 | CHAPTER XXXI.
THE WILL. The story of Kennett |  |
31. CHAPTER XXXI.
THE WILL.
During the homeward journey from the grave, Gilbert
and his mother were still the central figures of interest.
That the members of the Barton family were annoyed and
humiliated, was evident to all eyes; but it was a pitiful,
undignified position, which drew no sympathy towards them,
while the proud, composed gravity of the former commanded
respect. The young men and women, especially,
were unanimously of the opinion that Gilbert had conducted
himself like a man. They were disappointed, it was true,
that he and Martha Deane had not met, in the sight of all.
It was impossible to guess whether she had been already
aware of the secret, or how the knowledge of it would affect
their romantic relation to each other.
Could the hearts of the lovers have been laid bare, the
people would have seen that never had each felt such need
of the other, — never had they been possessed with such
restless yearning. To the very last, Gilbert's eyes wandered
from time to time towards the slender figure in the
cavalcade before him, hoping for the chance of a word or
look; but Martha's finer instinct told her that she must yet
hold herself aloof. She appreciated the solemnity of the
revelation, saw that much was yet unexplained, and could
have guessed, even without Miss Lavender's mysterious
hints, that the day would bring forth other and more important
disclosures.
As the procession drew nearer Kennett Square, the curiosity
of the funeral guests, baulked and yet constantly stimulated,
such a flutter that she scarcely knew what she said or did;
Mark's authority alone prevented her from dashing up to
Gilbert, regardless of appearances. The old men, especially
those in plain coats and broad-brimmed hats, took every
opportunity to press near the mourners; and but for Miss
Betsy Lavender, who hovered around the latter like a
watchful dragon, both Gilbert and his mother would have
been seriously annoyed. Finally the gate at the lane-end
closed upon them, and the discomfited public rode on to
the village, tormented by keen envy of the few who had
been bidden to the funeral-dinner.
When Mary alighted from her horse, the old lawyer
approached her.
“My name is Stacy, Mrs. Barton,” he said, “and Miss
Lavender will have told you who I am. Will you let me
have a word with you in private?”
She slightly started at the name he had given her; it
was the first symptom of agitation she had exhibited. He
took her aside, and began talking earnestly in a low tone.
Elisha Barton looked on with an amazed, troubled air, and
presently turned to his brother.
“Alfred,” he said, “it is quite time all this was explained.”
But Miss Lavender interfered.
“It 's your right, Mr. Elisha, no denyin' that, and the
right of all the fam'ly; so we 've agreed to have it done
afore all together, in the lawful way, Mr. Stacy bein' a
lawyer; but dinner first, if you please, for eatin' 's good
both for grief and cur'osity, and it 's hard tellin' which is
uppermost in this case. Gilbert, come here!”
He was standing alone, beside the paling. He obeyed
her call.
“Gilbert, shake hands with your uncle and aunt. Mr.
Elisha, this is your nephew, Gilbert Barton, Mr. Alfred's
son.”
They looked at each other for a moment. There was
that in Gilbert's face which enforced respect. Contrasted
with his father, who stood on one side, darting stealthy
glances at the group from the corners of his eyes, his bearing
was doubly brave and noble. He offered his hand in
silence, and both Elisha Barton and his wife felt themselves
compelled to take it. Then the three sons, who
knew the name of Gilbert Potter, and were more astonished
than shocked at the new relationship, came up and greeted
their cousin in a grave but not unfriendly way.
“That 's right!” exclaimed Miss Lavender. “And now
come in to dinner, all o' ye! I gev orders to have the
meats dished as soon as the first horse was seen over the
rise o' the hill, and it 'll all be smokin' on the table.”
Though the meal was such as no one had ever before
seen in the Barton farm-house, it was enjoyed by very few
of the company. The sense of something to come after it
made them silent and uncomfortable. Mr. Stacy, Miss
Lavender, and the sons of Elisha Barton, with their wives,
carried on a scattering, forced conversation, and there was
a general feeling of relief when the pies, marmalade, and
cheese had been consumed, and the knives and forks laid
crosswise over the plates.
When they arose from the table, Mr. Stacy led the way
into the parlor. A fire, in the mean time, had been made
in the chill, open fireplace, but it scarcely relieved the
dreary, frosty aspect of the apartment. The presence of
the corpse seemed to linger there, attaching itself with
ghastly distinctness to the chair and hickory staff in a
corner.
The few dinner-guests who were not relatives understood
that this meeting excluded them, and Elisha Barton was
therefore surprised to notice, after they had taken their
seats, that Miss Lavender was one of the company.
“I thought,” he said, with a significant look, “that it was
to be the family only.”
“Miss Lavender is one of the witnesses to the will,” Mr.
Stacy answered, “and her presence is necessary, moreover,
as an important testimony in regard to some of its provisions.”
Alfred Barton and Gilbert both started at these words,
but from very different feelings. The former, released from
public scrutiny, already experienced a comparative degree
of comfort, and held up his head with an air of courage;
yet now the lawyer's announcement threw him into an
agitation which it was not possible to conceal. Miss Lavender
looked around the circle, coolly nodded her head to
Elisha Barton, and said nothing.
Mr. Stacy arose, unlocked a small niche let into the wall
of the house, and produced the heavy oaken casket in which
the old man kept the documents relating to his property.
This he placed upon a small table beside his chair, opened
it, and took out the topmost paper. He was completely
master of the situation, and the deliberation with which he
surveyed the circle of excited faces around him seemed to
indicate that he enjoyed the fact.
“The last will and testament of Abiah Barton, made the
day before his death,” he said, “revokes all former wills,
which were destroyed by his order, in the presence of myself
and Miss Elizabeth Lavender.”
All eyes were turned upon the spinster, who again
nodded, with a face of preternatural solemnity.
“In order that you, his children and grandchildren,”
Mr. Stacy continued, “may rightly understand the deceased's
intention in making this last will, when the time
comes for me to read it, I must first inform you that he was
acquainted with the fact of his son Alfred's marriage with
Mary Potter.”
Alfred Barton half sprang from his seat, and then fell
back with the same startled, livid face, which Gilbert already
knew. The others held their breath in suspense, —
except Mary, who sat near the lawyer, firm, cold, and unmoved.
“The marriage of Alfred Barton and Mary Potter must
therefore be established, to your satisfaction,” Mr. Stacy
resumed, turning towards Elisha. “Alfred Barton, I ask
you to declare whether this woman is your lawfully wedded
wife?”
A sound almost like a groan came from his throat, but it
formed the syllable, — “Yes.”
“Further, I ask you to declare whether Gilbert Barton,
who has until this day borne his mother's name of Potter,
is your lawfully begotten son?”
“Yes.”
“To complete the evidence,” said the lawyer, “Mary
Barton, give me the paper in your hands.”
She untied the handkerchief, opened the Bible, and
handed Mr. Stacy the slip of paper which Gilbert had seen
her place between the leaves that morning. The lawyer
gave it to Elisha Barton, with the request that he would
read it aloud.
It was the certificate of a magistrate at Burlington, in
the Colony of New Jersey, setting forth that he had united
in wedlock Alfred Barton and Mary Potter. The date was
in the month of June, 1771.
“This paper,” said Elisha, when he had finished reading,
“appears to be genuine. The evidence must have been
satisfactory to you, Mr. Stacy, and to my father, since it
appears to have been the cause of his making a new will;
but as this new will probably concerns me and my children,
I demand to know why, if the marriage was legal, it has
been kept secret so long? The fact of the marriage does
not explain what has happened to-day.”
Mr. Stacy turned towards Gilbert's mother, and made a
sign.
“Shall I explain it in my way, Alfred?” she asked, “or
will you, in yours?”
“There 's but one story,” he answered, “and I guess it
falls to your place to tell it.”
“It does!” she exclaimed. “You, Elisha and Ann, and
you, Gilbert, my child, take notice that every word of what
I shall say is the plain God's truth. Twenty-seven years
ago, when I was a young woman of twenty, I came to this
farm to help Ann with the house-work. You remember it,
Ann; it was just after your mother's death. I was poor;
I had neither father nor mother, but I was as proud as the
proudest, and the people called me good-looking. You
were vexed with me, Ann, because the young men came
now and then, of a Sunday afternoon; but I put up with
your hard words. You did not know that I understood
what Alfred's eyes meant when he looked at me; I put up
with you because I believed I could be mistress of the
house, in your place. You have had your revenge of me
since, if you felt the want of it — so let that rest!”
She paused. Ann, with her handkerchief to her eyes,
sobbed out, — “Mary, I always liked you better 'n you
thought.”
“I can believe it,” she continued, “for I have been forced
to look into my heart and learn how vain and mistaken I
then was. But I liked Alfred, in those days; he was a gay
young man, and accounted good-looking, and there were
merry times just before the war, and he used to dress
bravely, and was talked about as likely to marry this girl
or that. My head was full of him, and I believed my heart
was. I let him see from the first that it must be honest
love between us, or not at all; and the more I held back,
the more eager was he, till others began to notice, and the
matter was brought to his father's ears.”
“I remember that!” cried Elisha, suddenly.
“Yet it was kept close,” she resumed. “Alfred told me
that the old man had threatened to cut him out of his will
if he should marry me, and I saw that I must leave the
farm; but I gave out that I was tired of the country, and
wanted to find service in Philadelphia. I believed that
Alfred would follow me in a week or two, and he did. He
down. His father had had a paralytic stroke, and
nobody believed he 'd live more than a few weeks. It was
in the beginning of June, and the doctors said he could n't
get over the hot weather. Alfred said to me, Why wait? —
you 'll be taking up with some city fellow, and I want you
to be my wife at once. On my side I thought, Let him be
made rich and free by his father's death, and wives will be
thrown in his way; he 'll lose his liking for me, by little
and little, and somebody else will be mistress of the farm.
So I agreed, and we went to Burlington together, as being
more out of the way and easier to be kept secret; but just
before we came to the Squire's, he seemed to grow fearsome
all at once, lest it should be found out, and he bought a
Bible and swore me by my soul's salvation never to say I
was married to him until after his father died. Here 's the
Bible, Alfred! Do you remember it? Here, here 's the
place where I kissed it when I took the oath!”
She rose from her seat, and held it towards him. No
one could doubt the solemn truth of her words. He nodded
his head mechanically, unable to speak. Still standing,
she turned towards Elisha Barton, and exclaimed, —
“He took the same oath, but what did it mean to him!
What does it mean to a man? I was young and vain; I
thought only of holding fast to my good luck! I never
thought of — of” — (here her faced flushed, and her voice
began to tremble) — “of you, Gilbert! I fed my pride
by hoping for a man's death, and never dreamed I was
bringing a curse on a life that was yet to come! Perhaps
he did n't then, either; the Lord pardon me if I judge
him too hard. What I charge him with, is that he held
me to my oath, when — when the fall went by and the
winter, and his father lived, and his son was to be born!
It was always the same, — Wait a little, a month or so,
maybe; the old man could n't live, and it was the difference
between riches and poverty for us. Then I begged
away from me. Before Gilbert was born, I hoped I might
die in giving him life; then I felt that I must live for his
sake. I saw my sin, and what punishment the Lord had
measured out to me, and that I must earn His forgiveness;
and He mercifully hid from my sight the long path that
leads to this day; for if the release had n't seemed so near,
I never could have borne to wait!”
All the past agony of her life seemed to discharge itself
in these words. They saw what the woman had suffered,
what wonderful virtues of patience and faith had been developed
from the vice of her pride, and there was no heart
in the company so stubborn as to refuse her honor. Gilbert's
eyes were fixed on her face with an absorbing expression
of reverence; he neither knew nor heeded that
there were tears on his cheeks. The women wept in
genuine emotion, and even the old lawyer was obliged to
wipe his dimmed spectacles.
Elisha rose, and approaching Alfred, asked, in a voice
which he strove to make steady, — “Is all this true?”
Alfred sank his head; his reply was barely audible, —
“She has said no more than the truth.”
“Then,” said Elisha, taking her hand, “I accept you,
Mary Barton, and acknowledge your place in our family.”
Elisha's wife followed, and embraced her with many
tears, and lastly Ann, who hung totteringly upon her
shoulder as she cried, —
“Indeed, Mary, indeed I always liked you; I never
wished you any harm!”
Thus encouraged, Alfred Barton made a powerful effort.
There seemed but one course for him to take; it was a
hard one, but he took it.
“Mary,” he said, “you have full right and justice on
your side. I 've acted meanly towards you — meaner, I 'm
afraid, than any man before ever acted towards his wife.
Not only to you, but to Gilbert; but I always meant to
and year to year, as you did; and then things got set in
their way, and it was harder and harder to let out the
truth. I comforted myself — that was n't right, either, I
know, — but I comforted myself with the thought that you
were doing well; I never lost sight of you, and I 've been
proud of Gilbert, though I did n't dare show it, and always
wanted to lend him a helping hand, if he 'd let me.”
She drew herself up and faced him with flashing eyes.
“How did you mean to do your duty by me? How did
you mean to lend Gilbert a helping hand? Was it by
trying to take a second wife during my lifetime, and that
wife the girl whom Gilbert loves?”
Her questions cut to the quick, and the shallow protestations
he would have set up were stripped off in a moment,
leaving bare every cowardly shift of his life. Nothing
was left but the amplest confession.
“You won't believe me, Mary,” he stammered, feebly
weeping with pity of his own miserable plight, “and I
can't ask to — but it 's the truth! Give me your Bible!
I 'll kiss the place you kissed, and swear before God that
I never meant to marry Martha Deane! I let the old
man think so, because he hinted it 'd make a difference in
his will, and he drove me — he and Dr. Deane together
— to speak to her. I was a coward and a fool that I let
myself be driven that far, but I could n't and would n't
have married her!”
“The whole snarl 's comin' undone,” interrupted Miss
Lavender. “I see the end on 't. Do you mind that day,
Alf. Barton, when I come upon you suddent, settin' on the
log and sayin' `I can't see the way,' — the very day, I 'll
be snaked, that you spoke to the Doctor about Martha
Deane! — and then you so mortal glad that she would n't
have you! You have acted meaner 'n dirt; I don't excuse
him, Mary; but never mind, justice is justice, and he 's told
the truth this once't.”
“Sit down, friends!” said Mr. Stacy. “Before the will
is read, I want Miss Lavender to relate how it was that
Abiah Barton and myself became acquainted with the fact
of the marriage.”
The reading of the will had been almost forgotten in the
powerful interest excited by Mary Barton's narrative. The
curiosity to know its contents instantly revived, but was
still subordinate to that which the lawyer's statement occasioned.
The whole story was so singular, that it seemed
as yet but half explained.
“Well, to begin at the beginnin',” said Miss Lavender,
“it all come o' my wishin' to help two true-lovyers, and
maybe you 'll think I 'm as foolish as I 'm old, but never
mind, I 'll allow that; and I saw that nothin' could be
done till Gilbert got his lawful name, and how to get it
was the trouble, bein' as Mary was swore to keep secret.
The long and the short of it is, I tried to worm it out o'
her, but no use; she set her teeth as tight as sin, and all
I did learn was, that when she was in Phildelphy — I
knowed Gilbert was born there, but did n't let on — she
lived at Treadwell's, in Fourth Street. Then turnin' over
everything in my mind, I suspicioned that she must be
waitin' for somebody to die, and that 's what held her
bound; it seemed to me I must guess right away, but I
could n't and could n't, and so goin' up the hill, nigh
puzzled to death, Gilbert ploughin' away from me, bendin'
his head for'ard a little — there! turn round, Gilbert!
turn round, Alf. Barton! Look at them two sets o'
shoulders!”
Miss Lavender's words were scarcely comprehensible,
but all saw the resemblance between father and son, in
the outline of the shoulders, and managed to guess her
meaning.
“Well,” she continued, “it struck me then and there,
like a streak o' lightnin'; I screeched and tumbled like
a shot hawk, and so betwixt the saddle and the ground,
all the same, you know what I mean; and I saw them was
Alf. Barton's shoulders, and I remembered the old man
was struck with palsy the year afore Gilbert was born, and
I dunno how many other things come to me all of a heap;
and now you know, Gilbert, what made me holler. I
borrowed the loan o' his bay horse and put off for Phildelphy
the very next day, and a mortal job it was; what
with bar'ls and boxes pitched hither and yon, and people
laughin' at y'r odd looks, — don't talk o' Phildelphy manners
to me, for I 've had enough of 'em! —and old Treadwell
dead when I did find him, and the daughter married
to Greenfield in the brass and tin-ware business, it 's a
mercy I ever found out anything.”
“Come to the point, Betsy,” said Elisha, impatiently.
“The point, Betsy. The p'int 's this: I made out from
the Greenfield woman that the man who used to come to
see Mary Potter was the perfect pictur' o' young Alf. Barton;
then to where she went next, away down to the
t'other end o' Third Street, boardin', he payin' the board
till just afore Gilbert was born — and that 's enough,
thinks I, let me get out o' this rackety place. So home
I posted, but not all the way, for no use to tell Mary Potter,
and why not go right to Old-man Barton, and let him
know who his daughter-in-law and son is, and see what 'll
come of it? Th' old man, you must know, always could
abide me better 'n most women, and I was n't a bit afeard
of him, not lookin' for legacies, and would n't have 'em at
any such price; but never mind. I hid my horse in the
woods and sneaked into the house across the fields, the
back way, and good luck that nobody was at home but
Ann, here; and so I up and told the old man the whole
story.”
“The devil!” Alfred Barton could not help exclaiming,
as he recalled his father's singular manner on the evening
of the day in question.
“Devil!” Miss Lavender repeated. “More like an
angel put it into my head. But I see Mr. Elisha 's fidgetty,
so I 'll make short work o' the rest. He curst and swore
awful, callin' Mr. Alfred a mean pup, and I dunno what
all, but he had n't so much to say ag'in Mary Potter; he
allowed she was a smart lass, and he 'd heerd o' Gilbert's
doin's, and the lad had grit in him. `Then,' says I, `here 's
a mighty wrong been done, and it 's for you to set it right
afore you die, and if you manage as I tell you, you can be
even with Mr. Alfred;' and he perks up his head and
asks how, and says I `This way' — but what I said 'll be
made manifest by Mr. Stacy, without my jumpin' ahead
o' the proper time. The end of it was, he wound up by
sayin', — `Gad, if Stacy was only here!' `I 'll bring
him!' says I, and it was fixed betwixt and between us two,
Ann knowin' nothin' o' the matter; and off I trapesed back
to Chester, and brung Mr. Stacy, and if that good-for-nothin'
Jake Fairthorn had n't ha' seen me” —
“That will do, Miss Lavender,” said Mr. Stacy, interrupting
her. “I have only to add that Abiah Barton was
so well convinced of the truth of the marriage, that his
new will only requires the proof which has to-day been
furnished, in order to express his intentions fully and completely.
It was his wish that I should visit Mary Barton
on the very morning afterwards; but his sudden death
prevented it, and Miss Lavender ascertained, the same
evening, that Mary, in view of the neglect and disgrace
which she had suffered, demanded to take her justification
into her own hands. My opinion coincided with that of
Miss Lavender, that she alone had the right to decide in
the matter, and that we must give no explanation until
she had asserted, in her own way, her release from a most
shameful and cruel bond.”
It was a proud moment of Miss Lavender's life, when,
in addition to her services, the full extent of which would
presently be known, a lawyer of Mr. Stacy's reputation so
respectfully acknowledged the wisdom of her judgment.
“If further information upon any point is required,”
observed the lawyer, “it may be asked for now; otherwise,
I will proceed to the reading of the will.”
“Was — was my father of sound mind, — that is, competent
to dispose of his property?” asked Elisha Barton,
with a little hesitation.
“I hope the question will not be raised,” said Mr. Stacy,
gravely; “but if it is I must testify that he was in as full
possession of his faculties as at any time since his first
attack, twenty-six years ago.”
He then read the will, amid the breathless silence of
the company. The old man first devised to his elder son,
Elisha Barton, the sum of twenty thousand dollars, investments
secured by mortgages on real estate; an equal
amount to his daughter-in-law, Mary, provided she was
able to furnish legal proof of her marriage to his son,
Alfred Barton; five thousand dollars each to his four
grand-children, the three sons of Elisha, and Gilbert Barton;
ten thousand dollars to his daughter Ann; and to
his son Alfred the occupancy and use of the farm during
his life, the property, at his death, to pass into the hands
of Gilbert Barton. There was also a small bequest to
Giles, and the reversions of the estate were to be divided
equally among all the heirs. The witnesses to the will
were James Stacy and Elizabeth Lavender.
Gilbert and his mother now recognized, for the first
time, what they owed to the latter. A sense of propriety
kept them silent; the fortune which had thus unexpectedly
fallen into their hands was the least and poorest part
of their justification. Miss Lavender, also, was held to
silence, but it went hard with her. The reading of the
will gave her such an exquisite sense of enjoyment that
she felt quite choked in the hush which followed it.
“As the marriage is now proven,” Mr. Stacy said, folding
up the paper, “there is nothing to prevent the will
from being carried into effect.”
“No, I suppose not,” said Elisha; “it is as fair as could
be expected.”
“Mother, what do you say?” asked Gilbert, suddenly.
“Your grandfather wanted to do me justice, my boy,”
said she. “Twenty thousand dollars will not pay me for
twenty-five years of shame; no money could; but it was
the only payment he had to offer. I accept this as I accepted
my trials. The Lord sees fit to make my worldly
path smooth to my feet, and I have learned neither to
reject mercy nor wrath.”
She was not elated; she would not, on that solemn day,
even express gratification in the legacy, for her son's sake.
Though her exalted mood was but dimly understood by the
others, they felt its influence. If any thought of disputing
the will, on the ground of his father's incompetency, had
ever entered Elisha Barton's mind, he did not dare, then
or afterwards, to express it.
The day was drawing to a close, and Elisha Barton, with
his sons, who lived in the adjoining township of Pennsbury,
made preparations to leave. They promised soon to
visit Gilbert and his mother. Miss Lavender, taking Gilbert
aside, announced that she was going to return to Dr.
Deane's.
“I s'pose I may tell her,” she said, trying to hide her
feelings under a veil of clumsy irony, “that it 's all up betwixt
and between you, now you 're a rich man; and of
course as she would n't have the father, she can't think o'
takin' the son.”
“Betsy,” he whispered, “tell her that I never yet needed
her love so much as now, and that I shall come to her to-morrow.”
“Well, you know the door stands open, even accordin' to
the Doctor's words.”
As Gilbert went forth to look after the horses, Alfred
Barton followed him. The two had not spoken directly to
each other during the whole day.
“Gilbert,” said the father, putting his hand on the son's
shoulder, “you know, now, why it always cut me, to have
you think ill of me. I deserve it, for I 've been no father
to you; and after what you 've heard to-day, I may never
have a chance to be one. But if you could give me a
chance — if you could” —
Here his voice seemed to fail. Gilbert quietly withdrew
his shoulder from the hand, hesitated a moment, and then
said, — “Don't ask me anything now, if you please. I can
only think of my mother to-day.”
Alfred Barton walked to the garden-fence, leaned his
arms upon it, and his head upon them. He was still leaning
there, when mother and son rode by in the twilight, on
their way home.
| CHAPTER XXXI.
THE WILL. The story of Kennett | |