 | CHAPTER XXII.
MARTHA DEANE TAKES A RESOLUTION. The story of Kennett |  |
22. CHAPTER XXII.
MARTHA DEANE TAKES A RESOLUTION.
Mary Potter had scarcely slept during the night of
her son's absence. A painful unrest, such as she never
remembered to have felt before, took complete possession
of her. Whenever the monotony of the drenching rain
outside lulled her into slumber for a few minutes, she
was sure to start up in bed with a vague, singular impression
that some one had called her name. After midnight,
when the storm fell, the shrill wailing of the rising wind
seemed to forebode disaster. Although she believed Gilbert
to be safely housed in Chester, the fact constantly
slipped from her memory, and she shuddered at every
change in the wild weather as if he were really exposed
to it.
The next day, she counted the hours with a feverish
impatience. It seemed like tempting Providence, but she
determined to surprise her son with a supper of unusual
luxury for their simple habits, after so important and so
toilsome a journey. Sam had killed a fowl; it was picked
and dressed, but she had not courage to put it into the
pot, until the fortune of the day had been assured.
Towards sunset she saw, through the back - kitchen-window,
a horseman approaching from the direction of
Carson's. It seemed to be Roger, but could that rider,
in the faded brown cloak, be Gilbert? His cloak was
blue; he always rode with his head erect, not hanging
like this man's, whose features she could not see. Opposite
the house, he lifted his head — it was Gilbert, but
how old and haggard was his face!
She met him at the gate. His cheeks were suddenly
flushed, his eyes bright, and the smile with which he looked
at her seemed to be joyous; yet it gave her a sense of pain
and terror.
“Oh, Gilbert!” she cried; “what has happened?”
He slid slowly and wearily off the horse, whose neck he
fondled a moment before answering her.
“Mother,” he said at last, “you have to thank Roger
that I am here to-night. I have come back to you from
the gates of death; will you be satisfied with that for
a while?”
“I don't understand you, my boy! You frighten me;
have n't you been at Chester?”
“No,” he answered, “there was no use of going.”
A presentiment of the truth came to her, but before she
could question him further, he spoke again.
“Mother, let us go into the house. I 'm cold and tired;
I want to sit in your old rocking-chair, where I can rest
my head. Then I 'll tell you everything; I wish I had an
easier task!”
She noticed that his steps were weak and slow, felt that
his hands were like ice, and saw his blue lips and chattering
teeth. She removed the strange cloak, placed her
chair in front of the fire, seated him in it, and then knelt
upon the floor to draw off his stiff, sodden top-boots. He
was passive as a child in her hands. Her care for him
overcame all other dread, and not until she had placed his
feet upon a stool, in the full warmth of the blaze, given
him a glass of hot wine and lavender, and placed a pillow
under his head, did she sit down at his side to hear the
story.
“I thought of this, last night,” he said, with a faint smile;
“not that I ever expected to see it. The man was right;
it 's a mercy of God that I ever got out alive!”
“Then be grateful to God, my boy!” she replied, “and
let me be grateful, too. It will balance misfortune, — for
that there is misfortune in store for us, I see plainly.”
Gilbert then spoke. The narrative was long and painful,
and he told it wearily and brokenly, yet with entire
truth, disguising nothing of the evil that had come upon
them. His mother sat beside him, pale, stony, stifling the
sobs that rose in her throat, until he reached the period
of his marvellous rescue, when she bent her head upon his
arm and wept aloud.
“That 's all, mother!” he said at the close; “it 's hard
to bear, but I 'm more troubled on your account than on
my own.”
“Oh, I feared we were over-sure!” she cried. “I
claimed payment before it was ready. The Lord chooses
His own time, and punishes them that can't wait for His
ways to be manifest! It 's terribly hard; and yet, while
His left hand smites, His right hand gives mercy! He
might ha' taken you, my boy, but He makes a miracle to
save you for me!”
When she had outwept her passionate tumult of feeling,
she grew composed and serene. “Have n't I yet learned
to be patient, in all these years?” she said. “Have n't
I sworn to work out with open eyes the work I took in
blindness? And after waiting twenty-five years, am I to
murmur at another year or two? No, Gilbert! It 's to
be done; I will deserve my justice! Keep your courage,
my boy; be brave and patient, and the sight of you will
hold me from breaking down!”
She arose, felt his hands and feet, set his pillow aright,
and then stooped and kissed him. His chills had ceased;
a feeling of heavy, helpless languor crept over him.
“Let Sam see to Roger, mother!” he murmured. “Tell
him not to spare the oats.”
“I 'd feed him with my own hands, Gilbert, if I could
leave you. I 'd put fine wheat-bread into his manager, and
wrap him in blankets off my own bed! To think that
Roger, — that I did n't want you to buy, — Lord forgive
me, I was advising your own death!”
It was fortunate for Mary Potter that she saw a mysterious
Providence, which, to her mind, warned and yet promised
while it chastised, in all that had occurred. This feeling
helped her to bear a disappointment, which would otherwise
have been very grievous. The idea of an atoning ordeal,
which she must endure in order to be crowned with the
final justice, and so behold her life redeemed, had become
rooted in her nature. To Gilbert much of this feeling was
inexplicable, because he was ignorant of the circumstances
which had called it into existence. But he saw that his
mother was not yet hopeless, that she did not seem to consider
her deliverance as materially postponed, and a glimmer
of hope was added to the relief of having told his tale.
He was still feverish, dozing and muttering in uneasy
dreams, as he lay back in the old rocking-chair, and Mary
Potter, with Sam's help, got him to bed, after administering
a potion which she was accustomed to use in all complaints,
from mumps to typhus fever.
As for Roger, he stood knee-deep in clean litter, with
half a bushel of oats before him.
The next morning Gilbert did not arise, and as he complained
of great soreness in every part of his body, Sam
was dispatched for Dr. Deane.
It was the first time this gentleman had ever been summoned
to the Potter farm-house. Mary Potter felt considerable
trepidation at his arrival, both on account of the
awe which his imposing presence inspired, and the knowledge
of her son's love for his daughter, — a fact which,
she rightly conjectured, he did not suspect. As he brought
his ivory-headed cane, his sleek drab broadcloth, and his
herbaceous fragrance into the kitchen, she was almost
overpowered.
“How is thy son ailing?” he asked. “He always seemed
to me to be a very healthy young man.”
She described the symptoms with a conscientious minuteness.
“How was it brought on?” he asked again.
She had not intended to relate the whole story, but only
so much of it as was necessary for the Doctor's purposes;
but the commencement excited his curiosity, and he knew
so skilfully how to draw one word after another, suggesting
further explanations without directly asking them, that
Mary Potter was led on and on, until she had communicated
all the particulars of her son's misfortune.
“This is a wonderful tale thee tells me,” said the Doctor
— “wonderful! Sandy Flash, no doubt, has reason to
remember thy son, who, I 'm told, faced him very boldly
on Second-day morning. It is really time the country was
aroused; we shall hardly be safe in our own houses. And
all night in the Brandywine flood — I don't wonder thy
son is unwell. Let me go up to him.”
Dr. Deane's prescriptions usually conformed to the practice
of his day, — bleeding and big doses, — and he would
undoubtedly have applied both of these in Gilbert's case,
but for the latter's great anxiety to be in the saddle and
on the hunt of his enemy. He stoutly refused to be bled,
and the Doctor had learned, from long observation, that
patients of a certain class must be humored rather than
coerced. So he administered a double dose of Dover's
Powders, and prohibited the drinking of cold water. His
report was, on the whole, reassuring to Mary Potter. Provided
his directions were strictly followed, he said, her
son would be up in two or three days; but there might be
a turn for the worse, as the shock to the system had been
very great, and she ought to have assistance.
“There 's no one I can call upon,” said she, “without
it 's Betsy Lavender, and I must ask you to tell her for
me, if you think she can come.”
“I 'll oblige thee, certainly,” the Doctor answered.
“Betsy is with us, just now, and I don't doubt but she
can spare a day or two. She may be a little headstrong
in her ways, but thee 'll find her a safe nurse.”
It was really not necessary, as the event proved. Rest
and warmth were what Gilbert most needed. But Dr.
Deane always exaggerated his patient's condition a little,
in order that the credit of the latter's recovery might be
greater. The present case was a very welcome one, not
only because it enabled him to recite a most astonishing
narrative at second-hand, but also because it suggested a
condition far more dangerous than that which the patient
actually suffered. He was the first person to bear the
news to Kennett Square, where it threw the village into a
state of great excitement, which rapidly spread over the
neighborhood.
He related it at his own tea-table that evening, to Martha
and Miss Betsy Lavender. The former could with
difficulty conceal her agitation; she turned red and pale,
until the Doctor finally remarked, —
“Why, child, thee need n't be so frightened.”
“Never mind!” exclaimed Miss Betsy, promptly coming
to the rescue, “it 's enough to frighten anybody. It fairly
makes me shiver in my shoes. If Alf. Barton had ha'
done his dooty like a man, this would n't ha' happened!”
“I 've no doubt Alfred did the best he could, under the
circumstances,” the Doctor sternly remarked.
“Fiddle-de-dee!” was Miss Betsy's contemptuous answer.
“He 's no more gizzard than a rabbit. But that 's
neither here nor there; Mary Potter wants me to go down
and help, and go I will!”
“Yes, I think thee might as well go down to-morrow
morning, though I 'm in hopes the young man may be
better, if he minds my directions,” said the Doctor.
“To-morrow mornin'? Why not next week? When
help 's wanted, give it right away; don't let the grass
grow under your feet, say I! Good luck that I gev up
Mendenhall's home-comin' over t' the Lion, or I would n't
ha' been here; so another cup o' tea, Martha, and I 'm
off!”
Martha left the table at the same time, and followed
Miss Betsy up-stairs. Her eyes were full of tears, but she
did not tremble, and her voice came firm and clear.
“I am going with you,” she said.
Miss Lavender whirled around and looked at her a
minute, without saying a word.
“I see you mean it, child. Don't think me hard or cruel,
for I know your feelin's as well as if they was mine; but
all the same, I 've got to look ahead, and back'ards, and on
this side and that, and so lookin', and so judgin', accordin'
to my light, which a'n't all tied up in a napkin, what I 've
got to say is, and ag'in don't think me hard, it won't do!”
“Betsy,” Martha Deane persisted, “a misfortune like
this brings my duty with it. Besides, he may be in great
danger; he may have got his death,” —
“Don't begin talkin' that way,” Miss Lavender interrupted,
“or you 'll put me out o' patience. I 'll say that
for your father, he 's always mortal concerned for a bad
case, Gilbert Potter or not; and I can mostly tell the
heft of a sickness by the way he talks about it, — so that 's
settled; and as to dooties, it 's very well and right, I don't
deny it, but never mind, all the same, I said before, the
whole thing 's a snarl, and I say it ag'in, and unless you 've
got the end o' the ravellin's in your hand, the harder you
pull, the wuss you 'll make it!”
There was good sense in these words, and Martha Deane
felt it. Her resolution began to waver, in spite of the
tender instinct which told her that Gilbert Potter now
needed precisely the help and encouragement which she
alone could give.
“Oh, Betsy,” she murmured, her tears falling without
restraint, “it 's hard for me to seem so strange to him, at
such a time!”
“Yes,” answered the spinster, setting her comb tight
with a fierce thrust, “it 's hard every one of us can't have
our own ways in this world! But don't take on now, Martha
called a friend's, but I'll see how the land lays, and to-morrow
evenin', or next day at th' outside, you 'll know
everything fair and square. Neither you nor Gilbert is
inclined to do things rash, and what you both agree on,
after a proper understandin', I guess 'll be pretty nigh
right. There! where 's my knittin'-basket?”
Miss Lavender trudged off, utterly fearless of the night
walk of two miles, down the lonely road. In less than an
hour she knocked at the door of the farm-house, and was
received with open arms by Mary Potter. Gilbert had
slept the greater part of the day, but was now awake, and
so restless, from the desire to leave his bed, that his mother
could with difficulty restrain him.
“Set down and rest yourself, Mary!” Miss Betsy exclaimed.
“I 'll go up and put him to rights.”
She took a lamp and mounted to the bed-room. Gilbert,
drenched in perspiration, and tossing uneasily under
a huge pile of blankets, sprang up as her gaunt figure entered
the door. She placed the lamp on a table, pressed
him down on the pillow by main force, and covered him
up to the chin.
“Martha?” he whispered, his face full of intense, piteous
eagerness.
“Will you promise to lay still and sweat, as you 're told
to do?”
“Yes, yes!”
“Now let me feel your pulse. That 'll do; now for your
tongue! Tut, tut! the boy 's not so bad. I give you my
word you may get up and dress yourself to-morrow mornin',
if you 'll only hold out to-night. And as for thorough-stem
tea, and what not, I guess you 've had enough of 'em;
but you can't jump out of a sick-spell into downright peartness,
at one jump!”
“Martha, Martha!” Gilbert urged.
“You 're both of a piece, I declare! There was she,
mortal hard it was to persuade her to be reasonable!”
Miss Lavender had not a great deal to relate, but Gilbert
compelled her to make up by repetition what she
lacked in quantity. And at every repetition the soreness
seemed to decrease in his body, and the weakness in his
muscles, and hope and courage to increase in his heart.
“Tell her,” he exclaimed, “it was enough that she
wanted to come. That alone has put new life into me!”
“I see it has,” said Miss Lavender, “and now, maybe,
you 've got life enough to tell me all the ups and downs o'
this affair, for I can't say as I rightly understand it.”
The conference was long and important. Gilbert related
every circumstance of his adventure, including the
mysterious allusion to Alfred Barton, which he had concealed
from his mother. He was determined, as his first
course, to call the volunteers together and organize a
thorough hunt for the highwayman. Until that had been
tried, he would postpone all further plans of action. Miss
Lavender did not say much, except to encourage him in
this determination. She felt that there was grave matter
for reflection in what had happened. The threads of mystery
seemed to increase, and she imagined it possible that
they might all converge to one unknown point.
“Mary,” she said, when she descended to the kitchen,
“I don't see but what the boy 's goin' on finely. Go to
bed, you, and sleep quietly; I 'll take the settle, here, and
I promise you I 'll go up every hour through the night, to
see whether he 's kicked his coverin's off.”
Which promise she faithfully kept, and in the morning
Gilbert came down to breakfast, a little haggard, but apparently
as sound as ever. Even the Doctor, when he
arrived, was slightly surprised at the rapid improvement.
“A fine constitution for medicines to work on,” he remarked.
“I would n't wish thee to be sick, but when thee
is, it 's a pleasure to see how thy system obeys the treatment.”
Martha Deane, during Miss Lavender's absence, had
again discussed, in her heart, her duty to Gilbert. Her
conscience was hardly satisfied with the relinquishment
of her first impulse. She felt that there was, there must
be, something for her to do in this emergency. She knew
that he had toiled, and dared, and suffered for her sake,
while she had done nothing. It was not pride, — at least
not the haughty quality which bears an obligation uneasily,
— but rather the impulse, at once brave and tender, to
stand side by side with him in the struggle, and win an
equal right to the final blessing.
In the afternoon Miss Lavender returned, and her first
business was to give a faithful report of Gilbert's condition
and the true story of his misfortune, which she repeated,
almost word for word, as it came from his lips. It did
not differ materially from that which Martha had already
heard, and the direction which her thoughts had taken, in
the mean time, seemed to be confirmed. The gentle,
steady strength of purpose that looked from her clear blue
eyes, and expressed itself in the firm, sharp curve of her
lip, was never more distinct than when she said, —
“Now, Betsy, all is clear to me. You were right before,
and I am right now. I must see Gilbert when he calls
the men together, and after that I shall know how to act.”
Three days afterwards, there was another assemblage of
the Kennett Volunteers at the Unicorn Tavern. This
time, however, Mark Deane was on hand, and Alfred
Barton did not make his appearance. That Gilbert Potter
should take the command was an understood matter.
The preliminary consultation was secretly held, and when
Dougherty, the Irish ostler, mixed himself, as by accident,
among the troop, Gilbert sharply ordered him away.
Whatever the plan of the chase was, it was not communicated
to the crowd of country idlers; and there was, in
consequence, some grumbling at, and a great deal of respect
for, the new arrangement.
Miss Betsy Lavender had managed to speak to Gilbert
before the others arrived; therefore, after they had left, to
meet the next day, equipped for a possible absence of a
week, he crossed the road and entered Dr. Deane's house.
This time the two met, not so much as lovers, but rather
as husband and wife might meet after long absence and
escape from imminent danger. Martha Deane knew how
cruel and bitter Gilbert's fate must seem to his own heart,
and she resolved that all the cheer which lay in her buoyant,
courageous nature should be given to him. Never
did a woman more sweetly blend the tones of regret and
faith, sympathy and encouragement.
“The time has come, Gilbert,” she said at last, “when
our love for each other must no longer be kept a secret —
at least from the few who, under other circumstances,
would have a right to know it. We must still wait, though
no longer (remember that!) than we were already agreed
to wait; but we should betray ourselves, sooner or later,
and then the secret, discovered by others, would seem to
hint at a sense of shame. We shall gain respect and
sympathy, and perhaps help, if we reveal it ourselves.
Even if you do not take the same view, Gilbert, think of
this, that it is my place to stand beside you in your hour
of difficulty and trial; that other losses, other dangers,
may come, and you could not, you must not, hold me apart
when my heart tells me we should be together!”
She laid her arms caressingly over his shoulders, and
looked in his face. A wonderful softness and tenderness
touched his pale, worn countenance. “Martha,” he said,
“remember that my disgrace will cover you, yet awhile.”
“Gilbert!”
That one word, proud, passionate, reproachful, yet forgiving,
sealed his lips.
“So be it!” he cried. “God knows, I think but of
you. If I selfishly considered myself, do you think I
would hold back my own honor?”
“A poor honor,” she said, “that I sit comfortably at
home and love you, while you are face to face with death!”
Martha Deane's resolution was inflexibly taken. That
same evening she went into the sitting-room, where her
father was smoking a pipe before the open stove, and
placed her chair opposite to his.
“Father,” she said, “thee has never asked any questions
concerning Alfred Barton's visit.”
The Doctor started, and looked at her keenly, before
replying. Her voice had its simple, natural tone, her manner
was calm and self-possessed; yet something in her firm,
erect posture and steady eye impressed him with the idea
that she had determined on a full and final discussion of
the question.
“No, child,” he answered, after a pause. “I saw Alfred,
and he said thee was rather taken by surprise. He thought,
perhaps, thee did n't rightly know thy own mind, and it
would be better to wait a little. That is the chief reason
why I have n't spoken to thee.”
“If Alfred Barton said that, he told thee false,” said she.
“I knew my own mind, as well then as now. I said to him
that nothing could ever make me his wife.”
“Martha!” the Doctor exclaimed, “don't be hasty! If
Alfred is a little older” —
“Father!” she interrupted, “never mention this thing
again! Thee can neither give me away, nor sell me;
though I am a woman, I belong to myself. Thee knows
I 'm not hasty in anything. It was a long time before I
rightly knew my own heart; but when I did know it and
found that it had chosen truly, I gave it freely, and it is
gone from me forever!”
“Martha, Martha!” cried Dr. Deane, starting from his
seat, “what does all this mean?”
“It means something which it is thy right to know, and
therefore I have made up my mind to tell thee, even at the
risk of incurring thy lasting displeasure. It means that I
it on a man a thousand times better and nobler than Alfred
Barton ever was, and, if the Lord spares us to each other,
I shall one day be his wife!”
The Doctor glared at his daughter in speechless amazement.
But she met his gaze steadily, although her face
grew a shade paler, and the expression of the pain she
could not entirely suppress, with the knowledge of the
struggle before her, trembled a little about the corners of
her lips.
“Who is this man?” he asked.
“Gilbert Potter.”
Dr. Deane's pipe dropped from his hand and smashed
upon the iron hearth.
“Martha Deane!” he cried. “Does the d— what possesses
thee? Was n't it enough that thee should drive
away the man I had picked out for thee, with a single view
to thy own interest and happiness; but must thee take up,
as a wicked spite to thy father, with almost the only man
in the neighborhood who brings thee nothing but poverty
and disgrace? It shall not be — it shall never be!”
“It must be, father,” she said gently. “God hath
joined our hearts and our lives, and no man — not even
thee — shall put them asunder. If there were disgrace,
in the eyes of the world, — which I now know there is not,
— Gilbert has wiped it out by his courage, his integrity,
and his sufferings. If he is poor, I am well to do.”
“Thee forgets,” the Doctor interrupted, in a stern voice,
“the time is n't up!”
“I know that unless thee gives thy consent, we must
wait three years; but I hope, father, when thee comes to
know Gilbert better, thee will not be so hard. I am thy
only child, and my happiness cannot be indifferent to thee.
I have tried to obey thee in all things” —
He interrupted her again. “Thee 's adding another
cross to them I bear for thee already! Am I not, in a
world and in the sight of the Lord? But thee hardened
thy heart against the direction of the Spirit, and what wonder,
then, that it 's hardened against me?”
“No, father,” said Martha, rising and laying her hand
softly upon his arm, “I obeyed the Spirit in that other matter,
as I obey my conscience in this. I took my duty into
my own hands, and considered it in a humble, and, I hope,
a pious spirit. I saw that there were innocent needs of
nature, pleasant enjoyments of life, which did not conflict
with sincere devotion, and that I was not called upon to
renounce them because others happened to see the world
in a different light. In this sense, thee is not my keeper;
I must render an account, not to thee, but to Him who gave
me my soul. Neither is thee the keeper of my heart and
its affections. In the one case and the other my right is
equal, — nay, it stands as far above thine as Heaven is
above the earth!”
In the midst of his wrath, Dr. Deane could not help admiring
his daughter. Foiled and exasperated as he was by
the sweet, serene, lofty power of her words, they excited
a wondering respect which he found it difficult to hide.
“Ah, Martha!” he said, “thee has a wonderful power,
if it were only directed by the true Light! But now, it
only makes the cross heavier. Don't think that I 'll ever
consent to see thee carry out thy strange and wicked fancies!
Thee must learn to forget this man, Potter, and the
sooner thee begins the easier it will be!”
“Father,” she answered, with a sad smile, “I 'm sorry
thee knows so little of my nature. The wickedness would
be in forgetting. It is very painful to me that we must
differ. Where my duty was wholly owed to thee, I have
never delayed to give it; but here it is owed to Gilbert
Potter, — owed, and will be given.”
“Enough, Martha!” cried the Doctor, trembling with
anger; “don't mention his name again!”
“I will not, except when the same duty requires it to be
mentioned. But, father, try to think less harshly of the
name; it will one day be mine!”
She spoke gently and imploringly, with tears in her eyes.
The conflict had been, as she said, very painful; but her
course was plain, and she dared not flinch a step at the
outset. The difficulties must be met face to face, and resolutely
assailed, if they were ever to be overcome.
Dr. Deane strode up and down the room in silence, with
his hands behind his back. Martha stood by the fire, waiting
his further speech, but he did not look at her, and at
the end of half an hour, commanded shortly and sharply,
without turning his head, —
“Go to bed!”
“Good-night, father,” she said, in her usual clear sweet
voice, and quietly left the room.
| CHAPTER XXII.
MARTHA DEANE TAKES A RESOLUTION. The story of Kennett | |