University of Virginia Library

27. CHAPTER XXVII.
GILBERT INDEPENDENT.

Gilbert Potter felt such an implicit trust in Sandy
Flash's promise of restitution, that, before leaving Chester,
he announced the forthcoming payment of the mortgage
to its holder. His homeward ride was like a triumphal
march, to which his heart beat the music. The chill March
winds turned into May-breezes as they touched him; the
brown meadows were quick with ambushed bloom. Within
three or four months his life had touched such extremes
of experience, that the fate yet to come seemed to evolve
itself speedily and naturally from that which was over and
gone. Only one obstacle yet remained in his path, — his
mother's secret. Towards that he was powerless; to meet
all others he was brimming with strength and courage.

Mary Potter recognized, even more keenly and with
profounder faith than her son, the guidance of some inscrutable
Power. She did not dare to express so uncertain
a hope, but something in her heart whispered that the
day of her own deliverance was not far off, and she took
strength from it.

It was nearly a week before Deb. Smith made her appearance.
Gilbert, in the mean time, had visited her cabin
on the Woodrow farm, to find it deserted, and he was burning
with impatience to secure, through her, the restoration
of his independence. He would not announce his changed
prospects, even to Martha Deane, until they were put
beyond further risk. The money once in his hands, he
determined to carry it to Chester without loss of time.

When Deb. arrived, she had a weary, hunted look, but
she was unusually grave and silent, and avoided further
reference to the late tragical episode in her life. Nevertheless,
Gilbert led her aside and narrated to her the particulars
of his interview with Sandy Flash. Perhaps he
softened, with pardonable equivocation, the latter's words
in regard to her; perhaps he conveyed a sense of forgiveness
which had not been expressed; for Deb. more
than once drew the corners of her hard palms across her
eyes. When he gave the marks by which she was to recognize
a certain spot, she exclaimed, —

“It was hid the night I dreamt of him! I knowed he
must ha' been nigh, by that token. O, Mr. Gilbert, he
said true! I know the place; it 's not so far away; this
very night you 'll have y'r money back!”

After it was dark she set out, with a spade upon her
shoulder, forbidding him to follow, or even to look after
her. Both mother and son were too excited to sleep.
They sat by the kitchen-fire, with one absorbing thought
in their minds, and speech presently became easier than
silence.

“Mother,” said Gilbert, “when — I mean if — she brings
the money, all that has happened will have been for good.
It has proved to us that we have true friends (and I count
my Roger among them), and I think that our independence
will be worth all the more, since we came so nigh
losing it again.”

“Ay, my boy,” she replied; “I was over-hasty, and have
been lessoned. When I bend my mind to submit, I make
more headway than when I try to take the Lord's work
into my own hands. I 'm fearsome still, but it seems
there 's a light coming from somewhere, — I don't know
where.”

“Do you feel that way, mother?” he exclaimed. “Do
you think — let me mention it this once! — that the day
is near when you will be free to speak? Will there be

anything more you can tell me, when we stand free upon
our own property?”

Mary Potter looked upon his bright, wistful, anxious
face, and sighed. “I can't tell — I can't tell,” she said.
“Ah, my boy, you would understand it, if I dared say one
thing, but that might lead you to guess what must n't be
told; and I will be faithful to the spirit as well as the
letter. It must come soon, but nothing you or I can do
would hasten it a minute.”

“One word more, mother,” he persisted, “will our independence
be no help to you?”

“A great help,” she answered, “or, maybe, a great comfort
would be the true word. Without it, I might be
tempted to — but see, Gilbert, how can I talk? Everything
you say pulls at the one thing that cuts my mouth
like a knife, because it 's shut tight on it! And the more
because I owe it to you, — because I 'm held back from
my duty to my child, — maybe, every day putting a fresh
sorrow into his heart! Oh, it 's not easy, Gilbert; it don't
grow lighter from use, only my faith is the stronger and
surer, and that helps me to bear it.”

“Mother, I meant never to have spoken of this again,”
he said. “But you 're mistaken; it is no sorrow; I never
knew what it was to have a light heart, until you told me
your trouble, and the question came to my mouth to-night
because I shall soon feel strong in my own right as a man,
and able to do more than you might guess. If, as you
say, no man can help you, I will wait and be patient with
you.”

“That 's all we can do now, my child. I was n't reproaching
you for speaking, for you 've held your peace
a long while, when I know you 've been fretting; but this
is n't one of the troubles that 's lightened by speech, because
all talking must go around the outside, and never
touch the thing itself.”

“I understand,” he said, and gazed for a long time into
the fire, without speaking.

Mary Potter watched his face, in the wavering light of
the flame. She marked the growing decision of the features,
the forward, fearless glance of the large, deep-set eye,
the fuller firmness and sweetness of the mouth, and the
general expression, not only of self-reliance, but of authority,
which was spread over the entire countenance. Both
her pride in her son, and her respect for him, increased as
she gazed. Heretofore, she had rather considered her
secret as her own property, her right to which he should
not question; but now it seemed as if she were forced to
withhold something that of right belonged to him. Yet
no thought that the mysterous obligation might be broken
ever entered her mind.

Gilbert was thinking of Martha Deane. He had passed
that first timidity of love which shrinks from the knowledge
of others, and longed to tell his mother what noble fidelity
and courage Martha had exhibited. Only the recollection
of the fearful swoon into which she had fallen bound his
tongue; he felt that the first return to the subject must
come from her. She lay back in her chair and seemed to
sleep; he rose from time to time, went out into the lane
and listened, — and so the hours passed away.

Towards midnight a heavy step was heard, and Deb.
Smith, hot, panting, her arms daubed with earth, and a wild
light in her eyes, entered the kitchen. With one hand she
grasped the ends of her strong tow-linen apron, with the
other she still shouldered the spade. She knelt upon the
floor between the two, set the apron in the light of the fire,
unrolled the end of a leathern saddle-bag, and disclosed
the recovered treasure.

“See if it 's all right!” she said.

Mary Potter and Gilbert bent over the rolls and counted
them. It was the entire sum, untouched.

“Have you got a sup o' whiskey, Mr. Gilbert?” Deb.
Smith asked. “Ugh! I 'm hot and out o' breath, and yet
I feel mortal cold. There was a screech-owl hootin' in the

cedar; and I dunno how 't is, but there always seems to be
things around, where money 's buried. You can't see 'em,
but you hear 'em. I thought I 'd ha' dropped when I
turned up the sassyfrack bush, and got hold on it; and all
the way back I feared a big arm 'd come out o' every fence-corner,
and snatch it from me!”[1]

Mary Potter set the kettle on the fire, and Deb. Smith
was soon refreshed with a glass of hot grog. Then she
lighted her pipe and watched the two as they made preparations
for the journey to Chester on the morrow, now and
then nodding her head with an expression which chased
away the haggard sorrow from her features.

This time the journey was performed without incident.
The road was safe, the skies were propitious, and Gilbert
Potter returned from Chester an independent man, with
the redeemed mortgage in his pocket. His first care was
to assure his mother of the joyous fact; his next to seek
Martha Deane, and consult with her about their brightening
future.

On the way to Kennett Square, he fell in with Mark,
who was radiant with the promise of Richard Rudd's new
house, secured to him by the shrewd assistance of Miss
Betsy Lavender.

“I tell you what it is, Gilbert,” said he; “don't you
think I might as well speak to Daddy Fairthorn about
Sally? I 'm gettin' into good business now, and I guess
th' old folks might spare her pretty soon.”

“The sooner, Mark, the better for you; and you can
buy the wedding-suit at once, for I have your hundred dollars
ready.”

“You don't mean that you wont use it, Gilbert?”

Who so delighted as Mark, when he heard Gilbert's

unexpected story? “Oh, glory!” he exclaimed; “the
tide 's turnin', old fellow! What 'll you bet you 're not
married before I am? It 's got all over the country that
you and Martha are engaged, and that the Doctor 's full o'
gall and wormwood about it; I hear it wherever I go, and
there 's more for you than there is against you, I tell you
that!”

The fact was as Mark had stated. No one was positively
known to have spread the rumor, but it was afloat
and generally believed. The result was to invest Gilbert
with a fresh interest. His courage in confronting Sandy
Flash, his robbery, his wonderful preservation from death,
and his singular connection, through Deb. Smith, with
Sandy Flash's capture, had thrown a romantic halo around
his name, which was now softly brightened by the report
of his love. The stain of his birth and the uncertainty
of his parentage did not lessen this interest, but rather
increased it; and as any man who is much talked about in
a country community will speedily find two parties created,
one enthusiastically admiring, the other contemptuously
depreciating him, so now it happened in this case.

The admirers, however, were in a large majority, and
they possessed a great advantage over the detractors, being
supported by a multitude of facts, while the latter were
unable to point to any act of Gilbert Potter's life that was
not upright and honorable. Even his love of Martha
Deane was shorn of its presumption by her reciprocal affection.
The rumor that she had openly defied her father's
will created great sympathy, for herself and for Gilbert,
among the young people of both sexes, — a sympathy
which frequently was made manifest to Dr. Deane, and
annoyed him not a little. His stubborn opposition to his
daughter's attachment increased, in proportion as his power
to prevent it diminished.

We may therefore conceive his sensations when Gilbert
Potter himself boldly entered his presence. The latter,

after Mark's description, very imperfect though it was, of
Martha's courageous assertion of the rights of her heart,
had swiftly made up his mind to stand beside her in the
struggle, with equal firmness and equal pride. He would
openly seek an interview with her, and if he should find
her father at home, as was probable at that hour, would
frankly and respectfully acknowledge his love, and defend
it against any attack.

On entering the room, he quietly stepped forward with
extended hand, and saluted the Doctor, who was so taken
by surprise that he mechanically answered the greeting
before he could reflect what manner to adopt towards the
unwelcome visitor.

“What might be thy business with me?” he asked,
stiffly, recovering from the first shock.

“I called to see Martha,” Gilbert answered. “I have
some news which she will be glad to hear.”

“Young man,” said the Doctor, with his sternest face
and voice, “I may as well come to the point with thee, at
once. If thee had had decency enough to apply to me before
speaking thy mind to Martha, it would have saved us
all a great deal of trouble. I could have told thee then, as
I tell thee now, that I will never consent to her marriage
with thee. Thee must give up all thought of such a
thing.”

“I will do so,” Gilbert replied, “when Martha tells me
with her own mouth that such is her will. I am not one
of the men who manage their hearts according to circumstances.
I wish, indeed, I were more worthy of Martha;
but I am trying to deserve her, and I know no better way
than to be faithful as she is faithful. I mean no disrespect
to you, Dr. Deane. You are her father; you have every
right to care for her happiness, and I will admit that you
honestly think I am not the man who could make her
happy. All I ask is, that you should wait a little and know
me better. Martha and I have both decided that we must

wait, and there is time enough for you to watch my conduct,
examine my character, and perhaps come to a more
favorable judgment of me.”

Dr. Deane saw that it would be harder to deal with
Gilbert Potter than he had imagined. The young man
stood before him so honestly and fearlessly, meeting his
angry gaze with such calm, frank eyes, and braving his
despotic will with such a modest, respectful opposal, that
he was forced to withdraw from his haughty position, and
to set forth the same reasons which he had presented to
his daughter.

“I see,” he said, with a tone slightly less arrogant, “that
thee is sensible, in some respects, and therefore I put the
case to thy understanding. It 's too plain to be argued.
Martha is a rich bait for a poor man, and perhaps I
ought n't to wonder — knowing the heart of man as I do
— that thee was tempted to turn her head to favor thee;
but the money is not yet hers, and I, as her father, can
never allow that thy poverty shall stand for three years
between her and some honorable man to whom her money
would be no temptation! Why, if all I hear be true,
thee has n't even any certain roof to shelter a wife;
thy property, such as it is, may be taken out of thy
hands!”

Gilbert could not calmly hear these insinuations. All
his independent pride of character was aroused; a dark
flush came into his face, the blood was pulsing hotly through
his veins, and indignant speech was rising to his lips, when
the inner door unexpectedly opened, and Martha entered
the room.

She instantly guessed what was taking place, and summoned
up all her self-possession, to stand by Gilbert, without
increasing her father's exasperation. To the former,
her apparition was like oil on troubled waters. His quick
blood struck into warm channels of joy, as he met her
glowing eyes, and felt the throb of her soft, elastic palm

against his own. Dr. Deane set his teeth, drew up his
under lip, and handled his cane with restless fingers.

“Father,” said Martha, “if you are talking of me, it is
better that I should be present. I am sure there is nothing
that either thee or Gilbert would wish to conceal from
me.”

“No, Martha!” Gilbert exclaimed; “I came to bring
you good news. The mortgage on my farm is lifted, and I
am an independent man!”

“Without my help! Does thee hear that, father?”

Gilbert did not understand her remark; without heeding
it, he continued, —

“Sandy Flash, after his sentence, sent for me and told
me where the money he took from me was to be found. I
carried it to Chester, and have paid off all my remaining
debt. Martha, your father has just charged me with being
tempted by your property. I say to you, in his presence,
put it beyond my reach, — give it away, forfeit the conditions
of the legacy, — let me show truly whether I ever
thought of money in seeking you!”

“Gilbert,” she said, gently, “father does n't yet know
you as I do. Others will no doubt say the same thing, and
we must both make up our minds to have it said; yet I
cannot, for that, relinquish what is mine of right. We are
not called upon to sacrifice to the mistaken opinions of
men; your life and mine will show, and manifest to others
in time, whether it is a selfish tie that binds us together.”

“Martha!” Dr. Deane exclaimed, feeling that he should
lose ground, unless this turn of the conversation were interrupted;
“thee compels me to show thee how impossible
the thing is, even if this man were of the richest. Admitting
that he is able to support a family, admitting that thee
waits three years, comes into thy property, and is still of a
mind to marry him against my will, can thee forget — or
has he so little consideration for thee as to forget — that
he bears his mother's name?”

“Father!”

“Let me speak, Martha,” said Gilbert, lifting his head,
which had drooped for a moment. His voice was earnest
and sorrowful, yet firm. “It is true that I bear my
mother's name. It is the name of a good, an honest, an
honorable, and a God-fearing woman. I wish I could be
certain that the name which legally belongs to me will be
as honorable and as welcome. But Martha knows, and
you, her father, have a right to know, that I shall have
another. I have not been inconsiderate. I trampled
down my love for her, as long as I believed it would bring
disgrace. I will not say that now, knowing her as I do,
I could ever give her up, even if the disgrace was not
removed,” —

“Thank you, Gilbert!” Martha interrupted.

“But there is none, Dr. Deane,” he continued, “and
when the time comes, my birth will be shown to be as honorable
as your own, or Mark's.”

Dr. Deane was strangely excited at these words. His
face colored, and he darted a piercing, suspicious glance at
Gilbert. The latter, however, stood quietly before him,
too possessed by what he had said to notice the Doctor's
peculiar expression; but it returned to his memory afterwards.

“Why,” the Doctor at last stammered, “I never heard
of this before!”

“No,” Gilbert answered, “and I must ask of you not to
mention it further, at present. I must beg you to be
patient until my mother is able to declare the truth.”

“What keeps her from it?”

“I don't know,” Gilbert sadly replied.

“Come!” cried the Doctor, as sternly as ever, “this is
rather a likely story! If Potter is n't thy name, what is?”

“I don't know,” Gilbert repeated.

“No; nor no one else! How dare thee address my
daughter, — talk of marriage with her, — when thee don't

know thy real name? What name would thee offer to
her in exchange for her own? Young man, I don't believe
thee!”

“I do,” said Martha, rising and moving to Gilbert's
side.

“Martha, go to thy room!” the Doctor cried. “And as
for thee, Gilbert Potter, or Gilbert Anything, I tell thee,
once and for all, never speak of this thing again, — at least,
until thee can show a legal name and an honorable birth!
Thee has not prejudiced me in thy favor by thy devices,
and it stands to reason that I should forbid thee to see my
daughter, — to enter my doors!”

“Dr. Deane,” said Gilbert, with sad yet inflexible dignity,
“it is impossible, after what you have said, that I
should seek to enter your door, until my words are proved
true, and I am justified in your eyes. The day may come
sooner than you think. But I will do nothing secretly; I
won't promise anything to you that I can't promise to myself;
and so I tell you, honestly and above-board, that
while I shall not ask Martha to share my life until I can
offer her my true name, I must see her from time to time.
I 'm not fairly called upon to give up that.”

“No, Gilbert,” said Martha, who had not yet moved from
her place by his side, “it is as necessary to my happiness
as to yours. I will not ask you to come here again; you
cannot, and must not, even for my sake; but when I need
your counsel and your sympathy, and there is no other
way left, I will go to you.”

“Martha!” Dr. Deane exclaimed; but the word conveys
no idea of his wrath and amazement.

“Father,” she said, “this is thy house, and it is for thee
to direct, here. Within its walls, I will conduct myself
according to thy wishes; I will receive no guest whom
thee forbids, and will even respect thy views in regard to
my intercourse with our friends; but unless thee wants to
deprive me of all liberty, and set aside every right of mine

as an accountable being, thee must allow me sometimes to
do what both my heart and my conscience command!”

“Is it a woman's place,” he angrily asked, “to visit a
man?”

“When the two have need of each other, and God has
joined their hearts in love and in truth, and the man is
held back from reaching the woman, then it is her place to
go to him!”

Never before had Dr. Deane beheld upon his daughter's
sweet, gentle face such an expression of lofty spiritual authority.
While her determination really outraged his conventional
nature, he felt that it came from a higher source
than his prohibition. He knew that nothing which he
could urge at that moment would have the slightest weight
in her mind, and moreover, that the liberal, independent
customs of the neighborhood, as well as the respect of his
sect for professed spiritual guidance, withheld him from
any harsh attempt at coereion. He was powerless, but
still inflexible.

As for Martha, what she had said was simply included
in what she was resolved to do; the greater embraced the
less. It was a defiance of her father's authority, very painful
from the necessity of its assertion, but rendered inevitable
by his course. She knew with what tenacity he
would seize and hold every inch of relinquished ground;
she felt, as keenly as Gilbert himself, the implied insult
which he could not resent; and her pride, her sense of
justice, and the strong fidelity of her woman's heart, alike
impelled her to stand firm.

“Good-bye, Martha!” Gilbert said, taking her hand.
“I must wait.”

“We wait together, Gilbert!”