University of Virginia Library

6. 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 broodings 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, —

“'T is n'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 neverwearied
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 did n'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 farm-house.
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 could n'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.