 | CHAPTER III.
MARY POTTER AND HER SON. The story of Kennett |  |
3. 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
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 mantelpiece.
“No, not tired, Gilbert, but it 's hungry you 'll be. It
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 neverending
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
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-cause. 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
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 did n'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 is n'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.
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 did n'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
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
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 III.
MARY POTTER AND HER SON. The story of Kennett | |