 | CHAPTER X.
THE RIVALS. The story of Kennett |  |
10. CHAPTER X.
THE RIVALS.
With the abundant harvest of that year, and the sudden
and universal need of extra labor for a fortnight, Gilbert
Potter would have found his burden too heavy, but
for welcome help from an unexpected quarter. On the
very morning that he first thrust his sickle into the ripened
wheat, Deb Smith made her appearance, in a short-armed
chemise and skirt of tow-cloth.
“I knowed ye 'd want a hand,” she said, “without sendin'
to ask. I 'll reap ag'inst the best man in Chester County,
and you won't begrudge me my bushel o' wheat a day, when
the harvest 's in.”
With this exordium, and a pull at the black jug under
the elder-bushes in the fence-corner, she took her sickle
and bent to work. It was her boast that she could beat
both men and women on their own ground. She had spun
her twenty-four cuts of yarn, in a day, and husked her fifty
shocks of heavy corn. For Gilbert she did her best,
amazing him each day with a fresh performance, and was
well worth the additional daily quart of whiskey which she
consumed.
In this pressing, sweltering labor, Gilbert dulled, though
he could not conquer, his unhappy mood. Mary Potter,
with a true mother's instinct, surmised a trouble, but the
indications were too indefinite for conjecture. She could
only hope that her son had not been called upon to suffer a
fresh reproach, from the unremoved stain hanging over his
birth.
Miss Betsy Lavender's company at this time was her
greatest relief, in a double sense. No ten persons in Kennett
possessed half the amount of confidences which were
intrusted to this single lady; there was that in her face
which said: “I only blab what I choose, and what 's locked
up, is locked up.” This was true; she was the greatest
distributor of news, and the closest receptacle of secrets —
anomalous as the two characters may seem — that ever
blessed a country community.
Miss Betsy, like Deb Smith, knew that she could be of
service on the Potter farm, and, although her stay was
perforce short, on account of an approaching house-warming
near Doe-Run, her willing arms helped to tide Mary
Potter over the heaviest labor of harvest. There were
thus hours of afternoon rest, even in the midst of the busy
season, and during one of these the mother opened her
heart in relation to her son's silent, gloomy moods.
“You 'll perhaps say it 's all my fancy, Betsy,” she said,
“and indeed I hope it is; but I know you see more than
most people, and two heads are better than one. How
does Gilbert seem to you?”
Miss Betsy mused awhile, with an unusual gravity on
her long face. “I dunno,” she remarked, at length; “I 've
noticed that some men have their vapors and tantrums, jist
as some women have, and Gilbert 's of an age to — well,
Mary, has the thought of his marryin' ever come into your
head?”
“No!” exclaimed Mary Potter, with almost a frightened
air.
“I 'll be bound! Some women are lookin' out for
daughter-in-laws before their sons have a beard, and others
think theirs is only fit to wear short jackets when they
ought to be raisin' up families. I dunno but what it 'll be
a cross to you, Mary, — you set so much store by Gilbert,
and it 's natural, like, that you should want to have him all
to y'rself, — but a man shall leave his father and mother
say it, although nobody clove unto me.”
Mary Potter said nothing. Her face grew very pale,
and such an expression of pain came into it that Miss
Betsy, who saw everything without seeming to look at anything,
made haste to add a consoling word.
“Indeed, Mary,” she said, “now I come to consider upon
it, you won't have so much of a cross. You a'n't the
mother you 've showed yourself to be, if you 're not anxious
to see Gilbert happy, and as for leavin' his mother,
there 'll be no leavin' needful, in his case, but on the contráry,
quite the reverse, namely, a comin' to you. And it 's
no bad fortin', though I can't say it of my own experience;
but never mind, all the same, I 've seen the likes — to
have a brisk, cheerful daughter-in-law keepin' house, and
you a-settin' by the window, knittin' and restin' from mornin'
till night, and maybe little caps and clothes to make,
and lots o' things to teach, that young wives don't know
o' theirselves. And then, after awhile you 'll be called
`Granny,' but you won't mind it, for grandchildren 's a
mighty comfort, and no responsibility like your own. Why,
I 've knowed women that never seen what rest or comfort
was, till they 'd got to be grandmothers!”
Something in this homely speech touched Mary Potter's
heart, and gave her the relief of tears. “Betsy,” she said
at last, “I have had a heavy burden to bear, and it has
made me weak.”
“Made me weak,” Miss Betsy repeated. “And no wonder.
Don't think I can't guess that, Mary.”
Here two tears trickled down the ridge of her nose, and
she furtively wiped them off while adjusting her high comb.
Mary Potter's face was turned towards her with a wistful,
appealing expression, which she understood.
“Mary,” she said, “I don't measure people with a two-foot
rule. I take a ten-foot pole, and let it cover all that
comes under it. Them that does their dooty to Man, I
the Lord. You know how I feel towards you without my
tellin' of it, and them that 's quick o' the tongue a'n't
always full o' the heart. Now, Mary, I know as plain as
if you 'd said it, that there 's somethin' on your mind, and
you dunno whether to share it with me or not. What I
say is, don't hurry yourself; I 'd rather show fellow-feelin'
than cur'osity; so, see your way clear first, and when the
tellin' me anything can help, tell it — not before.”
“It would n't help now,” Mary Potter responded.
“Would n't help now. Then wait awhile. Nothin' 's
so dangerous as speakin' before the time, whomsoever and
wheresoever. Folks talk o' bridlin' the tongue; let 'em
git a blind halter, say I, and a curb-bit, and a martingale!
Not that I set an example, Goodness knows, for mine runs
like a mill-clapper, rickety-rick, rickety-rick; but never
mind, it may be fast, but it is n't loose!”
In her own mysterious way, Miss Betsy succeeded in
imparting a good deal of comfort to Mary Potter. She
promised “to keep Gilbert under her eyes,” — which, indeed,
she did, quite unconsciously to himself, during the
last two days of her stay. At table she engaged him in
conversation, bringing in references, in the most wonderfully
innocent and random manner, to most of the families
in the neighborhood. So skilfully did she operate that
even Mary Potter failed to perceive her strategy. Deb
Smith, sitting bare-armed on the other side of the table,
and eating like six dragoons, was the ostensible target of
her speech, and Gilbert was thus stealthily approached in
flank. When she tied her bonnet-strings to leave, and the
mother accompanied her to the gate, she left this indefinite
consolation behind her:
“Keep up your sperrits, Mary. I think I 'm on the
right scent about Gilbert, but these young men are shy
foxes. Let me alone, awhile yet, and whatever you do, let
him alone. There 's no danger — not even a snarl, I
his mother. Good lack! if I 'm right, you 'll see no more
o' his tantrums in two months' time — and so, good-bye to
you!”
The oats followed close upon the wheat harvest, and
there was no respite from labor until the last load was
hauled into the barn, filling its ample bays to the very
rafters. Then Gilbert, mounted on his favorite Roger,
rode up to Kennett Square one Saturday afternoon, in obedience
to a message from Mr. Alfred Barton, informing
him that the other gentlemen would there meet to consult
measures for mutual protection against highwaymen in
general and Sandy Flash in particular. As every young
man in the neighborhood owned his horse and musket,
nothing more was necessary than to adopt a system of
action.
The meeting was held in the bar-room of the Unicorn,
and as every second man had his own particular scheme to
advocate, it was both long and noisy. Many thought the
action unnecessary, but were willing, for the sake of the
community, to give their services. The simplest plan — to
choose a competent leader, and submit to his management
— never occurred to these free and independent volunteers,
until all other means of unity had failed. Then Alfred
Barton, as the originator of the measure, was chosen,
and presented the rude but sufficient plan which had
been suggested to him by Dr. Deane. The men were to
meet every Saturday evening at the Unicorn, and exchange
intelligence; but they could be called together at any time
by a summons from Barton. The landlord of the Unicorn
was highly satisfied with his arrangement, but no one noticed
the interest with which the ostler, an Irishman named
Dougherty, listened to the discussion.
Barton's horse was hitched beside Gilbert's, and as the
two were mounting, the former said, —
“If you 're going home, Gilbert, why not come down
matter over a little; if there 's any running to do, I depend
a good deal on your horse.”
Gilbert saw no reason for declining this invitation, and
the two rode side by side down the lane to the Barton
farm-house. The sun was still an hour high, but a fragrant
odor of broiled herring drifted out of the open kitchen-window.
Barton thereupon urged him to stop and take
supper, with a cordiality which we can only explain by
hinting at his secret intention to become the purchaser of
Gilbert's horse.
“Old-man Barton” was sitting in his arm-chair by the
window, feebly brandishing his stick at the flies, and watching
his daughter Ann, as she transferred the herrings from
the gridiron to a pewter platter.
“Father, this is Gilbert Potter,” said Mr. Alfred, introducing
his guest.
The bent head was lifted with an effort, and the keen
eyes were fixed on the young man, who came forward to
take the crooked, half-extended hand.
“What Gilbert Potter?” he croaked.
Mr. Alfred bit his lips, and looked both embarrassed and
annoyed. But he could do no less than say, —
“Mary Potter's son.”
Gilbert straightened himself proudly, as if to face a
coming insult. After a long, steady gaze, the old man gave
one of his hieroglyphic snorts, and then muttered to himself,
— “Looks like her.”
During the meal, he was so occupied with the labor of
feeding himself, that he seemed to forget Gilbert's presence.
Bending his head sideways, from time to time, he
jerked out a croaking question, which his son, whatever
annoyance he might feel, was forced to answer according
to the old man's humor.
“In at the Doctor's, boy?”
“A few minutes, daddy, before we came together.”
“See her? Was she at home?”
“Yes,” came very shortly from Mr. Alfred's lips; he
clenched his fists under the table-cloth.
“That 's right, boy; stick up to her!” and he chuckled
and munched together in a way which it made Gilbert sick
to hear. The tail of the lean herring on his plate remained
untasted; he swallowed the thin tea which Miss Ann
poured out, and the heavy “half-Indian” bread with a
choking sensation. He had but one desire, — to get away
from the room, out of human sight and hearing.
Barton, ill at ease, and avoiding Gilbert's eye, accompanied
him to the lane. He felt that the old man's garrulity
ought to be explained, but knew not what to say. Gilbert
spared him the trouble.
“When are we to wish you joy, Barton?” he asked, in a
cold, hard voice.
Barton laughed in a forced way, clutched at his tawny
whisker, and with something like a flush on his heavy face,
answered in what was meant to be an indifferent tone:
“Oh, it 's a joke of the old man's — dont mean anything.”
“It seems to be a joke of the whole neighborhood, then;
I have heard it from others.”
“Have you?” Barton eagerly asked. “Do people talk
about it much? What do they say?”
This exhibition of vulgar vanity, as he considered it,
was so repulsive to Gilbert, in his desperate, excited condition,
that for a moment he did not trust himself to speak.
Holding the bridle of his horse, he walked mechanically
down the slope, Barton following him.
Suddenly he stopped, faced the latter, and said, in a
stern voice: “I must know, first, whether you are betrothed
to Martha Deane.”
His manner was so unexpectedly solemn and peremptory
that Barton, startled from his self-possession, stammered,
—
“N-no: that is, not yet.”
Another pause. Barton, curious to know how far gossip
had already gone, repeated the question:
“Well, what do people say?”
“Some, that you and she will be married,” Gilbert answered,
speaking slowly and with difficulty, “and some
that you won't. Which are right?”
“Damme, if I know!” Barton exclaimed, returning to
his customary swagger. It was quite enough that the matter
was generally talked about, and he had said nothing to
settle it, in either way. But his manner, more than his
words, convinced Gilbert that there was no betrothal as
yet, and that the vanity of being regarded as the successful
suitor of a lovely girl had a more prominent place than
love, in his rival's heart. By so much was his torture
lightened, and the passion of the moment subsided, after
having so nearly betrayed itself.
“I say, Gilbert,” Barton presently remarked, walking on
towards the bars which led into the meadow-field; “it 's
time you were looking around in that way, hey?”
“It will be time enough when I am out of debt.”
“But you ought, now, to have a wife in your house.”
“I have a mother, Barton.”
“That 's true, Gilbert. Just as I have a father. The
old man's queer, as you saw — kept me out of marrying
when I was young, and now drives me to it. I might ha'
had children grown” —
He paused, laying his hand on the young man's shoulder.
Gilbert fancied that he saw on Barton's coarse, dull face,
the fleeting stamp of some long-buried regret, and a little
of the recent bitterness died out of his heart.
“Good-bye!” he said, offering his hand with greater
ease than he would have thought possible, fifteen minutes
sooner.
“Good-bye, Gilbert! Take care of Roger. Sandy
Flash has a fine piece of horse-flesh, but you beat him
once — Damnation! You could beat him, I mean. If he
in no time.”
Gilbert cantered lightly down the meadow. The soft
breath of the summer evening fanned his face, and something
of the peace expressed in the rich repose of the
landscape fell upon his heart. But peace, he felt, could
only come to him through love. The shame upon his name
— the slow result of labor — even the painful store of
memories which the years had crowded in his brain —
might all be lightly borne, or forgotten, could his arms
once clasp the now uncertain treasure. A tender mist
came over his deep, dark eyes, a passionate longing
breathed in his softened lips, and he said to himself, —
“I would lie down and die at her feet, if that could
make her happy; but how to live, and live without her?”
This was a darkness which his mind refused to entertain.
Love sees no justice on Earth or in Heaven, that includes
not its own fulfilled desire.
Before reaching home, he tried to review the situation
calmly. Barton's true relation to Martha Deane he partially
suspected, so far as regarded the former's vanity and
his slavish subservience to his father's will; but he was
equally avaricious, and it was well known in Kennett that
Martha possessed, or would possess, a handsome property
in her own right. Gilbert, therefore, saw every reason to
believe that Barton was an actual, if not a very passionate
wooer.
That fact, however, was in itself of no great importance,
unless Dr. Deane favored the suit. The result depended
on Martha herself; she was called an “independent girl,”
which she certainly was, by contrast with other girls of
the same age. It was this free, firm, independent, yet
wholly womanly spirit which Gilbert honored in her, and
which (unless her father's influence were too powerful)
would yet save her to him, if she but loved him. Then
he felt that his nervous, inflammable fear of Barton was
and lofty nature. If she were so easily swayed, how could
she stand the test which he was still resolved — nay, forced
by circumstances — to apply?
With something like shame of his past excitement, yet
with strength which had grown out of it, his reflections
were terminated by Roger stopping at the barn-yard gate.
| CHAPTER X.
THE RIVALS. The story of Kennett | |