are you sorry for that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He stared at her in silent consternation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Doctor,&rdquo; she said, turning towards him for the first time, &ldquo;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&mdash;and there's that, of course, for you a'n't a nateral bad
      man, Doctor, but rather the contrary&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Betsy,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;there's one thing thee won't deny,&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We're not!&rdquo; she cried, rising from her seat. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With these words she left the room, though foiled, not entirely hopeless.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's like buttin' over an old stone-wall,&rdquo; she said to Martha. &ldquo;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,&mdash;and so we've been a-doin'.
      I guess I made a crack to-day, but we'll see.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXVI. &mdash; THE LAST OF SANDY FLASH.
    </h2>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Both Mary Potter and her son, in this emergency, seemed to have adopted,
      by accident or sympathy, the same policy towards each other,&mdash;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,&mdash;she
      that he had been mercifully saved to her, he that he was beloved by a
      noble woman.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is not precisely true that there had been no offer of assistance. There
      was <i>one</i>, 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The man I wanted to see!&rdquo; cried the latter, as Gilbert dismounted.
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It must have been so!&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;She has been a better friend to me
      than many people of better name.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I told you I believed your words,&rdquo; Gilbert answered, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;See here, Gilbert!&rdquo; Barton resumed. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not so much, if those who have it to lend, had a little faith in me,&mdash;some
      four or five hundred dollars.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That ought to be got, without trouble,&rdquo; said Barton. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Barton,&rdquo; he said at last, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When Gilbert returned home, he communicated this slight prospect of relief
      to his mother. &ldquo;Perhaps I am a little too proud,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You're right, boy!&rdquo; Mary Potter cried, with flashing eyes. &ldquo;Keep your
      pride; it's not of the mean kind! Don't ask for or take any man's
      indorsement!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Deborah!&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;you don't look well; come into the house and warm
      yourself!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No!&rdquo; she cried, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Gilbert made a sign, and Sam sprang down the ladder, to the stables under
      the threshing-floor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mayhap you've heerd already,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;A blotch on a body's name
      spreads fast and far. Mine was black enough before, God knows, but they've
      blackened it more.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If all I hear is true,&rdquo; Gilbert exclaimed, &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, lad, that I did! But the devil seemed to ha' got into him. Awful
      words passed between us, and then&mdash;the devil got into <i>me</i>, and&mdash;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't care what they say, Deborah!&rdquo; Gilbert cried. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then maybe you'll take it? I was almost afeard to ax you,&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you mean, Deborah?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The money, Mr. Gilbert! They allowed me half, though the constables was
      for thirds, but the Judge said I'd arned the full half,&mdash;God knows,
      ten thousand times wouldn't pay me!&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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
      &ldquo;blood-money,&rdquo; 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?
    </p>
    <p>
      His face spoke in advance of his lips, and she read its language with
      wonderful quickness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; she cried, &ldquo;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,&mdash;maybe
      a downright curse,&mdash;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,&mdash;my arm's sore, and my heart's sore, wi' the
      weight o' you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, what am I to do?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stay here for the present, Deborah,&rdquo; he answered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then come to me afterwards,&rdquo; he said, gently, striving to allay her
      fierce, self-accusing mood. &ldquo;Remember that you always have a home and a
      shelter with me, whenever you need them. And I'll take your money,&rdquo; he
      added, picking it up from the floor,&mdash;&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The woman was softened and consoled by his words. But she still hesitated.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Maybe she won't&mdash;she won't&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She will!&rdquo; Gilbert exclaimed. &ldquo;But if you doubt, wait here until I come
      back.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;which steals by avenues
      of benevolent cunning into a nature that would repel a direct expression
      of sympathy.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next morning, however, Deb. Smith left the house, saying to Gilbert,&mdash;&ldquo;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,&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sandy!&rdquo; she was reported to have said, &ldquo;I couldn't help myself; take the
      curse off o' me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Deb., it's too late,&rdquo; he answered. &ldquo;It's begun to work, and it'll work
      itself out!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Gilbert noticed the feeling of hostility with which Deb. Smith was
      regarded by the spectators,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's true as Gospel, every word of it! Sandy, do you hear?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      The trial took its course, and terminated with the result which everybody&mdash;even
      the prisoner himself&mdash;knew to be inevitable. He was pronounced
      guilty, and duly sentenced to be hanged by the neck until he was dead.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Gilbert did not hesitate a moment. There were doubts of his own to be
      solved,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;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,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Set down, Potter. Limited accommodations, you see. Sheriff, you needn't
      wait; it's private business.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Sheriff locked the iron door behind him, and they were alone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Potter,&rdquo; the highwayman began, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell me one thing,&rdquo; Gilbert interrupted; &ldquo;how did you know I promised to
      take money for him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I knowed it, that's enough; I can give you, word for word, what both o'
      you said, if you doubt me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then, as I thought, it was Barton himself!&rdquo; Gilbert cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sandy Flash burst into a roaring laugh. &ldquo;<i>Him!</i> 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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His manner, even more than his words, convinced Gilbert Barton was
      absolved, but the mystery remained. &ldquo;You won't deny that you have
      friends?&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Maybe,&rdquo; Sandy replied, in a short, rough tone. &ldquo;That's nothin' to you,&rdquo;
       he continued; &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have told her,&rdquo; said Gilbert, &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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 <i>your</i> 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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Gilbert leaned his ear to the highwayman's mouth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You'll only tell <i>her,</i> you understand?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Gilbert assented.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Say to her these words,&mdash;don't forgit a single one of 'em!&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sandy!&rdquo; Gilbert exclaimed, starting from his listening posture.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush, I say! You know what I mean her to do,&mdash;give you your money
      back. I took a curse with it, as you said. Maybe that's off o' me, now!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is!&rdquo; said Gilbert, in a low tone, &ldquo;and forgiveness&mdash;mine and my
      mother's&mdash;in the place of it. Have you any&rdquo;&mdash;he hesitated to say
      the words&mdash;&ldquo;any last messages, to her or anybody else, or anything
      you would like to have done?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank ye, no!&mdash;unless Deb. can find my black hair and whiskers. Then
      you may give 'em to Barton, with my dutiful service.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He laughed at the idea, until his chains rattled.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sandy,&rdquo; he asked, &ldquo;have you any children?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not to my knowledge; and I'm glad of it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must know,&rdquo; Gilbert continued, &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The highwayman sat silent, meditating, and Gilbert felt that his heart was
      beginning to beat painfully fast, as he waited for the answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Sandy, at last, &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He looked up with an eager, questioning glance, which Gilbert totally
      misunderstood.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What was your other name?&rdquo; he asked, in a barely audible voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I dunno as I need tell it,&rdquo; Sandy answered; &ldquo;what'd be the good? There's
      some yet livin', o' the same name, and they wouldn't thank me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sandy!&rdquo; Gilbert cried desperately, &ldquo;answer this one question,&mdash;don't
      go out of the world with a false word in your mouth!&mdash;You are not my
      father?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The highwayman looked at him a moment, in blank amazement. &ldquo;No, so help me
      God!&rdquo; he then said.
    </p>
    <p>
      Gilbert's face brightened so suddenly and vividly that Sandy muttered to
      himself,&mdash;&ldquo;I never thought I was that bad.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hear the Sheriff at the outside gate,&rdquo; he whispered again. &ldquo;Don't
      forgit&mdash;thirty steps from the place she knowed about&mdash;behind the
      two big chestnut-trees, goin' towards the first cedar&mdash;and a forked
      sassyfrack growin' right over it! Good-bye, and good-luck to the whole o'
      your life!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The two clasped hands with a warmth and earnestness which surprised the
      Sheriff. Then Gilbert went out from his old antagonist.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXVII. &mdash; GILBERT INDEPENDENT.
    </h2>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;his mother's secret. Towards that
      he was powerless; to meet all others he was brimming with strength and
      courage.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mother,&rdquo; said Gilbert, &ldquo;when&mdash;I mean <i>if</i>&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, my boy,&rdquo; she replied; &ldquo;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,&mdash;I don't know where.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you feel that way, mother?&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;Do you think&mdash;let me
      mention it this once!&mdash;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mary Potter looked upon his bright, wistful, anxious face, and sighed. &ldquo;I
      can't tell&mdash;I can't tell,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One word more, mother,&rdquo; he persisted, &ldquo;will our independence be no help
      to you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A great help,&rdquo; she answered, &ldquo;or, maybe, a great comfort would be the
      true word. Without it, I might be tempted to&mdash;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,&mdash;because I'm held back from my duty to my child,&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mother, I meant never to have spoken of this again,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I understand,&rdquo; he said, and gazed for a long time into the fire, without
      speaking.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;and so the hours passed away.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;See if it's all right!&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mary Potter and Gilbert bent over the rolls and counted them. It was the
      entire sum, untouched.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you got a sup o' whiskey, Mr. Gilbert?&rdquo; Deb. Smith asked. &ldquo;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!&rdquo; [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.]
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I tell you what it is, Gilbert,&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The sooner, Mark, the better for you; and you can buy the wedding-suit at
      once, for I have your hundred dollars ready.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don't mean that you wont use it, Gilbert?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Who so delighted as Mark, when he heard Gilbert's unexpected story? &ldquo;Oh,
      glory!&rdquo; he exclaimed; &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What might be thy business with me?&rdquo; he asked, stiffly, recovering from
      the first shock.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I called to see Martha,&rdquo; Gilbert answered. &ldquo;I have some news which she
      will be glad to hear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Young man,&rdquo; said the Doctor, with his sternest face and voice, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will do so,&rdquo; Gilbert replied, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I see,&rdquo; he said, with a tone slightly less arrogant, &ldquo;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&mdash;knowing the heart of man
      as I do&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Father,&rdquo; said Martha, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Martha!&rdquo; Gilbert exclaimed; &ldquo;I came to bring you good news. The
      mortgage on my farm is lifted, and I am an independent man!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Without my help! Does thee hear that, father?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Gilbert did not understand her remark; without heeding it, he continued,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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,&mdash;give it away, forfeit the conditions of the legacy,&mdash;let
      me show truly whether I ever thought of money in seeking you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gilbert,&rdquo; she said, gently, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Martha!&rdquo; Dr. Deane exclaimed, feeling that he should lose ground, unless
      this turn of the conversation were interrupted; &ldquo;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&mdash;or has he so little consideration
      for thee as to forget&mdash;that he bears his mother's name?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Father!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let me speak, Martha,&rdquo; said Gilbert, lifting his head, which had drooped
      for a moment. His voice was earnest and sorrowful, yet firm. &ldquo;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,&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you, Gilbert!&rdquo; Martha interrupted.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But there is none, Dr. Deane,&rdquo; he continued, &ldquo;and when the time comes, my
      birth will be shown to be as honorable as your own, or Mark's.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why,&rdquo; the Doctor at last stammered, &ldquo;I never heard of this before!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; Gilbert answered, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What keeps her from it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know,&rdquo; Gilbert sadly replied.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come!&rdquo; cried the Doctor, as sternly as ever, &ldquo;this is rather a likely
      story! If Potter isn't thy name, what is?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know,&rdquo; Gilbert repeated.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No; nor no one else! How dare thee address my daughter,&mdash;talk of
      marriage with her,&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do,&rdquo; said Martha, rising and moving to Gilbert's side.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Martha, go to thy room!&rdquo; the Doctor cried. &ldquo;And as for thee, Gilbert
      Potter, or Gilbert Anything, I tell thee, once and for all, never speak of
      this thing again,&mdash;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,&mdash;to
      enter my doors!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dr. Deane,&rdquo; said Gilbert, with sad yet inflexible dignity, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Gilbert,&rdquo; said Martha, who had not yet moved from her place by his
      side, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Martha!&rdquo; Dr. Deane exclaimed; but the word conveys no idea of his wrath
      and amazement.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Father,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it a woman's place,&rdquo; he angrily asked, &ldquo;to visit a man?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good-bye, Martha!&rdquo; Gilbert said, taking her hand &ldquo;I must wait.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We wait together, Gilbert!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXVIII. &mdash; MISS LAVENDER MAKES A GUESS.
    </h2>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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!
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Joe, who was present, immediately cried out,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, Sally! now I may tell about Mark, mayn't I?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sally seized him by the collar, and pitched him out the kitchen-door. Her
      face was the color of fire.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My gracious, Sally!&rdquo; exclaimed Mother Fairthorn, in amazement; &ldquo;what's
      that for?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Sally had already disappeared, and was relating her trouble to Mark,
      who roared with wicked laughter, whereupon she nearly cried with vexation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never mind,&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;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&mdash;I'll do the talkin'.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;See here, Daddy and Mammy!&rdquo; said Mark, &ldquo;have either o' you any objections
      to Sally and me bein' a pair?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Farmer Fairthorn smiled, rubbed his hands together, and turning to his
      wife, asked,&mdash;&ldquo;What has Mammy to say to it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She looked up at Mark with her kindly eyes, in which twinkled something
      like a tear, and said,&mdash;&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Thereupon Farmer Fairthorn, still rubbing his hands, ventured to remark,&mdash;&ldquo;The
      girl might ha' done worse.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, Martha!&rdquo; she cried, after the first impetuous outburst of feeling,&mdash;&ldquo;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&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Martha smiled, readily untangling Sally's thoughts, and said,&mdash;&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No you won't!&rdquo; Sally exclaimed. &ldquo;I'll make Mark wait, too! And everything
      must be set right&mdash;somebody must do something! Where's Betsy
      Lavender?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here!&rdquo; answered the veritable voice of the spinster, through the open
      door of the small adjoining room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gracious, how you frightened me!&rdquo; cried Sally. &ldquo;But, Betsy, you seem to
      be able to help everybody; why can't you do something for Martha and
      Gilbert?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 <i>one</i> fact upon
      which resistance was based must be removed.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I ha'n't seen Mary since last fall, you know, Martha,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Only my love,&rdquo; Martha answered; &ldquo;and tell him how you left me. He knows I
      will keep my word; when I need his counsel, I will go to him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If more girls talked and thought that way, us women'd have fairer
      shakes,&rdquo; Miss Lavender remarked, as she put on her cloak and pattens.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;land.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I didn't know as you'd speak to me,&rdquo; said she, with assumed grimness.
      &ldquo;Maybe you wouldn't, if I didn't come direct from <i>her.</i> 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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did she tell you what passed between us, the last time?&rdquo; Gilbert asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What can be done?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I dunno,&rdquo; said Miss Lavender, gravely. &ldquo;You know as well as I do what's
      in the way, or rather none of us knows <i>what</i> it is, only <i>where</i>
      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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said Gilbert. &ldquo;I've tried once too often, already; I shall not try
      again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Try again,&rdquo; Miss Lavender repeated. &ldquo;Then why not?&rdquo;&mdash;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,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, well,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I do declare!&rdquo; exclaimed Miss Lavender, after the first cordial
      greetings were over. &ldquo;Seems almost like a different place, things is so
      snugged up and put to rights.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Mary Potter; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I can! Give me the redishes, while you stick in them beets. I've got
      a good forefinger for plantin' 'em,&mdash;long and stiff; and I can't
      stand by and see you workin' alone, without fidgets.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was over't Warren's t' other day,&rdquo; she said, biting off a thread, &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said Mary Potter, &ldquo;it was at&mdash;Treadwell's.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was in Fourth Street,&rdquo; Mary Potter answered, with a little hesitation.
      Miss Lavender secretly noticed her uneasiness, which, she also remarked,
      arose not from suspicion, but from memory.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What kind o' buttons are you goin' to have, Mary?&rdquo; she asked. &ldquo;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&mdash;ugh!&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Talkin' o' Deb. Smith,&rdquo; she then said, &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mary Potter looked up, with a shadow of the old trouble on her face. &ldquo;You
      know all about it, Betsy, then?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      An expression of painful curiosity, such as shrinks from the knowledge it
      craves, came into Mary Potter's eyes. &ldquo;Gilbert has told me nothing,&rdquo; she
      said, &ldquo;since&mdash;since that time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That time. I won't ask you <i>what</i> time; it's neither here nor there;
      but you ought to know the run o' things, when it's common talk.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now,&rdquo; Miss Lavender concluded, &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don't I know it!&rdquo; Mary Potter cried. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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,&mdash;and that's
      what's been layin' so heavy on your mind, wasn't it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Betsy,&rdquo; said Mary Potter, with sudden energy, &ldquo;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,&mdash;not the sin people charge me with,&mdash;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,&mdash;not to say where or
      when I was married, not to do or say anything to put others On the track,
      until&mdash;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,&mdash;but I expected the
      release in a month or two, and it hasn't come in twenty-five years!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Twenty-five years!&rdquo; repeated Miss Lavender, heedless of the drops running
      down her thin face. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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,&mdash;almost from hour
      to hour,&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why,&rdquo; Miss Lavender exclaimed, &ldquo;it must be your husband's death you're
      waitin' for!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mary Potter started up with a wild look of alarm. &ldquo;No&mdash;no&mdash;not
      his death!&rdquo; she cried. &ldquo;I should want him to&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Miss Lavender instantly desisted from further appeal. She rose, put her
      arm around Mary Potter's waist, and said,&mdash;&ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's queer,&rdquo; she muttered to herself, when she had nearly reached the top
      of the hill,&mdash;&ldquo;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,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <h3>
      &ldquo;HA-HA-A! HA-HA-A-A!&rdquo;
     </h3>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next instant she dropped upon the moist, ploughed earth, and sat
      there, regardless of gown and petticoat. &ldquo;Good Lord!&rdquo; she repeated to
      herself, over and over again. Then, seeing Gilbert approaching, startled
      by the cry, she slowly arose to her feet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A good guess,&rdquo; she said to herself, &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What's the matter, Betsy?&rdquo; asked Gilbert.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothin'&mdash;one o' my crazy notions,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Gilbert laughed heartily, but he hardly seemed satisfied with the
      explanation. &ldquo;You're all of a tremble,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Am I? Well, it's likely,&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A horse?&rdquo; Gilbert repeated.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You shall have whatever you want, Betsy,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;But you've heard
      nothing?&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothin' o' one sort or t'other. Make yourself easy, lad.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      A curious expression came over her face. &ldquo;You've got sharp eyes and ears
      Gilbert,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take even Roger!&rdquo; he exclaimed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, that bay'll do. Keep thinkin' <i>that's</i> what I'm after, and ask
      me no more questions.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Betsy Lavender,&rdquo; she said, with marked approval, &ldquo;you're a cuter old
      thing than I took you to be!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXIX. &mdash; MYSTERIOUS MOVEMENTS.
    </h2>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There!&rdquo; exclaimed the spinster, when everything was ready, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Betsy,&rdquo; said Martha, &ldquo;you seem so strange, so unlike yourself, ever since
      you came home last evening. What is it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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,&mdash;money matters and the likes,&mdash;and folks a'n't
      always ready for you to the minute; therefore count on more time than
      what's needful, say I.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you can't guess when you will be back?&rdquo; Martha asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hardly under a week. I want to finish up everything and come home for a
      good long spell.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;S. A. F.&rdquo; in red silk, when duly
      woven, hemmed, and bleached.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      The old man complained of an attack of &ldquo;buzzing in the head,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gad, Doctor!&rdquo; he said, when the vein had been closed, &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think, Friend Barton,&rdquo; Dr. Deane answered, &ldquo;thee'd better be quiet a
      spell. Talking isn't exactly good for thee.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eh?&rdquo; the old man growled; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don't know what thee may have heard, Friend Barton,&rdquo; he remarked, in
      his blandest voice. &ldquo;There is always plenty of gossip in this
      neighborhood, and some persons, no doubt, have been too free with my name,&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What, what, what!&rdquo; exclaimed the old man. &ldquo;The boy told you not to come,
      eh?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not in so many words, mind thee; but he made it unnecessary,&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Doctor,&rdquo; he then said, &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;all to no purpose, I
      doubt not&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      He suddenly asked, as Alfred was smoking his pipe before the fire,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Know what I've been thinkin' of, to-day, boy?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, daddy; anything about the crops?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;no life left in me&mdash;can't
      last many days!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, daddy,&rdquo; Alfred said at last, &ldquo;I thought&mdash;I fancied, at least,
      you'd done that, long ago.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      He paused, keeping his eyes on his son's face, which lengthened and grew
      vacant with a vague alarm.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, then,&rdquo; he presently resumed, &ldquo;<i>you</i>'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?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you think so, dad, it's all right,&rdquo; said the son, relighting his pipe.
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A serene joy diffused itself through Alfred Barton's breast. He became
      frank, affectionate, and confidential.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To tell you the truth, dad,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So I was&mdash;so I was,&rdquo; croaked the old man, &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Damme, dad, you've guessed it!&rdquo; Alfred cried, joining in the laugh.
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You're a good boy, Alfred,&mdash;a mighty good boy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was nothing very amusing in this opinion, but the old man laughed
      over it, by fits and starts, for a long time.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take a drop o' brandy, boy!&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;You may as well have my share,
      till I'm ready to begin ag'in.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This was the very climax of favor. Alfred arose with a broad beam of
      triumph on his face, filled the glass, and saying,&mdash;&ldquo;Here's long life
      to you, dad!&rdquo; turned it into his mouth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Long life?&rdquo; the old man muttered. &ldquo;It's pretty long as it is,&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;a most unlikely circumstance,&mdash;Alfred
      Barton could not understand how it happened.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How did th' old man seem, when you left the house?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;'Pears to me I ha'n't seen him so chipper these twenty years,&rdquo; said Ann.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And how long are they to be left alone?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No tellin',&rdquo; she answered, rattling her needles. &ldquo;Mr. Stacy'll come, when
      all's done; and not a soul is to go any nearder the house till he gives
      the word.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Towards sunset, Mr. Stacy made his appearance at the barn-door, but his
      face was a sealed book.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, Miss Betsy! what are you doin'?&rdquo; cried Jake, spurring up to the
      spot.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Boys should speak when they're spoken to, and not come where they're not
      wanted,&rdquo; she answered, in a savage tone. &ldquo;Maybe I'm goin' to hunt bears.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, please, let me go along!&rdquo; eagerly cried Jake, who believed in bears.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go along! Yes, and be eat up.&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here!&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, that's easy as nothin'!&rdquo; cried Jake, pocketing the coin. Miss
      Lavender, leading the horse, disappeared among the trees.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mammy, Jake's stole a levy!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This brought out Mother Fairthorn and Sally, and the unfortunate Jake,
      pressed and threatened on all sides, began to cry lamentably.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She'll take it from me ag'in, if I tell,&rdquo; he whimpered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She? Who?&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well!&rdquo; Sally exclaimed, &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We shall know what it means,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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?
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Gilbert could with difficulty wait until the slow oxen had removed Sam out
      of hearing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Martha! were you coming to me?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As I promised, Gilbert,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;But do not look so anxious. If there
      really is any trouble, I must learn it of you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Can you guess her business, Gilbert?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Martha,&rdquo; he answered, &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What are those fancies, Gilbert? May I not know?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Can you trust me a little, Martha?&rdquo; he implored. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;Have I not done right?&rdquo;
       he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am not sure, Gilbert,&rdquo; she replied, with a brave smile; &ldquo;you might have
      tested my truth, once more, if you had spoken your fears.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then,&rdquo; said Martha, &ldquo;I must wait until she makes her appearance.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;and
      then Betsy Lavender herself!
    </p>
    <p>
      Martha turned her horse's head, and Gilbert hastened forward with her,
      both silent and keenly excited.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well!&rdquo; exclaimed Miss Betsy, &ldquo;what are you two a-doin' here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was news in her face, both saw; yet they also remarked that the
      meeting did not seem to be entirely welcome to her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I came,&rdquo; said Martha, &ldquo;to see whether Gilbert could tell me why you were
      hiding in the woods, instead of coming home.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It's that&mdash;that good-for-nothin' serpent, Jake Fairthorn!&rdquo; cried
      Miss Lavender. &ldquo;I see it all now. Much Gilbert could tell you, howsever,
      or you him, o' <i>my</i> 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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Martha saw that Miss Lavender's lean hands were trembling, and guessed
      that her news must be of vital importance. &ldquo;Betsy,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;I see you
      don't mean to tell us; but one word you can't refuse&mdash;is it good or
      bad?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good or bad?&rdquo; Miss Lavender repeated, growing more and more nervous, as
      she looked at the two anxious faces. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXX. &mdash; THE FUNERAL. &mdash;
    </h2>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;a 'plectic fit, Lawyer Stacy called it,
      and they didn't know as he'd live from one hour to another.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Must you go, Betsy?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;consisting
      principally of lavender and hot bricks&mdash;as the place afforded.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ann wandered about the kitchen in a dazed state, dropping tears
      everywhere, and now and then moaning,&mdash;&ldquo;O Betsy, how'll I ever get up
      the funeral dinner?&rdquo; 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,&mdash;&ldquo;<i>I</i> can't look after anything; do as you two like, and
      don't spare expense!&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      When all was done, late in the day, Miss Lavender called Giles and said,&mdash;&ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gilbert, wait a little!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mary, you must be sure and come,&rdquo; she said, as she took leave; &ldquo;I know
      Ann expects it of you. Ten o'clock, remember!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gilbert,&rdquo; she said, almost in a whisper, &ldquo;I have tried you sorely, and
      you have been wonderfully kind and patient. I have no right to ask
      anything more; I <i>could</i> 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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mother,&rdquo; he answered, &ldquo;I cannot judge in this matter, knowing nothing. I
      must be led by you; but, pray, do not let it be long?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will, mother,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;because you make me feel that I must.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;what was remarkable in her&mdash;became
      very pale.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is only the family, now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We belong to the family.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The woman withdrew, though with apparent doubt and hesitation, and they
      were left alone with the mourners.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ann,&rdquo; said Mary Potter, in a low voice, which yet was heard by every
      person in the room, &ldquo;that is my place.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She left Gilbert and moved to Alfred Barton's side. Then, slightly
      turning, she said,&mdash;&ldquo;Gilbert, give your arm to your aunt.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alfred, what does all this mean?&rdquo; Elisha finally asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      He said nothing; Mary Potter answered for him,&mdash;&ldquo;It is right that he
      should walk with his wife rather than his sister.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Woman,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;you are out of your senses! Leave us; you have no
      business here!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She met him with a proud, a serene and steady countenance. &ldquo;Elisha,&rdquo; she
      answered, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;not yet&mdash;not quite; only enough for one day, Martha;
      isn't it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Betsy,&rdquo; said Martha, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Father!&rdquo; Martha exclaimed in a low, solemn voice, turning to Dr. Deane,
      &ldquo;think, now, what it was thee would have had me do!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Doctor was already aware of his terrible mistake. &ldquo;Thee was led,
      child,&rdquo; he answered, &ldquo;thee was led! It was a merciful Providence.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then might thee not also admit that I have been led in that other
      respect, which has been so great a trial to thee?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He made no reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      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!
    </p>
    <p>
      These four, however, rode in silence. Each, it may be guessed, was
      sufficiently occupied with his or her own sensations,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was no very delicate sense of propriety among the people, and very
      soon an inquisitive old Quaker remarked,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, Mary, is this true that I hear? Are you two man and wife?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We are,&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bless us! how did it happen?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The bystanders became still as death, and all ears were stretched to catch
      the answer. But she, with proud, impenetrable calmness, replied,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It will be made known.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And with these words the people were forced, that day to be satisfied.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0031" id="link2HCH0031"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXXI. &mdash; THE WILL. &mdash;
    </h2>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Mary alighted from her horse, the old lawyer approached her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My name is Stacy, Mrs. Barton,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;and Miss Lavender will have
      told you who I am. Will you let me have a word with you in private?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alfred,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;it is quite time all this was explained.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But Miss Lavender interfered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was standing alone, beside the paling. He obeyed her call.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gilbert, shake hands with your uncle and aunt Mr. Elisha, this is your
      nephew, Gilbert Barton, Mr. Alfred's son.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That's right!&rdquo; exclaimed Miss Lavender. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thought,&rdquo; he said, with a significant look, &ldquo;that it was to be the
      family only.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Miss Lavender is one of the witnesses to the will,&rdquo; Mr. Stacy answered,
      &ldquo;and her presence is necessary, moreover, as an important testimony in
      regard to some of its provisions.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The last will and testament of Abiah Barton, made the day before his
      death,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;revokes all former wills, which were destroyed by his
      order, in the presence of myself and Miss Elizabeth Lavender.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      All eyes were turned upon the spinster, who again nodded, with a face of
      preternatural solemnity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In order that you, his children and grandchildren,&rdquo; Mr. Stacy continued,
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;except Mary, who sat near the lawyer, firm,
      cold, and unmoved.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The marriage of Alfred Barton and Mary Potter must therefore be
      established, to <i>your</i> satisfaction,&rdquo; Mr. Stacy resumed, turning
      towards Elisha. &ldquo;Alfred Barton, I ask you to declare whether this woman is
      your lawfully wedded wife?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A sound almost like a groan came from his throat, but it formed the
      syllable,&mdash;&ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To complete the evidence,&rdquo; said the lawyer, &ldquo;Mary Barton, give me the
      paper in your hands.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This paper,&rdquo; said Elisha, when he had finished reading, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Stacy turned towards Gilbert's mother, and made a sign.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shall I explain it in my way, Alfred?&rdquo; she asked, &ldquo;or will you, in
      yours?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There's but one story,&rdquo; he answered, &ldquo;and I guess it falls to your place
      to tell it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It does!&rdquo; she exclaimed. &ldquo;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&mdash;so let that rest!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She paused. Ann, with her handkerchief to her eyes, sobbed out,&mdash;&ldquo;Mary,
      I always liked you better 'n you thought.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can believe it,&rdquo; she continued, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I remember that!&rdquo; cried Elisha, suddenly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yet it was kept close,&rdquo; she resumed. &ldquo;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?&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>He</i> 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&mdash;of&rdquo;&mdash;(here her faced flushed, and
      her voice began to tremble)&mdash;&ldquo;of <i>you</i>, 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&mdash;when the fall went by and the winter, and his father
      lived, and his son was to be born! It was always the same,&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Elisha rose, and approaching Alfred, asked, in a voice which he strove to
      make steady,&mdash;&ldquo;Is all this true?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Alfred sank his head; his reply was barely audible,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She has said no more than the truth.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then,&rdquo; said Elisha, taking her hand, &ldquo;I accept you, Mary Barton, and
      acknowledge your place in our family.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Elisha's wife followed, and embraced her with many tears, and lastly Ann,
      who hung totteringly upon her shoulder as she cried,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed, Mary, indeed I always liked you; I never wished you any harm!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mary,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;you have full right and justice on your side. I've acted
      meanly towards you&mdash;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&mdash;that wasn't
      right, either, I know,&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She drew herself up and faced him with flashing eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You won't believe me, Mary,&rdquo; he stammered, feebly weeping with pity of
      his own miserable plight, &ldquo;and I can't ask to&mdash;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&mdash;he
      and Dr. Deane together&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The whole snarl's comin' undone,&rdquo; interrupted Miss Lavender. &ldquo;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,'&mdash;the very day,
      I'll be snaked, that you spoke to the Doctor about Martha Deane!&mdash;and
      then <i>you</i> so mortal glad that she wouldn't have you! You <i>have</i>
      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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sit down, friends!&rdquo; said Mr. Stacy. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, to begin at the beginnin',&rdquo; said Miss Lavender, &ldquo;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&mdash;I
      knowed Gilbert was born there, but didn't let on&mdash;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&mdash;there!
      turn round, Gilbert! turn round, Alf. Barton I Look at them two sets o'
      shoulders!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; she continued, &ldquo;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&mdash;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,&mdash;don't talk o' Phildelphy
      manners to me, for I've had enough of 'em!&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come to the point, Betsy,&rdquo; said Elisha, impatiently.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The devil!&rdquo; Alfred Barton could not help exclaiming, as he recalled his
      father's singular manner on the evening of the day in question.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Devil!&rdquo; Miss Lavender repeated. &ldquo;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'&mdash;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',&mdash;'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&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That will do, Miss Lavender,&rdquo; said Mr. Stacy, interrupting her. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If further information upon any point is required,&rdquo; observed the lawyer,
      &ldquo;it may be asked for now; otherwise, I will proceed to the reading of the
      will.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Was&mdash;was my father of sound mind,&mdash;that is, competent to
      dispose of his property?&rdquo; asked Elisha Barton, with a little hesitation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hope the question will not be raised,&rdquo; said Mr. Stacy, gravely; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As the marriage is now proven,&rdquo; Mr. Stacy said, folding up the paper,
      &ldquo;there is nothing to prevent the will from being carried into effect.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I suppose not,&rdquo; said Elisha; &ldquo;it is as fair as could be expected.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mother, what do you say?&rdquo; asked Gilbert, suddenly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your grandfather wanted to do me justice, my boy,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I s'pose I may tell her,&rdquo; she said, trying to hide her feelings under a
      veil of clumsy irony, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Betsy,&rdquo; he whispered, &ldquo;tell her that I never yet needed her love so much
      as now, and that I shall come to her tomorrow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, you know the door stands open, even accordin' to the Doctor's
      words.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gilbert,&rdquo; said the father, putting his hand on the son's shoulder, &ldquo;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 <i>could</i> give me a
      chance&mdash;if you could&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      Here his voice seemed to fail. Gilbert quietly withdrew his shoulder from
      the hand, hesitated a moment, and then said,&mdash;&ldquo;Don't ask me anything
      now, if you please. I can only think of my mother to-day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0032" id="link2HCH0032"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXXII. &mdash; THE LOVERS.
    </h2>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This has been my day,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mother,&rdquo; he answered, &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You were right, mother!&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;What trial had I, compared with
      yours? What tale had I to tell&mdash;what pain to feel, except that if I
      had not been born, you would have been saved twenty-five years of
      suffering!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Gilbert!&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then,&rdquo; he asked in an anxious, hesitating tone, &ldquo;would you consider that
      I was not quite so much a son&mdash;that any part of my duty to you was
      lost&mdash;if I wished to bring you a daughter, also?&rdquo;.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mother!&rdquo; he cried, a joyous light shining from his face, &ldquo;you love her?
      You are willing that she should be my wife?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, Gilbert; willing, and thankful, and proud.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I see, my boy,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;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,&mdash;your father's name,
      Gilbert,&mdash;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;that
      Mary had saved the latter, and inherited, as her reward, the entire
      property.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And there's one thing I mustn't forgit, Martha,&rdquo; she declared, at the
      close of her narrative. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was not right that the tests should be all on my side. Now it is my
      turn to try you, Gilbert!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Even her arch, happy smile did not enlighten him. &ldquo;How, Martha?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Martha!&rdquo; he cried, &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To me you are only Gilbert,&rdquo; she answered, &ldquo;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,&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Martha,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;that <i>is</i> my trouble,&mdash;or, rather, my
      disappointment,&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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,&mdash;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&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      Gilbert interrupted her words by clasping her in his arms. &ldquo;Martha!&rdquo; he
      exclaimed, &ldquo;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&mdash;I am twice
      myself! Won't you let me claim you&mdash;take you&mdash;soon? My mother
      loves you; she will welcome you as my wife, and will your father still
      stand between us?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Martha smiled. &ldquo;My father is a man of strong will,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;and it is
      hard for him to admit that his judgment was wrong. We must give him a
      little time,&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is at least beyond his power,&rdquo; Gilbert replied, &ldquo;to accuse me of
      sordid motives. As I said before, Martha, give up your legacy, if need be,
      but come to me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As <i>I</i> said before, Gilbert, the legacy is honestly mine, and I will
      come to you with it in my hands.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then they both began to smile, but it was a conflict of purpose which drew
      them nearer together, in both senses,&mdash;an emulation of unselfish
      love, which was compromised by clasping arms and silent lips.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a sudden noise in the back part of the house. A shrill voice was
      heard, exclaiming,&mdash;&ldquo;I will&mdash;I will! don't hold me!&rdquo;&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sally kissed Martha, then Gilbert, then threw an arm around the neck of
      each, crying and laughing hysterically: &ldquo;O Martha! O Gilbert! you'll be
      married first,&mdash;I said it,&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You crazy thing!&rdquo; cried Miss Lavender. &ldquo;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,&mdash;foller
      true-lovyers, and they'll wear your feet off, and then want you to go on
      the stumps!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We won't relieve you yet, Betsy,&rdquo; said Gilbert; &ldquo;will we, Martha? The
      good work you've done for us isn't finished.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; Gilbert answered, &ldquo;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&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      Sally interrupted him with a slap, but it was not very violent, and he did
      not even attempt to dodge it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you hear, Betsy?&rdquo; said Martha. &ldquo;It must be as Gilbert says.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A pretty fool you'd make o' me,&rdquo; Miss Lavender remarked, screwing up her
      face to conceal her happy emotion.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have I now the right to enter your house?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Doctor answered,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I trust, then,&rdquo; Gilbert said, &ldquo;that you have no further cause to forbid
      my engagement with Martha. My mother has given her consent, and we both
      hope for yours.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Dr. Deane appeared to reflect, leaning back in his chair, with his cane
      across his knees. &ldquo;It is a very serious thing,&rdquo; he said, at last,&mdash;&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Gilbert fortunately remembered Martha's words, and restrained his
      impatience.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will readily give you time, Dr. Deane,&rdquo; he replied, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It would hardly be fair to deny thee that much,&rdquo; said the Doctor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thee's a reasonable young man, Gilbert,&rdquo; the Doctor remarked, after a
      pause which was quite unnecessary. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I heerd all about it, to-day,&rdquo; she presently said, &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So I will, Deborah!&rdquo; he exclaimed; &ldquo;do you doubt my word?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I don't; but I dunno how't is&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stay here, Deborah, until you feel sure you're safe,&rdquo; said Mary. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;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!&mdash;not lay in wait in bushes and
      behind fences, to shoot me down unawares.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;herring-frogs&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shoot him, Gilbert!&rdquo; cried Deb. Smith; &ldquo;it's Dougherty!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0033" id="link2HCH0033"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXXIII. &mdash; HUSBAND AND WIFE.
    </h2>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      To an aged Friend,&mdash;a preacher of the sect,&mdash;who plumply asked
      her what course she intended to pursue towards her husband, she replied,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will not trouble my season of thanksgiving. What is right for me to do
      will be made manifest when the occasion comes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Either that, or beg for mercy; no other course was left.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wanted to say a word to Miss Martha, if she'll let me,&rdquo; he said,
      looking from one to the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I allowed thee to speak to my daughter once too often,&rdquo; Dr. Deane sternly
      replied. &ldquo;What thee has to say now, must be said in my presence.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He hesitated a moment, then took a chair and sat down, turning towards
      Martha. &ldquo;It's come to this,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What would you have me do?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go to Mary on my behalf! Ask her to pardon me, if she can, or say what I
      can do to earn her pardon&mdash;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&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      He paused, and buried his face in his hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have not heard of that,&rdquo; said Martha.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Haven't you?&rdquo; he asked. &ldquo;But it's too likely to be true.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why not go directly to Mary, yourself?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will, Miss Martha, if you'll go with me, and maybe say a kind word now
      and then,&mdash;that is, if you think it isn't too soon for mercy!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is never too soon to <i>ask</i> for mercy,&rdquo; she said, coming to a
      sudden decision. &ldquo;I will go with you; let it be tomorrow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Martha,&rdquo; warned Dr. Deane, &ldquo;isn't thee a little hasty?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Father, I decide nothing. It is in Mary's hands. He thinks my presence
      will give him courage, and that I cannot refuse.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;Have I done right?&rdquo; she anxiously
      whispered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is for mother to say,&rdquo; he whispered back.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mary Barton had simply said to her son,&mdash;&ldquo;I felt that he would come,
      sooner or later, and that I must give him a hearing&mdash;better now,
      perhaps, since you and Martha will be with me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They found her awaiting them, pale and resolute.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will you shake hands with me, Mary?&rdquo; he faltered.
    </p>
    <p>
      She said nothing, but moved her right hand slightly towards him. It lay in
      his own a moment, cold and passive.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mary!&rdquo; he cried, falling on his knees at her feet, &ldquo;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&mdash;not that I deserve any, but I ask it
      of you, in the name of God!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know what it is, then,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I see it now, Mary!&rdquo; he cried, &ldquo;as I never saw it before. Try me! Tell me
      what to do!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Lord has done it, already; there is nothing left.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He groaned; his head dropped hopelessly upon his breast.
    </p>
    <p>
      Gilbert felt that Martha's agitation ceased. She quietly released her hold
      of his arm, lifted her head, and spoke,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Martha, my dear child!&rdquo; Mary Barton exclaimed,&mdash;&ldquo;what can I do?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mary Barton sank into a chair, covered her face with her hands, and wept
      aloud.
    </p>
    <p>
      There were tears in Martha's eyes; her voice trembled, and her words came
      with a softness and tenderness that soothed while they pierced:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;because I want to see the last and best and
      sweetest grace of our sex added to your name&mdash;and lastly, for
      Gilbert's sake, who can feel nothing but pain in seeing his father
      execrated and shunned&mdash;I ask your forgiveness for your husband!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mary!&rdquo; Alfred Barton cried, lifting up his head in a last appeal, &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is all clear to me, at last!&rdquo; said Mary Barton. &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mother, since you have asked the question, I know how it should be
      answered. If you forgive your husband, I forgive my&mdash;my father.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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&mdash;our son's&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mary,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why not?&rdquo; said Gilbert, replying to him. &ldquo;There has been enough of
      secrets. I am not ashamed of forgiveness&mdash;my shame is, that
      forgiveness is necessary.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mary,&rdquo; he stammered, &ldquo;I&mdash;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,&mdash;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&mdash;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&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      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:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gilbert,&rdquo; said Alfred Barton, &ldquo;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&rdquo;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Father,&rdquo; he answered, &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Martha laid her hand upon Gilbert's shoulder, leaned up and kissed him
      upon the cheek.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Rest here!&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      After dinner, while the horses were being saddled, the lovers walked down
      the garden-path, between the borders of blue iris and mountain-pink.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gilbert,&rdquo; said Martha, &ldquo;are you satisfied with what has happened?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he answered, &ldquo;but it has shown to me that something more must be
      done.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Martha, are these the only two who should be brought nearer?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it not too soon for me to come?&rdquo; she whispered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have come,&rdquo; he answered; &ldquo;you were in your place; and it will be
      empty&mdash;the house will be lonely, the farm without its mistress&mdash;until
      you return to us!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0034" id="link2HCH0034"> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXXIV. &mdash; THE WEDDING.
    </h2>
    <p>
      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&mdash;the
      tide of sympathy might even have been checked&mdash;had not Gilbert Barton
      and Martha Deane prepared to fulfil the parts assigned to them.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No other farm can be so much <i>yours</i>, and none so welcome a home to
      me. Let us be satisfied with it, at least for the first years.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And therein she spoke wisely.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dr. Deane had set up a &ldquo;chair,&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;actually blushing&mdash;as she encountered
      the eyes of the crowd. The latter were delighted. There was no irony in
      the voice that cried,&mdash;&ldquo;Hurrah for Betsy Lavender!&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not quite a year ago! Do you mind it, Gilbert?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Martha pointed to the green turf in front of the house, and said with an
      arch voice,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gilbert, do you remember the question you put to me, that evening?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And finally Sally burst out, in mock indignation,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gilbert, there's where you snapped me up, because I wanted you to dance
      with Martha; what do you think of yourself now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You all forget,&rdquo; he answered, &ldquo;that you are speaking of somebody else.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How? somebody else?&rdquo; asked Sally.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; I mean Gilbert Potter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not a bad turn-off,&rdquo; remarked Miss Lavender. &ldquo;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&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, what upon earth&rdquo;&mdash;began Sally; but Joe saved her the necessity
      of a question.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Daddy said we shouldn't go!&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;But we <i>would</i>,&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Be quiet, Mark!&rdquo; exclaimed Sally, with a gentle slap.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I don't begrudge it to 'em,&rdquo; said Miss Lavender. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 &ldquo;I will!&rdquo; 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,&mdash;to say nothing of the feminine kisses,
      which, indeed, being very imperfect gifts, hardly deserve to be recorded.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well!&rdquo; she exclaimed, pushing her ruffled hair behind her ears, and
      smoothing down her purple skirt, &ldquo;to think o' my bein' kissed by so many
      men, in my old days!&mdash;but why not?&mdash;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,&mdash;if you want it take it, and
      that's just what I've done!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For the Lord's sake, don't spile my new things! There&mdash;go 'way, now!
      I've had enough to last me ten year!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      The afternoon passed away rapidly, with mirth and noise, in the adjoining
      parlor. Sally Fairthorn found a peculiar pleasure in calling her friend
      &ldquo;Martha Barton!&rdquo; whereupon Mark said,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mark, do hush!&rdquo; Sally exclaimed, reddening, &ldquo;and before everybody!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I dunno what you mean, expectin' such a thing o' me,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Tears to
      me I'm fool enough already, settin' here in purple and fine linen, like
      the Queen o' Rome,&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They would take no denial; she could and must sing them a song. She held
      out until Martha said, &ldquo;for my wedding-day, Betsy!&rdquo; and Gilbert added,
      &ldquo;and mine, too.&rdquo; Then she declared, &ldquo;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?&mdash;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                 THE BALLAD OF THE HOUSE-CARPENTER.

           &ldquo;'Well-met, well-met, my own true-love!'
</pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>She</i> says,&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
              &ldquo;'Well-met, well-met, cried <i>he</i>;
             For't is I have returned from the salt, salt sea,
               And it's all for the love of thee!'

           &ldquo;'It's I might ha' married a king's daughter fair,'
</pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>He</i> goes on sayin',&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
              &ldquo;'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!'
</pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then <i>she</i>,&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
           &ldquo;'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!'
</pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So look out, Mark! and remember, all o' you, that they're talkin' turn
      about; and he begins&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
           &ldquo;'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!'

           &ldquo;'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?'

           &ldquo;'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!'

            &ldquo;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!'

             &ldquo;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!

            &ldquo;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.

           &ldquo;'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?'

           &ldquo;'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!'

            &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, Mark, here comes the Moral:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
            &ldquo;Oh, cruel be ye, sea-farin' men,
               Oh, cruel be your lives,&mdash;
             A-robbing of the house-carpenters,
               And a-taking of their wives!&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I'm a-goin', too,&rdquo; said Miss Lavender, rising. &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go on!&rdquo; he cried, in answer to their calls; &ldquo;we will follow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It won't be half a home-comin', without you're along,&rdquo; said Mark; &ldquo;but I
      see you want it so. Come on, boys and girls!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My wife at last, and forever!&rdquo; he whispered.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <div style="height: 6em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>







<pre>





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