 | CHAPTER XVII.
CONSULTATIONS. The story of Kennett |  |
17. CHAPTER XVII.
CONSULTATIONS.
When Dr. Deane returned home, in season for supper,
he found Martha and Betsy Lavender employed about
their little household matters. The former showed no
lack of cheerfulness or composure, nor, on the other hand,
any such nervous unrest as would be natural to a maiden
whose hand had just been asked in marriage. The Doctor
could not at all guess, from her demeanor, whether anything
had happened during his absence. That Alfred
Barton had not remained was rather an unfavorable circumstance;
but then, possibly, he had not found courage
to speak. All things being considered, it seemed best
that he should say nothing to Martha, until he had had
another interview with his prospective son-in-law.
At this time Gilbert Potter, in ignorance of the cunning
plans which were laid by the old men, was working early
and late to accomplish all necessary farm-labor by the
first of October. That month he had resolved to devote
to the road between Columbia and Newport, and if but
average success attended his hauling, the earnings of six
round trips, with the result of his bountiful harvest, would
at last place in his hands the sum necessary to defray the
remaining debt upon the farm. His next year's wheat-crop
was already sowed, the seed-clover cut, and the fortnight
which still intervened was to be devoted to threshing. In
this emergency, as at reaping-time, when it was difficult to
obtain extra hands, he depended on Deb. Smith, and she
did not fail him.
Her principal home, when she was not employed on
farm-work, was a log-hut, on the edge of a wood, belonging
to the next farm north of Fairthorn's. This farm —
the “Woodrow property,” as it was called — had been
stripped of its stock and otherwise pillaged by the British
troops, (Howe and Cornwallis having had their headquarters
at Kennett Square), the day previous to the Battle of
Brandywine, and the proprietor had never since recovered
from his losses. The place presented a ruined and desolated
appearance, and Deb. Smith, for that reason perhaps,
had settled herself in the original log-cabin of the first
settler, beside a swampy bit of ground, near the road. The
Woodrow farm-house was on a ridge beyond the wood,
and no other dwelling was in sight.
The mysterious manner of life of this woman had no
doubt given rise to the bad name which she bore in the
neighborhood. She would often disappear for a week or
two at a time, and her return seemed to take place invariably
in the night. Sometimes a belated farmer would
see the single front window of her cabin lighted at midnight,
and hear the dulled sound of voices in the stillness.
But no one cared to play the spy upon her movements
very closely; her great strength and fierce, reckless temper
made her dangerous, and her hostility would have
been worse than the itching of ungratified curiosity. So
they let her alone, taking their revenge in the character
they ascribed to her, and the epithets they attached to her
name.
When Gilbert, after hitching his horse in a corner of the
zigzag picket-fence, climbed over and approached the
cabin, Deb. Smith issued from it to meet him, closing the
heavy plank door carefully behind her.
“So, Mr. Gilbert!” she cried, stretching out her hard,
red hand, “I reckon you want me ag'in. I 've been holdin
off from many jobs o' thrashin', this week, because I suspicioned
ye 'd be comin' for me.”
“Thank you, Deborah!” said he, “you 're a friend in
need.”
“Am I? There you speak the truth. Wait till you
see me thump the Devil's tattoo with my old flail on your
thrashin'-floor! But you look as cheery as an Eastermornin'
sun; you 've not much for to complain of, these
days, I guess?”
Gilbert smiled.
“Take care!” she cried, a kindly softness spreading
over her rough face, “good luck 's deceitful! If I had the
strands o' your fortin' in my hands, may be I would n't twist
'em even; but I ha'n't, and my fingers is too thick to manage
anything smaller 'n a rope-knot. You 're goin'? Well,
look out for me bright and early o' Monday, and my sarvice
to your mother!”
As he rode over the second hill, on his way to the village,
Gilbert's heart leaped, as he beheld Betsy Lavender
just turning into Fairthorn's gate. Except his mother,
she was the only person who knew of his love, and he had
great need of her kind and cautious assistance.
He had not allowed his heart simply to revel in the
ecstasy of its wonderful fortune, or to yearn with inexpressible
warmth for Martha's dearest presence, though these
emotions haunted him constantly; he had also endeavored
to survey the position in which he stood, and to choose
the course which would fulfil both his duty towards her
and towards his mother. His coming independence would
have made the prospect hopefully bright, but for the secret
which lay across it like a threatening shadow. Betsy Lavender's
assurances had only partially allayed his dread;
something hasty and uncertain in her manner still lingered
uneasily in his memory, and he felt sure that she knew
more than she was willing to tell. Moreover, he craved
with all the strength of his heart for another interview
with Martha, and he knew of no way to obtain it without
Betsy's help.
Her hand was on the gate-latch when his call reached
her ears. Looking up the road, she saw that he had
stopped his horse between the high, bushy banks, and was
beckoning earnestly. Darting a hasty glance at the ivy-draped
windows nearest the road, and finding that she was
not observed, she hurried to meet him.
“Betsy,” he whispered, “I must see Martha again before
I leave, and you must tell me how.”
“Tell me how. Folks say that lovyers' wits are sharp,”
said she, “but I would n't give much for either o' your'n.
I don't like underhanded goin's-on, for my part, for things
done in darkness 'll come to light, or somethin' like it;
but never mind, if they 're crooked everyway they won't
run in straight tracks, all 't once't. This I see, and you
see, and she sees, that we must all keep as dark as sin.”
“But there must be some way,” Gilbert insisted. “Do
you never walk out together? And could n't we arrange
a time — you, too, Betsy, I want you as well!”
“I 'm afeard I 'd be like the fifth wheel to a wagon.”
“No, no! You must be there — you must hear a good
part of what I have to say.”
“A good part — that 'll do; thought you did n't mean
the whole. Don't fret so, lad; you 'll have Roger trampin'
me down, next thing. Martha and me talk o' walkin'
over to Polly Withers's. She promised Martha a pa'tridge-breasted
aloe, and they say you 've got to plant it in pewter
sand, and only water it once't a month, and how it can
grow I can't see; but never mind, all the same — s'pose
we say Friday afternoon about three o'clock, goin' through
the big woods between the Square and Witherses, and you
might have a gun, for the squirls is plenty, and so accidental-like,
if anybody should come along” —
“That 's it, Betsy!” Gilbert cried, his face flashing,
“thank you, a thousand times!”
“A thousand times,” she repeated. “Once't is enough.”
Gilbert rode homewards, after a pleasant call at Fairthorn's,
with his mother on the one subject which filled his heart,
he showed her the calculations which positively assured
his independence in a short time. She was never weary
of going over the figures, and although her sad, cautious
nature always led her to anticipate disappointments, there
was now so much already in hand that she was forced to
share her son's sanguine views. Gilbert could not help
noticing that this idea of independence, for which she had
labored so strenuously, seemed to be regarded, in her
mind, as the first step towards her mysterious and long-delayed
justification; she was so impatient for its accomplishment,
her sad brow lightened so, her breath came so
much freer as she admitted that his calculations were correct!
Nevertheless, as he frequently referred to the matter,
on the following days, she at last said, —
“Please, Gilbert, don't always talk so certainly of what
is n't over and settled! It makes me fearsome, so to take
Providence for granted beforehand. I don't think the
Lord likes it, for I 've often noticed that it brings disappointment;
and I 'd rather be humble and submissive in
heart, the better to deserve our good fortune when it
comes.”
“You may be right, mother,” he answered; “but it 's
pleasant to me to see you looking a little more hopeful.”
“Ay, lad, I 'd never look otherwise, for your sake, if I
could.” And nothing more was said.
Before sunrise on Monday morning, the rapid, alternate
beats of three flails, on Gilbert's threshing-floor, made the
autumnal music which the farmer loves to hear. Two of
these — Gilbert's and Sam's — kept time with each other,
one falling as the other rose; but the third, quick, loud,
and filling all the pauses with thundering taps, was wielded
by the arm of Deb. Smith. Day by day, the pile of wheat-sheaves
lessened in the great bay, and the cone of golden
behind the barn-door, needed frequent replenishing, Gilbert
knew that the strength of its contents passed into the
red, bare, muscular arms which shamed his own, and that
Deb., while she was under his roof, would allow herself no
coarse excess, either of manner or speech. The fierce,
defiant look left her face, and when she sat, of an evening,
with her pipe in the chimney-corner, both mother and son
found her very entertaining company. In Sam she inspired
at once admiration and despair. She could take
him by the slack of the waist-band and lift him at arm's-length,
and he felt that he should never be “a full hand,”
if he were obliged to equal her performances with the flail.
Thus, his arm keeping time to the rhythm of joy in his
heart, and tasting the satisfaction of labor as never before
in his life, the days passed to Gilbert Potter. Then came
the important Friday, hazy with “the smoke of burning
summer,” and softly colored with the drifts of golden-rods
and crimson sumac leaves along the edges of the yet green
forests. Easily feigning an errand to the village, he
walked rapidly up the road in the warm afternoon, taking
the cross-road to New-Garden just before reaching Hallowell's,
and then struck to the right across the fields.
After passing the crest of the hill, the land sloped gradually
down to the eastern end of Tuffkenamon valley,
which terminates at the ridge upon which Kennett Square
stands. Below him, on the right, lay the field and hedge,
across which he and Fortune (he wondered what had become
of the man) had followed the chase; and before him,
on the level, rose the stately trees of the wood which was
to be his trysting-place. It was a sweet, peaceful scene,
and but for the under-current of trouble upon which all his
sensations floated, he could have recognized the beauty and
the bliss of human life, which such golden days suggest.
It was scarcely yet two o'clock, and he watched the
smooth field nearest the village for full three-quarters of an
upon its surface. To impatience succeeded doubt, to doubt,
at its most cruel height, a shock of certainty. Betsy Lavender
and Martha Deane had entered the field at the bottom,
and, concealed behind the hedge of black-thorn, had
walked half-way to the wood before he discovered them, by
means of a lucky break in the hedge. With breathless
haste he descended the slope, entered the wood at its lower
edge, and traversed the tangled thickets of dogwood and
haw, until he gained the foot-path, winding through the
very heart of the shade.
It was not many minutes before the two advancing forms
glimmered among the leaves. As he sprang forward to
meet them, Miss Betsy Lavender suddenly exclaimed, —
“Well, I never, Martha! here 's wintergreen!” and was
down on her knees, on the dead leaves, with her long nose
nearly touching the plants.
When the lovers saw each other's eyes, one impulse
drew them heart to heart. Each felt the clasp of the
other's arms, and the sweetness of that perfect kiss, which
is mutually given, as mutually taken, — the ripe fruit of
love, which having once tasted, all its first timid tokens
seem ever afterwards immature and unsatisfactory. The
hearts of both had unconsciously grown in warmth, in
grace and tenderness; and they now felt, for the first time,
the utter, reciprocal surrender of their natures which truly
gave them to each other.
As they slowly unwound the blissful embrace, and, holding
each other's hands, drew their faces apart until either's
eyes could receive the other's beloved countenance, no
words were spoken, — and none were needed. Thenceforward,
neither would ever say to the other, — “Do you love
me as well as ever?” or “Are you sure you can never
change?” — for theirs were natures to which such tender
doubt and curiosity were foreign. It was not the age of
introversion or analytical love; they were sound, simple,
which had come to them.
“Gilbert,” said Martha, presently, “it was right that we
should meet before you leave home. I have much to tell
you — for now you must know everything that concerns
me; it is your right.”
Her words were very grateful. To hear her say “It is
your right,” sent a thrill of purely unselfish pride through
his breast. He admitted an equal right, on her part; the
moments were precious, and he hastened to answer her
declaration by one as frank and confiding.
“And I,” he said, “could not take another step until I
had seen you. Do not fear, Martha, to test my patience
or my faith in you, for anything you may put upon me will
be easy to bear. I have turned our love over and over in
my mind; tried to look at it — as we both must, sooner or
later — as something which, though it don't in any wise
belong to others, yet with which others have the power to
interfere. The world is n't made quite right, Martha, and
we 're living in it.”
Martha's lip took a firmer curve. “Our love is right,
Gilbert,” she exclaimed, “and the world must give way!”
“It must — I 've sworn it! Now let us try to see what
are the mountains in our path, and how we can best get
around or over them. First, this is my position.”
Thereupon Gilbert clearly and rapidly explained to her
his precise situation. He set forth his favorable prospects
of speedy independence, the obstacle which his mother's
secret threw in their way, and his inability to guess any
means which might unravel the mystery, and hasten his
and her deliverance. The disgrace once removed, he
thought, all other impediments to their union would be of
trifling importance.
“I see all that clearly,” said Martha, when he had finished;
“now, this is my position.”
She told him frankly her father's plans concerning her,
of Alfred Barton's interview. At first his face grew dark,
but at the close he was able to view the subject in its true
character, and to contemplate it with as careless a merriment
as her own.
“You see, Gilbert,” were Martha's final words, “how we
are situated. If I marry, against my father's consent, before
I am twenty-five” —
“Don't speak of your property, Martha!” he cried; “I
never took that into mind!”
“I know you did n't, Gilbert, but I do! It is mine, and
must be mine, to be yours; here you must let me have my
own way — I will obey you in everything else. Four years
is not long for us to wait, having faith in each other; and
in that time, I doubt not, your mother's secret will be revealed.
You cannot, must not, press her further; in the
meantime we will see each other as often as possible” —
“Four years!” Gilbert interrupted, in a tone almost of
despair.
“Well — not quite,” said Martha, smiling archly; “since
you must know my exact age, Gilbert, I was twenty-one on
the second of last February; so that the time is really three
years, four months, and eleven days.”
“I 'd serve seven years, as Jacob served, if need be,” he
said. “It 's not alone the waiting; it 's the anxiety, the
uncertainty, the terrible fear of that which I don't know.
I 'm sure that Betsy Lavender guesses something about it;
have you told her what my mother says?”
“It was your secret, Gilbert.”
“I did n't think,” he answered, softly. “But it 's well
she should know. She is the best friend we have. Betsy!”
“A mortal long time afore I 'm wanted!” exclaimed
Miss Lavender, with assumed grimness, as she obeyed the
call. “I s'pose you thought there was no watch needed,
and both ends o' the path open to all the world. Well —
what am I to do? — move mountains like a grain o' mustardseed
or ketch old birds with chaff, eh?”
Gilbert, aware that she was familiar with the particular
difficulties on Martha's side, now made her acquainted with
his own. At the mention of his mother's declaration in
regard to his birth, she lifted her hands and nodded her
head, listening, thenceforth to the end, with half-closed
eyes and her loose lips drawn up in a curious pucker.
“What do you think of it?” he asked, as she remained
silent.
“Think of it? About as pretty a snarl as ever I see. I
can't say as I 'm so over and above taken aback by what
your mother says. I 've all along had a hankerin' suspicion
of it in my bones. Some things seems to me like
the smell o' water-melons, that I 've knowed to come with
fresh snow; you know there is no water-melons, but then,
there 's the smell of 'em! But it won't do to hurry a matter
o' this kind — long-sufferin' and slow to anger, though
that don't quite suit, but never mind, all the same — my
opinion is, ye 've both o' ye got to wait!”
“Betsy, do you know nothing about it? Can you guess
nothing?” Gilbert persisted.
She stole a quick glance at Martha, which he detected,
and a chill ran through his blood. His face grew pale.
“Nothin' that fits your case,” said Miss Lavender, presently.
She saw the renewal of Gilbert's suspicion, and
was casting about in her mind how to allay it without indicating
something else which she wished to conceal. “This
I 'll say,” she exclaimed at last, with desperate frankness,
“that I do know somethin' that may be o' use, when things
comes to the wust, as I hope they won't, but it 's neither
here nor there so far as you two are concerned; so don't
ask me, for I won't tell, and if it 's to be done, I 'm the only
one to do it! if I 've got my little secrets, I 'm keepin'
'em in your interest, remember that!”
There was the glimmer of a tear in each of Miss Lavender's
eyes before she knew it.
“Betsy, my dear friend!” cried Gilbert, “we know you
and trust you. Only say this, for my sake — that you think
my mother's secret is nothing which will part Martha and
me!”
“Martha and me. I do think so — am I a dragon, or a
— what 's that Job talks about? — a behemoth? It 's no
use; we must all wait and see what 'll turn up. But, Martha,
I 've rather a bright thought, for a wonder; what if we
could bring Alf. Barton into the plot, and git him to help
us for the sake o' his bein' helped?”
Martha looked surprised, but Gilbert flushed up to the
roots of his hair, and set his lips firmly together.
“I dunno as it 'll do,” continued Miss Betsy, with perfect
indifference to these signs, “but then it might. First and
foremost, we must try to find out what he wants, for it is n't
you, Martha; so you, Gilbert, might as well be a little more
of a cowcumber than you are at this present moment. But
if it 's nothin' ag'inst the law, and not likely, for he 's too
cute, we might even use a vessel — well, not exackly o'
wrath, but somethin' like it. There 's more 'n one concern
at work in all this, it strikes me, and it 's wuth while to
know 'em all.”
Gilbert was ashamed of his sensitiveness in regard to
Barton, especially after Martha's frank and merry confession;
so he declared himself entirely willing to abide by her
judgment.
“It would not be pleasant to have Alfred Barton associated
with us, even in the way of help,” she said. “I
have a woman's curiosity to know what he means, I confess;
but, unless Betsy could make the discovery without me, I
would not take any steps towards it.”
“Much would be fittin' to me, child,” said Miss Lavender,
“that would n't pass for you, at all. We 've got six
weeks till Gilbert comes back, and no need o' hurry, except
our arrand to Polly Withers's, which 'll come to nothin',
unless you each take leave of other mighty quick, while
I 'm lookin' for some more wintergreen.”
With these words she turned short around and strode
away.
“It had best be our own secret yet, Martha?” he asked.
“Yes, Gilbert, and all the more precious.”
They clasped hands and kissed, once, twice, thrice, and
then the underwood slowly deepened between them, and
the shadows of the forest separated them from each other.
| CHAPTER XVII.
CONSULTATIONS. The story of Kennett | |