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The Story of Kennett

by Bayard Taylor · English · Gutenberg #8680 · 753,052 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Story of Kennett

Author: Bayard Taylor


        
Release date: August 1, 2005 [eBook #8680]
                Most recently updated: March 16, 2018

Language: English

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Credits: Text file produced by Charles Aldarondo, Tiffany Vergon, Michelle
        Shephard, Charles Franks, and the Online Distributed
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE STORY OF KENNETT ***




Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Tiffany Vergon, Michelle
Shephard, Charles Franks, and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team








THE STORY OF KENNETT

By Bayard Taylor




PROLOGUE.

TO MY FRIENDS AND NEIGHBORS OF KENNETT:


I wish to dedicate this Story to you, not only because some of you
inhabit the very houses, and till the very fields which I have given to
the actors in it, but also because many of you will recognize certain of
the latter, and are therefore able to judge whether they are drawn with
the simple truth at which I have aimed. You are, naturally, the critics
whom I have most cause to fear; but I do not inscribe these pages to you
with the design of purchasing your favor. I beg you all to accept the
fact as an acknowledgment of the many quiet and happy years I have spent
among you; of the genial and pleasant relations into which I was born,
and which have never diminished, even when I have returned to you from
the farthest ends of the earth; and of the use (often unconsciously to
you, I confess,) which I have drawn from your memories of former days,
your habits of thought and of life.

I am aware that truth and fiction are so carefully woven together
in this Story of Kennett, that you will sometimes be at a loss to
disentangle them. The lovely pastoral landscapes which I know by heart,
have been copied, field for field and tree for tree, and these you will
immediately recognize. Many of you will have no difficulty in detecting
the originals of Sandy Flash and Deb. Smith; a few will remember the
noble horse which performed the service I have ascribed to Roger; and
the descendants of a certain family will not have forgotten some of the
pranks of Joe and Jake Fairthorn. Many more than these particulars are
drawn from actual sources; but as I have employed them with a strict
regard to the purposes of the Story, transferring dates and characters
at my pleasure, you will often, I doubt not, attribute to invention that
which I owe to family tradition. Herein, I must request that you will
allow me to keep my own counsel; for the processes which led to the
completed work extend through many previous years, and cannot readily be
revealed. I will only say that every custom I have described is true
to the time, though some of them are now obsolete; that I have used no
peculiar word or phrase of the common dialect of the country which I
have not myself heard; and further, that I owe the chief incidents of
the last chapter, given to me on her death-bed, to the dear and noble
woman whose character (not the circumstances of her life) I have
endeavored to reproduce in that of Martha Deane.

The country life of our part of Pennsylvania retains more elements of
its English origin than that of New England or Virginia. Until within
a few years, the conservative influence of the Quakers was so powerful
that it continued to shape the habits even of communities whose
religious sentiment it failed to reach. Hence, whatever might be
selected as incorrect of American life, in its broader sense, in these
pages, is nevertheless locally true; and to this, at least, all of
you, my Friends and Neighbors, can testify. In these days, when Fiction
prefers to deal with abnormal characters and psychological problems more
or less exceptional or morbid, the attempt to represent the elements of
life in a simple, healthy, pastoral community, has been to me a source
of uninterrupted enjoyment. May you read it with half the interest I
have felt in writing it!

BAYARD TAYLOR.




CONTENTS.


CHAPTER I. THE CHASE

CHAPTER II. WHO SHALL HAVE THE BRUSH?

CHAPTER III. MARY POTTER AND HER SON

CHAPTER IV. FORTUNE AND MISFORTUNE

CHAPTER V. GUESTS AT FAIRTHORN'S

CHAPTER VI. THE NEW GILBERT

CHAPTER VII. OLD KENNETT MEETING

CHAPTER VIII. AT DR. DEANE'S

CHAPTER IX. THE RAISING

CHAPTER X. THE RIVALS

CHAPTER XI. GUESTS AT POTTER'S

CHAPTER XII. THE EVENTS OF AN EVENING

CHAPTER XIII. TWO OLD MEN

CHAPTER XIV. DOUBTS AND SURMISES

CHAPTER XV. ALFRED BARTON BETWEEN TWO FIRES

CHAPTER XVI. MARTHA DEANE

CHAPTER XVII. CONSULTATIONS

CHAPTER XVIII. SANDY FLASH REAPPEARS

CHAPTER XIX. THE HUSKING FROLIC

CHAPTER XX. GILBERT ON THE ROAD TO CHESTER

CHAPTER XXI. ROGER REPAYS HIS MASTER

CHAPTER XXII. MARTHA DEANE TAKES A RESOLUTION

CHAPTER XXIII. A CROSS-EXAMINATION

CHAPTER XXIV. DEB. SMITH TAKES A RESOLUTION

CHAPTER XXV. TWO ATTEMPTS

CHAPTER XXVI. THE LAST OF SANDY FLASH

CHAPTER XXVII. GILBERT INDEPENDENT

CHAPTER XXVIII. MISS LAVENDER MAKES A GUESS

CHAPTER XXIX. MYSTERIOUS MOVEMENTS

CHAPTER XXX. THE FUNERAL

CHAPTER XXXI. THE WILL

CHAPTER XXXII. THE LOVERS

CHAPTER XXXIII. HUSBAND AND WIFE

CHAPTER XXXIV. THE WEDDING




CHAPTER I.

THE CHASE.


At noon, on the first Saturday of March, 1796, there was an unusual stir
at the old Barton farm-house, just across the creek to the eastward, as
you leave Kennett Square by the Philadelphia stage-road. Any gathering
of the people at Barton's was a most rare occurrence; yet, on that day
and at that hour, whoever stood upon the porch of the corner house, in
the village, could see horsemen approaching by all the four roads
which there met. Some five or six had already dismounted at the Unicorn
Tavern, and were refreshing themselves with stout glasses of “Old
Rye,” while their horses, tethered side by side to the pegs in the long
hitching-bar, pawed and stamped impatiently. An eye familiar with the
ways of the neighborhood might have surmised the nature of the occasion
which called so many together, from the appearance and equipment
of these horses. They were not heavy animals, with the marks of
plough-collars on their broad shoulders, or the hair worn off their
rumps by huge breech-straps; but light and clean-limbed, one or two of
them showing signs of good blood, and all more carefully groomed than
usual.

Evidently, there was no “vendue” at the Barton farmhouse; neither
a funeral, nor a wedding, since male guests seemed to have been
exclusively bidden. To be sure, Miss Betsy Lavender had been observed to
issue from Dr. Deane's door, on the opposite side of the way, and turn
into the path beyond the blacksmith's, which led down through the wood
and over the creek to Barton's; but then, Miss Lavender was known to be
handy at all times, and capable of doing all things, from laying out
a corpse to spicing a wedding-cake. Often self-invited, but always
welcome, very few social or domestic events could occur in four
townships (East Marlborough, Kennett, Pennsbury, and New-Garden) without
her presence; while her knowledge of farms, families, and genealogies
extended up to Fallowfield on one side, and over to Birmingham on the
other.

It was, therefore, a matter of course, whatever the present occasion
might be, that Miss Lavender put on her broad gray beaver hat, and brown
stuff cloak, and took the way to Barton's. The distance could easily
be walked in five minutes, and the day was remarkably pleasant for the
season. A fortnight of warm, clear weather had extracted the last
fang of frost, and there was already green grass in the damp hollows.
Bluebirds picked the last year's berries from the cedar-trees; buds were
bursting on the swamp-willows; the alders were hung with tassels, and a
powdery crimson bloom began to dust the bare twigs of the maple-trees.
All these signs of an early spring Miss Lavender noted as she picked her
way down the wooded bank. Once, indeed, she stopped, wet her forefinger
with her tongue, and held it pointed in the air. There was very little
breeze, but this natural weathercock revealed from what direction it
came.

“Southwest!” she said, nodding her head--“Lucky!”

Having crossed the creek on a flat log, secured with stakes at either
end, a few more paces brought her to the warm, gentle knoll, upon which
stood the farm-house. Here, the wood ceased, and the creek, sweeping
around to the eastward, embraced a quarter of a mile of rich bottomland,
before entering the rocky dell below. It was a pleasant seat, and the
age of the house denoted that one of the earliest settlers had been
quick to perceive its advantages. A hundred years had already elapsed
since the masons had run up those walls of rusty hornblende rock, and it
was even said that the leaden window-sashes, with their diamond-shaped
panes of greenish glass, had been brought over from England, in the days
of William Penn. In fact, the ancient aspect of the place--the tall,
massive chimney at the gable, the heavy, projecting eaves, and the
holly-bush in a warm nook beside the front porch, had, nineteen years
before, so forcibly reminded one of Howe's soldiers of his father's
homestead in mid-England, that he was numbered among the missing after
the Brandywine battle, and presently turned up as a hired hand on the
Barton farm, where he still lived, year in and year out.

An open, grassy space, a hundred yards in breadth, intervened between
the house and the barn, which was built against the slope of the knoll,
so that the bridge to the threshing-floor was nearly level, and the
stables below were sheltered from the north winds, and open to the
winter sun. On the other side of the lane leading from the high-road
stood a wagon-house and corn-crib--the latter empty, yet evidently,
in spite of its emptiness, the principal source of attraction to the
visitors. A score of men and boys peeped between the upright laths, and
a dozen dogs howled and sprang around the smooth corner-posts upon
which the structure rested. At the door stood old Giles, the military
straggler already mentioned--now a grizzly, weather-beaten man of
fifty--with a jolly grin on his face, and a short leather whip in his
hand.

“Want to see him, Miss Betsy?” he asked, touching his mink-skin cap,
as Miss Lavender crawled through the nearest panel of the lofty picket
fence.

“See him?” she repeated. “Don't care if I do, afore goin' into th'
house.”

“Come up, then; out o' the way, Cato! Fan, take that, you slut! Don't be
afeard, Miss Betsy; if folks kept 'em in the leash, as had ought to
be done, I'd have less trouble. They're mortal eager, and no wonder.
There!--a'n't he a sly-lookin' divel? If I'd a hoss, Miss Betsy, I'd
foller with the best of 'em, and maybe you wouldn't have the brush?”

“Have the brush. Go along, Giles! He's an old one, and knows how to take
care of it. Do keep off the dreadful dogs, and let me git down!” cried
Miss Lavender, gathering her narrow petticoats about her legs, and
surveying the struggling animals before her with some dismay.

Giles's whip only reached the nearest, and the excited pack rushed
forward again after every repulse; but at this juncture a tall,
smartly-dressed man came across the lane, kicked the hounds out of the
way, and extended a helping hand to the lady.

“Ho, Mr. Alfred!” said she; “Much obliged. Miss Ann's havin' her hands
full, I reckon?”

Without waiting for an answer, she slipped into the yard and along the
front of the house, to the kitchen entrance, at the eastern end. There
we will leave her, and return to the group of gentlemen.

Any one could see at a glance that Mr. Alfred Barton was the most
important person present. His character of host gave him, of course,
the right to control the order of the coming chase; but his size and
swaggering air of strength, his new style of hat, the gloss of his blue
coat, the cut of his buckskin breeches, and above all, the splendor
of his tasselled top-boots, distinguished him from his more homely
apparelled guests. His features were large and heavy: the full, wide
lips betrayed a fondness for indulgence, and the small, uneasy eyes
a capacity for concealing this and any other quality which needed
concealment. They were hard and cold, generally more than half hidden
under thick lids, and avoided, rather than sought, the glance of the man
to whom he spoke. His hair, a mixture of red-brown and gray, descended,
without a break, into bushy whiskers of the same color, and was cut
shorter at the back of the head than was then customary. Something
coarse and vulgar in his nature exhaled, like a powerful odor, through
the assumed shell of a gentleman, which he tried to wear, and rendered
the assumption useless.

A few guests, who had come from a distance, had just finished their
dinner in the farm-house. Owing to causes which will hereafter be
explained, they exhibited less than the usual plethoric satisfaction
after the hospitality of the country, and were the first to welcome the
appearance of a square black bottle, which went the rounds, with the
observation: “Whet up for a start!”

Mr. Barton drew a heavy silver watch from his fob, and carefully holding
it so that the handful of glittering seals could be seen by everybody,
appeared to meditate.

“Five minutes to one,” he said at last. “No use in waiting much longer;
't isn't good to keep the hounds fretting. Any signs of anybody else?”

The others, in response, turned towards the lane and highway. Some,
with keen eyes, fancied they could detect a horseman through the wood.
Presently Giles, from his perch at the door of the corn-crib, cried out:

“There's somebody a-comin' up the meadow. I don't know the hoss; rides
like Gilbert Potter. Gilbert it is, blast me! new-mounted.”

“Another plough-horse!” suggested Mr. Joel Ferris, a young Pennsbury
buck, who, having recently come into a legacy of four thousand pounds,
wished it to be forgotten that he had never ridden any but plough-horses
until within the year.

The others laughed, some contemptuously, glancing at their own
well-equipped animals the while, some constrainedly, for they knew the
approaching guest, and felt a slight compunction in seeming to side with
Mr. Ferris. Barton began to smile stiffly, but presently bit his lip and
drew his brows together.

Pressing the handle of his riding-whip against his chin, he stared
vacantly up the lane, muttering “We must wait, I suppose.”

His lids were lifted in wonder the next moment; he seized Ferris by the
arm, and exclaimed:--

“Whom have we here?”

All eyes turned in the same direction, descried a dashing horseman in
the lane.

“Upon my soul I don't know,” said Ferris. “Anybody expected from the
Fagg's Manor way?”

“Not of my inviting,” Barton answered.

The other guests professed their entire ignorance of the stranger, who,
having by this time passed the bars, rode directly up to the group. He
was a short, broad-shouldered man of nearly forty, with a red, freckled
face, keen, snapping gray eyes, and a close, wide mouth. Thick,
jet-black whiskers, eyebrows and pig-tail made the glance of those
eyes, the gleam of his teeth, and the color of his skin where it was not
reddened by the wind, quite dazzling. This violent and singular contrast
gave his plain, common features an air of distinction. Although his
mulberry coat was somewhat faded, it had a jaunty cut, and if his
breeches were worn and stained, the short, muscular thighs and strong
knees they covered, told of a practised horseman.

He rode a large bay gelding, poorly groomed, and apparently not
remarkable for blood, but with no marks of harness on his rough coat.

“Good-day to you, gentlemen!” said the stranger, familiarly knocking the
handle of his whip against his cocked hat. “Squire Barton, how do you
do?”

“How do you do, sir?” responded Mr. Barton, instantly flattered by the
title, to which he had no legitimate right. “I believe,” he added, “you
have the advantage of me.”

A broad smile, or rather grin, spread over the stranger's face. His
teeth flashed, and his eyes shot forth a bright, malicious ray. He
hesitated a moment, ran rapidly over the faces of the others without
perceptibly moving his head, and noting the general curiosity, said, at
last:--

“I hardly expected to find an acquaintance in this neighborhood, but
a chase makes quick fellowship. I happened to hear of it at the Anvil
Tavern,--am on my way to the Rising Sun; so, you see, if the hunt goes
down Tuffkenamon, as is likely, it's so much of a lift on the way.”

“All right,--glad to have you join us. What did you say your name was?”
 inquired Mr. Barton.

“I didn't say what; it's Fortune,--a fortune left to me by my father,
ha! ha! Don't care if I do”--

With the latter words, Fortune (as we must now call him) leaned down
from his saddle, took the black bottle from the unresisting hands of Mr.
Ferris, inverted it against his lips, and drank so long and luxuriously
as to bring water into the mouths of the spectators. Then, wiping his
mouth with the back of his freckled hand, he winked and nodded his head
approvingly to Mr. Barton.

Meanwhile the other horseman had arrived from the meadow, after
dismounting and letting down the bars, over which his horse stepped
slowly and cautiously,--a circumstance which led some of the younger
guests to exchange quiet, amused glances. Gilbert Potter, however,
received a hearty greeting from all, including the host, though the
latter, by an increased shyness in meeting his gaze, manifested some
secret constraint.

“I was afraid I should have been too late,” said Gilbert; “the old break
in the hedge is stopped at last, so I came over the hill above, without
thinking on the swampy bit, this side.”

“Breaking your horse in to rough riding, eh?” said Mr. Ferris, touching
a neighbor with his elbow.

Gilbert smiled good-humoredly, but said nothing, and a little laugh
went around the circle. Mr. Fortune seemed to understand the matter in a
flash. He looked at the brown, shaggy-maned animal, standing behind its
owner, with its head down, and said, in a low, sharp tone: “I see--where
did you get him?”

Gilbert returned the speaker's gaze a moment before he answered. “From a
drover,” he then said.

“By the Lord!”-ejaculated Mr. Barton, who had again conspicuously
displayed his watch, “it's over half-past one. Look out for the
hounds,--we must start, if we mean to do any riding this day!”

The owners of the hounds picked out their several animals and dragged
them aside, in which operation they were uproariously assisted by the
boys. The chase in Kennett, it must be confessed, was but a very
faint shadow of the old English pastime. It had been kept up, in the
neighborhood, from the force of habit in the Colonial times, and
under the depression which the strong Quaker element among the people
exercised upon all sports and recreations. The breed of hounds, not
being restricted to close communion, had considerably degenerated,
and few, even of the richer farmers, could afford to keep thoroughbred
hunters for this exclusive object. Consequently all the features of the
pastime had become rude and imperfect, and, although very respectable
gentlemen still gave it their countenance, there was a growing suspicion
that it was a questionable, if not demoralizing diversion. It would be
more agreeable if we could invest the present occasion with a little
more pomp and dignity; but we must describe the event precisely as it
occurred.

The first to greet Gilbert were his old friends, Joe and Jake Fairthorn.
These boys loudly lamented that their father had denied them the loan
of his old gray mare, Bonnie; they could ride double on a gallop, they
said; and wouldn't Gilbert take them along, one before and one behind
him? But he laughed and shook his head.

“Well, we've got Watch, anyhow,” said Joe, who thereupon began
whispering very earnestly to Jake, as the latter seized the big family
bull-dog by the collar. Gilbert foreboded mischief, and kept his eye
upon the pair.

A scuffle was heard in the corn-crib, into which Giles had descended.
The boys shuddered and chuckled in a state of delicious fear, which
changed into a loud shout of triumph, as the soldier again made his
appearance at the door, with the fox in his arms, and a fearless hand
around its muzzle.

“By George! what a fine brush!” exclaimed Mr. Ferris.

A sneer, quickly disguised in a grin, ran over Fortune's face. The
hounds howled and tugged; Giles stepped rapidly across the open space
where the knoll sloped down to the meadow. It was a moment of intense
expectation.

Just then, Joe and Jake Fairthorn let go their hold on the bull-dog's
collar; but Gilbert Potter caught the animal at the second bound. The
boys darted behind the corn-crib, scared less by Gilbert's brandished
whip than by the wrath and astonishment in Mr. Barton's face.

“Cast him off, Giles!” the latter cried.

The fox, placed upon the ground, shot down the slope and through the
fence into the meadow. Pausing then, as if first to assure himself of
his liberty, he took a quick, keen survey of the ground before him, and
then started off towards the left.

“He's making for the rocks!” cried Mr. Ferris; to which the stranger,
who was now watching the animal with sharp interest, abruptly answered,
“Hold your tongue!”

Within a hundred yards the fox turned to the right, and now, having
apparently made up his mind to the course, struck away in a steady but
not hurried trot. In a minute he had reached the outlying trees of the
timber along the creek.

“He's a cool one, he is!” remarked Giles, admiringly.

By this time he was hidden by the barn from the sight of the hounds,
and they were let loose. While they darted about in eager quest of the
scent, the hunters mounted in haste. Presently an old dog gave tongue
like a trumpet, the pack closed, and the horsemen followed. The boys
kept pace with them over the meadow, Joe and Jake taking the lead, until
the creek abruptly stopped their race, when they sat down upon the bank
and cried bitterly, as the last of the hunters disappeared through the
thickets on the further side.

It was not long before a high picket-fence confronted the riders. Mr.
Ferris, with a look of dismay, dismounted. Fortune, Barton, and Gilbert
Potter each threw off a heavy “rider,” and leaped their horses over the
rails. The others followed through the gaps thus made, and all swept
across the field at full speed, guided by the ringing cry of the hounds.

When they reached the Wilmington road, the cry swerved again to the
left, and most of the hunters, with Barton at their head, took the
highway in order to reach the crossroad to New-Garden more conveniently.
Gilbert and Fortune alone sprang into the opposite field, and kept a
straight southwestern course for the other branch of Redley Creek. The
field was divided by a stout thorn-hedge from the one beyond it, and the
two horsemen, careering neck and neck, glanced at each other curiously
as they approached this barrier. Their respective animals were
transformed; the unkempt manes were curried by the wind, as they flew;
their sleepy eyes were full of fire, and the splendid muscles, aroused
to complete action, marked their hides with lines of beauty. There was
no wavering in either; side by side they hung in flight above the hedge,
and side by side struck the clean turf beyond.

Then Fortune turned his head, nodded approvingly to Gilbert, and
muttered to himself: “He's a gallant fellow,--I'll not rob him of the
brush.” But he laughed a short, shrill, wicked laugh the next moment.

Before they reached the creek, the cry of the hounds ceased. They halted
a moment on the bank, irresolute.

“He must have gone down towards the snuff-mill,” said Gilbert, and was
about to change his course.

“Stop,” said the stranger; “if he has, we've lost him any way. Hark!
hurrah!”

A deep bay rang from the westward, through the forest. Gilbert shouted:
“The lime-quarry!” and dashed across the stream. A lane was soon
reached, and as the valley opened, they saw the whole pack heading
around the yellow mounds of earth which marked the locality of the
quarry. At the same instant some one shouted in the rear, and they saw
Mr. Alfred Barton, thundering after, and apparently bent on diminishing
the distance between them.

A glance was sufficient to show that the fox had not taken refuge in the
quarry, but was making a straight course up the centre of the valley.
Here it was not so easy to follow. The fertile floor of Tuffkenamon,
stripped of woods, was crossed by lines of compact hedge, and, moreover,
the huntsmen were not free to tear and trample the springing wheat of
the thrifty Quaker farmers. Nevertheless, one familiar with the ground
could take advantage of a gap here and there, choose the connecting
pasture-fields, and favor his course with a bit of road, when the chase
swerved towards either side of the valley. Gilbert Potter soon took the
lead, closely followed by Fortune. Mr. Barton was perhaps better mounted
than either, but both horse and rider were heavier, and lost in the
moist fields, while they gained rapidly where the turf was firm.

After a mile and a half of rather toilsome riding, all three were nearly
abreast. The old tavern of the Hammer and Trowel was visible, at the
foot of the northern hill; the hounds, in front, bayed in a straight
line towards Avondale Woods,--but a long slip of undrained bog made its
appearance. Neither gentleman spoke, for each was silently tasking his
wits how to accomplish the passage most rapidly. The horses began to
sink into the oozy soil: only a very practised eye could tell where the
surface was firmest, and even this knowledge was but slight advantage.

Nimbly as a cat Gilbert sprang from the saddle, still holding the pummel
in his right hand, touched his horse's flank with the whip, and bounded
from one tussock to another. The sagacious animal seemed to understand
and assist his manoeuvre. Hardly had he gained firm ground than he was
in his seat again, while Mr. Barton was still plunging in the middle of
the bog.

By the time he had reached the road, Gilbert shrewdly guessed where the
chase would terminate. The idlers on the tavern-porch cheered him as he
swept around the corner; the level highway rang to the galloping hoofs
of his steed, and in fifteen minutes he had passed the long and lofty
oak woods of Avondale. At the same moment, fox and hounds broke into
full view, sweeping up the meadow on his left. The animal made a last
desperate effort to gain a lair among the bushes and loose stones on
the northern hill; but the hunter was there before him, the hounds were
within reach, and one faltering moment decided his fate.

Gilbert sprang down among the frantic dogs, and saved the brush from the
rapid dismemberment which had already befallen its owner. Even then,
he could only assure its possession by sticking it into his hat and
remounting his horse. When he looked around, no one was in sight, but
the noise of hoofs was heard crashing through the wood.

Mr. Ferris, with some dozen others, either anxious to spare their horses
or too timid to take the hedges in the valley, had kept the cross-road
to New-Garden, whence a lane along the top of the southern hill led them
into the Avondale Woods. They soon emerged, shouting and yelling, upon
the meadow.

The chase was up; and Gilbert Potter, on his “plough horse,” was the
only huntsman in at the death.




CHAPTER II.

WHO SHALL HAVE THE BRUSH?


Mr. Barton and Fortune, who seemed to have become wonderfully intimate
during the half hour in which they had ridden together, arrived at the
same time. The hunters, of whom a dozen were now assembled (some five or
six inferior horses being still a mile in the rear), were all astounded,
and some of them highly vexed, at the result of the chase. Gilbert's
friends crowded about him, asking questions as to the course he had
taken, and examining the horse, which had maliciously resumed its sleepy
look, and stood with drooping head. The others had not sufficient tact
to disguise their ill-humor, for they belonged to that class which, in
all countries, possesses the least refinement--the uncultivated rich.

“The hunt started well, but it's a poor finish,” said one of these.

“Never mind!” Mr. Ferris remarked; “such things come by chance.”

These words struck the company to silence. A shock, felt rather than
perceived, fell upon them, and they looked at each other with an
expression of pain and embarrassment. Gilbert's face faded to a sallow
paleness, and his eyes were fastened upon those of the speaker with a
fierce and dangerous intensity. Mr. Ferris colored, turned away, and
called to his hounds.

Fortune was too sharp an observer not to remark the disturbance. He
cried out, and his words produced an instant, general sense of relief:--

“It's been a fine run, friends, and we can't do better than ride back
to the Hammer and Trowel, and take a 'smaller'--or a 'bigger' for that
matter--at my expense. You must let me pay my footing now, for I hope to
ride with you many a time to come. Faith! If I don't happen to buy that
place down by the Rising Sun, I'll try to find another, somewhere about
New London or Westgrove, so that we can be nearer neighbors.”

With that he grinned, rather than smiled; but although his manner would
have struck a cool observer as being mocking instead of cordial,
the invitation was accepted with great show of satisfaction, and the
horsemen fell into pairs, forming a picturesque cavalcade as they passed
under the tall, leafless oaks.

Gilbert Potter speedily recovered his self-possession, but his face was
stern and his manner abstracted. Even the marked and careful kindness
of his friends seemed secretly to annoy him, for it constantly suggested
the something by which it had been prompted. Mr. Alfred Barton, however,
whether under the influence of Fortune's friendship, or from a late
suspicion of his duties as host of the day, not unkindly complimented
the young man, and insisted on filling his glass. Gilbert could do no
less than courteously accept the attention, but he shortly afterwards
stole away from the noisy company, mounted his horse, and rode slowly
towards Kennett Square.

As he thus rides, with his eyes abstractedly fixed before him, we will
take the opportunity to observe him more closely. Slightly under-sized,
compactly built, and with strongly-marked features, his twenty-four
years have the effect of thirty. His short jacket and knee-breeches
of gray velveteen cover a chest broad rather than deep, and reveal the
fine, narrow loins and muscular thighs of a frame matured and hardened
by labor. His hands, also, are hard and strong, but not ungraceful in
form. His neck, not too short, is firmly planted, and the carriage of
his head indicates patience and energy. Thick, dark hair enframes his
square forehead, and straight, somewhat heavy brows. His eyes of
soft dark-gray, are large, clear, and steady, and only change their
expression under strong excitement. His nose is straight and short, his
mouth a little too wide for beauty, and less firm now than it will be
ten years hence, when the yearning tenderness shall have vanished from
the corners of the lips; and the chin, in its broad curve, harmonizes
with the square lines of the brow. Evidently a man whose youth has not
been a holiday; who is reticent rather than demonstrative; who will
be strong in his loves and long in his hates; and, without being of a
despondent nature, can never become heartily sanguine.

The spring-day was raw and overcast, as it drew towards its close, and
the rider's musings seemed to accord with the change in the sky. His
face expressed a singular mixture of impatience, determined will, and
unsatisfied desire. But where most other men would have sighed, or
given way to some involuntary exclamation, he merely set his teeth, and
tightened the grasp on his whip-handle.

He was not destined, however, to a solitary journey. Scarcely had he
made three quarters of a mile, when, on approaching the junction of a
wood-road which descended to the highway from a shallow little glen
on the north, the sound of hoofs and voices met his ears. Two female
figures appeared, slowly guiding their horses down the rough road. One,
from her closely-fitting riding-habit of drab cloth, might have been a
Quakeress, but for the feather (of the same sober color) in her beaver
hat, and the rosette of dark red ribbon at her throat. The other, in
bluish-gray, with a black beaver and no feather, rode a heavy old horse
with a blind halter on his head, and held the stout leathern reins with
a hand covered with a blue woollen mitten. She rode in advance, paying
little heed to her seat, but rather twisting herself out of shape in the
saddle in order to chatter to her companion in the rear.

“Do look where you are going, Sally!” cried the latter as the blinded
horse turned aside from the road to drink at a little brook that oozed
forth from under the dead leaves.

Thus appealed to, the other lady whirled around with a half-jump, and
caught sight of Gilbert Potter and of her horse's head at the same
instant.

“Whoa there, Bonnie!” she cried. “Why, Gilbert, where did you come from?
Hold up your head, I say! Martha, here's Gilbert, with a brush in his
hat! Don't be afraid, you beast; did you never smell a fox? Here, ride
in between, Gilbert, and tell us all about it! No, not on that side,
Martha; you can manage a horse better than I can!”

In her efforts to arrange the order of march, she drove her horse's
head into Gilbert's back, and came near losing her balance. With amused
screams, and bursts of laughter, and light, rattling exclamations, she
finally succeeded in placing herself at his left hand, while her adroit
and self-possessed companion quietly rode up to his right Then, dropping
the reins on their horses' necks, the two ladies resigned themselves to
conversation, as the three slowly jogged homewards abreast.

“Now, Gilbert!” exclaimed Miss Sally Fairthorn, after waiting a moment
for him to speak; “did you really earn the brush, or beg it from one of
them, on the way home?”

“Begging, you know, is my usual habit,” he answered, mockingly.

“I know you're as proud as Lucifer, when you've a mind to be so. There!”

Gilbert was accustomed to the rattling tongue of his left-hand neighbor,
and generally returned her as good as she gave. To-day, however, he was
in no mood for repartee. He drew down his brows and made no answer to
her charge.

“Where was the fox earthed?” asked the other lady, after a rapid glance
at his face.

Martha Deane's voice was of that quality which compels an answer, and
a courteous answer, from the surliest of mankind. It was not loud,
it could scarcely be called musical; but every tone seemed to exhale
freshness as of dew, and brightness as of morning. It was pure, slightly
resonant; and all the accumulated sorrows of life could not have veiled
its inherent gladness. It could never grow harsh, never be worn thin,
or sound husky from weariness; its first characteristic would always be
youth, and the joy of youth, though it came from the lips of age.

Doubtless Gilbert Potter did not analyze the charm which it exercised
upon him; it was enough that he felt and submitted to it. A few quiet
remarks sufficed to draw from him the story of the chase, in all
its particulars, and the lively interest in Martha Deane's face, the
boisterous glee of Sally Fairthorn, with his own lurking sense of
triumph, soon swept every gloomy line from his visage. His mouth relaxed
from its set compression, and wore a winning sweetness; his eyes
shone softly-bright, and a nimble spirit of gayety gave grace to his
movements.

“Fairly won, I must say!” exclaimed Miss Sally Fairthorn, when the
narrative was finished. “And now, Gilbert, the brush?”

“The brush?”

“Who's to have it, I mean. Did you never get one before, as you don't
seem to understand?”

“Yes, I understand,” said he, in an indifferent tone; “it may be had for
the asking.”

“Then it's mine!” cried Sally, urging her heavy horse against him and
making a clutch at his cap. But he leaned as suddenly away, and shot a
length ahead, out of her reach. Miss Deane's horse, a light, spirited
animal, kept pace with his.

“Martha!” cried the disappointed damsel, “Martha! one of us must have
it; ask him, you!”

“No,” answered Martha, with her clear blue eyes fixed on Gilbert's face,
“I will not ask.”

He returned her gaze, and his eyes seemed to say: “Will you take it,
knowing what the acceptance implies?”

She read the question correctly; but of this he was not sure. Neither,
if it were so, could he trust himself to interpret the answer. Sally had
already resumed her place on his left, and he saw that the mock strife
would be instantly renewed. With a movement so sudden as to appear
almost ungracious, he snatched the brush from his cap and extended it to
Martha Deane, without saying a word.

If she hesitated, it was at least no longer than would be required in
order to understand the action. Gilbert might either so interpret it, or
suspect that she had understood the condition in his mind, and meant to
signify the rejection thereof. The language of gestures is wonderfully
rapid, and all that could be said by either, in this way, was over, and
the brush in Martha Deane's hand, before Sally Fairthorn became aware of
the transfer.

“Well-done, Martha!” she exclaimed: “Don't let him have it again! Do you
know to whom he would have given it: an A. and a W., with the look of an
X,--so!”

Thereupon Sally pulled off her mittens and crossed her forefingers,
an action which her companions understood--in combination with the
mysterious initials--to be the rude, primitive symbol of a squint.

Gilbert looked annoyed, but before he could reply, Sally let go the rein
in order to put on her mittens, and the blinded mare quickly dropping
her head, the rein slipped instantly to the animal's ears. The latter
perceived her advantage, and began snuffing along the edges of the
road in a deliberate search for spring grass. In vain Sally called and
kicked; the mare provokingly preserved her independence. Finally, a
piteous appeal to Gilbert, who had pretended not to notice the dilemma,
and was a hundred yards in advance, was Sally's only resource. The two
halted and enjoyed her comical helplessness.

“That's enough, Gilbert,” said Martha Deane, presently, “go now and pick
up the rein.”

He rode back, picked it up, and handed it to Sally without speaking.

“Gilbert,” she said, with a sudden demure change of tone, as they rode
on to where Miss Deane was waiting, “come and take supper with us, at
home. Martha has promised. You've hardly been to see us in a month.”

“You know how much I have to do, Sally,” he answered. “It isn't only
that, to-day being a Saturday; but I've promised mother to be at home by
dark, and fetch a quarter of tea from the store.”

“When you've once promised, I know, oxen couldn't pull you the other
way.”

“I don't often see your mother, Gilbert,” said Martha Deane; “she is
well?”

“Thank you, Martha,--too well, and yet not well enough.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he answered, “that she does more than she has strength to do.
If she had less she would be forced to undertake less; if she had more,
she would be equal to her undertaking.”

“I understand you now. But you should not allow her to go on in that
way; you should”--

What Miss Deane would have said must remain unwritten. Gilbert's eyes
were upon her, and held her own; perhaps a little more color came into
her face, but she did not show the slightest embarrassment. A keen
observer might have supposed that either a broken or an imperfect
relation existed between the two, which the gentleman was trying to
restore or complete without the aid of words; and that, furthermore,
while the lady was the more skilful in the use of that silent language,
neither rightly understood the other.

By this time they were ascending the hill from Redley Creek to Kennett
Square. Martha Deane had thus far carried the brush carelessly in her
right hand; she now rolled it into a coil and thrust it into a large
velvet reticule which hung from the pommel of her saddle. A few dull
orange streaks in the overcast sky, behind them, denoted sunset, and a
raw, gloomy twilight crept up from the east.

“You'll not go with us?” Sally asked again, as they reached the corner,
and the loungers on the porch of the Unicorn Tavern beyond, perceiving
Gilbert, sprang from their seats to ask for news of the chase.

“Sally, I cannot!” he answered. “Good-night!”

Joe and Jake Fairthorn rushed up with a whoop, and before Gilbert could
satisfy the curiosity of the tavern-idlers, the former sat behind Sally,
on the old mare, with his face to her tail, while Jake, prevented by
Miss Deane's riding-whip from attempting the same performance, capered
behind the horses and kept up their spirits by flinging handfuls of
sand.

Gilbert found another group in “the store”--farmers or their sons who
had come in for a supply of groceries, or the weekly mail, and who sat
in a sweltering atmosphere around the roaring stove. They, too, had
heard of the chase, and he was obliged to give them as many details as
possible while his quarter of tea was being weighed, after which he left
them to supply the story from the narrative of Mr. Joel Ferris, who, a
new-comer announced, had just alighted at the Unicorn, a little drunk,
and in a very bad humor.

“Where's Barton?” Gilbert heard some one ask of Ferris, as he mounted.

“In his skin!” was the answer, “unless he's got into that fellow
Fortune's. They're as thick as two pickpockets!”

Gilbert rode down the hill, and allowed his horse to plod leisurely
across the muddy level, regardless of the deepening twilight.

He was powerfully moved by some suppressed emotion. The muscles of
his lips twitched convulsively, and there was a hot surge and swell
somewhere in his head, as of tears about to overrun their secret
reservoir. But they failed to surprise him, this time. As the first
drops fell from his dark eyelashes, he loosed the rein and gave the
word to his horse. Over the ridge, along the crest, between dusky
thorn-hedges, he swept at full gallop, and so, slowly sinking towards
the fair valley which began to twinkle with the lights of scattered
farms to the eastward, he soon reached the last steep descent, and saw
the gray gleam of his own barn below him.

By this time his face was sternly set. He clinched his hands, and
muttered to himself--

“It will almost kill me to ask, but I must know, and--and she must
tell.”

It was dark now. As he climbed again from the bottom of the hill towards
the house, a figure on the summit was drawn indistinctly against the
sky, unconscious that it was thus betrayed. But it vanished instantly,
and then he groaned--

“God help me! I cannot ask.”




CHAPTER III.

MARY POTTER AND HER SON.


While Gilbert was dismounting at the gate leading into his barn-yard, he
was suddenly accosted by a boyish voice:--

“Got back, have you?”

This was Sam, the “bound-boy,”--the son of a tenant on the old Carson
place, who, in consideration of three months' schooling every winter,
and a “freedom suit” at the age of seventeen, if he desired then to
learn a trade, was duly made over by his father to Gilbert Potter. His
position was something between that of a poor relation and a servant. He
was one of the family, eating at the same table, sleeping, indeed, (for
economy of house-work,) in the same bed with his master, and privileged
to feel his full share of interest in domestic matters; but on the other
hand bound to obedience and rigid service.

“Feed's in the trough,” said he, taking hold of the bridle. “I'll fix
him. Better go into th' house. Tea's wanted.”

Feeling as sure that all the necessary evening's work was done as if he
had performed it with his own hands, Gilbert silently followed the boy's
familiar advice.

The house, built like most other old farm-houses in that part of the
county, of hornblende stone, stood near the bottom of a rounded knoll,
overhanging the deep, winding valley. It was two stories in height, the
gable looking towards the road, and showing, just under the broad double
chimney, a limestone slab, upon which were rudely carved the initials of
the builder and his wife, and the date “1727.” A low portico, overgrown
with woodbine and trumpet-flower, ran along the front. In the narrow
flower-bed, under it, the crocuses and daffodils were beginning to
thrust up their blunt, green points. A walk of flag-stones separated
them from the vegetable garden, which was bounded at the bottom by a
mill-race, carrying half the water of the creek to the saw and grist
mill on the other side of the road.

Although this road was the principal thoroughfare between Kennett
Square and Wilmington, the house was so screened from the observation
of travellers, both by the barn, and by some huge, spreading apple-trees
which occupied the space between the garden and road, that its inmates
seemed to live in absolute seclusion. Looking from the front door across
a narrow green meadow, a wooded hill completely shut out all glimpse of
the adjoining farms; while an angle of the valley, to the eastward, hid
from sight the warm, fertile fields higher up the stream.

The place seemed lonelier than ever in the gloomy March twilight; or
was it some other influence which caused Gilbert to pause on the flagged
walk, and stand there, motionless, looking down into the meadow until a
woman's shadow crossing the panes, was thrown upon the square of lighted
earth at his feet? Then he turned and entered the kitchen.

The cloth was spread and the table set. A kettle, humming on a heap
of fresh coals, and a squat little teapot of blue china, were waiting
anxiously for the brown paper parcel which he placed upon the cloth. His
mother was waiting also, in a high straight-backed rocking-chair, with
her hands in her lap.

“You're tired waiting, mother, I suppose?” he said, as he hung his hat
upon a nail over the heavy oak mantel-piece.

“No, not tired, Gilbert, but it's hungry _you'll_ be. It won't take long
for the tea to draw. Everything else has been ready this half-hour.”

Gilbert threw himself upon the settle under the front window, and
mechanically followed her with his eyes, as she carefully measured the
precious herb, even stooping to pick up a leaf or two that had fallen
from the spoon to the floor.

The resemblance between mother and son was very striking. Mary Potter
had the same square forehead and level eyebrows, but her hair was darker
than Gilbert's, and her eyes more deeply set. The fire of a lifelong
pain smouldered in them, and the throes of some never-ending struggle
had sharpened every line of cheek and brow, and taught her lips the
close, hard compression, which those of her son were also beginning to
learn. She was about forty-five years of age, but there was even now a
weariness in her motions, as if her prime of strength were already past.
She wore a short gown of brown flannel, with a plain linen stomacher,
and a coarse apron, which she removed when the supper had been placed
upon the table. A simple cap, with a narrow frill, covered her head.

The entire work of the household devolved upon her hands alone. Gilbert
would have cheerfully taken a servant to assist her, but this she
positively refused, seeming to court constant labor, especially during
his absence from the house. Only when he was there would she take
occasion to knit or sew. The kitchen was a marvel of neatness and
order. The bread-trough and dresser-shelves were scoured almost to the
whiteness of a napkin, and the rows of pewter-plates upon the latter
flashed like silver sconces. To Gilbert's eyes, indeed, the effect was
sometimes painful. He would have been satisfied with less laborious
order, a less eager and unwearied thrift. To be sure, all this was in
furtherance of a mutual purpose; but he mentally determined that when
the purpose had been fulfilled, he would insist upon an easier and more
cheerful arrangement. The stern aspect of life from which his nature
craved escape met him oftenest at home.

Sam entered the kitchen barefooted, having left his shoes at the back
door. The tea was drawn, and the three sat down to their supper of
bacon, bread and butter, and apple-sauce. Gilbert and his mother ate and
drank in silence, but Sam's curiosity was too lively to be restrained.

“I say, how did Roger go?” he asked.

Mary Potter looked up, as if expecting the question to be answered, and
Gilbert said:--

“He took the lead, and kept it.”

“O cracky!” exclaimed the delighted Sam.

“Then you think it's a good bargain, Gilbert. Was it a long chase? Was
he well tried?”

“All right, mother. I could sell him for twenty dollars advance--even to
Joel Ferris,” he answered.

He then gave a sketch of the afternoon's adventures, to which his mother
listened with a keen, steady interest. She compelled him to describe the
stranger, Fortune, as minutely as possible, as if desirous of finding
some form or event in her own memory to which he could be attached; but
without result.

After supper Sam squatted upon a stool in the corner of the fireplace,
and resumed his reading of “The Old English Baron,” by the light of the
burning back-log, pronouncing every word to himself in something
between a whisper and a whistle. Gilbert took an account-book, a
leaden inkstand, and a stumpy pen from a drawer under the window, and
calculated silently and somewhat laboriously. His mother produced a
clocked stocking of blue wool, and proceeded to turn the heel.

In half an hour's time, however, Sam's whispering ceased; his head
nodded violently, and the book fell upon the hearth.

“I guess I'll go to bed,” he said; and having thus conscientiously
announced his intention, he trotted up the steep back-stairs on his
hands and feet. In two minutes more, a creaking overhead announced that
the act was accomplished.

Gilbert filliped the ink out of his pen into the fire, laid it in his
book, and turned away from the table.

“Roger has bottom,” he said at last, “and he's as strong as a lion.
He and Fox will make a good team, and the roads will be solid in three
days, if it don't rain.”

“Why, you don't mean,”--she commenced.

“Yes, mother. You were not for buying him, I know, and you were right,
inasmuch as there is always _some_ risk. But it will make a difference
of two barrels a load, besides having a horse at home. If I plough both
for corn and oats next week,--and it will be all the better for corn,
as the field next to Carson's is heavy,--I can begin hauling the week
after, and we'll have the interest by the first of April, without
borrowing a penny.”

“That would be good,--very good, indeed,” said she, dropping her
knitting, and hesitating a moment before she continued; “only--only,
Gilbert, I didn't expect you would be going so soon.”

“The sooner I begin, mother, the sooner I shall finish.”

“I know that, Gilbert,--I know that; but I'm always looking forward to
the time when you won't be bound to go at all. Not that Sam and I can't
manage awhile--but if the money was paid once”--

“There's less than six hundred now, altogether. It's a good deal to
scrape together in a year's time, but if it can be done I will do
it. Perhaps, then, you will let some help come into the house. I'm as
anxious as you can be, mother. I'm not of a roving disposition, that you
know; yet it isn't pleasant to me to see you slave as you do, and for
that very reason, it's a comfort when I'm away, that you've one less to
work for.”

He spoke earnestly, turning his face full upon her.

“We've talked this over, often and often, but you never can make me see
it in your way,” he then added, in a gentler tone.

“Ay, Gilbert,” she replied, somewhat bitterly, “I've had my thoughts.
Maybe they were too fast; it seems so. I meant, and mean, to make a good
home for you, and I'm happiest when I can do the most towards it. I want
you to hold up your head and be beholden to no man. There are them in
the neighborhood that were bound out as boys, and are now as good as the
best.”

“But they are not,”--burst from his lips, as the thought on which he
so gloomily brooded sprang to the surface and took him by surprise. He
checked his words by a powerful effort, and the blood forsook his face.
Mary Potter placed her hand on her heart, and seemed to gasp for breath.

Gilbert could not bear to look upon her face. He turned away, placed his
elbow on the table, and leaned his head upon his hand. It never occurred
to him that the unfinished sentence might be otherwise completed. He
knew that his _thought_ was betrayed, and his heart was suddenly filled
with a tumult of shame, pity, and fear.

For a minute there was silence. Only the long pendulum, swinging openly
along the farther wall, ticked at each end of its vibration. Then Mary
Potter drew a deep, weary breath, and spoke. Her voice was hollow and
strange, and each word came as by a separate muscular effort.

“_What_ are they not? What word was on your tongue, Gilbert?”

He could not answer. He could only shake his head, and bring forth a
cowardly, evasive word,--“Nothing.”

“But there _is_ something! Oh, I knew it must come some time!” she
cried, rather to herself than to him. “Listen to me, Gilbert! Has any
one dared to say to your face that you are basely born?”

He felt, now, that no further evasion was possible; she had put into
words the terrible question which he could not steel his own heart to
ask. Perhaps it was better so,--better a sharp, intense pain than a dull
perpetual ache. So he answered honestly now, but still kept his head
turned away, as if there might be a kindness in avoiding her gaze.

“Not in so many words, mother,” he said; “but there are ways, and
ways of saying a thing; and the cruellest way is that which everybody
understands, and I dare not. But I have long known what it meant. It is
ten years, mother, since I have mentioned the word '_father_' in your
hearing.”

Mary Potter leaned forward, hid her face in her hands, and rocked to and
fro, as if tortured with insupportable pain. She stifled her sobs, but
the tears gushed forth between her fingers.

“O my boy,--my boy!” she moaned. “Ten years?--and you believed it, all
that time!”

He was silent. She leaned forward and grasped his arm.

“Did you,--_do_ you believe it? Speak, Gilbert!”

When he did speak, his voice was singularly low and gentle. “Never mind,
mother!” was all he could say. His head was still turned away from her,
but she knew there were tears on his cheeks.

“Gilbert, it is a lie!” she exclaimed, with startling vehemence. “A
lie,--A LIE! You are my lawful son, born in wedlock! There is no stain
upon your name, of my giving, and I know there will be none of your
own.”

He turned towards her, his eyes shining and his lips parted in
breathless joy and astonishment.

“Is it--is it true?” he whispered.

“True as there is a God in Heaven.”

“Then, mother, give me my name! Now I ask you, for the first time, who
was my father?”

She wrung her hands and moaned. The sight of her son's eager, expectant
face, touched with a light which she had never before seen upon it,
seemed to give her another and a different pang.

“That, too!” She murmured to herself.

“Gilbert,” she then said, “have I always been a faithful mother to you?
Have I been true and honest in word and deed? Have I done my best to
help you in all right ways,--to make you comfortable, to spare you
trouble? Have I ever,--I'll not say acted, for nobody's judgment is
perfect,--but tried to act otherwise than as I thought it might be for
your good?”

“You have done all that you could say, and more, mother.”

“Then, my boy, is it too much for me to ask that you should believe my
word,--that you should let it stand for the truth, without my giving
proofs and testimonies? For, Gilbert, that I _must_ ask of you, hard as
it may seem. If you will only be content with the knowledge--: but then,
you have felt the shame all this while; it was my fault, mine, and I
ought to ask your forgiveness”--

“Mother--mother!” he interrupted, “don't talk that way! Yes--I believe
you, without testimony. You never said, or thought, an untruth; and
your explanation will be enough not only for me, but for the whole
neighborhood, if all witnesses are dead or gone away. If you knew of the
shameful report, why didn't you deny it at once? Why let it spread and
be believed in?”

“Oh,” she moaned again, “if my tongue was not tied--if my tongue was not
tied! There was my fault, and what a punishment! Never--never was woman
punished as I have been. Gilbert, whatever you do, bind yourself by no
vow, except in the sight of men!”

“I do not understand you, mother,” said he.

“No, and I dare not make myself understood. Don't ask me anything more!
It's hard to shut my mouth, and bear everything in silence, but it cuts
my very heart in twain to speak and not tell!”

Her distress was so evident, that Gilbert, perplexed and bewildered as
her words left him, felt that he dared not press her further. He could
not doubt the truth of her first assertion; but, alas! it availed only
for his own private consciousness,--it took no stain from him, in the
eyes of the world. Yet, now that the painful theme had been opened,--not
less painful, it seemed, since the suspected dishonor did not exist,--he
craved and decided to ask, enlightenment on one point.

“Mother,” he said, after a pause, “I do not want to speak about this
thing again. I believe you, and my greatest comfort in believing is
for your sake, not for mine. I see, too, that you are bound in some way
which I do not understand, so that we cannot be cleared from the blame
that is put upon us. I don't mind that so much, either--for my own sake,
and I will not ask for an explanation, since you say you dare not give
it. But tell me one thing,--will it always be so? Are you bound forever,
and will I never learn anything more? I can wait; but, mother, you know
that these things work in a man's mind, and there will come a time when
the knowledge of the worst thing that could be will seem better than no
knowledge at all.”

Her face brightened a little. “Thank you, Gilbert!” she said. “Yes;
there will come a day when you shall know all,--when you and me shall
have justice. I do not know how soon; I cannot guess. In the Lord's good
time. I have nigh out-suffered my fault, I think, and the reward cannot
be far off. A few weeks, perhaps,--yet, maybe, for oh, I am not allowed
even to hope for it!--maybe a few years. It will all come to the light,
after so long--so long--an eternity. If I had but known!”

“Come, we will say no more now. Surely I may wait a little while, when
you have waited so long. I believe you, mother. Yes, I believe you; I am
your lawful son.”

She rose, placed her hands on his shoulders, and kissed him. Nothing
more was said.

Gilbert raked the ashes over the smouldering embers on the hearth,
lighted his mother's night-lamp, and after closing the chamber-door
softly behind her, stole up-stairs to his own bed.

It was long past midnight before he slept.




CHAPTER IV.

FORTUNE AND MISFORTUNE.


On the same evening, a scene of a very different character occurred,
in which certain personages of this history were actors. In order to
describe it, we must return to the company of sportsmen whom Gilbert
Potter left at the Hammer-and-Trowel Tavern, late in the afternoon.

No sooner had he departed than the sneers of the young bucks, who
felt themselves humiliated by his unexpected success, became loud and
frequent. Mr. Alfred Barton, who seemed to care little for the general
dissatisfaction, was finally reproached with having introduced such an
unfit personage at a gentleman's hunt; whereupon he turned impatiently,
and retorted:

“There were no particular invitations sent out, as all of you know.
Anybody that had a horse, and knew how to manage him, was welcome.
Zounds! if you fellows are afraid to take hedges, am I to blame for
that? A hunter's a hunter, though he's born on the wrong side of the
marriage certificate.”

“That's the talk, Squire!” cried Fortune, giving his friend a hearty
slap between the shoulders. “I've seen riding in my day,” he continued,
“both down in Loudon and on the Eastern Shore--men born with spurs on
their heels, and I tell you this Potter could hold his own, even with
the Lees and the Tollivers. We took the hedge together, while you were
making a round of I don't know how many miles on the road; and I never
saw a thing neater done. If you thought there was anything unfair about
him, why didn't you head him off?”

“Yes, damme,” echoed Mr. Barton, bringing down his fist upon the bar,
so that the glasses jumped, “why didn't you head him off?” Mr. Barton's
face was suspiciously flushed, and he was more excited than the occasion
justified.

There was no answer to the question, except that which none of the young
bucks dared to make.

“Well, I've had about enough of this,” said Mr. Joel Ferris, turning on
his heel; “who's for home?”

“Me!” answered three or four, with more readiness than grammar. Some of
the steadier young farmers, who had come for an afternoon's recreation,
caring little who was first in at the death, sat awhile and exchanged
opinions about crops and cattle; but Barton and Fortune kept together,
whispering much, and occasionally bursting into fits of uproarious
laughter. The former was so captivated by his new friend, that before
he knew it every guest was gone. The landlord had lighted two or three
tallow candles, and now approached with the question:

“Will you have supper, gentlemen?”

“That depends on what you've got,” said Fortune.

This was not language to which the host was accustomed. His guests were
also his fellow-citizens: if they patronized him, he accommodated them,
and the account was balanced. His meals were as good as anybody's,
though he thought it that shouldn't, and people so very particular might
stay away. But he was a mild, amiable man, and Fortune's keen eye and
dazzling teeth had a powerful effect upon him. He answered civilly, in
spite of an inward protest:

“There's ham and eggs, and frizzled beef.”

“Nothing could be better!” Fortune exclaimed, jumping up. “Come
'Squire--if I stay over Sunday with you, you must at least take supper
at my expense.”

Mr. Barton tried to recollect whether he had invited his friend to spend
Sunday with him. It must be so, of course; only, he could not remember
when he had spoken, or what words he had used. It would be very
pleasant, he confessed, but for one thing; and how was he to get over
the difficulty?

However, here they were, at the table, Fortune heaping his plate like a
bountiful host, and talking so delightfully about horses and hounds, and
drinking-bouts, and all those wild experiences which have such a
charm for bachelors of forty-five or fifty, that it was impossible to
determine in his mind what he should do.

After the supper, they charged themselves with a few additional
potations, to keep off the chill of the night air, mounted their horses,
and took the New-Garden road. A good deal of confidential whispering had
preceded their departure.

“They're off on a lark,” the landlord remarked to himself, as they rode
away, “and it's a shame, in men of their age.”

After riding a mile, they reached the cross-road on the left, which the
hunters had followed, and Fortune, who was a little in advance, turned
into it.

“After what I told you, 'Squire,” said he, “you won't wonder that I know
the country so well. Let us push on; it's not more than two miles. I
would be very clear of showing you one of my nests, if you were not such
a good fellow. But mum's the word, you know.”

“Never fear,” Barton answered, somewhat thickly; “I'm an old bird,
Fortune.”

“That you are! Men like you and me are not made of the same stuff as
those young nincompoops; we can follow a trail without giving tongue at
every jump.”

Highly flattered, Barton rode nearer, and gave his friend an
affectionate punch in the side. Fortune answered with an arm around his
waist and a tight hug, and so they rode onward through the darkness.

They had advanced for somewhat more than a mile on the cross-road, and
found themselves in a hollow, with tall, and added in a low, significant
tone, “If you stir from this spot in less than one hour, you are a dead
man.”

Then he rode on, whistling “Money Musk” as he went. Once or twice he
stopped, as if to listen, and Barton's heart ceased to beat; but by
degrees the sound of his horse's hoofs died away. The silence that
succeeded was full of terrors. Barton's horse became restive, and he
would have dismounted and held him, but for the weakness in every joint
which made him think that his body was falling asunder. Now and then
a leaf rustled, or the scent of some animal, unperceived by his own
nostrils, caused his horse to snort and stamp. The air was raw and sent
a fearful chill through his blood. Moreover, how was he to measure the
hour? His watch was gone; he might have guessed by the stars, but
the sky was overcast. Fortune and Sandy Flash--for there were two
individuals in his bewildered brain--would surely fulfil their threat if
he stirred before the appointed time. What under heaven should he do?

Wait; that was all; and he waited until it seemed that morning must be
near at hand. Then, turning his horse, he rode back very slowly towards
the New-Garden road, and after many panics, to the Hammer-and-Trowel.
There was still light in the bar-room; should the door open, he would
be seen. He put spurs to his horse and dashed past. Once in motion, it
seemed that he was pursued, and along Tuffkenamon went the race, until
his horse, panting and exhausted, paused to drink at Redley Creek. They
had gone to bed at the Unicorn; he drew a long breath, and felt that the
danger was over. In five minutes more he was at home.

Putting his horse in the stable, he stole quietly to the house, pulled
off his boots in the wood-shed, and entered by a back way through the
kitchen. Here he warmed his chill frame before the hot ashes, and then
very gently and cautiously felt his way to bed in the dark.

The next morning, being Sunday, the whole household, servants and all,
slept an hour later than usual, as was then the country custom. Giles,
the old soldier, was the first to appear. He made the fire in the
kitchen, put on the water to boil, and then attended to the feeding of
the cattle at the barn. When this was accomplished, he returned to the
house and entered a bedroom adjoining the kitchen, on the ground-floor.
Here slept “Old-man Barton,” as he was generally called,--Alfred's
father, by name Abiah, and now eighty-five years of age. For many years
he had been a paralytic, and unable to walk, but the disease had not
affected his business capacity. He was the hardest, shrewdest, and
cunningest miser in the county. There was not a penny of the income
and expenditure of the farm, for any year, which he could not account
for,--not a date of a deed, bond, or note of hand, which he had ever
given or received, that was not indelibly burnt upon his memory. No one,
not even his sons, knew precisely how much he was worth. The old lawyer
in Chester, who had charge of much of his investments, was as shrewd as
himself, and when he made his annual visit, the first week in April,
the doors were not only closed, but everybody was banished from hearing
distance so long as he remained.

Giles assisted in washing and dressing the old man, then seated him in a
rude arm-chair, resting on clumsy wooden castors, and poured out for
him a small wine-glass full of raw brandy. Once or twice a year, usually
after the payment of delayed interest, Giles received a share of the
brandy; but he never learned to expect it. Then a long hickory staff
was placed in the old man's hand, and his arm-chair was rolled into the
kitchen, to a certain station between the fire and the southern window,
where he would be out of the way of his daughter Ann, yet could measure
with his eye every bit of lard she put into the frying-pan, and every
spoonful of molasses that entered into the composition of her pies.

She had already set the table for breakfast. The bacon and sliced
potatoes were frying in separate pans, and Ann herself was lifting the
lid of the tin coffee-pot, to see whether the beverage had “come to a
boil,” when the old man entered, or, strictly speaking, _was_ entered.

As his chair rolled into the light, the hideousness, not the grace and
serenity of old age, was revealed. His white hair, thin and half-combed,
straggled over the dark-red, purple-veined skin of his head; his cheeks
were flabby bags of bristly, wrinkled leather; his mouth was a sunken,
irregular slit, losing itself in the hanging folds at the corners, and
even the life, gathered into his small, restless gray eyes, was half
quenched under the red and heavy edges of the lids. The third and fourth
fingers of his hands were crooked upon the skinny palms, beyond any
power to open them.

When Ann--a gaunt spinster of fifty-five--had placed the coffee on
the table, the old man looked around, and asked with a snarl: “Where's
Alfred?”

“Not up yet, but you needn't wait, father.”

“Wait?” was all he said, yet she understood the tone, and wheeled him
to the table. As soon as his plate was filled, he bent forward over it,
rested his elbows on the cloth, and commenced feeding himself with hands
that trembled so violently that he could with great difficulty bring
the food to his mouth. But he resented all offers of assistance,
which implied any weakness beyond that of the infirmity which it was
impossible for him to conceal. His meals were weary tasks, but he shook
and jerked through them, and would have gone away hungry rather than
acknowledge the infirmity of his great age.

Breakfast was nearly over before Alfred Barton made his appearance. No
truant school-boy ever dreaded the master's eye as he dreaded to appear
before his father that Sunday morning. His sleep had been broken
and restless; the teeth of Sandy Flash had again grinned at him in
nightmare-dreams, and when he came to put on his clothes, the sense
of emptiness in his breast-pocket and watch-fob impressed him like a
violent physical pain. His loss was bad enough, but the inability to
conceal it caused him even greater distress.

Buttoning his coat over the double void, and trying to assume his usual
air, he went down to the kitchen and commenced his breakfast. Whenever
he looked up, he found his father's eyes fixed upon him, and before a
word had been spoken, he felt that he had already betrayed something,
and that the truth would follow, sooner or later. A wicked wish crossed
his mind, but was instantly suppressed, for fear lest that, also, should
be discovered.

After Ann had cleared the table, and retired to her own room in order
to array herself in the black cloth gown which she had worn every Sunday
for the past fifteen years, the old man said, or rather wheezed out the
words,--

“Kennett, meetin'?”

“Not to-day,” said his son, “I've a sort of chill from yesterday.” And
he folded his arms and shivered very naturally.

“Did Ferris pay you?” the old man again asked.

“Y--yes.”

“Where's the money?”

There was the question, and it must be faced. Alfred Barton worked the
farm “on shares,” and was held to a strict account by his father, not
only for half of all the grain and produce sold, but of all the horses
and cattle raised, as well as those which were bought on speculation.
On his share he managed--thanks to the niggardly system enforced in the
house--not only to gratify his vulgar taste for display, but even to lay
aside small sums from time to time. It was a convenient arrangement, but
might be annulled any time when the old man should choose, and Alfred
knew that a prompt division of the profits would be his surest guarantee
of permanence.

“I have not the money with me,” he answered, desperately, after a pause,
during which he felt his father's gaze travelling over him, from head to
foot.

“Why not! You haven't spent it?” The latter question was a croaking
shriek, which seemed to forebode, while it scarcely admitted, the
possibility of such an enormity.

“I spent only four shillings, father, but--but--but the money's all
gone!”

The crooked fingers clutched the hickory staff, as if eager to wield
it; the sunken gray eyes shot forth angry fire, and the broken figure
uncurved and straightened itself with a wrathful curiosity.

“Sandy Flash robbed me on the way home,” said the son, and now that the
truth was out, he seemed to pluck up a little courage.

“What, what, what!” chattered the old man, incredulously; “no lies, boy,
no lies!”

The son unbuttoned his coat, and showed his empty watch-fob. Then he
gave an account of the robbery, not strictly correct in all its details,
but near enough for his father to know, without discovering inaccuracies
at a later day. The hickory-stick was shaken once or twice during the
recital, but it did not fall upon the culprit--though this correction
(so the gossip of the neighborhood ran) had more than once been
administered within the previous ten years. As Alfred Barton told his
story, it was hardly a case for anger on the father's part, so he took
his revenge in another way.

“This comes o' your races and your expensive company,” he growled, after
a few incoherent sniffs and snarls; “but I don't lose my half of
the horse. No, no! I'm not paid till the money's been handed over.
Twenty-five dollars, remember!--and soon, that I don't lose the use of
it too long. As for _your_ money and the watch, I've nothing to do with
them. I've got along without a watch for eighty-five years, and I never
wore as smart a coat as that in my born days. Young men understood how
to save, in my time.”

Secretly, however, the old man was flattered by his son's love of
display, and enjoyed his swaggering air, although nothing would have
induced him to confess the fact. His own father had come to Pennsylvania
as a servant of one of the first settlers, and the reverence which he
had felt, as a boy, for the members of the Quaker and farmer aristocracy
of the neighborhood, had now developed into a late vanity to see his
own family acknowledged as the equals of the descendants of the former.
Alfred had long since discovered that when he happened to return home
from the society of the Falconers, or the Caswells, or the Carsons, the
old man was in an unusual good-humor. At such times, the son felt sure
that he was put down for a large slice of the inheritance.

After turning the stick over and over in his skinny hands, and pressing
the top of it against his toothless gums, the old man again spoke.

“See here, you're old enough now to lead a steady life. You might ha'
had a farm o' your own, like Elisha, if you'd done as well. A very fair
bit o' money he married,--very fair,--but I don't say you couldn't do as
well, or, maybe, better.”

“I've been thinking of that, myself,” the son replied.

“Have you? Why don't you step up to her then? Ten thousand dollars
aren't to be had every day, and you needn't expect to get it without the
askin'! Where molasses is dropped, you'll always find more than one fly.
Others than you have got their eyes on the girl.”

The son's eyes opened tolerably wide when the old man began to speak,
but a spark of intelligence presently flashed into them, and an
expression of cunning ran over his face.

“Don't be anxious, daddy!” said he, with assumed playfulness; “she's not
a girl to take the first that offers. She has a mind of her own,--with
her the more haste the less speed. I know what I'm about; I have my top
eye open, and when there's a good chance, you won't find me sneaking
behind the wood-house.”

“Well, well!” muttered the old man, “we'll see,--we'll see! A good
family, too,--not that I care for that. My family's as good as the next.
But if you let her slip, boy”--and here he brought down the end of his
stick with a significant whack, upon the floor. “This I'll tell you,”
 he added, without finishing the broken sentence, “that whether you're a
rich man or a beggar, depends on yourself. The more you have, the more
you'll get; remember that! Bring me my brandy!”

Alfred Barton knew the exact value of his father's words. Having already
neglected, or, at least, failed to succeed, in regard to two matches
which his father had proposed, he understood the risk to his inheritance
which was implied by a third failure. And yet, looking at the subject
soberly, there was not the slightest prospect of success. Martha Deane
was the girl in the old man's mind, and an instinct, stronger than his
vanity, told him that she never would, or could, be his wife. But, in
spite of that, it must be his business to create a contrary impression,
and keep it alive as long as possible,--perhaps until--until--

We all know what was in his mind. Until the old man should die.




CHAPTER V.

GUESTS AT FAIRTHORN'S.


The Fairthorn farm was immediately north of Kennett Square. For the
first mile towards Unionville, the rich rolling fields which any
traveller may see, to this day, on either side of the road, belonged
to it. The house stood on the right, in the hollow into which the road
dips, on leaving the village. Originally a large cabin of hewn logs, it
now rejoiced in a stately stone addition, overgrown with ivy up to the
eaves, and a long porch in front, below which two mounds of box guarded
the flight of stone steps leading down to the garden. The hill in the
rear kept off the north wind, and this garden caught the earliest warmth
of spring. Nowhere else in the neighborhood did the crocuses bloom so
early, or the peas so soon appear above ground. The lack of order, the
air of old neglect about the place, in nowise detracted from its warm,
cosy character; it was a pleasant nook, and the relatives and friends of
the family (whose name was Legion) always liked to visit there.

Several days had elapsed since the chase, and the eventful evening which
followed it. It was baking-day, and the plump arms of Sally Fairthorn
were floury-white up to the elbows. She was leaning over the
dough-trough, plunging her fists furiously into the spongy mass, when
she heard a step on the porch. Although her gown was pinned up, leaving
half of her short, striped petticoat visible, and a blue and white
spotted handkerchief concealed her dark hair, Sally did not stop to
think of that. She rushed into the front room, just as a gaunt female
figure passed the window, at the sight of which she clapped her hands so
that the flour flew in a little white cloud, and two or three strips of
dough peeled off her arms and fell upon the floor.

The front-door opened, and our old friend, Miss Betsy Lavender, walked
into the room.

Any person, between Kildeer Hill and Hockessin, who did not know Miss
Betsy, must have been an utter stranger to the country, or an idiot. She
had a marvellous clairvoyant faculty for the approach of either Joy or
Grief, and always turned up just at the moment when she was most wanted.
Profession had she none; neither a permanent home, but for twenty years
she had wandered hither and thither, in highly independent fashion,
turning her hand to whatever seemed to require its cunning. A better
housekeeper never might have lived, if she could have stuck to one spot;
an admirable cook, nurse, seamstress, and spinner, she refused alike the
high wages of wealthy farmers and the hands of poor widowers. She had a
little money of her own, but never refused payment from those who were
able to give it, in order that she might now and then make a present of
her services to poorer friends. Her speech was blunt and rough, her ways
odd and eccentric; her name was rarely mentioned without a laugh, but
those who laughed at her esteemed her none the less. In those days of
weekly posts and one newspaper, she was Politics, Art, Science, and
Literature to many families.

In person, Miss Betsy Lavender was peculiar rather than attractive. She
was nearly, if not quite fifty years of age, rather tall, and a little
stoop-shouldered. Her face, at first sight, suggested that of a horse,
with its long, ridged nose, loose lips and short chin. Her eyes were
dull gray, set near together, and much sharper in their operation than a
stranger would suppose. Over a high, narrow forehead she wore thin bands
of tan-colored hair, somewhat grizzled, and forming a coil at the back
of her head, barely strong enough to hold the teeth of an enormous
tortoise-shell comb. Yet her grotesqueness had nothing repellant; it
was a genial caricature, at which no one could take offence. “The very
person I wanted to see!” cried Sally. “Father and mother are going up
to Uncle John's this afternoon; Aunt Eliza has an old woman's
quilting-party, and they'll stay all night, and however am I to manage
Joe and Jake by myself? Martha's half promised to come, but not till
after supper. It will all go right, since you are here; come into
mother's room and take off your things!”

“Well,” said Miss Betsy, with a snort, “_that's_ to be my business, eh?
I'll have my hands full; a pearter couple o' lads a'n't to be found this
side o' Nottin'gam. They might ha' growed up wild on the Barrens, for
all the manners they've got.”

Sally knew that this criticism was true; also that Miss Betsy's task was
no sinecure, and she therefore thought it best to change the subject.

“There!” said she, as Miss Betsy gave the thin rope of her back hair a
fierce twist, and jammed her high comb inward and outward that the teeth
might catch,--“there! now you'll do! Come into the kitchen and tell me
the news, while I set my loaves to rise.”

“Loaves to rise,” echoed Miss Betsy, seating herself on a tall,
rush-bottomed chair near the window. She had an incorrigible habit of
repeating the last three words of the person with whom she spoke,--a
habit which was sometimes mimicked good-humoredly, even by her best
friends. Many persons, however, were flattered by it, as it seemed to
denote an earnest attention to what they were saying. Between the two,
there it was and there it would be, to the day of her death,--Miss
Lavender's “keel-mark, [Footnote: Keel, a local term for red chalk.] as
the farmers said of their sheep.

“Well,” she resumed, after taking breath, “no news is good news, these
days. Down Whitely Creek way, towards Strickersville, there's fever,
they say; Richard Rudd talks o' buildin' higher up the hill,--you know
it's low and swampy about the old house,--but Sarah, she says it'll be a
mortal long ways to the spring-house, and so betwixt and between them
I dunno how it'll turn out. Dear me! I was up at Aunt Buffin'ton's t'
other day; she's lookin' poorly; her mother, I remember, went off in a
decline, the same year the Tories burnt down their barn, and I'm afeard
she's goin' the same way. But, yes! I guess there's one thing you'll
like to hear. Old-man Barton is goin' to put up a new wagon-house, and
Mark is to have the job.”

“Law!” exclaimed Sally, “what's that to me?” But there was a decided
smile on her face as she put another loaf into the pan, and, although
her head was turned away, a pretty flush of color came up behind her
ear, and betrayed itself to Miss Lavender's quick eye.

“Nothin' much, I reckon,” the latter answered, in the most
matter-of-fact way, “only I thought you might like to know it, Mark
bein' a neighbor, like, and a right-down smart young fellow.”

“Well, I _am_ glad of it,” said Sally, with sudden candor, “he's
Martha's cousin.”

“Martha's cousin,--and I shouldn't wonder if he'd be something more to
her, some day.”

“No, indeed! What are you thinking of, Betsy?” Sally turned around
and faced her visitor, regardless that her soft brunette face showed a
decided tinge of scarlet. At this instant clattering feet were heard,
and Joe and Jake rushed into the kitchen. They greeted their old friend
with boisterous demonstrations of joy.

“Now we'll have dough-nuts,” cried Joe.

“No; 'lasses-wax!” said Jake. “Sally, where's mother? Dad's out at the
wall, and Bonnie's jumpin' and prancin' like anything!”

“Go along!” exclaimed Sally, with a slap which, lost its force in the
air, as Jake jumped away. Then they all left the kitchen together, and
escorted the mother to the garden-wall by the road, which served the
purpose of a horseblock. Farmer Fairthorn--a hale, ruddy, honest figure,
in broad-brimmed hat, brown coat and knee-breeches--already sat upon the
old mare, and the pillion behind his saddle awaited the coming burden.
Mother Fairthorn, a cheery little woman, with dark eyes and round
brunette face, like her daughter, wore the scoop bonnet and drab shawl
of a Quakeress, as did many in the neighborhood who did not belong to
the sect. Never were people better suited to each other than these two:
they took the world as they found it, and whether the crops were poor or
abundant, whether money came in or had to be borrowed, whether the roof
leaked, or a broken pale let the sheep into the garden, they were alike
easy of heart, contented and cheerful.

The mare, after various obstinate whirls, was finally brought near the
wall; the old woman took her seat on the pillion, and after a parting
admonition to Sally: “Rake the coals and cover 'em up, before going to
bed, whatever you do!”--they went off, deliberately, up the hill.

“Miss Betsy,” said Joe, with a very grave air, as they returned to the
kitchen, “I want you to tell me one thing,--whether it's true or not.
Sally says I'm a monkey.”

“I'm a monkey,” repeated the unconscious Miss Lavender, whereupon both
boys burst into shrieks of laughter, and made their escape.

“Much dough-nuts they'll get from me,” muttered the ruffled spinster, as
she pinned up her sleeves and proceeded to help Sally. The work went on
rapidly, and by the middle of the afternoon, the kitchen wore its normal
aspect of homely neatness. Then came the hour or two of quiet and rest,
nowhere in the world so grateful as in a country farm-house, to its
mistress and her daughters, when all the rough work of the day is over,
and only the lighter task of preparing supper yet remains. Then, when
the sewing or knitting has been produced, the little painted-pine
work-stand placed near the window, and a pleasant neighbor drops in
to enliven the softer occupation with gossip, the country wife or girl
finds her life a very happy and cheerful possession. No dresses are worn
with so much pleasure as those then made; no books so enjoyed as those
then read, a chapter or two at a time.

Sally Fairthorn, we must confess, was not in the habit of reading much.
Her education had been limited. She had ciphered as far as Compound
Interest, read Murray's “Sequel,” and Goldsmith's “Rome,” and could
write a fair letter, without misspelling many words; but very few other
girls in the neighborhood possessed greater accomplishments than these,
and none of them felt, or even thought of, their deficiencies. There
were no “missions” in those days; it was fifty or sixty years before
the formation of the “Kennett Psychological Society,” and “Pamela,”
 “Rasselas,” and “Joseph Andrews,” were lent and borrowed, as at present
“Consuelo,” Buckle, Ruskin, and “Enoch Arden.”

One single work of art had Sally created, and it now hung, stately in
a frame of curled maple, in the chilly parlor. It was a sampler,
containing the alphabet, both large and small, the names and dates of
birth of both her parents, a harp and willow-tree, the twigs whereof
were represented by parallel rows of “herring-bone” stitch, a sharp
zigzag spray of rose-buds, and the following stanza, placed directly
underneath the harp and willow:--

  “By Babel's streams we Sat and Wept
     When Zion we thought on;
   For Grief thereof, we Hang our Harp
     The Willow Tree upon.”

Across the bottom of the sampler was embroidered the inscription: “Done
by Sarah Ann Fairthorn, May, 1792, in the 16th year of her age.”

While Sally went up-stairs to her room, to put her hair into order, and
tie a finer apron over her cloth gown, Miss Betsy Lavender was made the
victim of a most painful experience.

Joe and Jake, who had been dodging around the house, half-coaxing and
half-teasing the ancient maiden whom they both plagued and liked, had
not been heard or seen for a while. Miss Betsy was knitting by the front
window, waiting for Sally, when the door was hastily thrown open, and
Joe appeared, panting, scared, and with an expression of horror upon his
face.

“Oh, Miss Betsy!” was his breathless exclamation, “Jake! the
cherry-tree!”

Dropping her work upon the floor, Miss Lavender hurried out of the
house, with beating heart and trembling limbs, following Joe, who ran
towards the field above the barn, where, near the fence, there stood a
large and lofty cherry-tree. As she reached the fence she beheld Jake,
lying motionless on his back, on the brown grass.

“The Lord have mercy!” she cried; her knees gave way, and she sank upon
the ground in an angular heap. When, with a desperate groan, she lifted
her head and looked through the lower rails, Jake was not to be seen.
With a swift, convulsive effort she rose to her feet, just in time to
catch a glimpse of the two young scamps whirling over the farther fence
into the wood below.

She walked unsteadily back to the house. “It's given me such a turn,”
 she said to Sally, after describing the trick, “that I dunno when I'll
get over it.”

Sally gave her some whiskey and sugar, which soon brought a vivid red to
the tip of her chin and the region of her cheek-bones, after which she
professed that she felt very comfortable. But the boys, frightened at
the effect of their thoughtless prank, did not make their appearance.
Joe, seeing Miss Betsy fall, thought she was dead, and the two hid
themselves in a bed of dead leaves, beside a fallen log, not daring to
venture home for supper. Sally said they should have none, and would
have cleared the table; but Miss Betsy, whose kind heart had long since
relented, went forth and brought them to light, promising that she would
not tell their father, provided they “would never do such a wicked thing
again.” Their behavior, for the rest of the evening, was irreproachable.

Just as candles were being lighted, there was another step on the porch,
and the door opened on Martha Deane.

“I'm _so_ glad!” cried Sally. “Never mind your pattens, Martha; Joe
shall carry them into the kitchen. Come, let me take off your cloak and
hat.”

Martha's coming seemed to restore the fading daylight. Not boisterous
or impulsive, like Sally, her nature burned with a bright and steady
flame,--white and cold to some, golden and radiant to others. Her form
was slender, and every motion expressed a calm, serene grace, which
could only spring from some conscious strength of character. Her face
was remarkably symmetrical, its oval outline approaching the Greek
ideal; but the brow was rather high than low, and the light brown hair
covered the fair temples evenly, without a ripple. Her eyes were purely
blue, and a quick, soft spark was easily kindled in their depths; the
cheeks round and rosy, and the mouth clearly and delicately cut, with
an unusual, yet wholly feminine firmness in the lines of the upper lip.
This peculiarity, again, if slightly out of harmony with the pervading
gentleness of her face, was balanced by the softness and sweetness of
her dimpled chin, and gave to her face a rare union of strength and
tenderness. It very rarely happens that decision and power of will in a
young woman are not manifested by some characteristic rather masculine
than feminine; but Martha Deane knew the art of unwearied, soft
assertion and resistance, and her beautiful lips could pronounce, when
necessary, a final word.

Joe and Jake came forward with a half-shy delight, to welcome “Cousin
Martha,” as she was called in the Fairthorn household, her mother and
Sally's father having been “own” cousins. There was a cheerful fire
on the hearth, and the three ladies gathered in front of it, with
the work-stand in the middle, while the boys took possession of the
corner-nooks. The latter claimed their share of the gossip; they
knew the family histories of the neighborhood much better than their
school-books, and exhibited a precocious interest in this form of
knowledge. The conversation, therefore, was somewhat guarded, and the
knitting and sewing all the more assiduously performed, until, with
great reluctance, and after repeated commands, Joe and Jake stole off to
bed.

The atmosphere of the room then became infinitely more free and
confidential. Sally dropped her hands in her lap, and settled herself
more comfortably in her chair, while Miss Lavender, with an unobserved
side-glance at her, said:--

“Mark is to put up Barton's new wagon-house, I hear, Martha.”

“Yes,” Martha answered; “it is not much, but Mark, of course, is very
proud of his first job. There is a better one in store, though he does
not know of it.”

Sally pricked up her ears. “What is it?” asked Miss Betsy.

“It is not to be mentioned, you will understand. I saw Alfred Barton
to-day. He seems to take quite an interest in Mark, all at once, and he
told me that the Hallowells are going to build a new barn this summer.
He spoke to them of Mark, and thinks the work is almost sure.”

“Well, now!” Miss Betsy exclaimed, “if he gets that, after a year's
journey-work, Mark is a made man. And I'll speak to Richard Rudd the
next time I see him. He thinks he's beholden to me, since Sarah had the
fever so bad. I don't like folks to think that, but there's times when
it appears to come handy.”

Sally arose, flushed and silent, and brought a plate of cakes and a
basket of apples from the pantry. The work was now wholly laid aside,
and the stand cleared to receive the refreshments.

“Now pare your peels in one piece, girls,” Miss Betsy advised, “and then
whirl 'em to find the _initials_ o' your sweethearts' names.”

“You, too, Miss Betsy!” cried Sally, “we must find out the widower's
name!”

“The widower's name,” Miss Betsy gravely repeated, as she took a knife.

With much mirth the parings were cut, slowly whirled three times around
the head, and then let fly over the left shoulder. Miss Betsy's was
first examined and pronounced to be an A.

“Who's A?” she asked.

“Alfred!” said Sally. “Now, Martha, here's yours--an S, no it's a G!”

“The curl is the wrong way,” said Martha, gravely, “it's a figure 3; so,
I have three of them, have I?”

“And mine,” Sally continued, “is a W!”

“Yes, if you look at it upside down. The inside of the peel is
uppermost: you must turn it, and then it will be an M.”

Sally snatched it up in affected vexation, and threw it into the fire.
“Oh, I know a new way!” she cried; “did you ever try it, Martha--with
the key and the Bible!”

“Old as the hills, but awful sure,” remarked Miss Lavender. “When it's
done serious, it's never been known to fail.”

Sally took the house-key, and brought from the old walnut cabinet a
plump octavo Bible, which she opened at the Song of Solomon, eighth
chapter and sixth verse. The end of the key being carefully placed
therein, the halves of the book were bound together with cords, so that
it could be carried by the key-handle. Then Sally and Martha, sitting
face to face, placed each the end of the fore finger of the right hand
under the half the ring of the key nearest to her.

“Now, Martha,” said Sally, “we'll try your fortune first. Say 'A,' and
then repeat the verse: 'set me as a seal upon thy heart, as a seal upon
thine arm; for love is strong as death, jealousy is cruel as the grave:
the coals thereof are coals of fire, which hath a most vehement flame.'”

Martha did as she was bidden, but the book hung motionless. She was
thereupon directed to say B, and repeat the verse; and so on, letter by
letter. The slender fingers trembled a little with the growing weight
of the book, and, although Sally protested that she was holding as still
“as she knew how,” the trembling increased, and before the verse which
followed G had been finished, the ring of the key slowly turned, and the
volume fell to the floor.

Martha picked it up with a quiet smile.

“It is easy to see who was in _your_ mind, Sally,” she said. “Now let me
tell your fortune: we will begin at L--it will save time.”

“Save time,” said Miss Lavender, rising. “Have it out betwixt and
between you, girls: I'm a-goin' to bed.”

The two girls soon followed her example. Hastily undressing themselves
in the chilly room, they lay down side by side, to enjoy the blended
warmth and rest, and the tender, delicious interchanges of confidence
which precede sleep. Though so different in every fibre of their
natures, they loved each other with a very true and tender affection.

“Martha,” said Sally, after an interval of silence, “did you think I
_made_ the Bible turn at G?”

“I think you thought it would turn, and therefore it did. Gilbert Potter
was in your mind, of course.”

“And not in yours, Martha?”

“If any man was seriously in my mind, Sally, do you think I would take
the Bible and the door-key in order to find out his name?”

Sally was not adroit in speech: she felt that her question had not
been answered, but was unable to see precisely how the answer had been
evaded.

“I certainly was beginning to think that you liked Gilbert,” she said.

“So I do. Anybody may know that who cares for the information.” And
Martha laughed cheerfully.

“Would you say so to Gilbert himself?” Sally timidly suggested.

“Certainly; but why should he ask? I like a great many young men.”

“Oh, Martha!”

“Oh, Sally!--and so do you. But there's this I will say: if I were to
love a man, neither he nor any other living soul should know it, until
he had told me with his own lips that his heart had chosen me.”

The strength of conviction in Martha's grave, gentle voice, struck Sally
dumb. Her lips were sealed on the delicious secret she was longing, and
yet afraid, to disclose. _He_ had not spoken: she hoped he loved her,
she was sure she loved him. Did she speak now, she thought, she would
lower herself in Martha's eyes. With a helpless impulse, she threw one
arm over the latter's neck, and kissed her cheek. She did not know that
with the kiss she had left a tear.

“Sally,” said Martha, in a tender whisper, “I only spoke for myself.
Some hearts must be silent, while it is the nature of others to speak
out. You are not afraid of me: it will be womanly in you to tell me
everything. Your cheek is hot: you are blushing. Don't blush, Sally
dear, for I know it already.”

Sally answered with an impassioned demonstration of gratitude and
affection. Then she spoke; but we will not reveal the secrets of her
virgin heart. It is enough that, soothed and comforted by Martha's wise
counsel and sympathy, she sank into happy slumber at her side.




CHAPTER VI.

THE NEW GILBERT.


This time the weather, which so often thwarts the farmer's calculations,
favored Gilbert Potter. In a week the two fields were ploughed, and what
little farm-work remained to be done before the first of April, could be
safely left to Sam. On the second Monday after the chase, therefore, he
harnessed his four sturdy horses to the wagon, and set off before the
first streak of dawn for Columbia, on the Susquehanna. Here he would
take from twelve to sixteen barrels of flour (according to the state
of the roads) and haul them, a two days' journey, to Newport, on the
Christiana River. The freight of a dollar and a half a barrel, which
he received, yielded him what in those days was considered a handsome
profit for the service, and it was no unusual thing for farmers who were
in possession of a suitable team, to engage in the business whenever
they could spare the time from their own fields.

Since the evening when she had spoken to him, for the first time in her
life, of the dismal shadow which rested upon their names, Mary Potter
felt that there was an indefinable change in her relation to her son. He
seemed suddenly drawn nearer to her, and yet, in some other sense which
she could not clearly comprehend, thrust farther away. His manner,
always kind and tender, assumed a shade of gentle respect, grateful in
itself, yet disturbing, because new in her experience of him. His head
was slightly lifted, and his lips, though firm as ever, less rigidly
compressed. She could not tell how it was, but his voice had more
authority in her ears. She had never before quite disentangled the man
that he was from the child that he had been; but now the separation,
sharp, sudden, and final, was impressed upon her mind. Under all the
loneliness which came upon her, when the musical bells of his team
tinkled into silence beyond the hill, there lurked a strange sense of
relief, as if her nature would more readily adjust itself during his
absence.

Instead of accepting the day with its duties, as a sufficient burden,
she now deliberately reviewed the Past. It would give her pain, she
knew; but what pain could she ever feel again, comparable to that which
she had so recently suffered? Long she brooded over that bitter period
before and immediately succeeding her son's birth, often declaring to
herself how fatally she had erred, and as often shaking her head in
hopeless renunciation of any present escape from the consequences of
that error. She saw her position clearly, yet it seemed that she had
so entangled herself in the meshes of a merciless Fate, that the only
reparation she could claim, either for herself or her son, would be
thrown away by forestalling--after such endless, endless submission and
suffering--the Event which should set her free.

Then she recalled and understood, as never before, Gilbert's childhood
and boyhood. For his sake she had accepted menial service in families
where he was looked upon and treated as an incumbrance. The child, it
had been her comfort to think, was too young to know or feel this,--but
now, alas! the remembrance of his shyness and sadness told her a
different tale. So nine years had passed, and she was then forced to
part with her boy. She had bound him to Farmer Fairthorn, whose good
heart, and his wife's, she well knew, and now she worked for him, alone,
putting by her savings every year, and stinting herself to the utmost
that she might be able to start him in life, if he should live to be his
own master. Little by little, the blot upon her seemed to fade out or
be forgotten, and she hoped--oh, how she had hoped!--that he might be
spared the knowledge of it.

She watched him grow up, a boy of firm will, strong temper, yet great
self-control; and the easy Fairthorn rule, which would have spoiled a
youth of livelier spirits, was, providentially, the atmosphere in which
his nature grew more serene and patient. He was steady, industrious, and
faithful, and the Fairthorns loved him almost as their own son. When he
reached the age of eighteen, he was allowed many important privileges:
he hauled flour to Newport, having a share of the profits, and in other
ways earned a sum which, with his mother's aid, enabled him to buy a
team of his own, on coming of age.

Two years more of this weary, lonely labor, and the one absorbing aim of
Mary Potter's life, which she had impressed upon him ever since he was
old enough to understand it, drew near fulfilment. The farm upon which
they now lived was sold, and Gilbert became the purchaser. There was
still a debt of a thousand dollars upon the property, and she felt that
until it was paid, they possessed no secure home. During the year which
had elapsed since the purchase, Gilbert, by unwearied labor, had laid up
about four hundred dollars, and another year, he had said, if he should
prosper in his plans, would see them free at last! Then,--let the world
say what it chose! They had fought their way from shame and poverty
to honest independence, and the respect which follows success would at
least be theirs.

This was always the consoling thought to which Mary Potter returned,
from the unallayed trouble of her mind. Day by day, Gilbert's new figure
became more familiar, and she was conscious that her own manner towards
him must change with it The subject of his birth, however, and the new
difficulties with which it beset her, would not be thrust aside. For
years she had almost ceased to think of the possible release, of which
she had spoken; now it returned and filled her with a strange, restless
impatience.

Gilbert, also, had ample time to review his own position, during the
fortnight's absence. After passing the hills and emerging upon the long,
fertile swells of Lancaster, his experienced leaders but rarely needed
the guidance of his hand or voice. Often, sunk in revery, the familiar
landmarks of the journey went by unheeded; often he lay awake in the
crowded bedroom of a tavern, striving to clear a path for his feet a
little way into the future. Only men of the profoundest culture make a
deliberate study of their own natures, but those less gifted often act
with an equal or even superior wisdom, because their qualities operate
spontaneously, unwatched by an introverted eye. Such men may be
dimly conscious of certain inconsistencies, or unsolved puzzles, in
themselves, but instead of sitting down to unravel them, they seek the
easiest way to pass by and leave them untouched. For them the material
aspects of life are of the highest importance, and a true instinct shows
them that beyond the merest superficial acquaintance with their own
natures lie deep and disturbing questions, with which they are not
fitted to grapple.

There comes a time, however, to every young man, even the most
uncultivated, when he touches one of the primal, eternal forces of life,
and is conscious of other needs and another destiny. This time had come
to Gilbert Potter, forcing him to look upon the circumstances of his
life from a loftier point of view. He had struggled, passionately but at
random, for light,--but, fortunately, every earnest struggle is towards
the light, and it now began to dawn upon him.

He first became aware of one enigma, the consideration of which was
not so easy to lay aside. His mother had not been deceived: there was
a change in the man since that evening. Often and often, in gloomy
breedings over his supposed disgrace, he had fiercely asserted to
himself that _he_ was free from stain, and the unrespect in which he
stood was an injustice to be bravely defied. The brand which he wore,
and which he fancied was seen by every eye he met, existed in his own
fancy; his brow was as pure, his right to esteem and honor equal, to
that of any other man. But it was impossible to act upon this reasoning;
still when the test came he would shrink and feel the pain, instead of
trampling it under his feet.

Now that the brand _was_ removed, the strength which he had so
desperately craved, was suddenly his. So far as the world was concerned,
nothing was altered; no one knew of the revelation which his mother had
made to him; he was still the child of her shame, but this knowledge was
no longer a torture. Now he had a right to respect, not asserted only
to his own heart, but which every man would acknowledge, were it made
known. He was no longer a solitary individual, protesting against
prejudice and custom. Though still feeling that the protest was just,
and that his new courage implied some weakness, he could not conceal
from himself the knowledge that this very weakness was the practical
fountain of his strength. He was a secret and unknown unit of the great
majority.

There was another, more intimate subject which the new knowledge touched
very nearly; and here, also, hope dawned upon a sense akin to despair.
With all the force of his nature, Gilbert Potter loved Martha Deane.
He had known her since he was a boy at Fairthorn's; her face had always
been the brightest in his memory; but it was only since the purchase
of the farm that his matured manhood had fully recognized its answering
womanhood in her. He was slow to acknowledge the truth, even to his own
heart, and when it could no longer be denied, he locked it up and sealed
it with seven seals, determined never to betray it, to her or any one.
Then arose a wild hope, that respect might come with the independence
for which he was laboring, and perhaps he might dare to draw
nearer,--near enough to guess if there were any answer in her heart. It
was a frail support, but he clung to it as with his life, for there was
none other.

Now,--although his uncertainty was as great as ever,--his approach could
not humiliate her. His love brought no shadow of shame; it was proudly
white and clean. Ah! he had forgotten that she did not know,--that his
lips were sealed until his mother's should be opened to the world. The
curse was not to be shaken off so easily.

By the time he had twice traversed the long, weary road between Columbia
and Newport, Gilbert reached a desperate solution of this difficulty.
The end of his meditations was: “I will see if there be love in woman as
in man!--love that takes no note of birth or station, but, once having
found its mate, is faithful from first to last.” In love, an honest and
faithful heart touches the loftiest ideal. Gilbert knew that, were the
case reversed, no possible test could shake his steadfast affection,
and how else could he measure the quality of hers? He said to himself:
“Perhaps it is cruel, but I cannot spare her the trial.” He was prouder
than he knew,--but we must remember all that he endured.

It was a dry, windy March month, that year, and he made four good
trips before the first of April. Returning home from Newport, by way of
Wilmington, with seventy-five dollars clear profit in his pocket, his
prospects seemed very cheerful. Could he accomplish two more months of
hauling during the year, and the crops should be fair, the money
from these sources, and the sale of his wagon and one span, would be
something more than enough to discharge the remaining debt. He knew,
moreover, how the farm could be more advantageously worked, having used
his eyes to good purpose in passing through the rich, abundant fields of
Lancaster. The land once his own,--which, like his mother, he could not
yet feel,--his future, in a material sense, was assured.

Before reaching the Buck Tavern, he overtook a woman plodding slowly
along the road. Her rusty beaver hat, tied down over her ears, and her
faded gown, were in singular contrast to the shining new scarlet shawl
upon her shoulders. As she stopped and turned, at the sound of his
tinkling bells, she showed a hard red face, not devoid of a certain
coarse beauty, and he recognized Deb. Smith, a lawless, irregular
creature, well known about Kennett.

“Good-day, Deborah!” said he; “if you are going my way, I can give you a
lift.”

“He calls me 'Deborah,'” she muttered to herself; then aloud--“Ay, and
thank ye, Mr. Gilbert.”

Seizing the tail of the near horse with one hand, she sprang upon the
wagon-tongue, and the next moment sat upon the board at his side. Then,
rummaging in a deep pocket, she produced, one after the other, a short
black pipe, an eel-skin tobacco-pouch, flint, tinder, and a clumsy
knife. With a dexterity which could only have come from long habit,
she prepared and kindled the weed, and was presently puffing forth rank
streams, with an air of the deepest satisfaction.

“Which way?” asked Gilbert.

“Your'n, as far as you go,--always providin' you takes me.”

“Of course, Deborah, you're welcome. I have no load, you see.”

“Mighty clever in you, Mr. Gilbert; but you always was one o' the clever
ones. Them as thinks themselves better born”--

“Come, Deborah, none of that!” he exclaimed.

“Ax your pardon,” she said, and smoked her pipe in silence. When she had
finished and knocked the ashes out against the front panel of the wagon,
she spoke again, in a hard, bitter voice,--

“'Tisn't much difference what _I_ am. I was raised on hard knocks, and
now I must git my livin' by 'em. But I axes no'un's help, I'm _that_
proud, anyways. I go my own road, and a straighter one, too, damme, than
I git credit for, but I let other people go their'n. You might have wuss
company than me, though _I_ say it.”

These words hinted at an inward experience in some respects so
surprisingly like his own, that Gilbert was startled. He knew the
reputation of the woman, though he would have found it difficult to
tell whereupon it was based. Everybody said she was bad, and nobody
knew particularly why. She lived alone, in a log-cabin in the woods; did
washing and house-cleaning; worked in the harvest-fields; smoked, and
took her gill of whiskey with the best of them,--but other vices, though
inferred, were not proven. Involuntarily, he contrasted her position,
in this respect, with his own. The world, he had recently learned, was
wrong in his case; might it not also be doing her injustice? Her
pride, in its coarse way, was his also, and his life, perhaps, had only
unfolded into honorable success through a mother's ever-watchful care
and never-wearied toil.

“Deborah,” he said, after a pause, “no man or woman who makes an honest
living by hard work, is bad company for me. I am trying to do the same
thing that you are,--to be independent of others. It's not an easy thing
for anybody, starting from nothing, but I can guess that it must be much
harder for you than for me.”

“Yes, you're a man!” she cried. “Would to God I'd been one, too! A man
can do everything that I do, and it's all right and proper. Why did the
Lord give me strength? Look at that!” She bared her right arm--hard,
knitted muscle from wrist to shoulder--and clenched her fist. “What's
that for?--not for a woman, I say; I could take two of 'em by the necks
and pitch 'em over yon fence. I've felled an Irishman like an ox when he
called me names. The anger's in me, and the boldness and the roughness,
and the cursin'; I didn't put 'em there, and I can't git 'em out now,
if I tried ever so much. Why did they snatch the sewin' from me when
I wanted to learn women's work, and send me out to yoke th' oxen? I do
believe I was a gal onc't, a six-month or so, but it's over long ago.
I've been a man ever since!”

She took a bottle out of her pocket, and offered it to Gilbert. When he
refused, she simply said: “You're right!” set it to her mouth, and drank
long and deeply. There was a wild, painful gleam of truth in her words,
which touched his sympathy. How should he dare to judge this unfortunate
creature, not knowing what perverse freak of nature, and untoward
circumstances of life had combined to make her what she was? His manner
towards her was kind and serious, and by degrees this covert respect
awoke in her a desire to deserve it. She spoke calmly and soberly,
exhibiting a wonderful knowledge as they rode onwards, not only of
farming, but of animals, trees, and plants.

The team, knowing that home and rest were near, marched cheerily up and
down the hills along the border, and before sunset, emerging from the
woods, they overlooked the little valley, the mill, and the nestling
farmhouse. An Indian war-whoop rang across the meadow, and Gilbert
recognized Sam's welcome therein.

“Now, Deborah,” said he, “you shall stop and have some supper, before
you go any farther.”

“I'm obliged, all the same,” said she, “but I must push on. I've to go
beyond the Square, and couldn't wait. But tell your mother if she wants
a man's arm in house-cleanin' time to let me know. And, Mr. Gilbert, let
me say one thing: give me your hand.”

The horses had stopped to drink at the creek. He gave her his right
hand.

She held it in hers a moment, gazing intently on the palm. Then she bent
her head and blew upon it gently, three times.

“Never mind: it's my fancy,” she said. “You're born for trial and
good-luck, but the trials come first, all of a heap, and the good luck
afterwards. You've got a friend in Deb. Smith, if you ever need one.
Good-bye to ye!”

With these words she sprang from the wagon, and trudged off silently up
the hill. The horses turned of themselves into the lane leading to the
barn, and Gilbert assisted Sam in unharnessing and feeding them before
entering the house. By the time he was ready to greet his mother,
and enjoy, without further care, his first evening at home, he knew
everything that had occurred on the farm during his absence.




CHAPTER VII.

OLD KENNETT MEETING.


On the Sunday succeeding his return, Gilbert Potter proposed to his
mother that they should attend the Friends' Meeting at Old Kennett.

The Quaker element, we have already stated, largely predominated in this
part of the county; and even the many families who were not
actually members of the sect were strongly colored with its peculiar
characteristics. Though not generally using “the plain speech” among
themselves, they invariably did so towards Quakers, varied but little
from the latter in dress and habits, and, with very few exceptions,
regularly attended their worship. In fact, no other religious attendance
was possible, without a Sabbath journey too long for the well-used
farm-horses. To this class belonged Gilbert and his mother, the
Fairthorns, and even the Bartons. Farmer Fairthorn had a birthright, it
is true, until his marriage, which having been a stolen match, and
not performed according to “Friends' ceremony,” occasioned his
excommunication. He might have been restored to the rights of membership
by admitting his sorrow for the offence, but this he stoutly refused to
do. The predicament was not an unusual one in the neighborhood; but
a few, among whom was Dr. Deane, Martha's father, submitted to the
required humiliation. As this did not take place, however, until after
her birth, Martha was still without the pale, and preferred to remain
so, for two reasons: first, that a scoop bonnet was monstrous on a young
woman's head; and second, that she was passionately fond of music, and
saw no harm in a dance. This determination of hers was, as her father
expressed himself, a “great cross” to him; but she had a habit of
paralyzing his argument by turning against him the testimony of the
Friends in regard to forms and ceremonies, and their reliance on the
guidance of the Spirit.

Herein Martha was strictly logical, and though she, and others who
belonged to the same class, were sometimes characterized, by a zealous
Quaker, in moments of bitterness, as being “the world's people,” they
were generally regarded, not only with tolerance, but in a spirit of
fraternity. The high seats in the gallery were not for them, but they
were free to any other part of the meeting-house during life, and to
a grave in the grassy and briery enclosure adjoining, when dead. The
necessity of belonging to some organized church was recognized but
faintly, if at all; provided their lives were honorable, they were
considered very fair Christians.

Mary Potter but rarely attended meeting, not from any lack of the need
of worship, but because she shrank with painful timidity from appearing
in the presence of the assembled neighborhood. She was, nevertheless,
grateful for Gilbert's success, and her heart inclined to thanksgiving;
besides, he desired that they should go, and she was not able to offer
any valid objection. So, after breakfast, the two best horses of the
team were very carefully groomed, saddled, and--Sam having been sent off
on a visit to his father, with the house-key in his pocket--the mother
and son took the road up the creek.

Both were plainly, yet very respectably, dressed, in garments of the
same home-made cloth, of a deep, dark brown color, but Mary Potter wore
under her cloak the new crape shawl which Gilbert had brought to her
from Wilmington, and his shirt of fine linen displayed a modest ruffle
in front. The resemblance in their faces was even more strongly marked,
in the common expression of calm, grave repose, which sprang from the
nature of their journey. A stranger meeting them that morning, would
have seen that they were persons of unusual force of character, and
bound to each other by an unusual tie.

Up the lovely valley, or rather glen, watered by the eastern branch of
Redley Creek, they rode to the main highway. It was an early spring,
and the low-lying fields were already green with the young grass; the
weeping-willows in front of the farm-houses seemed to spout up and
fall like broad enormous geysers as the wind swayed them, and daffodils
bloomed in all the warmer gardens. The dark foliage of the cedars
skirting the road counteracted that indefinable gloom which the
landscapes of early spring, in their grayness and incompleteness, so
often inspire, and mocked the ripened summer in the close shadows which
they threw. It was a pleasant ride, especially after mother and son had
reached the main road, and other horsemen and horsewomen issued from the
gates of farms on either side, taking their way to the meeting-house.
Only two or three families could boast vehicles,--heavy, cumbrous
“chairs,” as they were called, with a convex canopy resting on four
stout pillars, and the bulging body swinging from side to side on huge
springs of wood and leather. No healthy man or woman, however, unless he
or she were very old, travelled otherwise than on horseback.

Now and then exchanging grave but kindly nods with their acquaintances,
they rode slowly along the level upland, past the Anvil Tavern,
through Logtown,--a cluster of primitive cabins at the junction of the
Wilmington Road,--and reached the meeting-house in good season. Gilbert
assisted his mother to alight at the stone platform built for that
purpose near the women's end of the building, and then fastened the
horses in the long, open shed in the rear. Then, as was the custom,
he entered by the men's door, and quietly took a seat in the silent
assembly.

The stiff, unpainted benches were filled with the congregation, young
and old, wearing their hats, and with a stolid, drowsy look upon their
faces. Over a high wooden partition the old women in the gallery,
but not the young women on the floor of the house, could be seen. Two
stoves, with interminable lengths of pipe, suspended by wires from
the ceiling, created a stifling temperature. Every slight sound
or motion,--the moving of a foot, the drawing forth of a
pocket-handkerchief, the lifting or lowering of a head,--seemed to
disturb the quiet as with a shock, and drew many of the younger eyes
upon it; while in front, like the guardian statues of an Egyptian
temple, sat the older members, with their hands upon their knees or
clasped across their laps. Their faces were grave and severe.

After nearly an hour of this suspended animation, an old Friend rose,
removed his broad-brimmed hat, and placing his hands upon the rail
before him, began slowly swaying to and fro, while he spoke. As he rose
into the chant peculiar to the sect, intoning alike his quotations from
the Psalms and his utterances of plain, practical advice, an expression
of quiet but almost luxurious satisfaction stole over the faces of his
aged brethren. With half-closed eyes and motionless bodies, they drank
in the sound like a rich draught, with a sense of exquisite refreshment.
A close connection of ideas, a logical derivation of argument from text,
would have aroused their suspicions that the speaker depended rather
upon his own active, conscious intellect, than upon the moving of the
Spirit; but this aimless wandering of a half-awake soul through the
cadences of a language which was neither song nor speech, was, to their
minds, the evidence of genuine inspiration.

When the old man sat down, a woman arose and chanted forth the
suggestions which had come to her in the silence, in a voice of
wonderful sweetness and strength. Here Music seemed to revenge herself
for the slight done to her by the sect. The ears of the hearers were so
charmed by the purity of tone, and the delicate, rhythmical cadences of
the sentences, that much of the wise lessons repeated from week to week
failed to reach their consciousness.

After another interval of silence, the two oldest men reached their
hands to each other,--a sign which the younger members had anxiously
awaited. The spell snapped in an instant; all arose and moved into the
open air, where all things at first appeared to wear the same aspect of
solemnity. The poplar-trees, the stone wall, the bushes in the corners
of the fence, looked grave and respectful for a few minutes. Neighbors
said, “How does thee do?” to each other, in subdued voices, and there
was a conscientious shaking of hands all around before they dared to
indulge in much conversation.

Gradually, however, all returned to the out-door world and its
interests. The fences became so many posts and rails once more,
the bushes so many elders and blackberries to be cut away, and the
half-green fields so much sod for corn-ground. Opinions in regard to the
weather and the progress of spring labor were freely interchanged, and
the few unimportant items of social news, which had collected in
seven days, were gravely distributed. This was at the men's end of the
meeting-house; on their side, the women were similarly occupied, but
we can only conjecture the subjects of their conversation. The young
men--as is generally the case in religious sects of a rigid and clannish
character--were by no means handsome. Their faces all bore the stamp
of _repression_, in some form or other, and as they talked their eyes
wandered with an expression of melancholy longing and timidity towards
the sweet, maidenly faces, whose bloom, and pure, gentle beauty not even
their hideous bonnets could obscure.

One by one the elder men came up to the stone platform with the stable
old horses which their wives were to ride home; the huge chair, in which
sat a privileged couple, creaked and swayed from side to side, as it
rolled with ponderous dignity from the yard; and now, while the girls
were waiting their turn, the grave young men plucked up courage,
wandered nearer, greeted, exchanged words, and so were helped into an
atmosphere of youth.

Gilbert, approaching with them, was first recognized by his old friend,
Sally Fairthorn, whose voice of salutation was so loud and cheery, as
to cause two or three sedate old “women-friends” to turn their heads
in grave astonishment. Mother Fairthorn, with her bright, round face,
followed, and then--serene and strong in her gentle, symmetrical
loveliness--Martha Deane. Gilbert's hand throbbed, as he held hers a
moment, gazing into the sweet blue of her eyes; yet, passionately as he
felt that he loved her in that moment, perfect as was the delight of her
presence, a better joy came to his heart when she turned away to speak
with his mother. Mark Deane--a young giant with curly yellow locks, and
a broad, laughing mouth--had just placed a hand upon his shoulder, and
he could not watch the bearing of the two women to each other; but all
his soul listened to their voices, and he heard in Martha Deane's the
kindly courtesy and respect which he did not see.

Mother Fairthorn and Sally so cordially insisted that Mary Potter
and her son should ride home with them to dinner, that no denial was
possible. When the horses were brought up to the block the yard was
nearly empty, and the returning procession was already winding up the
hill towards Logtown.

“Come, Mary,” said Mother Fairthorn, “you and I will ride together, and
you shall tell me all about your ducks and turkeys. The young folks can
get along without us, I guess.”

Martha Deane had ridden to meeting in company with her cousin Mark and
Sally, but the order of the homeward ride was fated to be different. Joe
and Jake, bestriding a single horse, like two of the Haymon's-children,
were growing inpatient, so they took the responsibility of dashing up to
Mark and Sally, who were waiting in the road, and announcing,--

“Cousin Martha says we're to go on; she'll ride with Gilbert.”

Both well knew the pranks of the boys, but perhaps they found the
message well-invented if not true; for they obeyed with secret alacrity,
although Sally made a becoming show of reluctance. Before they reached
the bottom of the hollow, Joe and Jake, seeing two school-mates in
advance, similarly mounted, dashed off in a canter, to overtake them,
and the two were left alone.

Gilbert and Martha naturally followed, since not more than two could
conveniently ride abreast. But their movements were so quiet and
deliberate, and the accident which threw them together was accepted so
simply and calmly that no one could guess what warmth of longing, of
reverential tenderness, beat in every muffled throb of one of the two
hearts.

Martha was an admirable horsewoman, and her slender, pliant figure never
showed to greater advantage than in the saddle. Her broad beaver hat was
tied down over the ears, throwing a cool gray shadow across her clear,
joyous eyes and fresh cheeks. A pleasanter face never touched a young
man's fancy, and every time it turned towards Gilbert it brightened
away the distress of love. He caught, unconsciously, the serenity of her
mood, and foretasted the peace which her being would bring to him if it
were ever intrusted to his hands.

“Did you do well by your hauling, Gilbert,” she asked, “and are you now
home for the summer?”

“Until after corn-planting,” he answered. “Then I must take two or three
weeks, as the season turns out. I am not able to give up my team yet.”

“But you soon will be, I hope. It must be very lonely for your mother to
be on the farm without you.”

These words touched him gratefully, and led him to a candid openness
of speech which he would not otherwise have ventured,--not from any
inherent lack of candor, but from a reluctance to speak of himself.

“That's it, Martha,” he said. “It is her work that I have the farm at
all, and I only go away the oftener now, that I may the sooner stay with
her altogether. The thought of her makes each trip lonelier than the
last.”

“I like to hear you say that, Gilbert. And it must be a comfort to you,
withal, to know that you are working as much for your mother's sake as
your own. I think I should feel so, at least, in your place. I feel my
own mother's loss more now than when she died, for I was then so young
that I can only just remember her face.”

“But you have a father!” he exclaimed, and the words were scarcely out
of his mouth before he became aware of their significance, uttered by
his lips. He had not meant so much,--only that she, like him, still
enjoyed one parent's care. The blood came into his face; she saw and
understood the sign, and broke a silence which would soon have become
painful.

“Yes,” she said, “and I am very grateful that he is spared; but we seem
to belong most to our mothers.”

“That is the truth,” he said firmly, lifting his head with the impulse
of his recovered pride, and meeting her eyes without flinching. “I
belong altogether to mine. She has made me a man and set me upon my
feet. From this time forward, my place is to stand between her and the
world!”

Martha Deane's blood throbbed an answer to this assertion of himself.
A sympathetic pride beamed in her eyes; she slightly bent her head, in
answer, without speaking, and Gilbert felt that he was understood and
valued. He had drawn a step nearer to the trial which he had resolved to
make, and would now venture no further.

There was a glimmering spark of courage in his heart. He was surprised,
in recalling the conversation afterwards, to find how much of his plans
he had communicated to her during the ride, encouraged by the kindly
interest she manifested, and the sensible comments she uttered. Joe and
Jake, losing their mates at a cross-road, and finding Sally and Mark
Deane not very lively company for them, rode back and disturbed these
confidences, but not until they had drawn the two into a relation of
acknowledged mutual interest.

Martha Deane had always, as she confessed to Sally, _liked_ Gilbert
Potter; she liked every young man of character and energy; but now she
began to suspect that there was a rarer worth in his nature than she had
guessed. From that day he was more frequently the guest of her thoughts
than ever before. Instinct, in him, had performed the same service which
men of greater experience of the world would have reached through keen
perception and careful tact,--in confiding to her his position, his
labors and hopes, material as was the theme and seemingly unsuited to
the occasion, he had in reality appreciated the serious, reflective
nature underlying her girlish grace and gayety. What other young man of
her acquaintance, she asked herself, would have done the same thing?

When they reached Kennett Square, Mother Fairthorn urged Martha to
accompany them, and Sally impetuously seconded the invitation. Dr.
Deane's horse was at his door, however, and his daughter, with her eyes
on Gilbert, as if saying “for my father's sake,” steadfastly declined.
Mark, however, took her place, but there never had been, or could be,
too many guests at the Fairthorn table.

When they reached the garden-wall, Sally sprang from her horse with such
haste that her skirt caught on the pommel and left her hanging, being
made of stuff too stout to tear. It was well that Gilbert was near, on
the same side, and disengaged her in an instant; but her troubles did
not end here. As she bustled in and out of the kitchen, preparing the
dinner-table in the long sitting-room, the hooks and door-handles seemed
to have an unaccountable habit of thrusting themselves in her way, and
she was ready to cry at each glance of Mark's laughing eyes. She
had never heard the German proverb, “who loves, teases,” and was too
inexperienced, as yet, to have discovered the fact for herself.

Presently they all sat down to dinner, and after the first solemn
quiet,--no one venturing to eat or speak until the plates of all had
been heaped with a little of everything upon the table,--the meal became
very genial and pleasant. A huge brown pitcher of stinging cider added
its mild stimulus to the calm country blood, and under its mellowing
influence Mark announced the most important fact of his life,--he was to
have the building of Hallowell's barn.

As Gilbert and his mother rode homewards, that afternoon, neither spoke
much, but both felt, in some indefinite way, better prepared for the
life that lay before them.




CHAPTER VIII.

AT DR. DEANE'S.


As she dismounted on the large flat stone outside the paling, Martha
Deane saw her father's face at the window. It was sterner and graver
than usual.

The Deane mansion stood opposite the Unicorn Tavern. When built, ninety
years previous, it had been considered a triumph of architecture; the
material was squared logs from the forest, dovetailed, and overlapping
at the corners, which had the effect of rustic quoins, as contrasted
with the front, which was plastered and yellow-washed. A small portico,
covered with a tangled mass of eglantine and coral honeysuckle, with a
bench at each end, led to the door; and the ten feet of space between
it and the front paling were devoted to flowers and rose-bushes. At each
corner of the front rose an old, picturesque, straggling cedar-tree.

There were two front doors, side by side,--one for the family
sitting-room, the other (rarely opened, except when guests arrived) for
the parlor. Martha Deane entered the former, and we will enter with her.

The room was nearly square, and lighted by two windows. On those sides
the logs were roughly plastered; on the others there were partitions of
panelled oak, nearly black with age and smoke, as were the heavy beams
of the same wood which formed the ceiling. In the corner of the room
next the kitchen there was an open Franklin stove,--an innovation at
that time,--upon which two or three hickory sticks were smouldering into
snowy ashes. The floor was covered with a country-made rag carpet,
in which an occasional strip of red or blue listing brightened the
prevailing walnut color of the woof. The furniture was simple and
massive, its only unusual feature being a tall cabinet with shelves
filled with glass jars, and an infinity of small drawers. A few bulky
volumes on the lower shelf constituted the medical library of Dr. Deane.

This gentleman was still standing at the window, with his hands clasped
across his back. His Quaker suit was of the finest drab broadcloth,
and the plain cravat visible above his high, straight waistcoat, was
of spotless cambric. His knee-and shoe-buckles were of the simplest
pattern, but of good, solid silver, and there was not a wrinkle in the
stockings of softest lamb's-wool, which covered his massive calves.
There was always a faint odor of lavender, bergamot, or sweet marjoram
about him, and it was a common remark in the neighborhood that the sight
and smell of the Doctor helped a weak patient almost as much as his
medicines.

In his face there was a curious general resemblance to his daughter,
though the detached features were very differently formed. Large,
unsymmetrical, and somewhat coarse,--even for a man,--they derived much
of their effect from his scrupulous attire and studied air of wisdom.
His long gray hair was combed back, that no portion of the moderate
frontal brain might be covered; the eyes were gray rather than blue, and
a habit of concealment had marked its lines in the corners, unlike the
open, perfect frankness of his daughter's. The principal resemblance was
in the firm, clear outline of the upper lip, which alone, in his face,
had it been supported by the under one, would have made him almost
handsome; but the latter was large and slightly hanging. There were
marked inconsistencies in his face, but this was no disadvantage in a
community unaccustomed to studying the external marks of character.

“Just home, father? How did thee leave Dinah Passmore?” asked Martha, as
she untied the strings of her beaver.

“Better,” he answered, turning from the window; “but, Martha, who did I
see thee riding with?”

“Does thee mean Gilbert Potter?”

“I do,” he said, and paused. Martha, with her cloak over her arm and
bonnet in her hand, in act to leave the room, waited, saying,--

“Well, father?”

So frank and serene was her bearing, that the old man felt both relieved
and softened.

“I suppose it happened so,” he said. “I saw his mother with Friend
Fairthorn. I only meant thee shouldn't be seen in company with young
Potter, when thee could help it; thee knows what I mean.”

“I don't think, father,” she slowly answered, “there is anything
against Gilbert Potter's life or character, except that which is no just
reproach to _him_.”

“'The sins of the parents shall be visited upon the children, even to
the third and fourth generation.' That is enough, Martha.”

She went up to her room, meditating, with an earnestness almost equal
to Gilbert's, upon this form of the world's injustice, which he was
powerless to overcome. Her father shared it, and the fact did not
surprise her; but her independent spirit had already ceased to be
guided, in all things, by his views. She felt that the young man
deserved the respect and admiration which he had inspired in her mind,
and until a better reason could be discovered, she would continue so to
regard him. The decision was reached rapidly, and then laid aside for
any future necessity; she went down-stairs again in her usual quiet,
cheerful mood.

During her absence another conversation had taken place.

Miss Betsy Lavender (who was a fast friend of Martha, and generally
spent her Sundays at the Doctor's,) was sitting before the stove, drying
her feet. She was silent until Martha left the room, when she suddenly
exclaimed:

“Doctor! Judge not that ye be not judged.”

“Thee may think as thee pleases, Betsy,” said he, rather sharply: “it's
thy nature, I believe, to take everybody's part.”

“Put yourself in his place,” she continued,--“remember them that's in
bonds as bound with 'em,--I disremember exackly how it goes, but no
matter: I say your way a'n't right, and I'd say it seven times, if need
be! There's no steadier nor better-doin' young fellow in these parts
than Gilbert Potter. Ferris, down in Pennsbury, or Alf Barton, here, for
that matter, a'n't to be put within a mile of him. I could say something
in Mary Potter's behalf, too, but I won't: for there's Scribes and
Pharisees about.”

Dr. Deane did not notice this thrust: it was not his habit to get angry.
“Put _thyself_ in _my_ place, Betsy,” he said. “He's a worthy young man,
in some respects, I grant thee, but would thee like _thy_ daughter to
be seen riding home beside him from Meeting? It's one thing speaking for
thyself, and another for thy daughter.”

“Thy daughter!” she repeated. “Old or young can't make any difference,
as I see.”

There was something else on her tongue, but she forcibly withheld the
words. She would not exhaust her ammunition until there was both a
chance and a necessity to do some execution. The next moment Martha
reentered the room.

After dinner, they formed a quiet group in the front sitting-room. Dr.
Deane, having no more visits to make that day, took a pipe of choice
tobacco,--the present of a Virginia Friend, whose acquaintance he had
made at Yearly Meeting,--and seated himself in the arm-chair beside the
stove. Martha, at the west window, enjoyed a volume of Hannah More, and
Miss Betsy, at the front window, labored over the Psalms. The sun shone
with dim, muffled orb, but the air without was mild, and there were
already brown tufts, which would soon be blossoms, on the lilac twigs.

Suddenly Miss Betsy lifted up her head and exclaimed, “Well, I never!”
 As she did so, there was a knock at the door.

“Come in!” said Dr. Deane, and in came Mr. Alfred Barton, resplendent
in blue coat, buff waistcoat, cambric ruffles, and silver-gilt buckles.
But, alas! the bunch of seals--topaz, agate, and cornelian--no longer
buoyed the deep-anchored watch. The money due his father had been
promptly paid, through the agency of a three-months' promissory note,
and thus the most momentous result of the robbery was overcome. This
security for the future, however, scarcely consoled him for the painful
privation of the present. Without the watch, Alfred Barton felt that
much of his dignity and importance was lacking.

Dr. Deane greeted his visitor with respect, Martha with the courtesy due
to a guest, and Miss Betsy with the offhand, independent manner, under
which she masked her private opinions of the persons whom she met.

“Mark isn't at home, I see,” said Mr. Barton, after having taken his
seat in the centre of the room: “I thought I'd have a little talk with
him about the wagon-house. I suppose he told you that I got Hallowell's
new barn for him?”

“Yes, and we're all greatly obliged to thee, as well as Mark,” said the
Doctor. “The two jobs make a fine start for a young mechanic, and I hope
he'll do as well as he's been done by: there's luck in a good beginning.
By the bye, has thee heard anything more of Sandy Flash's doings?”

Mr. Barton fairly started at this question. His own misfortune had been
carefully kept secret, and he could not suspect that the Doctor knew it;
but he nervously dreaded the sound of the terrible name.

“What is it?” he asked, in a faint voice.

“He has turned up in Bradford, this time, and they say has robbed Jesse
Frame, the Collector, of between four and five hundred dollars. The
Sheriff and a posse of men from the Valley hunted him for several days,
but found no signs. Some think he has gone up into the Welch Mountain;
but for my part, I should not be surprised if he were in this
neighborhood.”

“Good heavens!” exclaimed Mr. Barton, starting from his chair.

“Now's your chance,” said Miss Betsy. “Git the young men together who
won't feel afraid o' bein' twenty ag'in one: you know the holes and
corners where he'll be likely to hide, and what's to hinder you from
ketchin' him?”

“But he must have many secret friends,” said Martha, “if what I have
heard is true,--that he has often helped a poor man with the money which
he takes only from the rich. You know he still calls himself a Tory, and
many of those whose estates have been confiscated, would not scruple to
harbor him, or even take his money.”

“Take his money. That's a fact,” remarked Miss Betsy, “and now I
dunno whether I want him ketched. There's worse men goin' round, as
respectable as you please, stealin' all their born days, only cunnin'ly
jukin' round the law instead o' buttin' square through it. Why, old Liz
Williams, o' Birmingham, herself told me with her own mouth, how she was
ridin' home from Phildelphy market last winter, with six dollars, the
price of her turkeys--and General Washin'ton's cook took one of 'em, but
that's neither here nor there--in her pocket, and fearful as death when
she come to Concord woods, and lo and behold! there she was overtook by
a fresh-complected man, and she begged him to ride with her, for she had
six dollars in her pocket and Sandy was known to be about. So he rode
with her to her very lane-end, as kind and civil a person as she ever
see, and then and there he said, 'Don't be afeard, Madam, for I, which
have seen you home, is Sandy Flash himself, and here's somethin' more
to remember me by,'--no sooner said than done, he put a gold guinea into
her hand, and left her there as petrified as Lot's wife. Now _I_ say,
and it may be violation of the law, for all I know, but never mind,
that Sandy Flash has got one corner of his heart in the right place, no
matter where the others is. There's honor even among thieves, they say.”

“Seriously, Alfred,” said Dr. Deane, cutting Miss Betsy short before she
had half expressed her sentiments, “it is time that something was done.
If Flash is not caught soon, we shall be overrun with thieves, and there
will be no security anywhere on the high roads, or in our houses. I
wish that men of influence in the neighborhood, like thyself, would come
together and plan, at least, to keep Kennett clear of him. Then other
townships may do the same, and so the thing be stopped. If I were
younger, and my practice were not so laborious, I would move in the
matter, but thee is altogether a more suitable person.”

“Do you think so?” Barton replied, with an irrepressible reluctance,
around which he strove to throw an air of modesty. “That would be the
proper way, certainly, but I,--I don't know,--that is, I can't flatter
myself that I'm the best man to undertake it.”

“It requires some courage, you know,” Martha remarked, and her glance
made him feel very uncomfortable, “and you are too dashing a
fox-hunter not to have that. Perhaps the stranger who rode with you to
Avondale--what was his name?--might be of service. If I were in your
place, I should be glad of a chance to incur danger for the good of the
neighborhood.”

Mr. Alfred Barton was on nettles. If there were irony in her words his
intellect was too muddy to detect it: her assumption of his courage
could only be accepted as a compliment, but it was the last compliment
he desired to have paid to himself, just at that time.

“Yes,” he said, with a forced laugh, rushing desperately into the
opposite extreme, “but the danger and the courage are not worth talking
about. Any man ought to be able to face a robber, single-handed, and as
for twenty men, why, when it's once known, Sandy Flash will only be too
glad to keep away.”

“Then, do thee do what I've recommended. It may be, as thee says, that
the being prepared is all that is necessary,” remarked Dr. Deane.

Thus caught, Mr. Barton could do no less than acquiesce, and very much
to his secret dissatisfaction, the Doctor proceeded to name the young
men of the neighborhood, promising to summon such as lived on the lines
of his professional journeys, that they might confer with the leader of
the undertaking. Martha seconded the plan with an evident interest,
yet it did not escape her that neither her father nor Mr. Barton had
mentioned the name of Gilbert Potter.

“Is that all?” she asked, when a list of some eighteen persons had been
suggested. Involuntarily, she looked at Miss Betsy Lavender.

“No, indeed!” cried the latter. “There's Jabez Travilla, up on the
ridge, and Gilbert Potter, down at the mill.”

“H'm, yes; what does thee say, Alfred?” asked the Doctor.

“They're both good riders, and I think they have courage enough, but we
can never tell what a man is until he's been tried. They would increase
the number, and that, it seems to me, is a consideration.”

“Perhaps thee had better exercise thy own judgment there,” the Doctor
observed, and the subject, having been as fully discussed as was
possible without consultation with other persons, it was dropped,
greatly to Barton's relief.

But in endeavoring to converse with Martha he only exchanged one
difficulty for another. His vanity, powerful as it was, gave way before
that instinct which is the curse and torment of vulgar natures,--which
leaps into life at every contact of refinement, showing them the gulf
between, which they know not how to cross. The impudence, the aggressive
rudeness which such natures often exhibit, is either a mask to conceal
their deficiency, or an angry protest against it. Where there is a
drop of gentleness in the blood, it appreciates and imitates the higher
nature.

This was the feeling which made Alfred Barton uncomfortable in the
presence of Martha Deane,--which told him, in advance, that natures so
widely sundered, never could come into near relations with each other,
and thus quite neutralized the attraction of her beauty and her ten
thousand dollars. His game, however, was to pay court to her, and in
so pointed a way that it should be remarked and talked about in the
neighborhood. Let it once come through others to the old man's ears,
he would have proved his obedience and could not be reproached if the
result were fruitless.

“What are you reading, Miss Martha?” he asked, after a long and somewhat
awkward pause.

She handed him the book in reply.

“Ah! Hannah More,--a friend of yours? Is she one of the West-Whiteland
Moores?”

Martha could not suppress a light, amused laugh, as she answered: “Oh,
no, she is an English woman.”

“Then it's a Tory book,” said he, handing it back; “I wouldn't read it,
if I was you.”

“It is a story, and I should think you might.”

He heard other words than those she spoke. “As Tory as--what?” he asked
himself. “As I am,” of course; that is what she means. “Old-man Barton”
 had been one of the disloyal purveyors for the British army during its
occupancy of Philadelphia in the winter of 1777-8, and though the main
facts of the traffic wherefrom he had drawn immense profits, never could
be proved against him, the general belief hung over the family, and made
a very disagreeable cloud. Whenever Alfred Barton quarrelled with any
one, the taunt was sure to be flung into his teeth. That it came now,
as he imagined, was as great a shock as if Martha had slapped him in the
face with her own delicate hand, and his visage reddened from the blow.

Miss Betsy Lavender, bending laboriously over the Psalms, nevertheless
kept her dull gray eyes in movement. She saw the misconception, and
fearing that Martha did not, made haste to remark:--

“Well, Mr. Alfred, and do _you_ think it's a harm to read a story? Why,
Miss Ann herself lent me 'Alonzo and Melissa,' and 'Midnight Horrors,'
and I'll be bound you've read 'em yourself on the sly. 'T a'n't much
other readin' men does, save and except the weekly paper, and law enough
to git a tight hold on their debtors. Come, now, let's know what you
_do_ read?”

“Not much of anything, that's a fact,” he answered, recovering himself,
with a shudder at the fearful mistake he had been on the point of
making, “but I've nothing against women reading stories. I was rather
thinking of myself when I spoke to you, Miss Martha.”

“So I supposed,” she quietly answered. It was provoking. Everything
she said made him think there was another meaning behind the words;
her composed manner, though he knew it to be habitual, more and more
disconcerted him. Never did an intentional wooer find his wooing so
painful and laborious. After this attempt he addressed himself to Doctor
Deane, for even the question of circumventing Sandy Flash now presented
itself to his mind as a relief.

There he sat, and the conversation progressed in jerks and spirts,
between pauses of embarrassing silence. The sun hung on the western
hill in a web of clouds; Martha and Miss Betsy rose and prepared the
tea-table, and the guest, invited perforce, perforce accepted. Soon
after the meal was over, however, he murmured something about cattle,
took his hat and left.

Two or three horses were hitched before the Unicorn, and he saw some
figures through the bar-room window. A bright thought struck him; he
crossed the road and entered.

“Hallo, Alf! Where from now? Why, you're as fine as a fiddler!” cried
Mr. Joel Ferris, who was fast becoming familiar, on the strength of his
inheritance.

“Over the way,” answered the landlord, with a wink and a jerk of his
thumb.

Mr. Ferris whistled, and one of the others suggested: “He must stand a
treat, on that.”

“But, I say!” said the former, “how is it you're coming away so soon in
the evening?”

“I went very early in the afternoon,” Barton answered, with a
mysterious, meaning smile, as much as to say: “It's all right; I know
what I'm about.” Then he added aloud,--“Step up, fellows; what'll you
have?”

Many were the jests and questions to which he was forced to submit, but
he knew the value of silence in creating an impression, and allowed them
to enjoy their own inferences.

It is much easier to start a report, than to counteract it, when once
started; but the first, only, was his business.

It was late in the evening when he returned home, and the household
were in bed. Nevertheless, he did not enter by the back way, in
his stockings, but called Giles down from the garret to unlock the
front-door, and made as much noise as he pleased on his way to bed.

The old man heard it, and chuckled under his coverlet.




CHAPTER IX.

THE RAISING.


Steadily and serenely the Spring advanced. Old people shook their heads
and said: “It will be April, this year, that comes in like a lamb
and goes out like a lion,”--but it was not so. Soft, warm showers and
frostless nights repaid the trustfulness of the early-expanding buds,
and May came clothed completely in pale green, with a wreath of lilac
and hawthorn bloom on her brow. For twenty years no such perfect spring
had been known; and for twenty years afterwards the farmers looked back
to it as a standard of excellence, whereby to measure the forwardness of
their crops.

By the twentieth of April the young white-oak leaves were the size of
a squirrel's ear,--the old Indian sign of the proper time for
corn-planting, which was still accepted by the new race, and the first
of May saw many fields already specked with the green points of the
springing blades. A warm, silvery vapor hung over the land, mellowing
the brief vistas of the interlacing valleys, touching with a sweeter
pastoral beauty the irregular alternation of field and forest, and
lifting the wooded slopes, far and near, to a statelier and more
imposing height. The park-like region of Kennett, settled originally by
emigrants from Bucks and Warwickshire, reproduced to their eyes--as it
does to this day--the characteristics of their original home, and
they transplanted the local names to which they were accustomed, and
preserved, even long after the War of Independence, the habits of their
rural ancestry. The massive stone farm-houses, the walled gardens,
the bountiful orchards, and, more than all, the well-trimmed hedges of
hawthorn and blackthorn dividing their fields, or bordering their roads
with the living wall, over which the clematis and wild-ivy love to
clamber, made the region beautiful to their eyes. Although the large
original grants, mostly given by the hand of William Penn, had been
divided and subdivided by three or four prolific generations, there was
still enough and to spare,--and even the golden promise held out by “the
Backwoods,” as the new States of Ohio and Kentucky were then called,
tempted very few to leave their homes.

The people, therefore, loved the soil and clung to it with a fidelity
very rare in any part of our restless nation. And, truly, no one who had
lived through the mild splendor of that spring, seeing, day by day,
the visible deepening of the soft woodland tints, hearing the cheerful
sounds of labor, far and wide, in the vapory air, and feeling at once
the repose and the beauty of such a quiet, pastoral life, could have
turned his back upon it, to battle with the inhospitable wilderness of
the West. Gilbert Potter had had ideas of a new home, to be created by
himself, and a life to which none should deny honor and respect: but now
he gave them up forever. There was a battle to be fought--better here
than elsewhere--here, where every scene was dear and familiar, and every
object that met his eye gave a mute, gentle sense of consolation.

Restless, yet cheery labor was now the order of life on the farm. From
dawn till dusk, Gilbert and Sam were stirring in field, meadow, and
garden, keeping pace with the season and forecasting what was yet to
come. Sam, although only fifteen, had a manly pride in being equal to
the duty imposed upon him by his master's absence, and when the time
came to harness the wagon-team once more, the mother and son walked over
the fields together and rejoiced in the order and promise of the farm.
The influences of the season had unconsciously touched them both:
everything conspired to favor the fulfilment of their common plan, and,
as one went forward to the repetition of his tedious journeys back and
forth between Columbia and Newport, and the other to her lonely labor
in the deserted farm-house, the arches of bells over the collars of the
leaders chimed at once to the ears of both, an anthem of thanksgiving
and a melody of hope.

So May and the beginning of June passed away, and no important event
came to any character of this history. When Gilbert had delivered the
last barrels at Newport, and slowly cheered homewards his weary team, he
was nearly two hundred dollars richer than when he started, and--if we
must confess a universal if somewhat humiliating truth--so much the more
a man in courage and determination.

The country was now covered with the first fresh magnificence of summer.
The snowy pyramids of dog-wood bloom had faded, but the tulip trees were
tall cones of rustling green, lighted with millions of orange-colored
stars, and all the underwood beneath the hemlock-forests by the courses
of streams, was rosy with laurels and azaleas. The vernal-grass in the
meadows was sweeter than any garden-rose, and its breath met that of the
wild-grape in the thickets and struggled for preeminence of sweetness.
A lush, tropical splendor of vegetation, such as England never knew,
heaped the woods and hung the road-side with sprays which grew and
bloomed and wantoned, as if growth were a conscious joy, rather than
blind obedience to a law.

When Gilbert reached home, released from his labors abroad until
October, he found his fields awaiting their owner's hand. His wheat hung
already heavy-headed, though green, and the grass stood so thick and
strong that it suggested the ripping music of the scythe-blade which
should lay it low. Sam had taken good care of the cornfield, garden, and
the cattle, and Gilbert's few words of quiet commendation were a rich
reward for all his anxiety. His ambition was, to be counted “a full
hand,”--this was the _toga virilis,_ which, once entitled to wear, would
make him feel that he was any man's equal.

Without a day's rest, the labor commenced again, and the passion of
Gilbert's heart, though it had only strengthened during his absence,
must be thrust aside until the fortune of his harvest was secured.

In the midst of the haying, however, came a message which he could not
disregard,--a hasty summons from Mark Deane, who, seeing Gilbert in the
upper hill-field, called from the road, bidding him to the raising of
Hallowell's new barn, which was to take place on the following Saturday.
“Be sure and come!” were Mark's closing words--“there's to be both
dinner and supper, and the girls are to be on hand!”

It was the custom to prepare the complete frame of a barn--sills,
plates, girders, posts, and stays--with all their mortices and pins,
ready for erection, and then to summon all the able-bodied men of the
neighborhood to assist in getting the timbers into place. This service,
of course, was given gratuitously, and the farmer who received it could
do no less than entertain, after the bountiful manner of the country,
his helping neighbors, who therefore, although the occasion implied a
certain amount of hard work, were accustomed to regard it as a sort of
holiday, or merry-making. Their opportunities for recreation, indeed,
were so scanty, that a barn-raising, or a husking-party by moonlight,
was a thing to be welcomed.

Hallowell's farm was just half-way between Gilbert's and Kennett Square,
and the site of the barn had been well-chosen on a ridge, across the
road, which ran between it and the farm-house. The Hallowells were
what was called “good providers,” and as they belonged to the class of
outside Quakers, which we have already described, the chances were that
both music and dance would reward the labor of the day.

Gilbert, of course, could not refuse the invitation of so near a
neighbor, and there was a hope in his heart which made it welcome.
When the day came he was early on hand, heartily greeted by Mark, who
exclaimed,--“Give me a dozen more such shoulders and arms as yours, and
I'll make the timbers spin!”

It was a bright, breezy day, making the wheat roll and the leaves
twinkle. Ranges of cumuli moved, one after the other, like heaps of
silvery wool, across the keen, dark blue of the sky. “A wonderful
hay-day,” the old farmers remarked, with a half-stifled sense of regret;
but the younger men had already stripped themselves to their shirts and
knee-breeches, and set to work with a hearty good-will. Mark, as friend,
half-host and commander, bore his triple responsibility with a mixture
of dash and decision, which became his large frame and ruddy, laughing
face. It was--really, and not in an oratorical sense,--the proudest day
of his life.

There could be no finer sight than that of these lithe, vigorous
specimens of a free, uncorrupted manhood, taking like sport the rude
labor which was at once their destiny and their guard of safety against
the assaults of the senses. As they bent to their work, prying, rolling,
and lifting the huge sills to their places on the foundation-wall, they
showed in every movement the firm yet elastic action of muscles equal
to their task. Though Hallowell's barn did not rise, like the walls of
Ilium, to music, a fine human harmony aided in its construction.

There was a plentiful supply of whiskey on hand, but Mark Deane assumed
the charge of it, resolved that no accident or other disturbance should
mar the success of this, his first raising. Everything went well, and
by the time they were summoned to dinner, the sills and some of the
uprights were in place, properly squared and tied.

It would require a Homeric catalogue to describe the dinner. To say that
the table “groaned,” is to give no idea of its condition. Mrs. Hallowell
and six neighbors' wives moved from kitchen to dining-room, replenishing
the dishes as fast as their contents diminished, and plying the double
row of coatless guests with a most stern and exacting hospitality. The
former would have been seriously mortified had not each man endeavored
to eat twice his usual requirement.

After the slight rest which nature enforced--though far less than
nature demanded, after such a meal--the work went on again with greater
alacrity, since every timber showed. Rib by rib the great frame grew,
and those perched aloft, pinning the posts and stays, rejoiced in the
broad, bright landscape opened to their view. They watched the roads,
in the intervals of their toil, and announced the approach of delayed
guests, all alert for the sight of the first riding-habit.

Suddenly two ladies made their appearance, over the rise of the hill,
one cantering lightly and securely, the other bouncing in her seat, from
the rough trot of her horse.

“Look out! there they come!” cried a watcher.

“Who is it?” was asked from below.

“Where's Barton? He ought to be on hand,--it's Martha Deane,--and Sally
with her; they always ride together.”

Gilbert had one end of a handspike, helping lift a heavy piece of
timber, and his face was dark with the strain; it was well that he dared
not let go until the lively gossip which followed Barton's absence,--the
latter having immediately gone forward to take charge of the
horses,--had subsided. Leaning on the handspike, he panted,--not
entirely from fatigue. A terrible possibility of loss flashed suddenly
across his mind, revealing to him, in a new light, the desperate force
and desire of his love.

There was no time for meditation; his help was again wanted, and he
expended therein the first hot tumult of his heart. By ones and twos the
girls now gathered rapidly, and erelong they came out in a body to have
a look at the raising. Their coming in no wise interrupted the labor;
it was rather an additional stimulus, and the young men were right.
Although they were not aware of the fact, they were never so handsome
in their uneasy Sunday costume and awkward social ways, as thus in
their free, joyous, and graceful element of labor. Greetings were
interchanged, laughter and cheerful nothings animated the company, and
when Martha Deane said,--

“We may be in the way, now--shall we go in?”

Mark responded,--

“No, Martha! No, girls! I'll get twice as much work out o' my
twenty-five 'jours,' if you'll only stand where you are and look at
'em.”

“Indeed!” Sally Fairthorn exclaimed. “But we have work to do as well as
you. If you men can't get along without admiring spectators, we girls
can.”

The answer which Mark would have made to this pert speech was cut short
by a loud cry of pain or terror from the old half-dismantled barn on the
other side of the road. All eyes were at once turned in that direction,
and beheld Joe Fairthorn rushing at full speed down the bank, making
for the stables below. Mark, Gilbert Potter, and Sally, being nearest,
hastened to the spot.

“You're in time!” cried Joe, clapping his hands in great glee. “I was
awfully afeard he'd let go before I could git down to see him fall. Look
quick--he can't hold on much longer!”

Looking into the dusky depths, they saw Jake, hanging by his hands to
the edges of a hole in the floor above, yelling and kicking for dear
life.

“You wicked, wicked boy!” exclaimed Sally, turning to Joe, “what have
you been doing?”

“Oh,” he answered, jerking and twisting with fearful delight, “there was
such a nice hole in the floor! I covered it all over with straw, but
I had to wait ever so long before Jake stepped onto it, and then he
ketched hold goin' down, and nigh spoilt the fun.”

Gilbert made for the barn-floor, to succor the helpless victim; but
just as his step was heard on the boards, Jake's strength gave way.
His fingers slipped, and with a last howl down he dropped, eight or ten
feet, upon a bed of dry manure. Then his terror was instantly changed
to wrath; he bounced upon his feet, seized a piece of rotten board, and
made after Joe, who, anticipating the result, was already showing his
heels down the road.

Meanwhile the other young ladies had followed, and so, after discussing
the incident with a mixture of amusement and horror, they betook
themselves to the house, to assist in the preparations for supper.
Martha Deane's eyes took in the situation, and immediately perceived
that it was capable of a picturesque improvement. In front of the house
stood a superb sycamore, beyond which a trellis of grape-vines divided
the yard from the kitchen-garden. Here, on the cool green turf, under
shade, in the bright summer air, she proposed that the tables should
be set, and found little difficulty in carrying her point. It was quite
convenient to the outer kitchen door, and her ready invention found
means of overcoming all other technical objections. Erelong the tables
were transported to the spot, the cloth laid, and the aspect of the
coming entertainment grew so pleasant to the eye, that there was a
special satisfaction in the labor.

An hour before sundown the frame was completed; the skeleton of the
great barn rose sharp against the sky, its fresh white-oak timber gilded
by the sunshine. Mark drove in the last pin, gave a joyous shout, which
was answered by an irregular cheer from below, and lightly clambered
down by one of the stays. Then the black jugs were produced, and passed
from mouth to mouth, and the ruddy, glowing young fellows drew their
shirt-sleeves across their faces, and breathed the free, full breath of
rest.

Gilbert Potter, sitting beside Mark,--the two were mutually drawn
towards each other, without knowing or considering why,--had gradually
worked himself into a resolution to be cool, and to watch the movements
of his presumed rival. More than once, during the afternoon, he had
detected Barton's eyes, fixed upon him with a more than accidental
interest; looking up now, he met them again, but they were quickly
withdrawn, with a shy, uneasy expression, which he could not comprehend.
Was it possible that Barton conjectured the carefully hidden secret of
his heart? Or had the country gossip been free with his name, in some
way, during his absence? Whatever it was, the dearer interests at stake
prevented him from dismissing it from his mind. He was preternaturally
alert, suspicious, and sensitive.

He was therefore a little startled, when, as they were all rising in
obedience to Farmer Hallowell's summons to supper, Barton suddenly took
hold of his arm.

“Gilbert,” said he, “we want your name in a list of young men we are
getting together, for the protection of our neighborhood. There are
suspicions, you know, that Sandy Flash has some friends hereabouts,
though nobody seems to know exactly who they are; and our only safety
is in clubbing together, to smoke him out and hunt him down, if he ever
comes near us. Now, you're a good hunter”--

“Put me down, of course!” Gilbert interrupted, immensely relieved to
find how wide his suspicions had fallen from the mark. “That would be a
more stirring chase than our last; it is a shame and a disgrace that he
is still at large.”

“How many have we now?” asked Mark, who was walking on the other side of
Barton.

“Twenty-one, with Gilbert,” the latter replied.

“Well, as Sandy is said to count equal to twenty, we can meet him
evenly, and have one to spare,” laughed Mark.

“Has any one here ever seen the fellow?” asked Gilbert. “We ought to
know his marks.”

“He's short, thick-set, with a red face, jet-black hair, add heavy
whiskers,” said Barton.

“Jet-black hair!” Mark exclaimed; “why, it's red as brick-dust! And I
never heard that he wore whiskers.”

“Pshaw! what was I thinking of? Red, of course--I meant red, all the
time,” Barton hastily assented, inwardly cursing himself for a fool. It
was evident that the less he conversed about Sandy Flash, the better.

Loud exclamations of surprise and admiration interrupted them. In the
shade of the sycamore, on the bright green floor of the silken turf,
stood the long supper-table, snowily draped, and heaped with the richest
products of cellar, kitchen, and dairy. Twelve chickens, stewed in
cream, filled huge dishes at the head and foot, while hams and rounds
of cold roast-beef accentuated the space between. The interstices were
filled with pickles, pies, jars of marmalade, bowls of honey, and plates
of cheese. Four coffee-pots steamed in readiness on a separate table,
and the young ladies, doubly charming in their fresh white aprons, stood
waiting to serve the tired laborers. Clumps of crown-roses, in blossom,
peered over the garden-paling, the woodbine filled the air with its
nutmeg odors, and a broad sheet of sunshine struck the upper boughs
of the arching sycamore, and turned them into a gilded canopy for the
banquet. It might have been truly said of Martha Deane, that she touched
nothing which she did not adorn.

In the midst of her duties as directress of the festival, she caught a
glimpse of the three men, as they approached together, somewhat in
the rear of the others. The embarrassed flush had not quite faded from
Barton's face, and Gilbert's was touched by a lingering sign of his new
trouble. Mark, light-hearted and laughing, precluded the least idea of
mystery, but Gilbert's eye met hers with what she felt to be a painfully
earnest, questioning expression. The next moment they were seated at the
table, and her services were required on behalf of all.

Unfortunately for the social enjoyments of Kennett, eating had come to
be regarded as a part of labor; silence and rapidity were its principal
features. Board and platter were cleared in a marvellously short time,
the plates changed, the dishes replenished, and then the wives and
maidens took the places of the young men, who lounged off to the
road-side, some to smoke their pipes, and all to gossip.

Before dusk, Giles made his appearance, with an old green bag under his
arm. Barton, of course, had the credit of this arrangement, and it made
him, for the time, very popular. After a pull at the bottle, Giles began
to screw his fiddle, drawing now and then unearthly shrieks from its
strings. The more eager of the young men thereupon stole to the house,
assisted in carrying in the tables and benches, and in other ways busied
themselves to bring about the moment when the aprons of the maidens
could be laid aside, and their lively feet given to the dance. The moon
already hung over the eastern wood, and a light breeze blew the dew-mist
from the hill.

Finally, they were all gathered on the open bit of lawn between the
house and the road. There was much hesitation at first, ardent coaxing
and bashful withdrawal, until Martha broke the ice by boldly choosing
Mark as her partner, apportioning Sally to Gilbert, and taking her place
for a Scotch reel. She danced well and lightly, though in a more subdued
manner than was then customary. In this respect, Gilbert resembled
her; his steps, gravely measured, though sufficiently elastic, differed
widely from Mark's springs, pigeon-wings, and curvets. Giles played with
a will, swaying head and fiddle up and down and beating time with his
foot; and the reel went off so successfully that there was no hesitation
in getting up the next dance.

Mark was alert, and secured Sally this time. Perhaps Gilbert would have
made the like exchange, but Mr. Alfred Barton stepped before him, and
bore off Martha. There was no appearance of design about the matter, but
Gilbert felt a hot tingle in his blood, and drew back a little to watch
the pair. Martha moved through the dance as if but half conscious of her
partner's presence, and he seemed more intent on making the proper
steps and flourishes than on improving the few brief chances for a
confidential word. When he spoke, it was with the unnecessary laugh,
which is meant to show ease of manner, and betrays the want of it.
Gilbert was puzzled; either the two were unconscious of the gossip which
linked their names so intimately, (which seemed scarcely possible,) or
they were studiedly concealing an actual tender relation. Among those
simple-hearted people, the shyness of love rivalled the secrecy of
crime, and the ways by which the lover sought to assure himself of his
fortune were made very difficult by the shrinking caution with which he
concealed the evidence of his passion. Gilbert knew how well the secret
of his own heart was guarded, and the reflection, that others might be
equally inscrutable, smote him with sudden pain.

The figures moved before him in the splendid moonlight, and with every
motion of Martha's slender form the glow of his passion and the torment
of his uncertainty increased. Then the dance dissolved, and while he
still stood with folded arms, Sally Fairthorn's voice whispered eagerly
in his ear,--

“Gilbert--Gilbert! now is your chance to engage Martha for the Virginia
reel!”

“Let me choose my own partners, Sally!” he said, so sternly, that she
opened wide her black eyes.

Martha, fanning herself with her handkerchief spread over a bent
willow-twig, suddenly passed before him, like an angel in the moonlight.
A soft, tender star sparkled in each shaded eye, a faint rose-tint
flushed her cheeks, and her lips, slightly parted to inhale the
clover-scented air, were touched with a sweet, consenting smile.

“Martha!”

The word passed Gilbert's lips almost before he knew he had uttered it.
Almost a whisper, but she heard, and, pausing, turned towards him.

“Will you dance with me now?”

“Am I your choice, or Sally's, Gilbert? I overheard your very
independent remark.”

“Mine!” he said, with only half truth. A deep color, shot into his face,
and he knew the moonlight revealed it, but he forced his eyes to meet
hers. Her face lost its playful expression, and she said, gently,--

“Then I accept.”

They took their places, and the interminable Virginia reel--under which
name the old-fashioned Sir Roger de Coverley was known--commenced. It
so happened that Gilbert and Mr. Alfred Barton had changed their recent
places. The latter stood outside the space allotted to the dance, and
appeared to watch Martha Deane and her new partner. The reviving warmth
in Gilbert's bosom instantly died, and gave way to a crowd of torturing
conjectures. He went through his part in the dance so abstractedly,
that when they reached the bottom of the line, Martha, out of friendly
consideration for him, professed fatigue and asked his permission to
withdraw from the company. He gave her his arm, and they moved to one of
the benches.

“You, also, seem tired, Gilbert,” she said.

“Yes--no!” he answered, confusedly, feeling that he was beginning to
tremble. He stood before her as she sat, moved irresolutely,
as if to leave, and then, facing her with a powerful effort,
heexclaimed,--“Martha, do you know what people say about Alfred Barton
and yourself?”

“It would make no difference if I did,” she answered; “people will say
anything.”

“But is it--is it true?”

“Is what true?” she quietly asked.

“That he is to marry you!” The words were said, and he would have given
his life to recall them. He dropped his head, not daring to meet her
eyes.

Martha Deane rose to her feet, and stood before him. Then he lifted his
head; the moon shone full upon it, while her face was in shadow, but he
saw the fuller light of her eye, the firmer curve of her lip.

“Gilbert Potter,” she said, “what right have you to ask me such a
question?”

“I have no right--none,” he answered, in a voice whose suppressed, husky
tones were not needed to interpret the pain and bitterness of his face.
Then he quickly turned away and left her.

Martha Deane remained a minute, motionless, standing as he left her. Her
heart was beating fast, and she could not immediately trust herself to
rejoin the gay company. But now the dance was over, and the inseparable
Sally hastened forward.

“Martha!” cried the latter, hot and indignant, “what is the matter with
Gilbert? He is behaving shamefully; I saw him just now turn away from
you as if you were a--a shock of corn. And the way he snapped me up--it
is really outrageous!”

“It _seems_ so, truly,” said Martha. But she knew that Gilbert Potter
loved her, and with what a love.




CHAPTER X.

THE RIVALS.


Due to the abundant harvest of that year, and the universal need of
extra labor for a time, Gilbert Potter would have found his burden too
heavy, but for welcome help from an unexpected quarter. On the very
morning that he first thrust his sickle into the ripened wheat, Deb
Smith made her appearance, in a short-armed chemise and skirt of
tow-cloth.

“I knowed ye'd want a hand,” she said, “without sendin' to ask. I'll
reap ag'inst the best man in Chester County, and you won't begrudge me
my bushel o' wheat a day, when the harvest's in.”

With this exordium, and a pull at the black jug under the elder-bushes
in the fence-corner, she took her sickle and bent to work. It was her
boast that she could beat both men and women on their own ground. She
had spun her twenty-four cuts of yarn, in a day, and husked her fifty
shocks of heavy corn. For Gilbert she did her best, amazing him each day
with a fresh performance, and was well worth the additional daily quart
of whiskey which she consumed.

In this pressing, sweltering labor, Gilbert dulled, though he could not
conquer, his unhappy mood. Mary Potter, with a true mother's instinct,
surmised a trouble, but the indications were too indefinite for
conjecture. She could only hope that her son had not been called upon
to suffer a fresh reproach, from the unremoved stain hanging over his
birth.

Miss Betsy Lavender's company at this time was her greatest relief, in
a double sense. No ten persons in Kennett possessed half the amount of
confidences which were intrusted to this single lady; there was that in
her face which said: “I only blab what I choose, and what's locked up,
_is_ locked up.” This was true; she was the greatest distributor of
news, and the closest receptacle of secrets--anomalous as the two
characters may seem--that ever blessed a country community.

Miss Betsy, like Deb Smith, knew that she could be of service on the
Potter farm, and, although her stay was perforce short, on account of an
approaching house-warming near Doe-Run, her willing arms helped to tide
Mary Potter over the heaviest labor of harvest. There were thus hours of
afternoon rest, even in the midst of the busy season, and during one
of these the mother opened her heart in relation to her son's silent,
gloomy moods.

“You'll perhaps say it's all my fancy, Betsy,” she said, “and indeed I
hope it is; but I know you see more than most people, and two heads are
better than one. How does Gilbert seem to you?”

Miss Betsy mused awhile, with an unusual gravity on her long face. “I
dunno,” she remarked, at length; “I've noticed that some men have their
vapors and tantrums, jist as some women have, and Gilbert's of an age
to--well, Mary, has the thought of his marryin' ever come into your
head?”

“No!” exclaimed Mary Potter, with almost a frightened air.

“I'll be bound! Some women are lookin' out for daughter-in-laws before
their sons have a beard, and others think theirs is only fit to wear
short jackets when they ought to be raisin' up families. I dunno but
what it'll be a cross to you, Mary,--you set so much store by Gilbert,
and it's natural, like, that you should want to have him all to
y'rself,--but a man shall leave his father and mother and cleave unto
his wife,--or somethin' like it. Yes, I say it, although nobody clove
unto me.”

Mary Potter said nothing. Her face grew very pale, and such an
expression of pain came into it that Miss Betsy, who saw everything
without seeming to look at anything, made haste to add a consoling word.

“Indeed, Mary,” she said, “now I come to consider upon it, you won't
have so much of a cross. You a'n't the mother you've showed yourself to
be, if you're not anxious to see Gilbert happy, and as for leavin'
his mother, there'll be no leavin' needful, in his case, but on the
contrary, quite the reverse, namely, a comin' to you. And it's no bad
fortin', though I can't say it of my own experience; but never mind, all
the same, I've seen the likes--to have a brisk, cheerful daughter-in-law
keepin' house, and you a-settin' by the window, knittin' and restin'
from mornin' till night, and maybe little caps and clothes to make, and
lots o' things to teach, that young wives don't know o' theirselves. And
then, after awhile you'll be called 'Granny,' but you won't mind it, for
grandchildren's a mighty comfort, and no responsibility like your own.
Why, I've knowed women that never seen what rest or comfort was, till
they'd got to be grandmothers!”

Something in this homely speech touched Mary Potter's heart, and gave
her the relief of tears. “Betsy,” she said at last, “I have had a heavy
burden to bear, and it has made me weak.”

“Made me weak,” Miss Betsy repeated. “And no wonder. Don't think I can't
guess that, Mary.”

Here two tears trickled down the ridge of her nose, and she furtively
wiped them off while adjusting her high comb. Mary Potter's face was
turned towards her with a wistful, appealing expression, which she
understood.

“Mary,” she said, “I don't measure people with a two-foot rule. I take a
ten-foot pole, and let it cover all that comes under it. Them that does
their dooty to Man, I guess you won't have much trouble in squarin'
accounts with the Lord. You know how I feel towards you without my
tellin' of it, and them that's quick o' the tongue are always full o'
the heart. Now, Mary, I know as plain as if you 'd said it, that there's
somethin' on your mind, and you dunno whether to share it with me
or not. What I say is, don't hurry yourself; I 'd rather show
fellow-feelin' than cur'osity; so, see your way clear first, and when
the tellin' _me_ anything can help, tell it--not before.”

“It wouldn't help now,” Mary Potter responded.

“Wouldn't help now. Then wait awhile. Nothin' 's so dangerous as
speakin' before the time, whomsoever and wheresoever. Folks talk o'
bridlin' the tongue; let 'em git a blind halter, say I, and a curb-bit,
and a martingale! Not that I set an example, Goodness knows, for mine
runs like a mill-clapper, rickety-rick, rickety-rick; but never mind, it
may be fast, but it isn't loose!”

In her own mysterious way, Miss Betsy succeeded in imparting a good
deal of comfort to Mary Potter. She promised “to keep Gilbert under her
eyes,”--which, indeed, she did, quite unconsciously to himself, during
the last two days of her stay. At table she engaged him in conversation,
bringing in references, in the most wonderfully innocent and random
manner, to most of the families in the neighborhood. So skilfully did
she operate that even Mary Potter failed to perceive her strategy. Deb
Smith, sitting bare-armed on the other side of the table, and eating
like six dragoons, was the ostensible target of her speech, and
Gilbert was thus stealthily approached in flank. When she tied her
bonnet-strings to leave, and the mother accompanied her to the gate, she
left this indefinite consolation behind her:

“Keep up your sperrits, Mary. I think I'm on the right scent about
Gilbert, but these young men are shy foxes. Let me alone, awhile yet,
and whatever you do, let _him_ alone. There's no danger--not even a
snarl, I guess. Nothin' to bother your head about. You weren't his
mother. Good lack! if I'm right, you'll see no more o' his tantrums in
two months' time--and so, good-bye to you!”

The oats followed close upon the wheat harvest, and there was no respite
from labor until the last load was hauled into the barn, filling its
ample bays to the very rafters. Then Gilbert, mounted on his favorite
Roger, rode up to Kennett Square one Saturday afternoon, in obedience to
a message from Mr. Alfred Barton, informing him that the other gentlemen
would there meet to consult measures for mutual protection against
highwaymen in general and Sandy Flash in particular. As every young
man in the neighborhood owned his horse and musket, nothing more was
necessary than to adopt a system of action.

The meeting was held in the bar-room of the Unicorn, and as every second
man had his own particular scheme to advocate, it was both long and
noisy. Many thought the action unnecessary, but were willing, for the
sake of the community, to give their services. The simplest plan--to
choose a competent leader, and submit to his management--never occurred
to these free and independent volunteers, until all other means of unity
had failed. Then Alfred Barton, as the originator of the measure,
was chosen, and presented the rude but sufficient plan which had been
suggested to him by Dr. Deane. The men were to meet every Saturday
evening at the Unicorn, and exchange intelligence; but they could be
called together at any time by a summons from Barton. The landlord
of the Unicorn was highly satisfied with this arrangement, but no one
noticed the interest with which the ostler, an Irishman named Dougherty,
listened to the discussion.

Barton's horse was hitched beside Gilbert's, and as the two were
mounting, the former said,--

“If you're going home, Gilbert, why not come down our lane, and go
through by Carson's. We can talk the matter over a little; if there's
any running to do, I depend a good deal on your horse.”

Gilbert saw no reason for declining this invitation, and the two rode
side by side down the lane to the Barton farm-house. The sun was still
an hour high, but a fragrant odor of broiled herring drifted out of the
open kitchen-window. Barton thereupon urged him to stop and take supper,
with a cordiality which we can only explain by hinting at his secret
intention to become the purchaser of Gilbert's horse.

“Old-man Barton” was sitting in his arm-chair by the window, feebly
brandishing his stick at the flies, and watching his daughter Ann, as
she transferred the herrings from the gridiron to a pewter platter.

“Father, this is Gilbert Potter,” said Mr. Alfred, introducing his
guest.

The bent head was lifted with an effort, and the keen eyes were fixed on
the young man, who came forward to take the crooked, half-extended hand.

“What Gilbert Potter?” he croaked.

Mr. Alfred bit his lips, and looked both embarrassed and annoyed. But he
could do no less than say,--

“Mary Potter's son.”

Gilbert straightened himself proudly, as if to face a coming insult.
After a long, steady gaze, the old man gave one of his hieroglyphic
snorts, and then muttered to him self,--“Looks like her.”

During the meal, he was so occupied with the labor of feeding himself,
that he seemed to forget Gilbert's presence. Bending his head sideways,
from time to time, he jerked out a croaking question, which his son,
whatever annoyance he might feel, was forced to answer according to the
old man's humor.

“In at the Doctor's, boy?”

“A few minutes, daddy, before we came together.”

“See her? Was she at home?”

“Yes,” came very shortly from Mr. Alfred's lips; he clenched his fists
under the table-cloth.

“That's right, boy; stick up to her!” and he chuckled and munched
together in a way which it made Gilbert sick to hear. The tail of the
lean herring on his plate remained untasted; he swallowed the thin tea
which Miss Ann poured out, and the heavy “half-Indian” bread with a
choking sensation. He had but one desire,--to get away from the room,
out of human sight and hearing.

Barton, ill at ease, and avoiding Gilbert's eye, accompanied him to the
lane. He felt that the old man's garrulity ought to be explained, but
knew not what to say. Gilbert spared him the trouble--

“When are we to wish you joy, Barton?” he asked, in a cold, hard voice.

Barton laughed in a forced way, clutched at his tawny whisker, and with
something like a flush on his heavy face, answered in what was meant to
be an indifferent tone:

“Oh, it's a joke of the old man's--don't mean anything.”

“It seems to be a joke of the whole neighborhood, then; I have heard it
from others.”

“Have you?” Barton eagerly asked. “Do people talk about it much? What do
they say?”

This exhibition of vulgar vanity, as he considered it, was so repulsive
to Gilbert, in his desperate, excited condition, that for a moment he
did not trust himself to speak. Holding the bridle of his horse, he
walked mechanically down the slope, Barton following him.

Suddenly he stopped, faced the latter, and said, in a stern voice: “I
must know, first, whether you are betrothed to Martha Deane.”

His manner was so unexpectedly solemn and peremptory that Barton,
startled from his self-possession, stammered,--

“N-no: that is, not yet.”

Another pause. Barton, curious to know how far gossip had already gone,
repeated the question:

“Well, what do people say?”

“Some, that you and she will be married,” Gilbert answered, speaking
slowly and with difficulty, “and some that you won't. Which are right?”

“Damme, if _I_ know!” Barton exclaimed, returning to his customary
swagger. It was quite enough that the matter was generally talked about,
and he had said nothing to settle it, in either way. But his manner,
more than his words, convinced Gilbert that there was no betrothal as
yet, and that the vanity of being regarded as the successful suitor of a
lovely girl had a more prominent place than love, in his rival's heart.
By so much was his torture lightened, and the passion of the moment
subsided, after having so nearly betrayed itself.

“I say, Gilbert,” Barton presently remarked, walking on towards the bars
which led into the meadow-field; “it's time you were looking around in
that way, hey?”

“It will be time enough when I am out of debt.”

“But you ought, now, to have a wife in your house.”

“I have a mother, Barton.”

“That's true, Gilbert. Just as I have a father. The old man's queer, as
you saw--kept me out of marrying; when I was young, and now drives me to
it. I might ha' had children grown”--

He paused, laying his hand on the young man's shoulder. Gilbert fancied
that he saw on Barton's coarse, dull face the fleeting stamp of some
long-buried regret, and a little of the recent bitterness died out of
his heart.

“Good-bye!” he said, offering his hand with greater ease than he would
have thought possible, fifteen minutes sooner.

“Good-bye, Gilbert! Take care of Roger. Sandy Flash has a fine piece of
horse-flesh, but you beat him once--Damnation! You _could_ beat him, I
mean. If he comes within ten miles of us, I'll have the summonses out in
no time.”

Gilbert cantered lightly down the meadow. The soft breath of the summer
evening fanned his face, and something of the peace expressed in the
rich repose of the landscape fell upon his heart. But peace, he felt,
could only come to him through love. The shame upon his name--the slow
result of labor--even the painful store of memories which the years had
crowded in his brain--might all be lightly borne, or forgotten, could
his arms once clasp the now uncertain treasure. A tender mist came over
his deep, dark eyes, a passionate longing breathed in his softened lips,
and he said to himself,--

“I would lie down and die at her feet, if that could make her happy; but
how to live, and live without her?” This was a darkness which his mind
refused to entertain. Love sees no justice on Earth or in Heaven, that
includes not its own fulfilled desire.

Before reaching home, he tried to review the situation calmly. Barton's
true relation to Martha Deane he partially suspected, so far as regarded
the former's vanity and his slavish subservience to his father's will;
but he was equally avaricious, and it was well known in Kennett that
Martha possessed, or would possess, a handsome property in her own
right. Gilbert, therefore, saw every reason to believe that Barton was
an actual, if not a very passionate wooer.

That fact, however, was in itself of no great importance, unless Dr.
Deane favored the suit. The result depended on Martha herself; she was
called an “independent girl,” which she certainly was, by contrast with
other girls of the same age. It was this free, firm, independent, yet
wholly womanly spirit which Gilbert honored in her, and which (unless
her father's influence were too powerful) would yet save her to him, if
she but loved him. Then he felt that his nervous, inflammable fear of
Barton was incompatible with true honor for her, with trust in her pure
and lofty nature. If she were so easily swayed, how could she stand
the test which he was still resolved--nay, forced by circumstances--to
apply?

With something like shame of his past excitement, yet with strength
which had grown out of it, his reflections were terminated by Roger
stopping at the barn-yard gate.




CHAPTER XI.

GUESTS AT POTTER'S.


A week or two later, there was trouble, but not of a very unusual kind,
in the Fairthorn household. It was Sunday, the dinner was on the table,
but Joe and Jake were not to be found. The garden, the corn-crib, the
barn, and the grove below the house, were searched, without detecting
the least sign of the truants. Finally Sally's eyes descried a
remarkable object moving over the edge of the hill, from the direction
of the Philadelphia road. It was a huge round creature, something like a
cylindrical tortoise, slowly advancing upon four short, dark legs.

“What upon earth is that?” she cried.

All eyes were brought to bear upon this phenomenon, which gradually
advanced until it reached the fence. Then it suddenly separated into
three parts, the round back falling off, whereupon it was seized by two
figures and lifted upon the fence.

“It's the best wash-tub, I do declare!” said Sally; “whatever have they
been doing with it?”

Having crossed the fence, the boys lifted the inverted tub over their
heads, and resumed their march. When they came near enough, it could be
seen that their breeches and stockings were not only dripping wet,
but streaked with black swamp-mud. This accounted for the unsteady,
hesitating course of the tub, which at times seemed inclined to approach
the house, and then tacked away towards the corner of the barn-yard
wall. A few vigorous calls, however, appeared to convince it that the
direct course was the best, for it set out with a grotesque bobbing
trot, which brought it speedily to the kitchen-door.

Then Joe and Jake crept out, dripping to the very crowns of their heads,
with their Sunday shirts and jackets in a horrible plight. The truth,
slowly gathered from their mutual accusations, was this: they had
resolved to have a boating excursion on Redley Creek, and had abstracted
the tub that morning when nobody was in the kitchen. Slipping down
through the wood, they had launched it in a piece of still water. Joe
got in first, and when Jake let go of the tub, it tilted over; then he
held it for Jake, who squatted in the centre, and floated successfully
down the stream until Joe pushed him with a pole, and made the tub lose
its balance. Jake fell into the mud, and the tub drifted away; they had
chased it nearly to the road before they recovered it.

“You bad boys, what shall I do with you?” cried Mother Fairthorn. “Put
on your every-day clothes, and go to the garret. Sally, you can ride
down to Potter's with the pears; they won't keep, and I expect Gilbert
has no time to come for any, this summer.”

“I'll go,” said Sally, “but Gilbert don't deserve it. The way he snapped
me up at Hallowell's--and he hasn't been here since!”

“Don't be hard on him, Sally!” said the kindly old woman; nor was
Sally's more than a surface grudge. She had quite a sisterly affection
for Gilbert, and was rather hurt than angered by what he had said in the
fret of a mood which she could not comprehend.

The old mare rejoiced in a new bridle, with a head-stall of scarlet
morocco, and Sally would have made a stately appearance, but for the
pears, which, stowed in the two ends of a gr

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