 | CHAPTER XIV.
DOUBTS AND SURMISES. The story of Kennett |  |
14. CHAPTER XIV.
DOUBTS AND SURMISES.
Gilbert's voice, sharpened by his sudden and mortal
fear, recalled Mary Potter to consciousness. After she
had drunk of the cup of water which he brought, she looked
slowly and wearily around the kitchen, as if some instinct
taught her to fix her thoughts on the signs and appliances
of her every-day life, rather than allow them to return to
the pang which had overpowered her. Little by little she
recovered her calmness and a portion of her strength, and
at last, noticing her son's anxious face, she spoke.
“I have frightened you, Gilbert; but there is no occasion
for it. I was n't rightly prepared for what you had
to say — and — and — but, please, don't let us talk any
more about it to-night. Give me a little time to think —
if I can think. I 'm afraid it 's but a sad home I 'm making
for you, and sure it 's a sad load I 've put upon you, my
poor boy! But oh, try, Gilbert, try to be patient a little
while longer, — it can't be for long, — for I begin to see
now that I 've worked out my fault, and that the Lord in
Heaven owes me justice!”
She clenched her hands wildly, and rose to her feet.
Her steps tottered, and he sprang to her support.
“Mother,” he said, “let me help you to your room. I 'll
not speak of this again; I would n't have spoken to-night,
if I had mistrusted that it could give you trouble. Have
no fear that I can ever be impatient again; patience is
easy to me now!”
He spoke kindly and cheerfully, registering a vow in his
painful theme, until his mother's release (whatever it was
and whenever it might come) should open them.
But competent as he felt in that moment to bear the
delay cheerfully, and determined as he was to cast no additional
weight on his mother's heart, it was not so easy to
compose his thoughts, as he lay in the dusky, starlit bed-room
up-stairs. The events of the day, and their recent consequences,
had moved his strong nature to its very foundations.
A chaos of joy, wonder, doubt, and dread surged
through him. Over and over he recalled the sweet pressure
of Martha Deane's lip, the warm curve of her bosom,
the dainty, delicate firmness of her hand. Was this —
could this possession really be his? In his mother's mysterious
secret there lay an element of terror. He could
not guess why the revelation of his fortunate love should
agitate her so fearfully, unless — and the suspicion gave
him a shock — her history were in some way involved with
that of Martha Deane.
This thought haunted and perplexed him, continually
returning to disturb the memory of those holy moments in
the twilight dell, and to ruffle the bright current of joy
which seemed to gather up and sweep away with it all the
forces of his life. Any fate but to lose her, he said to
himself; let the shadow fall anywhere, except between
them! There would be other troubles, he foresaw, — the
opposition of her father; the rage and hostility of Alfred
Barton; possibly, when the story became known (as it
must be in the end), the ill-will or aversion of the neighborhood.
Against all these definite and positive evils, he
felt strong and tolerably courageous, but the Something
which evidently menaced him through his mother made
him shrink with a sense of cowardice.
Hand in hand with this dread he went into the world of
sleep. He stood upon the summit of the hill behind Falconer's
farm-house, and saw Martha beckoning to him from
and clasped hands through the intervening space; the hills
sank away, and they found themselves suddenly below, on
the banks of the creek. He threw his arms around her,
but she drew back, and then he saw that it was Betsy Lavender,
who said: “I am your father — did you never
guess it before?” Down the road came Dr. Deane and
his mother, walking arm in arm; their eyes were fixed on
him, but they did not speak. Then he heard Martha's
voice, saying: “Gilbert, why did you tell Alfred Barton?
Nobody must know that I am engaged to both of you.”
Betsy Lavender said: “He can only marry with my consent
— Mary Potter has nothing to do with it.” Martha
then came towards him smiling, and said: “I will not send
back your saddle-girth — see, I am wearing it as a belt!”
He took hold of the buckle and drew her nearer; she
began to weep, and they were suddenly standing side by
side, in a dark room, before his dead mother, in her coffin.
This dream, absurd and incoherent as it was, made a
strange impression upon Gilbert's mind. He was not superstitious,
but in spite of himself the idea became rooted
in his thoughts that the truth of his own parentage affected,
in some way, some member of the Deane family. He
taxed his memory in vain for words or incidents which
might help him to solve this doubt. Something told him
that his obligation to his mother involved the understanding
that he would not even attempt to discover her secret;
but he could not prevent his thoughts from wandering
around it, and making blind guesses as to the vulnerable
point.
Among these guesses came one which caused him to
shudder; he called it impossible, incredible, and resolutely
barred it from his mind. But with all his resolution, it
only seemed to wait at a little distance, as if constantly
seeking an opportunity to return. What if Dr. Deane
were his own father? In that case Martha would be his
not on him! There was ruin and despair in the supposition;
but, on the other hand, he asked himself why should
the fact of his love throw his mother into a swoon? Among
the healthy, strong-nerved people of Kennett such a thing
as a swoon was of the rarest occurrence, and it suggested
some terrible cause to Gilbert's mind. It was sometimes
hard for him to preserve his predetermined patient, cheerful
demeanor in his mother's presence, but he tried bravely,
and succeeded.
Although the harvest was well over, there was still much
work to do on the farm, in order that the month of October
might be appropriated to hauling, — the last time, Gilbert
hoped, that he should be obliged to resort to this source
of profit. Though the price of grain was sure to decline,
on account of the extraordinary harvest, the quantity would
make up for this deficiency. So far, his estimates had
been verified. A good portion of the money was already
on hand, and his coveted freedom from debt in the following
spring became now tolerably secure. His course, in
this respect, was in strict accordance with the cautious,
plodding, conscientious habits of the community in which
he lived. They were satisfied to advance steadily and
slowly, never establishing a new mark until the old one
had been reached.
Gilbert was impatient to see Martha again, not so much
for the delight of love, as from a sense of the duty which
he owed to her. His mother had not answered his question,
— possibly not even heard it, — and he did not dare
to approach her with it again. But so much as he knew
might be revealed to the wife of his heart; of that he was
sure. If she could but share his confidence in his mother's
words, and be equally patient to await the solution, it would
give their relation a new sweetness, an added sanctity and
trust.
He made an errand to Fairthorn's at the close of the
determined, in any case, to force an interview. The dread
he had trampled down still hung around him, and it seemed
that Martha's presence might dissipate it. Something, at
least, he might learn concerning Dr. Deane's family, and
here his thoughts at once reverted to Miss Betsy Lavender.
In her he had the true friend, the close mouth, the
brain crammed with family intelligence!
The Fairthorns were glad to see their “boy,” as the old
woman still called him. Joe and Jake threw their brown
legs over the barn-yard fence and clamored for a ride upon
Roger. “Only along the level, t'other side o' the big hill,
Gilbert!” said Joe, whereupon the two boys punched each
other in the sides and nearly smothered with wicked laughter.
Gilbert understood them; he shook his head, and
said: “You rascals, I think I see you doing that again!”
But he turned away his face, to conceal a smile at the
recollection.
It was, truly, a wicked trick. The boys had been in
the habit of taking the farm-horses out of the field and
riding them up and down the Unionville road. It was
their habit, as soon as they had climbed “the big hill,” to
use stick and voice with great energy, force the animals
into a gallop, and so dash along the level. Very soon, the
horses knew what was expected of them, and whenever
they came abreast of the great chestnut-tree on the top of
the hill, they would start off as if possessed. If any business
called Farmer Fairthorn to the Street Road, or up
Marlborough way, Joe and Jake, dancing with delight,
would dart around the barn, gain the wooded hollow, climb
the big hill behind the lime-kiln, and hide themselves
under the hedge, at the commencement of the level road.
Here they could watch their father, as his benign, unsuspecting
face came in sight, mounting the hill, either upon
the gray mare, Bonnie, or the brown gelding, Peter. As
the horse neared the chestnut-tree, they fairly shook with
of the old man, his frantic “Whoa, there, whoa!” his hat
soaring off on the wind, his short, stout body bouncing in
the saddle, as, half-unseated, he clung with one hand to
the mane and the other to the bridle! — while the wicked
boys, after breathlessly watching him out of sight, rolled
over and over on the grass, shrieking and yelling in a
perfect luxury of fun.
Then they knew that a test would come, and prepared
themselves to meet it. When, at dinner, Farmer Fairthorn
turned to his wife and said: “Mammy,” (so he always
addressed her) “I don't know what 's the matter with
Bonnie; why, she came nigh runnin' off with me!” — Joe,
being the oldest and boldest, would look up in well-affected
surprise, and ask, “Why, how, Daddy?” while Jake
would bend down his head and whimper, — “Somethin' 's
got into my eye.” Yet the boys were very good-hearted
fellows, at bottom, and we are sorry that we must chronicle
so many things to their discredit.
Sally Fairthorn met Gilbert in her usual impetuous
way. She was glad to see him, but she could not help
saying: “Well, have you got your tongue yet, Gilbert?
Why, you 're growing to be as queer as Dick's hat-band!
I don't know any more where to find you, or how to place
you; whatever is the matter?”
“Nothing, Sally,” he answered, with something of his
old playfulness, “nothing except that the pears were very
good. How 's Mark?”
“Mark!” she exclaimed with a very well assumed sneer.
“As if I kept an account of Mark's comings and goings!”
But she could not prevent an extra color from rising into
her face.
“I wish you did, Sally,” Gilbert gravely remarked.
“Mark is a fine fellow, and one of my best friends, and
he 'd be all the better, if a smart, sensible girl like yourself
would care a little for him.”
There was no answer to this, and Sally, with a hasty
“I 'll tell mother you 're here!” darted into the house.
Gilbert was careful not to ask many questions during his
visit; but Sally's rattling tongue supplied him with all he
would have been likely to learn, in any case. She had
found Martha at home the day before, and had talked about
him, Gilbert. Martha had n't noticed anything “queer”
in his manner, whereupon she, Sally, had said that Martha
was growing “queer” too; then Martha remarked that —
but here Sally found that she had been talking altogether
too fast, so she bit her tongue and blushed a little. The
most important piece of news, however, was that Miss Lavender
was then staying at Dr. Deane's.
On his way to the village, Gilbert chose the readiest and
simplest way of accomplishing his purpose. He would call
on Betsy Lavender, and ask her to arrange her time so
that she could visit his mother during his approaching absence
from home. Leaving his horse at the hitching-post
in front of the store, he walked boldly across the road and
knocked at Dr. Deane's door.
The Doctor was absent. Martha and Miss Lavender
were in the sitting-room, and a keen, sweet throb in his
blood responded to the voice that bade him enter.
“Gilbert Potter, I 'll be snaked!” exclaimed Miss Lavender,
jumping up with a start that overturned her footstool.
“Well, Gilbert!” and “Well, Martha!” were the only
words the lovers exchanged, on meeting, but their hands
were quick to clasp and loath to loose. Martha Deane was
too clear-headed to be often surprised by an impulse of the
heart, but when the latter experience came to her, she
never thought of doubting its justness. She had not been
fully, vitally aware of her love for Gilbert until the day
when he declared it, and now, in memory, the two circumstances
seemed to make but one fact. The warmth, the
beauty, the spiritual expansion which accompany love had
Proudly and cautiously as she would have guarded
her secret from an intrusive eye, just as frank, tender, and
brave was she to reveal every emotion of her heart to her
lover. She was thoroughly penetrated with the conviction
of his truth, of the integral nobility of his manhood; and
these, she felt, were the qualities her heart had unconsciously
craved. Her mind was made up inflexibly; it rejoiced
in his companionship, it trusted in his fidelity, and
if she considered conventional difficulties, it was only to
estimate how they could most speedily be overthrown.
Martha Deane was in advance of her age, — or, at least, of
the community in which she lived.
They could only exchange common-places, of course, in
Miss Lavender's presence; and perhaps they were not
aware of the gentle, affectionate way in which they spoke
of the weather and similar topics. Miss Lavender was;
her eyes opened widely, then nearly closed with an expression
of superhuman wisdom; she looked out of the window
and nodded to the lilac-bush, then exclaiming in desperate
awkwardness: “Goodness me, I must have a bit o'
sage!” made for the garden, with long strides.
Gilbert was too innocent to suspect the artifice — not so
Martha. But while she would have foiled the inference of
any other woman, she accepted Betsy's without the least
embarrassment, and took Gilbert's hand again in her own
before the door had fairly closed.
“O Martha!” he cried, “if I could but see you oftener
— but for a minute, every day! But there — I won't be
impatient. I 've thought of you ever since, and I ask myself,
the first thing when I wake, morning after morning, is
it really true?”
“And I say to myself, every morning, it is true,” she answered.
Her lovely blue eyes smiled upon him with a
blissful consent, so gentle and so perfect, that he would fain
have stood thus and spoken no word more.
“Martha,” he said, returning to the thought of his duty,
“I have something to say. You can hear it now. My
mother declares that I am her lawful son, born in wedlock
— she gave me her solemn word — but more than that she
will not allow me to ask, saying she 's bound for a time,
and something, I don't know what, must happen before she
can set herself right in the eyes of the world. I believe
her, Martha, and I want that you should believe her, for
her sake and for mine. I can't make things clear to you,
now, because they 're not clear to myself; only, what she
has declared is and must be true! I am not base-born,
and it 'll be made manifest, I 'm sure; the Lord will open
her mouth in his own good time — and until then, we must
wait! Will you wait with me?”
He spoke earnestly and hurriedly, and his communication
was so unexpected that she scarcely comprehended its
full import. But for his sake, she dared not hesitate to
answer.
“Can you ask it, Gilbert? Whatever your mother declares
to you, must be true; yet I scarcely understand it.”
“Nor can I! I 've wearied my brains, trying to guess
why she can't speak, and what it is that 'll give her the liberty
at last. I dare n't ask her more — she fainted dead
away, the last time.”
“Strange things sometimes happen in this world,” said
Martha, with a grave tenderness, laying her hand upon his
arm, “and this seems to be one of the strangest. I am
glad you have told me, Gilbert, — it will make so much
difference to you!”
“So it don't take you from me, Martha,” he groaned, in
a return of his terrible dread.
“Only Death can do that — and then but for a little
while.”
Here Miss Betsy Lavender made her appearance, but
without the sage.
“How far a body can see, Martha,” she exclaimed, “since
o' the road across the creek, and I seen your father ridin'
down the hill, as plain as could be!”
“Betsy,” said Gilbert, “I wanted to ask you about coming
down our way.”
“Our way. Did you? I see your horse hitched over at
the store. I 've an arrand, — sewin'-thread and pearl buttons,
— and so I 'll git my bonnet and you can tell me on
the way.”
The lovers said farewell, and Betsy Lavender accompanied
Gilbert, proposing to walk a little way with him and
get the articles on her return.
“Gilbert Potter,” she said, when they were out of sight
and ear-shot of the village, “I want you to know that I 've
got eyes in my head. I 'm a safe body, as you can see,
though it may n't seem the proper thing in me to say it,
but all other folks is n't, so look out!”
“Betsy!” he exclaimed, “you seem to know everything
about everybody — at least, you know what I am, perhaps
better than I do myself; now suppose I grant you 're right,
what do you think of it?”
“Think of it? Go 'long! — you know what you want
me to say, that there never was such a pair o' lovyers under
the firmament! Let my deeds prove what I think, say I
— for here 's a case where deeds is wanted!”
“You can help me, Betsy — you can help me now! Do
you know — can you guess — who was my father?”
“Good Lord!” was her surprised exclamation — “No, I
don't, and that 's the fact.”
“Who was Martha Deane's mother?”
“A Blake — Naomi, one o' the Birmingham Blakes,
and a nice woman she was, too. I was at her weddin', and
I helped nuss her when Martha was born.”
“Had Dr. Deane been married before?”
“Married before? Well — no!” Here Miss Betsy
seemed to be suddenly put upon her guard. “Not to that
Good lack, boy!” she cried, noticing a deadly paleness on
Gilbert's face — “a-h-h-h, I begin to understand now.
Look here, Gilbert! Git that nonsense out o' y'r head, jist
as soon as you can. There 's enough o' trouble ahead,
without borrowin' any more out o' y'r wanderin' wits. I
don't deny but what I was holdin' back somethin', but it 's
another thing as ever was. I 'll speak you clear o' your
misdoubtin's, if that 's y'r present bother. You don't feel
quite as much like a live corpse, now, I reckon, hey?”
“O, Betsy!” he said, “if you knew how I have been
perplexed, you would n't wonder at my fancies!”
“I can fancy all that, my boy,” she gently answered,
“and I 'll tell you another thing, Gilbert — your mother
has a heavy secret on her mind, and I rather guess it concerns
your father. No — don't look so eager-like — I don't
know it. All I do know is that you were born in Phildelphy.”
“In Philadelphia! I never heard that.”
“Well — it 's neither here nor there. I 've had my
hands too full to spy out other people's affairs, but many
a thing has come to me in a nateral way, or half-unbeknown.
You can't do better than leave all sich wild
guesses and misdoubtin's to me, that 's better able to handle
'em. Not that I 'm a-goin' to preach and declare anything
until I know the rights of it, whatever and wherever. Well,
as I was sayin' — for there 's Beulah Green comin' up the
road, and you must git your usual face onto you, though
Goodness knows, mine 's so crooked, I 've often said nothin'
short o' Death 'll ever make much change in it — but never
mind, I 'll go down a few days to your mother, when you 're
off, though I don't promise to do much, except, maybe,
cheer her up a bit; but we 'll see, and so remember me to
her, and good-bye!”
With these words and a sharp, bony wring of his hand,
Miss Betsy strode rapidly back to the village. It did not
against his secret fear, the detection of it had agitated her.
She had spoken hurriedly, and hastened away as if desiring
to avoid further questions. He could not banish the
suspicion that she knew something which might affect his
fortune; but she had not forbidden his love for Martha —
she had promised to help him, and that was a great consolation.
His cheerfulness, thenceforth, was not assumed,
and he rejoiced to see a very faint, shadowy reflection of it,
at times, in his mother's face.
| CHAPTER XIV.
DOUBTS AND SURMISES. The story of Kennett | |