 | CHAPTER XI.
GUESTS AT POTTER'S. The story of Kennett |  |
11. CHAPTER XI.
GUESTS AT POTTER'S.
A week or two later, there was trouble, but not of a
very unusual kind, in the Fairthorn household. It was
Sunday, the dinner was on the table, but Joe and Jake
were not to be found. The garden, the corn-crib, the barn,
and the grove below the house, were searched, without detecting
the least sign of the truants. Finally Sally's eyes
descried a remarkable object moving over the edge of the
hill, from the direction of the Philadelphia road. It was a
huge round creature, something like a cylindrical tortoise,
slowly advancing upon four short, dark legs.
“What upon earth is that?” she cried.
All eyes were brought to bear upon this phenomenon,
which gradually advanced until it reached the fence. Then
it suddenly separated into three parts, the round back falling
off, whereupon it was seized by two figures and lifted
upon the fence.
“It 's the best wash-tub, I do declare!” said Sally;
“whatever have they been doing with it?”
Having crossed the fence, the boys lifted the inverted
tub over their heads, and resumed their march. When
they came near enough, it could be seen that their breeches
and stockings were not only dripping wet, but streaked
with black swamp-mud. This accounted for the unsteady,
hesitating course of the tub, which at times seemed inclined
to approach the house, and then tacked away towards the
corner of the barn-yard wall. A few vigorous calls, however,
best, for it set out with a grotesque bobbing trot, which
brought it speedily to the kitchen-door.
Then Joe and Jake crept out, dripping to the very
crowns of their heads, with their Sunday shirts and jackets
in a horrible plight. The truth, slowly gathered from
their mutual accusations, was this: they had resolved to
have a boating excursion on Redley Creek, and had abstracted
the tub that morning when nobody was in the
kitchen. Slipping down through the wood, they had
launched it in a piece of still water. Joe got in first, and
when Jake let go of the tub, it tilted over; then he held it
for Jake, who squatted in the centre, and floated successfully
down the stream until Joe pushed him with a pole,
and made the tub lose its balance. Jake fell into the mud,
and the tub drifted away; they had chased it nearly to the
road before they recovered it.
“You bad boys, what shall I do with you?” cried
Mother Fairthorn. “Put on your every-day clothes, and
go to the garret. Sally, you can ride down to Potter's
with the pears; they won't keep, and I expect Gilbert has
no time to come for any, this summer.”
“I 'll go,” said Sally, “but Gilbert don't deserve it. The
way he snapped me up at Hallowell's — and he has n't
been here since!”
“Don't be hard on him, Sally!” said the kindly old
woman; nor was Sally's more than a surface grudge. She
had quite a sisterly affection for Gilbert, and was rather
hurt than angered by what he had said in the fret of a
mood which she could not comprehend.
The old mare rejoiced in a new bridle, with a head-stall
of scarlet morocco, and Sally would have made a stately
appearance, but for the pears, which, stowed in the two
ends of a grain-bag, and hung over the saddle, would not
quite be covered by her riding-skirt. She trudged on
slowly, down the lonely road, but had barely crossed the
sound of hoofs behind her.
It was Mark and Martha Deane, who presently drew
rein, one on either side of her.
“Don't ride fast, please,” Sally begged; “I can't, for
fear of smashing the pears. Where are you going?”
“To Falconer's,” Martha replied; “Fanny promised to
lend me some new patterns; but I had great trouble in
getting Mark to ride with me.”
“Not, if you will ride along, Sally,” Mark rejoined.
“We 'll go with you first, and then you 'll come with us.
What do you say, Martha?”
“I 'll answer for Martha!” cried Sally; “I am going to
Potter's, and it 's directly on your way.”
“Just the thing,” said Mark; “I have a little business
with Gilbert.”
It was all settled before Martha's vote had been taken,
and she accepted the decision without remark. She was
glad, for Sally's sake, that they had fallen in with her, for
she had shrewdly watched Mark, and found that, little by
little, a serious liking for her friend was sending its roots
down through the gay indifference of his surface mood.
Perhaps she was not altogether calm in spirit at the prospect
of meeting Gilbert Potter; but, if so, no sign of the
agitation betrayed itself in her face.
Gilbert, sitting on the porch, half-hidden behind a mass
of blossoming trumpet-flower, was aroused from his Sabbath
reverie by the sound of hoofs. Sally Fairthorn's voice
followed, reaching even the ears of Mary Potter, who
thereupon issued from the house to greet the unexpected
guest. Mark had already dismounted, and although Sally
protested that she would remain in the saddle, the strong
arms held out to her proved too much of a temptation; it
was so charming to put her hands on his shoulders, and to
have his take her by the waist, and lift her to the ground
so lightly!
While Mark was performing this service, (and evidently
with as much deliberation as possible,) Gilbert could do no
less than offer his aid to Martha Deane, whose sudden apparition
he had almost incredulously realized. A bright,
absorbing joy kindled his sad, strong features into beauty,
and Martha felt her cheeks grow warm, in spite of herself,
as their eyes met. The hands that touched her waist were
firm, but no hands had ever before conveyed to her heart
such a sense of gentleness and tenderness, and though her
own gloved hand rested but a moment on his shoulder, the
action seemed to her almost like a caress.
“How kind of you — all — to come!” said Gilbert,
feeling that his voice expressed too much, and his words
too little.
“The credit of coming is not mine, Gilbert,” she answered.
“We overtook Sally, and gave her our company
for the sake of hers, afterwards. But I shall like to take a
look at your place; how pleasant you are making it!”
“You are the first to say so; I shall always remember
that!”
Mary Potter now advanced, with grave yet friendly welcome,
and would have opened her best room to the guests,
but the bowery porch, with its swinging scarlet bloom,
haunted by humming-birds and hawk-moths, wooed them
to take their seats in its shade. The noise of a plunging
cascade, which restored the idle mill-water to its parted
stream, made a mellow, continuous music in the air. The
high road was visible at one point, across the meadow, just
where it entered the wood; otherwise, the seclusion of the
place was complete.
“You could not have found a lovelier home, M—
Mary,” said Martha, terrified to think how near the words
“Mrs. Potter” had been to her lips. But she had recovered
herself so promptly that the hesitation was not noticed.
“Many people think the house ought to be upon the
is. Yes, I hope it will be a good home, when we can call
it our own.”
“Mother is a little impatient,” said Gilbert, “and perhaps
I am also. But if we have health, it won't be very
long to wait.”
“That 's a thing soon learned!” cried Mark. “I mean
to be impatient. Why, when I was doing journey-work, I
was as careless as the day 's long, and so from hand to
mouth did n't trouble me a bit; but now, I ha' n't been
undertaking six months, and it seems that I feel worried if
I don't get all the jobs going!”
Martha smiled, well pleased at this confession of the
change, which she knew better how to interpret than Mark
himself. But Sally, in her innocence, remarked:
“Oh Mark! that is n't right.”
“I suppose it is n't. But maybe you 've got to wish for
more than you get, in order to get what you do. I guess I
take things pretty easy, on the whole, for it 's nobody's nature
to be entirely satisfied. Gilbert, will you be satisfied
when your farm 's paid for?”
“No!” answered Gilbert with an emphasis, the sound
of which, as soon as uttered, smote him to the heart. He
had not thought of his mother. She clasped her hands
convulsively, and looked at him, but his face was turned
away.
“Why, Gilbert!” exclaimed Sally.
“I mean,” he said, striving to collect his thoughts, “that
there is something more than property” — but how should
he go on? Could he speak of the family relation, then
and there? Of honor in the community, the respect of his
neighbors, without seeming to refer to the brand upon his
and his mother's name? No; of none of these things.
With sudden energy, he turned upon himself, and continued:
“I shall not feel satisfied until I am cured of my own
the weeds and rocks and stumps out of myself as well as
out of my farm.”
“Then you 've got a job!” Mark laughed. “I think
your fields are pretty tolerable clean, what I 've seen of
'em. Nobody can say they 're not well fenced in. Why,
compared with you, I 'm an open common, like the Wastelands,
down on Whitely Creek, and everybody's cattle run
over me!”
Mark's thoughtlessness was as good as tact. They all
laughed heartily at his odd continuation of the simile, and
Martha hastened to say:
“For my part, I don't think you are quite such an open
common, Mark, or Gilbert so well fenced in. But even if
you are, a great many things may be hidden in a clearing,
and some people are tall enough to look over a high hedge.
Betsy Lavender says some men tell all about themselves
without saying a word, while others talk till Doomsday and
tell nothing.”
“And tell nothing,” gravely repeated Mark, whereat no
one could repress a smile, and Sally laughed outright.
Mary Potter had not mingled much in the society of
Kennett, and did not know that this imitation of good Miss
Betsy was a very common thing, and had long ceased to
mean any harm. It annoyed her, and she felt it her duty
to say a word for her friend.
“There is not a better or kinder-hearted woman in the
county,” she said, “than just Betsy Lavender. With all
her odd ways of speech, she talks the best of sense and
wisdom, and I don't know who I 'd sooner take for a guide
in times of trouble.”
“You could not give Betsy a higher place than she deserves,”
Martha answered. “We all esteem her as a dear
friend, and as the best helper where help is needed. She
has been almost a mother to me.”
Sally felt rebuked, and exclaimed tearfully, with her
harm; it was all Mark's doing!”
“If you 've anything against me, Sally, I forgive you for
it. It is n't in my nature to bear malice,” said Mark, with so
serious an air, that poor Sally was more bewildered than
ever. Gilbert and Martha, however, could not restrain
their laughter at the fellow's odd, reckless humor, whereupon
Sally, suddenly comprehending the joke, sprang from
her seat. Mark leaped from the porch, and darted around
the house, followed by Sally with mock-angry cries and
brandishings of her riding-whip.
The scene was instantly changed to Gilbert's eyes. It
was wonderful! There, on the porch of the home he so
soon hoped to call his own, sat his mother, Martha Deane,
and himself. The two former had turned towards each
other, and were talking pleasantly; the hum of the hawk-moths,
the mellow plunge of the water, and the stir of the
soft summer breeze in the leaves, made a sweet accompaniment
to their voices. His brain grew dizzy with
yearning to fix that chance companionship, and make it
the boundless fortune of his life. Under his habit of repression,
his love for her had swelled and gathered to such
an intensity, that it seemed he must either speak or die.
Presently the rollicking couple made their appearance.
Sally's foot had caught in her riding-skirt as she ran,
throwing her at full length on the sward, and Mark, in
picking her up, had possessed himself of the whip. She
was not hurt in the least, (her life having been a succession
of tears and tumbles,) but Mark's arm found it necessary
to encircle her waist, and she did not withdraw from
the support until they came within sight of the porch.
It was now time for the guests to leave, but Mary Potter
must first produce her cakes and currant-wine, — the
latter an old and highly superior article, for there had
been, alas! too few occasions which called for its use.
“Gilbert,” said Mark, as they moved towards the gate,
You have nothing to do?”
“No; I would like — but where are you going?”
“To Falconer's; that is, the girls; but we won't stay
for supper — I don't fancy quality company.”
“Nor I,” said Gilbert, with a gloomy face. “I have
never visited Falconer's, and they might not thank you
for introducing me.”
He looked at Martha, as he spoke. She understood
him, and gave him her entire sympathy and pity, — yet
it was impossible for her to propose giving up the visit,
solely for his sake. It was not want of independence, but
a maidenly shrinking from the inference of the act, which
kept her silent.
Mark, however, cut through the embarrassment. “I 'll
tell you what, Gilbert!” he exclaimed, “you go and get
Roger from the field, while we ride on to Falconer's. If
the girls will promise not to be too long about their patterns
and their gossip, and what not, we can be back to
the lane-end by the time you get there; then we 'll ride
up t' other branch o' Redley Creek, to the cross-road, and
out by Hallowell's. I want to have a squint at the houses
and barns down that way; nothing like business, you
know!”
Mark thought he was very cunning in thus disposing of
Martha during the ride, unconscious of the service he was
offering to Gilbert. The latter's eagerness shone from
his eyes, but still he looked at Martha, trembling for a
sign that should decide his hesitation. Her lids fell before
his gaze, and a faint color came into her face, yet she did
not turn away. This time it was Sally Fairthorn who
spoke.
“Five minutes will be enough for us, Mark,” she said.
“I 'm not much acquainted with Fanny Falconer. So,
Gilbert, hoist Martha into her saddle, and go for Roger.”
He opened the gate for them, and then climbed over
reached the crest, he stopped to watch the three riding
abreast, on a smart trot, down the glen. Sally looked
back, saw him, and waved her hand; then Mark and Martha
turned, giving no sign, yet to his eyes there seemed a
certain expectancy in the movement.
Roger came from the farthest corner of the field at his
call, and followed him down the hill to the bars, with the
obedient attachment of a dog. When he had carefully
brushed and then saddled the horse, he went to seek his
mother, who was already making preparations for their
early supper.
“Mother,” he said, “I am going to ride a little way.”
She looked at him wistfully and questioningly, as if she
would fain have asked more; but only said, —
“Won't you be home to supper, Gilbert?”
“I can't tell, but don't wait a minute, if I 'm not here
when it 's ready.”
He turned quickly, as if fearful of a further question,
and the next moment was in the saddle.
The trouble in Mary Potter's face increased. Sighing
sorely, she followed to the bridge of the barn, and presently
descried him, beyond the mill, cantering lightly
down the road. Then, lifting her arms, as in a blind
appeal for help, she let them fall again, and walked slowly
back to the house.
| CHAPTER XI.
GUESTS AT POTTER'S. The story of Kennett | |