University of Virginia Library

19. CHAPTER XIX.
THE HUSKING FROLIC.

Jake Fairthorn rushed into Dr. Deane's door with a
howl of terror.

“Cousin Martha! Betsy!” he cried; “he 's goin' to
shoot Gilbert!”

“None o' your tricks, boy!” Betsy Lavender exclaimed,
in her most savage tone, as she saw the paleness of Martha's
face. “I 'm up to 'em. Who 'd shoot Gilbert Potter?
Not Alf Barton, I 'll be bound; he 'd be afeard to
shoot even Sandy Flash!”

“It 's Sandy Flash, — he 's there! Gilbert shot his hat
off!” cried Jake.

“The Lord have mercy!” And the next minute Miss
Betsy found herself, she scarcely knew how, in the road.

Both had heard the shot, but supposed that it was some
volunteer discharging an old load from his musket; they
knew nothing of Sandy's visit to the Unicorn, and Jake's
announcement seemed simply incredible.

“O you wicked boy! What 'll become o' you?” cried
Miss Lavender, as she beheld Gilbert Potter approaching,
leading Roger by the bridle. But at the same instant she
saw, from the faces of the crowd, that something unusual
had happened. While the others instantly surrounded
Gilbert, the young volunteer who alone had made any
show of fight, told the story to the two ladies. Martha
Deane's momentary shock of terror disappeared under the
rush of mingled pride and scorn which the narrative called
up in her heart.

“What a pack of cowards!” she exclaimed, her cheeks
flushing, — “to stand still and see the life of the only man
that dares to face a robber at the mercy of the robber's
pistol!”

Gilbert approached. His face was grave and thoughtful,
but his eye brightened as it met hers. No two hands ever
conveyed so many and such swift messages as theirs, in the
single moment when they touched each other. The other
women of the village crowded around, and he was obliged,
though with evident reluctance, to relate his share in the
event.

In the mean time the volunteers had issued from the
tavern, and were loudly discussing what course to pursue.
The most of them were in favor of instant pursuit. To
their credit it must be said that very few of them were actual
cowards; they had been both surprised by the incredible
daring of the highwayman, and betrayed by the cowardly
inefficiency of their own leader. Barton, restored to
his usual complexion by two glasses of whiskey, was nearly
ready to head a chase which he suspected would come to
nothing; but the pert young volunteer, who had been
whispering with some of the younger men, suddenly cried
out, —

“I say, fellows, we 've had about enough o' Barton's command;
and I, for one, am a-goin' to enlist under Captain
Potter.”

“Good!” “Agreed!” responded a number of others,
and some eight or ten stepped to one side. The few remaining
around Alfred Barton began to look doubtful, and
all eyes were turned curiously upon him.

Gilbert, however, stepped forward and said: “It 's bad
policy to divide our forces just now, when we ought to be
off on the hunt. Mr. Barton, we all know, got up the company,
and I am willing to serve under him, if he 'll order
us to mount at once! If not, rather than lose more time,
I 'll head as many as are ready to go.”

Barton saw how the tide was turning, and suddenly determined
to cover up his shame, if possible, with a mantle
of magnanimity.

“The fellows are right, Gilbert!” he said. “You deserve
to take the lead to-day, so go ahead; I 'll follow you!”

“Mount, then, all of you!” Gilbert cried, without further
hesitation. In a second he was on Roger's back. “You,
Barton,” he ordered, “take three with you and make for the
New-Garden cross-road as fast as you can. Pratt, you and
three more towards the Hammer-and-Trowel; while I, with
the rest, follow the direct trail.”

No more time was wasted in talking. The men took
their guns and mounted, the two detached commands were
told off, and in five minutes the village was left to its own
inhabitants.

Gilbert had a long and perplexing chase, but very little
came of it. The trail of Sandy Flash's horse was followed
without much difficulty until it struck the west branch of
Redley Creek. There it suddenly ceased, and more than
an hour elapsed before some one discovered it, near the
road, a quarter of a mile further up the stream. Thence
it turned towards the Hammer-and-Trowel, but no one at
the farm-houses on the road had seen any one pass except
a Quaker, wearing the usual broad-brimmed hat and drab
coat, and mounted on a large, sleepy-looking horse.

About the middle of the afternoon, Gilbert detected, in
one of the lanes leading across to the Street Road, the
marks of a galloping steed, and those who had a little lingering
knowledge of wood-craft noticed that the gallop
often ceased suddenly, changed to a walk, and was then as
suddenly resumed. Along the Street Road no one had
been seen except a Quaker, apparently the same person.
Gilbert and his hunters now suspected the disguise, but the
difficulty of following the trail had increased with every
hour of lost time; and after scouring along the Brandywine
and then crossing into the Pocopsin valley, they finally

gave up the chase, late in the day. It was the general
opinion that Sandy had struck northward, and was probably
safe in one of his lairs among the Welch Mountains.

When they reached the Unicorn tavern at dusk, Gilbert
found Joe Fairthorn impatiently waiting for him. Sally
had been “tearin' around like mad,” (so Joe described his
sister's excitement,) having twice visited the village during
the afternoon in the hope of seeing the hero of the day —
after Sandy Flash, of course, who had, and deserved, the
first place.

“And, Gilbert,” said Joe, “I was n't to forgit to tell you
that we 're a-goin' to have a huskin' frolic o' Wednesday
night, — day after to-morrow, you know. Dad 's behind-hand
with huskin', and the moon 's goin' to be full, and
Mark he said Let 's have a frolic, and I 'm comin' home to
meet Gilbert anyhow, and so I 'll be there. And Sally she
said I 'll have Martha and lots o' girls, only we shan't come
out into the field till you 're nigh about done. Then Mark
he said That won't take long, and if you don't help me with
my shocks I won't come, and Sally she hit him, and so it 's
all agreed. And you 'll come, Gilbert, won't you?”

“Yes, yes, Joe,” Gilbert answered, a little impatiently;
“tell Sally I 'll come.” Then he turned Roger's head
towards home.

He was glad of the solitary ride which allowed him to
collect his thoughts. Fearless as was his nature, the danger
he had escaped might well have been cause for grave
self-congratulation; but the thought of it scarcely lingered
beyond the moment of the encounter. The astonishing
discovery that the stranger, Fortune, and the redoubtable
Sandy Flash were one and the same person; the mysterious
words which this person had addressed to him; the
repetition of the same words by Deb. Smith, — all these
facts, suggesting, as their common solution, some secret
which concerned himself, perplexed his mind, already more
than sufficiently occupied with mystery.

It suddenly flashed across his memory, as he rode homeward,
that on the evening when he returned from the fox-chase,
his mother had manifested an unusual interest in the
strange huntsman, questioning him minutely as to the latter's
appearance. Was she — or, rather, had she been, at
one time of her life — acquainted with Sandy Flash? And
if so —

“No!” he cried aloud, “it is impossible! It could not
— cannot be!” The new possibility which assailed him
was even more terrible than his previous belief in the dishonor
of his birth. Better, a thousand times, he thought,
be basely born than the son of an outlaw! It seemed that
every attempt he made to probe his mother's secret threatened
to overwhelm him with a knowledge far worse than
the fret of his ignorance. Why not be patient, therefore,
leaving the solution to her and to time?

Nevertheless, a burning curiosity led him to relate to his
mother, that evening, the events of the day. He watched
her closely as he described his encounter with the highwayman,
and repeated the latter's words. It was quite natural
that Mary Potter should shudder and turn pale during the
recital — quite natural that a quick expression of relief
should shine from her face at the close; but Gilbert could
not be sure that her interest extended to any one except
himself. She suggested no explanation of Sandy Flash's
words, and he asked none.

“I shall know no peace, child,” she said, “until the
money has been paid, and the mortgage is in your hands.”

“You won't have long to wait, now, mother,” he answered
cheerily. “I shall see Mark on Wednesday evening,
and therefore can start for Chester on Friday, come
rain or shine. As for Sandy Flash, he 's no doubt up on
the Welch Mountain by this time. It is n't his way to turn
up twice in succession, in the same place.”

“You don't know him, Gilbert. He won't soon forget
that you shot at him.”

“I seem to be safe enough, if he tells the truth,” Gilbert
could not help remarking.

Mary Potter shook her head, and said nothing.

Two more lovely Indian-summer days went by, and as
the wine-red sun slowly quenched his lower limb in the
denser smoke along the horizon, the great bronzed moon
struggled out of it, on the opposite rim of the sky. It was
a weird light and a weird atmosphere, such as we might
imagine overspreading Babylonian ruins, on the lone plains
of the Euphrates; but no such fancies either charmed or
tormented the lusty, wide-awake, practical lads and lasses,
whom the brightening moon beheld on their way to the
Fairthorn farm. “The best night for huskin' that ever
was,” comprised the sum of their appreciation.

At the old farm-house there was great stir of preparation.
Sally, with her gown pinned up, dodged in and out
of kitchen and sitting-room, catching herself on every
door-handle, while Mother Fairthorn, beaming with quiet
content, stood by the fire, and inspected the great kettles
which were to contain the materials for the midnight supper.
Both were relieved when Betsy Lavender made her
appearance, saying, —

“Let down your gownd, Sally, and give me that ladle.
What 'd be a mighty heap o' work for you, in that flustered
condition, is child's-play to the likes o' me, that 's as steady
as a cart-horse, — not that self-praise, as the sayin' is, is any
recommendation, — but my kickin' and prancin' days is over,
and high time, too.”

“No, Betsy, I 'll not allow it!” cried Sally. “You must
enjoy yourself, too.” But she had parted with the ladle,
while speaking, and Miss Lavender, repeating the words
“Enjoy yourself, too!” quietly took her place in the
kitchen.

The young men, as they arrived, took their way to the
corn-field, piloted by Joe and Jake Fairthorn. These boys
each carried a wallet over his shoulders, the jug in the front

end balancing that behind, and the only casualty that occurred
was when Jake, jumping down from a fence, allowed
his jugs to smite together, breaking one of them to shivers.

“There, that 'll come out o' your pig-money,” said Joe.

“I don't care,” Jake retorted, “if daddy only pays me
the rest.”

The boys, it must be known, received every year the two
smallest pigs of the old sow's litter, with the understanding
that these were to be their separate property, on condition
of their properly feeding and fostering the whole herd.
This duty they performed with great zeal and enthusiasm,
and numberless and splendid were the castles which they
built with the coming money; yet, alas! when the pigs
were sold, it always happened that Farmer Fairthorn found
some inconvenient debt pressing him, and the boys' pig-money
was therefore taken as a loan, — only as a loan, —
and permanently invested.

There were between three and four hundred shocks to
husk, and the young men, armed with husking-pegs of hickory,
fastened by a leathern strap over the two middle fingers,
went bravely to work. Mark Deane, who had reached
home that afternoon, wore the seventy-five dollars in a buckskin
belt around his waist, and anxiously awaited the arrival
of Gilbert Potter, of whose adventure he had already heard.
Mark's presumed obligations to Alfred Barton prevented
him from expressing his overpowering contempt for that
gentleman's conduct, but he was not obliged to hold his
tongue about Gilbert's pluck and decision, and he did not.

The latter, detained at the house by Mother Fairthorn
and Sally, — both of whom looked upon him as one arisen
from the dead, — did not reach the field until the others
had selected their rows, overturned the shocks, and were
seated in a rustling line, in the moonlight.

“Gilbert!” shouted Mark, “come here! I 've kep' the
row next to mine, for you! And I want to get a grip o'
your hand, my bold boy!”

He sprang up, flinging an armful of stalks behind him,
and with difficulty restrained an impulse to clasp Gilbert to
his broad breast. It was not the custom of the neighborhood;
the noblest masculine friendship would have been
described by the people in no other terms than “They are
very thick,” and men who loved each other were accustomed
to be satisfied with the knowledge. The strong
moonlight revealed to Gilbert Potter the honest heart
which looked out of Mark's blue eyes, as the latter held his
hand like a vice, and said, —

“I 've heard all about it.”

“More than there was occasion for, very likely,” Gilbert
replied. “I 'll tell you my story some day, Mark; but to-night
we must work and not talk.”

“All right, Gilbert. I say, though, I 've got the money
you wanted; we 'll fix the matter after supper.”

The rustling of the corn-stalks recommenced, and the
tented lines of shocks slowly fell as the huskers worked
their way over the brow of the hill, whence the ground
sloped down into a broad belt of shade, cast by the woods
in the bottom. Two or three dogs which had accompanied
their masters coursed about the field, or darted into the
woods in search of an opossum-trail. Joe and Jake Fairthorn
would gladly have followed them, but were afraid of
venturing into the mysterious gloom; so they amused
themselves with putting on the coats which the men had
thrown aside, and gravely marched up and down the line,
commending the rapid and threatening the tardy workers.

Erelong, the silence was broken by many a shout of exultation
or banter, many a merry sound of jest or fun, as
the back of the night's task was fairly broken. One husker
mimicked the hoot of an owl in the thickets below; another
sang a melody popular at the time, the refrain of
which was, —

“Sing out, boys!” shouted Mark, “so the girls can hear
you! It 's time they were comin' to look after us.”

“Sing, yourself!” some one replied. “You can out-bellow
the whole raft.”

Without more ado, Mark opened his mouth and began
chanting, in a ponderous voice, —

Presently, from the upper edge of the wood, several feminine
voices were heard, singing another part of the same
song: —

Such a shout of fun ran over the field, that the frighted
owl ceased his hooting in the thicket. The moon stood
high, and turned the night-haze into diffused silver. Though
the hollows were chill with gathering frost, the air was still
mild and dry on the hills, and the young ladies, in their
warm gowns of home-made flannel, enjoyed both the splendor
of the night and the lively emulation of the scattered
laborers.

“Turn to, and give us a lift, girls,” said Mark.

“Beware of meeting Rinar!” Sally laughed.

“Because you know what you promised him, Sally,” he
retorted. “Come, a bargain 's a bargain; there 's the outside
row standin' — not enough of us to stretch all the way
acrost the field — so let 's you and me take that and bring
it down square with th' others. The rest may keep my
row a-goin', if they can.”

Two or three of the other maidens had cut the supporting
stalks of the next shock, and overturned it with much
laughing. “I can't husk, Mark,” said Martha Deane, “but
I 'll promise to superintend these, if you will keep Sally to
her word.”

There was a little running hither and thither, a show of
fight, a mock scramble, and it ended by Sally tumbling
over a pumpkin, and then being carried off by Mark to the
end of the outside row of shocks, some distance in the rear
of the line of work. Here he laid the stalks straight for
her, doubled his coat and placed it on the ground for a
seat, and then took his place on the other side of the
shock.

Sally husked a few ears in silence, but presently found it
more agreeable to watch her partner, as he bent to the
labor, ripping the covering from each ear with one or two
rapid motions, snapping the cob, and flinging the ear over
his shoulder into the very centre of the heap, without turning
his head. When the shock was finished, there were
five stalks on her side, and fifty on Mark's.

He laughed at the extent of her help, but, seeing how
bright and beautiful her face looked in the moonlight, how
round and supple her form, contrasted with his own rough
proportions, he added, in a lower tone, —

“Never mind the work, Sally — I only wanted to have
you with me.”

Sally was silent, but happy, and Mark proceeded to overthrow
the next shock.

When they were again seated face to face, he no longer
bent so steadily over the stalks, but lifted his head now and
then to watch the gloss of the moon on her black hair, and
the mellow gleam that seemed to slide along her cheek and
chin, playing with the shadows, as she moved.

“Sally!” he said at last, “you must ha' seen, over and
over ag'in, that I like to be with you. Do you care for me,
at all?”

She flushed and trembled a little as she answered, —
“Yes, Mark, I do.”

He husked half a dozen ears rapidly, then looked up
again and asked, —

“Do you care enough for me, Sally, to take me for good

and all? I can't put it into fine speech, but I love you
dearly and honestly; will you marry me?”

Sally bent down her head, so choked with the long-delayed
joy that she found it impossible to speak. Mark finished
the few remaining stalks and put them behind him;
he sat upon the ground at her feet.

“There 's my hand, Sally; will you take it, and me with
it?”

Her hand slowly made its way into his broad, hard palm.
Once the surrender expressed, her confusion vanished; she
lifted her head for his kiss, then leaned it on his shoulder
and whispered, —

“Oh, Mark, I 've loved you for ever and ever so long a
time!”

“Why, Sally, deary,” said he, “that 's my case, too;
and I seemed to feel it in my bones that we was to be a
pair; only, you know, I had to get a foothold first. I
could n't come to you with empty hands — though, faith!
there 's not much to speak of in 'em!”

“Never mind that, Mark, — I 'm so glad you want me!”

And indeed she was; why should she not, therefore, say
so?

“There 's no need o' broken sixpences, or true-lovers'
knots, I guess,” said Mark, giving her another kiss. “I 'm
a plain-spoken fellow, and when I say I want you for my
wife, Sally, I mean it. But we must n't be settin' here,
with the row unhusked; that 'll never do. See if I don't
make the ears spin! And I guess you can help me a little
now, can't you?”

With a jolly laugh, Mark picked up the corn-cutter and
swung it above the next shock. In another instant it would
have fallen, but a loud shriek burst out from the bundled
stalks, and Joe Fairthorn crept forth on his hands and
knees.

The lovers stood petrified. “Why, you young devil!”
exclaimed Mark, while the single word “Joe!” which came

from Sally's lips, contained the concentrated essence of a
thousand slaps.

“Don't — don't!” whimpered Joe. “I 'll not tell anybody,
indeed I wont!”

“If you do,” threatened Mark, brandishing the corn-cutter,
“it is n't your legs I shall cut off, but your head, even
with the shoulders. What were you doin' in that shock?”

“I wanted to hear what you and Sally were sayin' to
each other. Folks said you two was a-courtin',” Joe answered.

The comical aspect of the matter suddenly struck Mark,
and he burst into a roar of laughter.

“Mark, how can you?” said Sally, bridling a little.

“Well, — it 's all in the fam'ly, after all. Joe, tarnation
scamp as he is, is long-headed enough to keep his mouth
shut, rather than have people laugh at his relations — eh,
Joe?”

“I said I 'd never say a word,” Joe affirmed, “and I
won't. You see if I even tell Jake. But I say, Mark,
when you and Sally get married, will you be my uncle?”

“It depends on your behavior,” Mark gravely answered,
seating himself to husk. Joe magnanimously left the
lovers, and pitched over the third shock ahead, upon which
he began to husk with might and main, in order to help
them out with their task.

By the time the outside row was squared, the line had
reached the bottom of the slope, where the air was chill,
although the shadows of the forest had shifted from the
field. Then there was a race among the huskers for the
fence, the girls promising that he whose row was first
husked out, should sit at the head of the table, and be
called King of the Corn-field. The stalks rustled, the cobs
snapped, the ears fell like a shower of golden cones, and
amid much noise and merriment, not only the victor's row
but all the others were finished, and Farmer Fairthorn's
field stood husked from end to end.

Gilbert Potter had done his share of the work steadily,
and as silently as the curiosity of the girls, still excited by
his recent adventure, would allow. It was enough for him
that he caught a chance word, now and then, from Martha.
The emulation of the race with which the husking closed
favored them, and he gladly lost a very fair chance of becoming
King of the Corn-field for the opportunity of asking
her to assist him in contriving a brief interview, on the
way to the house.

Where two work together to the same end, there is no
doubt about the result, especially as, in this case, the company
preferred returning through the wood instead of crossing
the open, high-fenced fields. When they found themselves
together, out of ear-shot of the others, Gilbert lost
no time in relating the particulars of his encounter with
Sandy Flash, the discovery he had made, and the mysterious
assurance of Deb. Smith.

Martha listened with the keenest interest. “It is very,
very strange,” she said, “and the strangest of all is that he
should be that man, Fortune. As for his words, I do not
find them so singular. He has certainly the grandest
courage, robber as he is, and he admires the same quality
in you; no doubt you made a favorable impression upon
him on the day of the fox-chase; and so, although you
are hunting him down, he will not injure you, if he can
help it. I find all that very natural, in a man of his
nature.”

“But Deb. Smith?” Gilbert asked.

“That,” said Martha, “is rather a curious coincidence,
but nothing more, I think. She is said to be a superstitious
creature, and if you have ever befriended her, — and
you may have done so, Gilbert, without your good heart
being aware of it, — she thinks that her spells, or charms,
or what not, will save you from harm. No, I was wrong;
it is not so very strange, except Fortune's intimacy with
Alfred Barton, which everybody was talking about at the
time.”

Gilbert drew a deep breath of relief. How the darkness
of his new fear vanished, in the light of Martha's calm,
sensible words! “How wonderfully you have guessed the
truth!” he cried. “So it is; Deb. Smith thinks she is beholden
to me for kind treatment; she blew upon my palm,
in a mysterious way, and said she would stand by me in
time of need! But that about Fortune puzzles me. I can
see that Barton is very shy of me since he thinks I 've
made the discovery.”

“We must ask Betsy Lavender's counsel, there,” said
Martha. “It is beyond my depth.”

The supper smoked upon the table when they reached
the farm-house. It had been well earned, and it was enjoyed,
both in a physical and a social sense, to the very extent
of the guests' capacities. The King sat at the head
of the table, and Gilbert Potter — forced into that position
by Mark — at the foot. Sally Fairthorn insisted on performing
her duty as handmaiden, although, as Betsy Lavender
again and again declared, her room was better than
her help. Sally's dark eyes fairly danced and sparkled;
her full, soft lips shone with a scarlet bloom; she laughed
with a wild, nervous joyousness, and yet rushed about
haunted with a fearful dread of suddenly bursting into
tears. Her ways were so well known, however, that a little
extra impulsiveness excited no surprise. Martha Deane
was the only person who discovered what had taken place.
As the girls were putting on their hats and cloaks in the
bed-room, Sally drew her into the passage, kissed her a
number of times with passionate vehemence, and then
darted off without saying a word.

Gilbert rode home through the splendid moonlight, in
the small hours of the morning, with a light heart, and
Mark's money-belt buckled around his waist.