 | CHAPTER IX.
THE RAISING. The story of Kennett |  |
9. 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
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
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 preëminence 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,
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
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
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
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
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,
and 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
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,
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 leae, and then, facing her
with a powerful effort, he exclaimed, —
“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 IX.
THE RAISING. The story of Kennett | |