 | CHAPTER V.
GUESTS AT FAIRTHORN'S. The story of Kennett |  |
5. 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
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,
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[1]
-mark,”
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 should n'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 horse-block.
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
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: —
When Zion we thought on:
For Grief thereof, we Hang our Harp
The Willow Tree upon.”
“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
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
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 itials 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,
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 V.
GUESTS AT FAIRTHORN'S. The story of Kennett | |