University of Virginia Library

7. 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 birth-right,
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 impatient, 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 deamed 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.