 | CHAPTER XXV.
TWO ATTEMPTS. The story of Kennett |  |
25. CHAPTER XXV.
TWO ATTEMPTS.
The news of Sandy Flash's capture ran like wildfire
through the county. As the details became more correctly
known, there was great rejoicing but greater surprise, for
Deb. Smith's relation to the robber, though possibly surmised
by a few, was unsuspected by the community at
large. In spite of the service which she had rendered by
betraying her paramour into the hands of justice, a bitter
feeling of hostility towards her was developed among the
people, and she was generally looked upon as an accomplice
to Sandy Flash's crimes, who had turned upon him
only when she had ceased to profit by them.
The public attention was thus suddenly drawn away from
Gilbert Potter, and he was left to struggle, as he best
might, against the difficulties entailed by his loss. He had
corresponded with Mr. Trainer, the conveyancer in Chester,
and had learned that the money still due must not only
be forthcoming on the first of April, but that it probably
could not be obtained there. The excitement for buying
lands along the Alleghany, Ohio, and Beaver rivers, in
western Pennsylvania, had seized upon the few capitalists
of the place, and Gilbert's creditor had already been subjected
to inconvenience and possible loss, as one result of
the robbery. Mr. Trainer therefore suggested that he
should make a new loan in his own neighborhood, where
the spirit of speculation had not yet reached.
The advice was prudent and not unfriendly, although of
a kind more easy to give than to carry into execution.
Mark's money-belt had been restored, greatly against the
lent Gilbert the whole amount had he possessed it), and
there was enough grain yet to be threshed and sold, to
yield something more than a hundred dollars; but this was
all which Gilbert could count upon from his own resources.
He might sell the wagon and one span of horses, reducing
by their value the sum which he would be obliged to borrow;
yet his hope of recovering the money in another
year could only be realized by retaining them, to continue,
from time to time, his occupation of hauling flour.
Although the sympathy felt for him was general and
very hearty, it never took the practical form of an offer of
assistance, and he was far too proud to accept that plan of
relief which a farmer, whose barn had been struck by
lightning and consumed, had adopted, the previous year, —
going about the neighborhood with a subscription-list, and
soliciting contributions. His nearest friends were as poor
as, or poorer than, himself, and those able to aid him felt
no call to tender their services.
Martha Deane knew of this approaching trouble, not
from Gilbert's own lips, for she had seen him but once and
very briefly since his return from the chase of Sandy Flash.
It was her cousin Mark, who, having entered into an alliance,
offensive and defensive, with her lover, betrayed (considering
that the end sanctioned the means) the confidence
reposed in him.
The thought that her own coming fortune lay idle, while
Gilbert might be saved by the use of a twentieth part of it,
gave Martha Deane no peace. The whole belonged to
him prospectively, yet would probably be of less service
when it should be legally her own to give, than the fragment
which now would lift him above anxiety and humiliation.
The money had been bequeathed to her by a maternal
aunt, whose name she bore, and the provisions by which
the bequest was accompanied, so light and reasonable before,
now seemed harsh and unkind.
The payment of the whole sum, or any part of it, she
saw, could not be anticipated. But she imagined there
must be a way to obtain a loan of the necessary amount,
with the bequest as security. With her ignorance of business
matters, she felt the need of counsel in this emergency;
yet her father was her guardian, and there seemed
to be no one else to whom she could properly apply. Not
Gilbert, for she fancied he might reject the assistance she
designed, and therefore she meant to pay the debt before it
became due, without his knowledge; nor Mark, nor Farmer
Fairthorn. Betsy Lavender, when appealed to, shook her
head, and remarked, —
“Lord bless you, child! a wuss snarl than ever. I 'm
gittin' a bit skeary, when you talk o' law and money matters,
and that 's the fact. Not that I find fault with your
wishin' to do it, but the contràry, and there might be ways,
as you say, only I 'm not lawyer enough to find 'em, and as
to advisin' where I don't see my way clear, Defend me from
it!”
Thus thrown back upon herself, Martha was forced to
take the alternative which she would gladly have avoided,
and from which, indeed, she hoped nothing, — an appeal
to her father. Gilbert Potter's name had not again been
mentioned between them. She, for her part, had striven to
maintain her usual gentle, cheerful demeanor, and it is
probable that Dr. Deane made a similar attempt; but he
could not conceal a certain coldness and stiffness, which
made an uncomfortable atmosphere in their little household.
“Well, Betsy,” Martha said (they were in her room, up-stairs),
“Father has just come in from the stable, I see.
Since there is no other way, I will go down and ask his
advice.”
“You don't mean it, child!” cried the spinster.
Martha left the room, without answer.
“She 's got that from him, anyhow,” Miss Betsy remarked,
to say. If he 's dead-set on the wrong side, why,
she 's jist as dead-set on the right side, and that makes a
mortal difference. I don't see why I should be all of a
trimble, that only sets here and waits, while she 's stickin'
her head into the lion's mouth; but so it is! Is n't about
time for you to be doin' somethin', Betsy Lavender!”
Martha Deane entered the front sitting-room with a
grave, deliberate step. The Doctor sat at his desk, with a
pair of heavy silver-rimmed spectacles on his nose, looking
over an antiquated “Materia Medica.” His upper lip
seemed to have become harder and thinner, at the expense
of the under one, which pouted in a way that expressed
vexation and ill-temper. He was, in fact, more annoyed
than he would have confessed to any human being. Alfred
Barton's visits had discontinued, and he could easily guess
the reason. Moreover, a suspicion of Gilbert Potter's relation
to his daughter was slowly beginning to permeate
the neighborhood; and more than once, within the last few
days, all his peculiar diplomacy had been required to parry
a direct question. He foresaw that the subject would soon
come to the notice of his elder brethren among the Friends,
who felt self-privileged to rebuke and remonstrate, even in
family matters of so delicate a nature.
It was useless, the Doctor knew, to attempt coercion with
Martha. If any measure could succeed in averting the
threatened shame, it must be kindly persuasion, coupled
with a calm, dispassionate appeal to her understanding.
The quiet, gentle way in which she had met his anger, he
now saw, had left the advantage of the first encounter on
her side. His male nature and long habit of rule made an
equal self-control very difficult, on his part, and he resolved
to postpone a recurrence to the subject until he should feel
able to meet his daughter with her own weapons. Probably
some reflection of the kind then occupied his mind, in
spite of the “Materia Medica” before him.
“Father,” said Martha, seating herself with a bit of
sewing in her hand, “I want to ask thee a few questions
about business matters.”
The Doctor looked at her. “Well, thee 's taking a new
turn,” he remarked. “Is it anything very important?”
“Very important,” she answered; “it 's about my own
fortune.”
“I thought thee understood, Martha, that that matter
was all fixed and settled, until thee 's twenty-five, unless —
unless” —
Here the Doctor hesitated. He did not wish to introduce
the sore subject of his daughter's marriage.
“I know what thee means, father. Unless I should
sooner marry, with thy consent. But I do not expect to
marry now; and therefore do not ask thy permission. What
I want to know is, whether I could not obtain a loan of a
small sum of money, on the security of the legacy?”
“That depends on circumstances,” said the Doctor,
slowly, and after a long pause, during which he endeavored
to guess his daughter's design. “It might be, — yes,
it might be; but, Martha, surely thee does n't want for
money? Why should thee borrow?”
“Could n't thee suppose, father, that I need it for some
good purpose? I 've always had plenty, it is true; but I
don't think thee can say I ever squandered it foolishly or
thoughtlessly. This is a case where I wish to make an
investment, — a permanent investment.”
“Ah, indeed? I always fancied thee cared less for
money than a prudent woman ought. How much might
this investment be?”
“About six hundred dollars,” she answered.
“Six hundred!” exclaimed the Doctor; “that 's a large
sum to venture, a large sum! Since thee can only raise it
with my help, thee 'll certainly admit my right, as thy legal
guardian, if not as thy father, to ask where, how, and on
what security the money will be invested?”
Martha hesitated only long enough to reflect that her
father's assertion was probably true, and without his aid
she could do nothing. “Father,” she then said, “I am the
security.”
“I don't understand thee, child.”
“I mean that my whole legacy will be responsible to the
lender for its repayment in three years from this time. The
security I ask, I have in advance; it is the happiness of my
life!”
“Martha! thee does n't mean to say that thee would”—
Dr. Deane could get no further. Martha, with a sorrowful
half-smile, took up his word.
“Yes, father, I would. Lest thee should not have understood
me right, I repeat that I would, and will, lift the
mortgage on Gilbert Potter's farm. He has been very
unfortunate, and there is a call for help which nobody
heeds as he deserves. If I give it now, I simply give a
part in advance. The whole will be given afterwards.”
Dr. Deane's face grew white, and his lip trembled, in
spite of himself. It was a minute or two before he ventured
to say, in a tolerably steady voice, —
“Thee still sets up thy right (as thee calls it) against
mine, but mine is older built and will stand. To help thee
to this money would only be to encourage thy wicked fancy
for the man. Of course, I can't do it; I wonder thee
should expect it of me. I wonder, indeed, thee should
think of taking as a husband one who borrows money of
thee almost as soon as he has spoken his mind!”
For an instant Martha Deane's eyes flashed. “Father!”
she cried, “it is not so! Gilbert does n't even know my
desire to help him. I must ask this of thee, to speak no
evil of him in my hearing. It would only give me unnecessary
pain, not shake my faith in his honesty and goodness.
I see thee will not assist me, and so I must endeavor
to find whether the thing cannot be done without
thy assistance. In three years more the legacy will be
my own note for that time could not be accepted!”
“I can spare thee the trouble,” the Doctor said. “In
case of thy death before the three years are out, who is to
pay the note? Half the money falls to me, and half to thy
uncle Richard. Thy aunt Martha was wise. It truly seems
as if she had foreseen just what has happened, and meant
to baulk thy present rashness. Thee may go to Chester,
and welcome, if thee doubts my word; but unless thee can
give positive assurance that thee will be alive in three
years' time, I don't know of any one foolish enough to
advance thee money.”
The Doctor's words were cruel enough; he might have
spared his triumphant, mocking smile. Martha's heart
sank within her, as she recognized her utter helplessness.
Not yet, however, would she give up the sweet hope of
bringing aid; for Gilbert's sake she would make another
appeal.
“I won't charge thee, father, with being intentionally unkind.
It would almost seem, from thy words, that thee is
rather glad than otherwise, because my life is uncertain. If
I should die, would thee not care enough for my memory to
pay a debt, the incurring of which brought me peace and
happiness during life? Then, surely, thee would forgive;
thy heart is not so hard as thee would have me believe;
thee wishes me happiness, I cannot doubt, but thinks it will
come in thy way, not in mine. Is it not possible to grant
me this — only this — and leave everything else to time?”
Dr. Deane was touched and softened by his daughter's
words. Perhaps he might even have yielded to her entreaty
at once, had not a harsh and selfish condition presented
itself in a very tempting form to his mind.
“Martha,” he said, “I fancy that thee looks upon this
matter of the loan in the light of a duty, and will allow that
thy motives may be weighty to thy own mind. I ask thee
to calm thyself, and consider things clearly. If I grant thy
concerns thy interests,— against my own conscience. This
is not a thing to be lightly done, and if I should yield, I
might reasonably expect some little sacrifice of present
inclination — yet all for thy future good — on thy part.
I would cheerfully borrow the six hundred dollars for thee,
or make it up from my own means, if need be, to know that
the prospect of thy disgrace was averted. Thee sees no
disgrace, I am aware, and pity that it is so; but if thy
feeling for the young man is entirely pure and unselfish, it
should be enough to know that thee had saved him from
ruin, without considering thyself bound to him for life.”
The Doctor sharply watched his daughter's face while
he spoke. She looked up, at first, with an eager, wondering
light of hope in her eyes, — a light that soon died
away, and gave place to a cloudy, troubled expression.
Then the blood rose to her cheeks, and her lips assumed
the clear, firm curve which always reflected the decisions of
her mind.
“Father,” she said, “I see thee has learned how to
tempt, as well as threaten. For the sake of doing a present
good, thee would have me bind myself to do a life-long
injustice. Thee would have me take an external duty to
balance a violation of the most sacred conscience of my
heart. How little thee knows me! It is not alone that I
am necessary to Gilbert Potter's happiness, but also that he
is necessary to mine. Perhaps it is the will of Heaven that
so great a bounty should not come to me too easily, and I
must bear, without murmuring, that my own father is set
against me. Thee may try me, if thee desires, for the coming
three years, but I can tell thee as well, now, what the
end will be. Why not rather tempt me by offering the
money Gilbert needs, on the condition of my giving up the
rest of the legacy to thee? That would be a temptation,
I confess.”
“No!” he exclaimed, with rising exasperation, “if thee
good, I will at least keep my own conscience free. I will
not help thee by so much as the moving of a finger. All I
can do is, to pray that thy stubborn mind may be bent,
and gradually led back to the Light!”
He put away the book, took his cane and broad-brimmed
hat, and turned to leave the room. Martha rose, with a
sad but resolute face, and went up-stairs to her chamber.
Miss Betsy Lavender, when she learned all that had been
said, on both sides, was thrown into a state of great agitation
and perplexity of mind. She stared at Martha Deane,
without seeming to see her, and muttered from time to time
such fragmentary phrases as, — “If I was right-down sure,”
or, “It 'd only be another weepon tried and throwed away,
at the wust.”
“What are you thinking of, Betsy?” Martha finally
asked.
“Thinkin' of? Well, I can't rightly tell you. It 's a bit
o' knowledge that come in my way, once't upon a time,
never meanin' to make use of it in all my born days, and
I would n't now, only for your two sakes; not that it concerns
you a mite; but never mind, there 's ten thousand
ways o' workin' on men's minds, and I can't do no more
than try my way.”
Thereupon Miss Lavender arose, and would have descended
to the encounter at once, had not Martha wisely
entreated her to wait a day or two, until the irritation arising
from her own interview had had time to subside in her
father's mind.
“It 's puttin' me on nettles, now that I mean fast and firm
to do it; but you 're quite right, Martha,” the spinster said.
Three or four days afterwards she judged the proper
time had arrived, and boldly entered the Doctor's awful
presence. “Doctor,” she began, “I 've come to have a little
talk, and it 's no use beatin' about the bush, plainness o'
speech bein' one o' my ways; not that folks always thinks
maybe; but when there 's a worry in a house, it 's better,
whatsoever and whosoever, to have it come to a head than
go on achin' and achin', like a blind bile!”
“H'm,” snorted the Doctor, “I see what thee 's driving
at, and I may as well tell thee at once, that if thee comes
to me from Martha, I 've heard enough from her, and more
than enough.”
“More 'n enough,” repeated Miss Lavender. “But
you 're wrong. I come neither from Martha, nor yet from
Gilbert Potter; but I 've been thinkin' that you and me,
bein' old, —in a measure, that is, —and not so direckly concerned,
might talk the thing over betwixt and between us,
and maybe come to a better understandin' for both sides.”
Dr. Deane was not altogether disinclined to accept this
proposition. Although Miss Lavender sometimes annoyed
him, as she rightly conjectured, by her plainness of speech,
he had great respect for her shrewdness and her practical
wisdom. If he could but even partially win her to his
views, she would be a most valuable ally.
“Then say thy say, Betsy,” he assented.
“Thy say, Betsy. Well, first and foremost, I guess we
may look upon Alf. Barton's courtin' o' Martha as broke
off for good, the fact bein' that he never wanted to have
her, as he 's told me since with his own mouth.”
“What?” Dr. Deane exclaimed.
“With his own mouth,” Miss Lavender repeated. “And
as to his reasons for lettin' on, I don't know 'em. Maybe
you can guess 'em, as you seem to ha' had everything cut
and dried betwixt and between you; but that 's neither
here nor there — Alf. Barton bein' out o' the way, why,
the coast 's clear, and so Gilbert's case is to be considered
by itself; and let 's come to the p'int, namely, what you 've
got ag'in him?”
“I wonder thee can ask, Betsy! He 's poor, he 's base-born,
without position or influence in the neighborhood, —
turned because he has been robbed, and marvellously saved,
and talked about, I suppose I must wait till she comes to
her right senses.”
“I rather expect,” Miss Lavender gravely remarked,
“that they were bespoke before all that happened, and it 's
not a case o' suddent fancy, but somethin' bred in the bone
and not to be cured by plasters. We won't talk o' that now,
but come back to Gilbert Potter, and I dunno as you 're
quite right in any way about his bein's and doin's. With
that farm o' his'n, he can't be called poor, and I should n't
wonder, though I can't give no proofs, but never mind,
wait awhile and you 'll see, that he 's not base-born, after
all; and as for respect in the neighborhood, there 's not a
man more respected nor looked up to, — so the last p'int 's
settled, and we 'll take the t' other two; and I s'pose you
mean his farm is n't enough?”
“Thee 's right,” Dr. Deane said. “As Martha's guardian,
I am bound to watch over her interests, and every
prudent man will agree with me that her husband ought
at least to be as well off as herself.”
“Well, all I 've got to say, is, it 's lucky for you that
Naomi Blake did n't think as you do, when she married
you. What 's sass for the goose ought to be sass for the
gander (meanin' you and Gilbert), and every prudent man
will agree with me.”
This was a home-thrust, which Dr. Deane was not able
to parry. Miss Lavender had full knowledge whereof she
affirmed, and the Doctor knew it.
“I admit that there might be other advantages,” he said,
rather pompously, covering his annoyance with a pinch of
snuff, — “advantages which partly balance the want of
property. Perhaps Naomi Blake thought so too. But
here, I think, it would be hard for thee to find such. Or
does thee mean that the man's disgraceful birth is a recommendation?”
“Recommendation? No!” Miss Lavender curtly replied.
“We need go no further, then. Admitting thee 's right
in all other respects, here is cause enough for me. I put
it to thee, as a sensible woman, whether I would not cover
both myself and Martha with shame, by allowing her marriage
with Gilbert Potter?”
Miss Lavender sat silently in her chair and appeared to
meditate.
“Thee does n't answer,” the Doctor remarked, after a
pause.
“I dunno how it come about,” she said, lifting her head
and fixing her dull eyes on vacancy; “I was thinkin' o'
the time I was up at Strasburg, while your brother was
livin', more 'n twenty year ago.
With all his habitual self-control and gravity of deportment,
Dr. Deane could not repress a violent start of surprise.
He darted a keen, fierce glance at Miss Betsy's
face, but she was staring at the opposite wall, apparently
unconscious of the effect of her words.
“I don't see what that has to do with Gilbert Potter,”
he presently said, collecting himself with an effort.
“Nor I, neither,” Miss Lavender absently replied, “only
it happened that I knowed Eliza Little, — her that used to
live at the Gap, you know, — and just afore she died, that
fall the fever was so bad, and I nussin' her, and not another
soul awake in the house, she told me a secret about
your brother's boy, and I must say few men would ha'
acted as Henry done, and there 's more 'n one mighty beholden
to him.”
Dr. Deane stretched out his hand as if he would close
her mouth. His face was like fire, and a wild expression
of fear and pain shot from his eyes.
“Betsy Lavender,” he said, in a hollow voice, “thee is
a terrible woman. Thee forces even the secrets of the
dying from them, and brings up knowledge that should
does thee threaten me with appearances, that cannot now
be explained, all the witnesses being dead?”
“Witnesses bein' dead,” she repeated. “Are you sorry
for that?”
He stared at her in silent consternation.
“Doctor,” she said, turning towards him for the first
time, “there 's no livin' soul that knows, except you and
me, and if I seem hard, I 'm no harder than the knowledge
in your own heart. What 's the difference, in the
sight o' the Lord, between the one that has a bad name
and the one that has a good name? Come, you set yourself
up for a Chris'en, and so I ask you whether you 're
the one that ought to fling the first stone; whether
repentance — and there 's that, of course, for you a'n't
a nateral bad man, Doctor, but rather the contràry —
ought n't to be showed in deeds, to be wuth much!
You 're set ag'in Martha, and your pride 's touched, which
I can't say as I wonder at, all folks havin' pride, me among
the rest, not that I 've much to be proud of, Goodness
knows; but never mind, don't you talk about Gilbert Potter
in that style, leastways before me!”
During this speech, Dr. Deane had time to reflect. Although
aghast at the unexpected revelation, he had not
wholly lost his cunning. It was easy to perceive what Miss
Lavender intended to do with the weapon in her hands,
and his aim was to render it powerless.
“Betsy,” he said, “there 's one thing thee won't deny,
— that, if there was a fault, (which I don't allow), it has
been expiated. To make known thy suspicions would
bring sorrow and trouble upon two persons for whom thee
professes to feel some attachment; if thee could prove
what thee thinks, it would be a still greater misfortune for
them than for me. They are young, and my time is nearly
spent. We all have serious burdens which we must bear
alone, and thee must n't forget that the same consideration
from consenting to Martha's marriage with Gilbert Potter.
We are bound alike.”
“We 're not!” she cried, rising from her seat. “But
I see it 's no use to talk any more, now. Perhaps since
you know that there 's a window in you, and me lookin'
in, you 'll try and keep th' inside o' your house in better
order. Whether I 'll act accordin' to my knowledge or
not, depends on how things turns out, and so sufficient
unto the day is the evil thereof, or however it goes!”
With these words she left the room, though foiled, not
entirely hopeless.
“It 's like buttin' over an old stone-wall,” she said to
Martha. “The first hit with a rammer seems to come
back onto you, and jars y'r own bones, and may be the
next, and the next; and then little stones git out o' place,
and then the wall shakes, and comes down, — and so
we 've been a-doin'. I guess I made a crack to-day, but
we 'll see.”
| CHAPTER XXV.
TWO ATTEMPTS. The story of Kennett | |