University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.
THE EVENTS OF AN EVENING.

At the first winding of the creek, Gilbert drew rein,
with a vague, half - conscious sense of escape. The eye
which had followed him thus far was turned away at last.

For half a mile the road lay through a lovely solitude
of shade and tangled bowery thickets, beside the stream.
The air was soft and tempered, and filled the glen like the
breath of some utterly peaceful and happy creature; yet
over Gilbert's heart there brooded another atmosphere
than this. The sultriness that precedes an emotional crisis
weighed heavily upon him.

No man, to whom Nature has granted her highest gift,
— that of expression, — can understand the pain endured
by one of strong feelings, to whom not only this gift has
been denied, but who must also wrestle with an inherited reticence.
It is well that in such cases a kindly law exists, to
aid the helpless heart. The least portion of the love which
lights the world has been told in words; it works, attracts,
and binds in silence. The eye never knows its own desire,
the hand its warmth, the voice its tenderness, nor the heart
its unconscious speech through these, and a thousand other
vehicles. Every endeavor to hide the special fact betrays
the feeling from which it sprang.

Like all men of limited culture, Gilbert felt his helplessness
keenly. His mind, usually clear in its operations, if
somewhat slow and cautious, refused to assist him here;
it lay dead or apathetic in an air surcharged with passion.
An anxious expectancy enclosed him with stifling pressure;

he felt that it must be loosened, but knew not how. His
craving for words—words swift, clear, and hot as lightning,
through which his heart might discharge itself — haunted
him like a furious hunger.

The road, rising out of the glen, passed around the brow
of a grassy hill, whence he could look across a lateral valley
to the Falconer farm-house. Pausing here, he plainly
described a stately “chair” leaning on its thills, in the shade
of the weeping-willow, three horses hitched side by side to
the lane-fence, and a faint glimmer of color between the
mounds of box which almost hid the porch. It was very
evident to his mind that the Falconers had other visitors,
and that neither Mark nor Sally, (whatever might be
Martha Deane's inclination,) would be likely to prolong
their stay; so he slowly rode on, past the lane-end, and
awaited them at the ford beyond.

It was not long — though the wood on the western hill
already threw its shadow into the glen — before the sound
of voices and hoofs emerged from the lane. Sally's remark
reached him first:

“They may be nice people enough, for aught I know,
but their ways are not my ways, and there 's no use in
trying to mix them.”

“That 's a fact!” said Mark. “Hallo, here 's Gilbert,
ahead of us!”

They rode into the stream together, and let their horses
drink from the clear, swift-flowing water. In Mark's and
Sally's eyes, Gilbert was as grave and impassive as usual,
but Martha Deane was conscious of a strange, warm, subtle
power, which seemed to envelop her as she drew near him.
Her face glowed with a sweet, unaccustomed flush; his
was pale, and the shadow of his brows lay heavier upon his
eyes. Fate was already taking up the invisible, floating
filaments of these two existences, and weaving them together.

Of course it happened, and of course by the purest accident,

that Mark and Sally first reached the opposite bank,
and took the narrow wood-road, where the loose, briery
sprays of the thickets brushed them on either side. Sally's
hat, and probably her head, would have been carried off
by a projecting branch, had not Mark thrown his arm
around her neck and forcibly bent her forwards. Then
she shrieked and struck at him with her riding-whip,
while Mark's laugh woke all the echoes of the woods.

“I say, Gilbert!” he cried, turning back in his saddle,
“I 'll hold you responsible for Martha's head; it 's as much
as I can do to keep Sally's on her shoulders.”

Gilbert looked at his companion, as she rode slowly
by his side, through the cool, mottled dusk of the woods.
She had drawn the strings of her beaver through a button-hole
of her riding-habit, and allowed it to hang upon her
back. The motion of the horse gave a gentle, undulating
grace to her erect, self-reliant figure, and her lips, slightly
parted, breathed maidenly trust and consent. She turned
her face towards him and smiled, at Mark's words.

“The warning is unnecessary,” he said. “You will give
me no chance to take care of you, Martha.”

“Is it not better so?” she asked.

He hesitated; he would have said “No,” but finally
evaded a direct answer.

“I would be glad enough to do you a service — even so
little as that,” were his words, and the tender tone in which
they were spoken made itself evident to his own ears.

“I don't doubt it, Gilbert,” she answered, so kindly and
cordially that he was smitten to the heart. Had she faltered
in her reply, — had she blushed and kept silence, —
his hope would have seized the evidence and rushed to
the trial; but this was the frankness of friendship, not the
timidity of love. She could not, then, suspect his passion,
and ah, how the risks of its utterance were multiplied!

Meanwhile, the wonderful glamour of her presence —
that irresistible influence which at once takes hold of body

and spirit — had entered into every cell of his blood.
Thought and memory were blurred into nothingness by
this one overmastering sensation. Riding through the
lonely woods, out of shade into yellow, level sunshine, in
the odors of minty meadows and moist spices of the creek-side,
they twain seemed to him to be alone in the world.
If they loved not each other, why should not the leaves
shrivel and fall, the hills split asunder, and the sky rain
death upon them? Here she moved at his side — he
could stretch out his hand and touch her; his heart sprang
towards her, his arms ached for very yearning to clasp
her, — his double nature demanded her with the will and
entreated for her with the affection! Under all, felt
though not suspected, glowed the vast primal instinct upon
which the strength of manhood and of womanhood is
based.

Sally and Mark, a hundred yards in advance, now thrown
into sight and now hidden by the windings of the road,
were so pleasantly occupied with each other that they took
no heed of the pair behind them. Gilbert was silent;
speech was mockery, unless it gave the words which he
did not dare to pronounce. His manner was sullen and
churlish in Martha's eyes, he suspected; but so it must be,
unless a miracle were sent to aid him. She, riding as
quietly, seemed to meditate, apparently unconscious of his
presence; how could he know that she had never before
been so vitally conscious of it?

The long rays of sunset withdrew to the tree-tops, and
a deeper hush fell upon the land. The road which had
mounted along the slope of a stubble-field, now dropped
again into a wooded hollow, where a tree, awkwardly felled,
lay across it. Roger pricked up his ears and leaped lightly
over. Martha's horse followed, taking the log easily, but
she reined him up the next moment, uttering a slight exclamation,
and stretched out her hand wistfully towards
Gilbert.

To seize it and bring Roger to a stand was the work of
an instant. “What is the matter, Martha?” he cried.

“I think the girth is broken,” said she. “The saddle
is loose, and I was nigh losing my balance. Thank you,
I can sit steadily now.”

Gilbert sprang to the ground and hastened to her assistance.

“Yes, it is broken,” he said, “but I can give you mine.
You had better dismount, though; see, I will hold the
pommel firm with one hand, while I lift you down with the
other. Not too fast, I am strong; place your hands on
my shoulders — so!”

She bent forward and laid her hands upon his shoulders.
Then, as she slid gently down, his right arm crept around
her waist, holding her so firmly and securely that she had
left the saddle and hung in its support while her feet had
not yet touched the earth. Her warm breath was on Gilbert's
forehead; her bosom swept his breast, and the arm
that until then had supported, now swiftly, tenderly, irresistibly
embraced her. Trembling, thrilling from head to
foot, utterly unable to control the mad impulse of the moment,
he drew her to his heart and laid his lips to hers.
All that he would have said — all, and more than all,
that words could have expressed — was now said, without
words. His kiss clung as if it were the last this side of
death — clung until he felt that Martha feebly strove to
be released.

The next minute they stood side by side, and Gilbert,
by a revulsion equally swift and overpowering, burst into
a passion of tears.

He turned and leaned his head against Roger's neck.
Presently a light touch came upon his shoulder.

“Gilbert!”

He faced her then, and saw that her own cheeks were
wet. “Martha!” he cried, “unless you love me with a
love like mine for you, you can never forgive me!”

She came nearer; she laid her arms around him, and
lifted her face to his. Then she said, in a tender, tremulous
whisper, —

“Gilbert — Gilbert! I forgive you.”

A pang of wonderful, incredulous joy shot through his
heart. Exalted by his emotion above the constraints of
his past and present life, he arose and stood free and strong
in his full stature as a man. He held her softly and tenderly
embraced, and a purer bliss than the physical delight
of her warm, caressing presence shone upon his face as he
asked, —

“Forever, Martha?”

“Forever.”

“Knowing what I am?”

“Because I know what you are, Gilbert!”

He bowed his head upon her shoulder, and she felt softer
tears — tears which came this time without sound or pang
— upon her neck. It was infinitely touching to see this
strong nature so moved, and the best bliss that a true woman's
heart can feel — the knowledge of the boundless
bounty which her love brings with it — opened upon her
consciousness. A swift instinct revealed to her the painful
struggles of Gilbert's life, — the stern, reticent strength
they had developed, — the anxiety and the torture of his
long-suppressed passion, and the power and purity of that
devotion with which his heart had sought and claimed her.
She now saw him in his true character, — firm as steel, yet
gentle as dew, patient and passionate, and purposely cold
only to guard the sanctity of his emotions.

The twilight deepened in the wood, and Roger, stretching
and shaking himself, called the lovers to themselves.
Gilbert lifted his head and looked into Martha's sweet, unshrinking
eyes.

“May the Lord bless you, as you have blessed me!” he
said, solemnly. “Martha, did you guess this before?”

“Yes,” she answered, “I felt that it must be so.”

“And you did not draw back from me — you did not
shun the thought of me! You were” —

He paused; was there not blessing enough, or must he
curiously question its growth?

Martha, however, understood the thought in his mind.
“No, Gilbert!” she said, “I cannot truly say that I loved
you at the time when I first discovered your feeling towards
me. I had always esteemed and trusted you, and you were
much in my mind; but when I asked myself if I could
look upon you as my husband, my heart hesitated with the
answer. I did not deserve your affection then, because I
could not repay it in the same measure. But, although the
knowledge seemed to disturb me, sometimes, yet it was very
grateful, and therefore I could not quite make up my mind
to discourage you. Indeed, I knew not what was right to
do, but I found myself more and more strongly drawn towards
you; a power came from you when we met, that
touched and yet strengthened me, and then I thought,
`Perhaps I do love him.' To-day, when I first saw your
face, I knew that I did. I felt your heart calling to me
like one that cries for help, and mine answered. It has
been slow to speak, Gilbert, but I know it has spoken truly
at last!”

He replaced the broken girth, lifted her into the saddle,
mounted his own horse, and they resumed their ride along
the dusky valley. But how otherwise their companionship
now!

“Martha,” said Gilbert, leaning towards her and touching
her softly as he spoke, as if fearful that some power in
in his words might drive them apart, — “Martha, have you
considered what I am called? That the family name I
bear is in itself a disgrace? Have you imagined what it is
to love one so dishonored as I am?”

The delicate line of her upper lip grew clear and firm
again, temporarily losing its relaxed gentleness. “I have
thought of it,” she answered, “but not in that way. Gilbert,

I honored you before I loved you. I will not say that
this thing makes no difference, for it does — a difference in
the name men give you, a difference in your work through
life (for you must deserve more esteem to gain as much as
other men) — and a difference in my duty towards you.
They call me `independent,' Gilbert, because, though a
woman, I dare to think for myself; I know not whether
they mean praise by the word, or no; but I think it would
frighten away the thought of love from many men. It has
not frightened you; and you, however you were born, are
the faithfullest and best man I know. I love you with my
whole heart, and I will be true to you!”

With these words, Martha stretched out her hand. Gilbert
took and held it, bowing his head fondly over it, and
inwardly thanking God that the test which his pride had
exacted was over at last. He could reward her truth, spare
her the willing sacrifice, — and he would.

“Martha,” he said, “if I sometimes doubted whether
you could share my disgrace, it was because I had bitter
cause to feel how heavy it is to bear. God knows I would
have come to you with a clean and honorable name, if I
could have been patient to wait longer in uncertainty.
But I could not tell how long the time might be, — I could
not urge my mother, nor even ask her to explain” —

“No, no, Gilbert! Spare her!” Martha interrupted.

“I have, Martha, — God bless you for the words! — and
I will; it would be the worst wickedness not to be patient,
now! But I have not yet told you” —

A loud halloo rang through the dusk.

“It is Mark's voice,” said Martha; “answer him!”

Gilbert shouted, and a double cry instantly replied.
They had reached the cross-road from New-Garden, and
Mark and Sally, who had been waiting impatiently for a
quarter of an hour, rode to meet them. “Did you lose the
road?” “Whatever kept you so long?” were the simultaneous
questions.

“My girth broke in jumping over the tree,” Martha answered,
in her clear, untroubled voice. “I should have
been thrown off, but for Gilbert's help. He had to give
me his own girth, and so we have ridden slowly, since he
has none.”

“Take my breast-strap,” said Mark.

“No,” said Gilbert, “I can ride Roger bareback, if need
be, with the saddle on my shoulder.”

Something in his voice struck Mark and Sally singularly.
It was grave and subdued, yet sweet in its tones as never
before; he had not yet descended from the solemn exaltation
of his recent mood. But the dusk sheltered his
face, and its new brightness was visible only to Martha's
eyes.

Mark and Sally again led the way, and the lovers followed
in silence up the hill, until they struck the Wilmington
road, below Hallowell's. Here Gilbert felt that it was
best to leave them.

“Well, you two are cheerful company!” exclaimed Sally,
as they checked their horses. “Martha, how many words
has Gilbert spoken to you this evening?”

“As many as I have spoken to him,” Martha answered;
“but I will say three more, — Good-night, Gilbert!”

“Good-night!” was all he dared say, in return, but the
pressure of his hand burned long upon her fingers.

He rode homewards in the starlight, transformed by love
and gratitude, proud, tender, strong to encounter any fate.
His mother sat in the lonely kitchen, with the New Testament
in her lap; she had tried to read, but her thoughts
wandered from the consoling text. The table was but
half-cleared, and the little old teapot still squatted beside
the coals.

Gilbert strove hard to assume his ordinary manner, but
he could not hide the radiant happiness that shone from his
eyes and sat upon his lips.

“You 've not had supper?” Mary Potter asked.

“No, mother! but I 'm sorry you kept things waiting; I
can do well enough without.”

“It 's not right to go without your regular meals, Gilbert.
Sit up to the table!”

She poured out the tea, and Gilbert ate and drank in
silence. His mother said nothing, but he knew that her
eye was upon him, and that he was the subject of her
thoughts. Once or twice he detected a wistful, questioning
expression, which, in his softened mood, touched him almost
like a reproach.

When the table had been cleared and everything put
away, she resumed her seat, breathing an unconscious
sigh as she dropped her hands into her lap. Gilbert felt
that he must now speak, and only hesitated while he considered
how he could best do so, without touching her
secret and mysterious trouble.

“Mother!” he said at last, “I have something to tell
you.”

“Ay, Gilbert?”

“Maybe it 'll seem good news to you; but maybe not.
I have asked Martha Deane to be my wife!”

He paused, and looked at her. She clasped her hands,
leaned forward, and fixed her dark, mournful eyes intently
upon his face.

“I have been drawn towards her for a long time,”
Gilbert continued. “It has been a great trouble to
me, because she is so pretty, and withal so proud in
the way a girl should be, — I liked her pride, even while
it made me afraid, — and they say she is rich also. It
might seem like looking too high, mother, but I could n't
help it.”

“There 's no woman too high for you, Gilbert!” Mary
Potter exclaimed. Then she went on, in a hurried, unsteady
voice: “It is n't that — I mistrusted it would come
so, some day, but I hoped — only for your good, my boy,
only for that — I hoped not so soon. You 're still young

— not twenty-five, and there 's debt on the farm; —
could n't you ha' waited a little, Gilbert?”

“I have waited, mother,” he said, slightly turning away
his head, that he might not see the tender reproach in her
face, which her question seemed to imply. “I did wait —
and for that reason. I wanted first to be independent, at
least; and I doubt that I would have spoken so soon, but
there were others after Martha, and that put the thought
of losing her into my head. It seemed like a matter of
life or death. Alfred Barton tried to keep company with
her — he did n't deny it to my face; the people talked of
it. Folks always say more than they know, to be sure, but
then, the chances were so much against me, mother! I
was nigh crazy, sometimes. I tried my best and bravest to
be patient, but to-day we were riding alone, — Mark and
Sally gone ahead, — and — and then it came from my
mouth, I don't know how; I did n't expect it. But I
should n't have doubted Martha; she let me speak; she
answered me — I can't tell you her words, mother, though
I 'll never forget one single one of 'em to my dying day.
She gave me her hand and said she would be true to me
forever.”

Gilbert waited, as if his mother might here speak, but
she remained silent.

“Do you understand, mother?” he continued. “She
pledged herself to me — she will be my wife. And I
asked her — you won't be hurt, for I felt it to be my duty
— whether she knew how disgraced I was in the eyes of
the people, — whether my name would not be a shame for
her to bear? She could n't know what we know: she took
me even with the shame, — and she looked prouder than
ever when she stood by me in the thought of it! She
would despise me, now, if I should offer to give her up on
account of it, but she may know as much as I do, mother?
She deserves it.”

There was no answer. Gilbert looked up.

Mary Potter sat perfectly still in her high rocking-chair.
Her arms hung passively at her sides, and her head leaned
back and was turned to one side, as if she were utterly exhausted.
But in the pale face, the closed eyes, and the
blue shade about the parted lips, he saw that she was unconscious
of his words. She had fainted.