University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.
MARTHA DEANE.

Little did Dr. Deane suspect the nature of the conversation
which had that morning been held in his daughter's
room, between herself and Betsy Lavender.

When the latter returned from her interview with Gilbert
Potter, the previous evening, she found the Doctor
already arrived. Mark came home at supper-time, and
the evening was so prolonged by his rattling tongue that
no room was left for any confidential talk with Martha,
although Miss Betsy felt that something ought to be said,
and it properly fell to her lot to broach the delicate subject.

After breakfast on Sunday morning, therefore, she
slipped up to Martha's room, on the transparent pretence
of looking again at a new dress, which had been
bought some days before. She held the stuff to the light,
turned it this way and that, and regarded it with an importance
altogether out of proportion to its value.

“It seems as if I could n't git the color rightly set in
my head,” she remarked; “'t a'n't quiet laylock, nor yit
vi'let, and there ought, by rights, to be quilled ribbon round
the neck, though the Doctor might consider it too gay;
but never mind, he 'd dress you in drab or slate if he
could, and I dunno, after all” —

“Betsy!” exclaimed Martha, with an impetuousness
quite unusual to her calm nature, “throw down the dress!
Why won't you speak of what is in your mind; don't you
see I 'm waiting for it?”

“You 're right, child!” Miss Betsy cried, flinging the
stuff to the farthest corner of the room; “I 'm an awkward
old fool, with all my exper'ence. Of course I seen
it with half a wink; there! don't be so trembly now. I
know how you feel, Martha; you would n't think it, but I
do. I can tell the real signs from the passin' fancies, and
if ever I see true-love in my born days, I see it in you,
child, and in him.”

Martha's face glowed in spite of herself. The recollection
of Gilbert's embrace in the dusky glen came to her,
already for the thousandth time, but warmer, sweeter at
each recurrence. She felt that her hand trembled in that
of the spinster, as they sat knee to knee, and that a tender
dew was creeping into her eyes; leaning forward, she laid
her face a moment on her friend's shoulder, and whispered,
—

“It is all very new and strange, Betsy; but I am happy.”

Miss Lavender did not answer immediately. With her
hand on Martha's soft, smooth hair, she was occupied in
twisting her arm so that the sleeve might catch and conceal
two troublesome tears which were at that moment
trickling down her nose. Besides, she was not at all sure
of her voice, until something like a dry crust of bread in
her throat had been forcibly swallowed down.

Martha, however, presently lifted her head with a firm,
courageous expression, though the rosy flush still suffused
her cheeks. “I 'm not as independent as people think,”
she said, “for I could n't help myself when the time came,
and I seem to belong to him, ever since.”

“Ever since. Of course you do!” remarked Miss Betsy,
with her head down and her hands busy at her high comb
and thin twist of hair; “every woman, savin' and exceptin'
myself, and no fault o' mine, must play Jill to somebody's
Jack; it 's man's way and the Lord's way, but worked out
with a mighty variety, though I say it, but why not, my
eyes bein' as good as anybody else's! Come now, you 're

lookin' again after your own brave fashion; and so, you 're
sure o' your heart, Martha?”

“Betsy, my heart speaks once and for all,” said Martha,
with kindling eyes.

“Once and for all. I knowed it — and so the Lord
help us! For here I smell wagon-loads o' trouble; and
if you were n't a girl to know her own mind and stick to it,
come weal, come woe, and he with a bull-dog's jaw that 'll
never let go, and I mean no runnin' of him down, but on
the contráry, quite the reverse, I 'd say to both, git over
it somehow for it won't be, and no matter if no use, it 's
my dooty, — well, it 's t'other way, and I 've got to give a
lift where I can, and pull this way, and shove that way,
and hold back everybody, maybe, and fit things to things,
and unfit other things, — Good Lord, child, you 've made
an awful job for me!”

Therewith Miss Betsy laughed, with a dry, crisp, cheerfulness
which quite covered up and concealed her forebodings.
Nothing pleased her better than to see realized in
life her own views of what ought to be, and the possibility
of becoming one of the shaping and regulating powers
to that end stirred her nature to its highest and most
joyous activity.

Martha Deane, equally brave, was more sanguine. The
joy of her expanding love foretold its fulfilment to her
heart. “I know, Betsy,” she said, “that father would not
hear of it now; but we are both young and can wait, at
least until I come into my property — ours, I ought to say,
for I think of it already as being as much Gilbert's as
mine. What other trouble can there be?”

“Is there none on his side, Martha?”

“His birth? Yes, there is — or was, though not to me
— never to me! I am so glad, for his sake, — but, Betsy,
perhaps you do not know” —

“If there 's anything I need to know, I 'll find it out,
soon or late. He 's worried, that I see, and no wonder,

poor boy! But as you say, there 's time enough, and my
single and solitary advice to both o' you, is, don't look at
one another before folks, if you can't keep your eyes from
blabbin'. Not a soul suspicions anything now, and if you
two 'll only fix it betwixt and between you to keep quiet,
and patient, and as forbearin' in showin' feelin' as people
that hate each other like snakes, why, who knows but
somethin' may turn up, all unexpected, to make the way
as smooth for ye as a pitch-pine plank!”

“Patient!” Martha murmured to herself. A bright
smile broke over her face, as she thought how sweet it would
be to match, as best a woman might, Gilbert's incomparable
patience and energy of purpose. The tender humility
of her love, so beautifully interwoven with the texture
of its pride and courage, filled her heart with a balmy softness
and peace. She was already prepared to lay her
firm, independent spirit at his feet, or exercise it only as
her new, eternal duty to him might require. Betsy Lavender's
warning could not ripple the bright surface of her
happiness; she knew that no one (hardly even Gilbert,
as yet) suspected that in her heart the love of a strong and
faithful and noble man outweighed all other gifts or consequences
of life — that, to keep it, she would give up
home, friends, father, the conventional respect of every
one she knew!

“Well, child!” exclaimed Miss Lavender, after a long
lapse of silence; “the words is said that can't be taken
back, accordin' to my views o' things, though, Goodness
knows, there 's enough and enough thinks different, and
you must abide by 'em; and what I think of it all I 'll tell
you when the end comes, not before, so don't ask me now;
but one thing more, there 's another sort of a gust brewin',
and goin' to break soon, if ever, and that is, Alf. Barton,
— though you won't believe it, — he 's after you in his
stupid way, and your father favors him. And my advice
is, hold him off as much as you please, but say nothin' o'
Gilbert!”

This warning made no particular impression upon Martha.
She playfully tapped Miss Betsy's high comb, and
said: “Now, if you are going to be so much worried about
me, I shall be sorry that you found it out.”

“Well I won't! — and now let me hook your gownd.”

Often, after that, however, did Martha detect Miss
Betsy's eyes fixed upon her with a look of wistful, tender
interest, and she knew, though the spinster would not say
it, that the latter was alive with sympathy, and happy in
the new confidence between them. With each day, her
own passion grew and deepened, until it seemed that the
true knowledge of love came after its confession. A sweet,
warm yearning for Gilbert's presence took its permanent
seat in her heart; not only his sterling manly qualities,
but his form, his face — the broad, square brow; the large,
sad, deep-set gray eyes; the firm, yet impassioned lips —
haunted her fancy. Slowly and almost unconsciously as
her affection had been developed, it now took the full
stature and wore the radiant form of her maiden dream
of love.

If Dr. Deane noticed the physical bloom and grace which
those days brought to his daughter, he was utterly innocent
of the true cause. Perhaps he imagined that his own eyes
were first fairly opened to her beauty by the prospect of
soon losing her. Certainly she had never seemed more
obedient and attractive. He had not forgotten his promise
to Alfred Barton; but no very convenient opportunity for
speaking to her on the subject occurred until the following
Sunday morning. Mark was not at home, and he rode
with her to Old Kennett Meeting.

As they reached the top of the long hill beyond the
creek, Martha reined in her horse to enjoy the pleasant
westward view over the fair September landscape. The
few houses of the village crowned the opposite hill; but on
this side the winding, wooded vale meandered away, to lose
itself among the swelling slopes of clover and stubble-field;

and beyond, over the blue level of Tuff kenamon, the oakwoods
of Avondale slept on the horizon. It was a landscape
such as one may see, in a more cultured form, on
the road from Warwick to Stratford. Every one in Kennett
enjoyed the view, but none so much as Martha Deane,
upon whom its harmonious, pastoral aspect exercised an
indescribable charm.

To the left, on the knoll below, rose the chimneys of the
Barton farm-house, over the round tops of the apple-trees,
and in the nearest field Mr. Alfred's Maryland cattle were
fattening on the second growth of clover.

“A nice place, Martha!” said Dr. Deane, with a wave
of his arm, and a whiff of sweet herbs.

“Here, in this first field, is the true place for the house,”
she answered, thinking only of the landscape beauty of the
farm.

“Does thee mean so?” the Doctor eagerly asked, deliberating
with himself how much of his plan it was safe to
reveal. “Thee may be right, and perhaps thee might
bring Alfred to thy way of thinking.”

She laughed. “It 's hardly worth the trouble.”

“I 've noticed, of late,” her father continued, “that Alfred
seems to set a good deal of store by thee. He visits
us pretty often.”

“Why, father!” she exclaimed, as they rode onward,
“it 's rather thee that attracts him, and cattle, and crops,
and the plans for catching Sandy Flash! He looks frightened
whenever I speak to him.”

“A little nervous, perhaps. Young men are often so, in
the company of young women, I 've observed.”

Martha laughed so cheerily that her father said to himself:
“Well, it does n't displease her, at any rate.” On the
other hand, is was possible that she might have failed to see
Barton in the light of a wooer, and therefore a further hint
would be required.

“Now that we happen to speak of him, Martha,” he said,

“I might as well tell thee that, in my judgment, he seems
to be drawn towards thee in the way of marriage. He
may be a little awkward in showing it, but that 's a common
case. When he was at our house, last First-day, he
spoke of thee frequently, and said that he would like to —
well, to see thee soon. I believe he intends coming up this
afternoon.”

Martha became grave, as Betsy Lavender's warning took
so suddenly a positive form. However, she had thought of
this contingency as a possible thing, and must prepare herself
to meet it with firmness.

“What does thee say?” the Doctor asked, after waiting
a few minutes for an answer.

“Father, I hope thee 's mistaken. Alfred Barton is not
overstocked with wit, I know, but he can hardly be that
foolish. He is almost as old as thee.”

She spoke quietly, but with that tone of decision which
Dr. Deane so well knew. He set his teeth and drew up
his under-lip to a grim pout. If there was to be resistance,
he thought, she would not find him so yielding as on
other points; but he would first try a middle course.

“Understand me, Martha,” he said; “I do not mean to
declare what Alfred Barton's sentiments really are, but
what, in my judgment, they might be. And thee had better
wait and learn, before setting thy mind either for or
against him. It 's hardly putting much value upon thyself,
to call him foolish.”

“It is a humiliation to me, if thee is right, father,” she
said.

“I don't see that. Many young women would be proud
of it. I 'll only say one thing, Martha; if he seeks thee,
and does speak his mind, do thee treat him kindly and respectfully.”

“Have I ever treated thy friends otherwise?” she asked.

“My friends! thee 's right — he is my friend.”

She made no reply, but her soul was already courageously

arming itself for battle. Her father's face was stern
and cold, and she saw, at once, that he was on the side of
the enemy. This struggle safely over, there would come
another and a severer one. It was well that she had given
herself time, setting the fulfilment of her love so far in advance.

Nothing more was said on this theme, either during the
ride to Old Kennett, or on the return. Martha's plan was
very simple: she would quietly wait until Alfred Barton
should declare his sentiments, and then reject him once
and forever. She would speak clearly, and finally; there
should be no possibility of misconception. It was not a
pleasant task; none but a vain and heartless woman would
be eager to assume it; and Martha Deane hoped that it
might be spared her.

But she, no less than her irresolute lover, (if we can apply
that word to Alfred Barton,) was an instrument in the
hands of an uncomfortable Fate. Soon after dinner a
hesitating knock was heard at the door, and Barton entered
with a more uneasy air than ever before. Erelong, Dr.
Deane affected to have an engagement with an invalid on
the New-Garden road; Betsy Lavender had gone to Fairthorn's
for the afternoon, and the two were alone.

For a few moments, Martha was tempted to follow her
father's example, and leave Alfred Barton to his own devices.
Then she reflected that this was a cowardly feeling;
it would only postpone her task. He had taken his seat,
as usual, in the very centre of the room; so she came forward
and seated herself at the front window, with her back
to the light, thus, woman-like, giving herself all the advantages
of position.

Having his large, heavy face before her, in full light, she
was at first a little surprised on finding that it expressed
not even the fond anxiety, much less the eagerness, of an
aspiring wooer. The hair and whiskers, it is true, were so
smoothly combed back that they made long lappets on

either side of his face; unusual care had been taken with
his cambric cravat and shirt-ruffles, and he wore his best
blue coat, which was entirely too warm for the season. In
strong contrast to this external preparation, were his restless
eyes which darted hither and thither in avoidance of
her gaze, the fidgety movements of his thick fingers, creeping
around buttons and in and out of button-holes, and
finally the silly, embarrassed half-smile which now and then
came to his mouth, and made the platitudes of his speech
almost idiotic.

Martha Deane felt her courage rise as she contemplated
this picture. In spite of the disgust which his gross physical
appearance, and the contempt which his awkward helplessness
inspired, she was conscious of a lurking sense of
amusement. Even a curiosity, which we cannot reprehend,
to know by what steps and in what manner he would come
to the declaration, began to steal into her mind, now that it
was evident her answer could not possibly wound any other
feeling than vanity.

In this mood, she left the burden of the conversation to
him. He might flounder, or be completely stalled, as
often as he pleased; it was no part of her business to help
him.

In about three minutes after she had taken her seat by
the window, he remarked, with a convulsive smile, —

“Apples are going to be good, this year.”

“Are they?” she said.

“Yes; do you like 'em? Most girls do.”

“I believe I do, — except Russets,” Martha replied, with
her hands clasped in her lap, and her eyes full upon his
face.

He twisted the smoothness out of one whisker, very
much disconcerted at her remark, because he could not
tell — he never could, when speaking with her — whether
or not she was making fun of him. But he could think of
nothing to say, except his own preferences in the matter of

apples, — a theme which he pursued until Martha was very
tired of it.

He next asked after Mark Deane, expressing at great
length his favorable opinion of the young carpenter, and
relating what pains he had taken to procure for him the
building of Hallowell's barn. But to each observation
Martha made the briefest possible replies, so that in a short
time he was forced to start another topic.

Nearly an hour had passed, and Martha's sense of the
humorous had long since vanished under the dreary monotony
of the conversation, when Alfred Barton seemed to
have come to a desperate resolution to end his embarrassment.
Grasping his knees with both hands, and dropping
his head forward so that the arrows of her eyes might
glance from his fat forehead, he said, —

“I suppose you know why I come here to-day, Miss
Martha?”

All her powers were awake and alert in a moment. She
scrutinized his face keenly, and, although his eyes were hidden,
there were lines enough visible, especially about the
mouth, to show that the bitter predominated over the sweet,
in his emotions.

“To see my father, was n't it? I 'm sorry he was obliged
to leave home,” she answered.

“No, Miss Martha, I come to see you. I have something
to say to you, and I 'm sure you know what I mean
by this time, don't you?”

“No. How should I?” she coolly replied. It was not
true; but the truest-hearted woman that ever lived could
have given no other answer.

Alfred Barton felt the sensation of a groan pass through
him, and it very nearly came out of his mouth. Then he
pushed on, in a last wild effort to perform the remainder of
his exacted task in one piece:

“I want you to be — to be — my — wife! That is, my
father and yours are agreed about it, and they think I ought

to speak to you. I 'm a good deal older, and — and perhaps
you might n't fancy me in all things, but they say it 'll
make little difference; and if you have n't thought about
it much, why, there 's no hurry as to making up your mind.
I 've told you now, and to be sure you ought to know, while
the old folks are trying to arrange property matters, and
it 's my place, like, to speak to you first.”

Here he paused; his face was very red, and the perspiration
was oozing in great drops from every pore. He
drew forth the huge red silk handkerchief, and mopped
his cheeks, his nose, and his forehead; then lifted his
head and stole a quick glance at Martha. Something in
his face puzzled her, and yet a sudden presentiment of his
true state of feeling flashed across her mind. She still
sat, looking steadily at him, and for a few moments did not
speak.

“Well?” he stammered.

“Alfred Barton,” she said, “I must ask you one question;
do you love me?”

He seemed to feel a sharp sting. The muscles of his
mouth twitched; he bit his lip, sank his head again, and
murmured, —

“Y-yes.”

“He does not,” she said to herself. “I am spared this
humiliation. It is a mean, low nature, and fears mine —
fears, and would soon hate. He shall not see even so much
of me as would be revealed by a frank, respectful rejection.
I must punish him a little for the deceit, and I now see how
to do it.”

While these thoughts passed rapidly through her brain,
she waited until he should again venture to meet her eye.
When he lifted his head, she exclaimed, —

“You have told an untruth! Don't turn your head
away; look me in the face, and hear me tell you that you
do not love me — that you have not come to me of your
own desire, and that you would rather ten thousand times

I should say No, if it were not for a little property of mine!
But suppose I, too, were of a similar nature; suppose I
cared not for what is called love, but only for money and
lands such as you will inherit; suppose I found the plans
of my father and your father very shrewd and reasonable,
and were disposed to enter into them — what then?”

Alfred Barton was surprised out of the last remnant of
his hypocrisy. His face, so red up to this moment, suddenly
became sallow; his chin dropped, and an expression
of amazement and fright came into the eyes fixed on
Martha's.

The game she was playing assumed a deeper interest;
here was something which she could not yet fathom. She
saw what influence had driven him to her, against his inclination,
but his motive for seeming to obey, while dreading
success, was a puzzle. Singularly enough, a slight feeling
of commiseration began to soften her previous contempt,
and hastened her final answer.

“I see that these suppositions would not please you,”
she said, “and thank you for the fact. Your face is more
candid than your speech. I am now ready to say, Alfred
Barton, — because I am sure the knowledge will be agreeable
to you, — that no lands, no money, no command of
my father, no degree of want, or misery, or disgrace, could
ever make me your wife!”

She had risen from her chair while speaking, and he also
started to his feet. Her words, though such an astounding
relief in one sense, had nevertheless given him pain; there
was a sting in them which cruelly galled his self-conceit.
It was enough to be rejected; she need not have put an
eternal gulf between their natures.

“Well,” said he, sliding the rim of his beaver backwards
and forwards between his fingers, “I suppose I 'll have to
be going. You 're very plain-spoken, as I might ha'
known. I doubt whether we two would make a good team,
and no offence to you, Miss Martha. Only, it 'll be a mortal

disappointment to the old man, and — look here, it a'n't
worth while to say anything about it, is it?”

Alfred Barton was strongly tempted to betray the secret
reason which Martha had not yet discovered. After the
strong words he had taken from her, she owed him a kindness,
he thought; if she would only allow the impression
that the matter was still undecided — that more time
(which a coy young maiden might reasonably demand) had
been granted! On the other hand, he feared that her
clear, firm integrity of character would be repelled by the
nature of his motive. He was beginning to feel, greatly to
his own surprise, a profound respect for her.

“If my father questions me about your visit,” she said,
“I shall tell him simply that I have declined your offer.
No one else is likely to ask me.”

“I don't deny,” he continued, still lingering near the
door, “that I 've been urged by my father — yours, too, for
that matter — to make the offer. But I don't want you to
think hard of me. I 've not had an easy time of it, and
if you knew everything, you 'd see that a good deal is n't
rightly to be laid to my account.”

He spoke sadly, and so genuine a stamp of unhappiness
was impressed upon his face, that Martha's feeling of commiseration
rose to the surface.

“You 'll speak to me, when we happen to meet?” he
said.

“If I did not,” she answered, “every one would suspect
that something had occurred. That would be unpleasant
for both of us. Do not think that I shall bear malice
against you; on the contrary, I wish you well.”

He stooped, kissed her hand, and then swiftly, silently,
and with averted head, left the room.