University of Virginia Library

32. CHAPTER XXXII.
THE LOVERS.

Both mother and son made the homeward ride in silence.
A wide space, a deep gulf of time, separated them
from the morning. The events of the day had been so
startling, so pregnant with compressed fate, the emotions
they had undergone had been so profound, so mixed of the
keenest elements of wonder, pain, and pride, that a feeling
of exhaustion succeeded. The old basis of their lives
seemed to have shifted, and the new foundations were not
yet firm under their feet.

Yet, as they sat together before the hearth-fire that evening,
and the stern, proud calm of Gilbert's face slowly
melted into a gentler and tenderer expression, his mother
was moved to speak.

“This has been my day,” she said; “it was appointed
and set apart for me from the first; it belonged to me, and
I have used it, in my right, from sun to sun. But I feel
now, that it was not my own strength alone that held me
up. I am weak and weary, and it almost seems that I fail
in thanksgiving. Is it, Gilbert, because you do not rejoice
as I had hoped you would?”

“Mother,” he answered, “whatever may happen in my
life, I can never feel so proud of myself, as I felt to-day, to
be your son. I do rejoice for your sake, as I shall for my
own, no doubt, when I get better used to the truth. You
could not expect me, at once, to be satisfied with a father
who has not only acted so cruelly towards you, but whom I
have suspected of being my own rival and enemy. I don't

think I shall ever like the new name as well as the old, but
it is enough for me that the name brings honor and independence
to you!”

“Perhaps I ought to ha' told you this morning, Gilbert.
I thought only of the justification, not of the trial; and it
seemed easier to speak in actions, to you and to all men at
once, as I did, than to tell the story quietly to you alone.
I feared it might take away my strength, if I did n't follow,
step by step, the course marked out for me.”

“You were right, mother!” he exclaimed. “What trial
had I, compared with yours? What tale had I to tell —
what pain to feel, except that if I had not been born, you
would have been saved twenty-five years of suffering!”

“No, Gilbert! — never say, never think that! I see
already the suffering and the sorrow dying away as if
they 'd never been, and you left to me for the rest of life
the Lord grants; to me a son has been more than a husband!”

“Then,” he asked in an anxious, hesitating tone, “would
you consider that I was not quite so much a son — that
any part of my duty to you was lost — if I wished to bring
you a daughter, also?”

“I know what you mean, Gilbert. Betsy Lavender has
told me all. I am glad you spoke of it, this day; it will
put the right feeling of thanksgiving into my heart and
yours. Martha Deane never stood between us, my boy; it
was I that stood between you and her!”

“Mother!” he cried, a joyous light shining from his face,
“you love her? You are willing that she should be my
wife?”

“Ay, Gilbert; willing, and thankful, and proud.”

“But the very name of her struck you down! You fell
into a deadly faint when I told you I had spoken my mind
to her!”

“I see, my boy,” she said; “I see now why you never
mentioned her name, from that time. It was not Martha

Deane, but the name of the one you thought wanted to win
her away from you, — your father's name, Gilbert, — that
seemed to put a stop to my life. The last trial was the
hardest of all, but don't you see it was only the bit of darkness
that comes before the daylight?”

While this new happiness brought the coveted sense of
thanksgiving to mother and son, and spread an unexpected
warmth and peace over the close of the fateful day, there
was the liveliest excitement in Kennett Square, over Miss
Lavender's intelligence. That lady had been waylaid by a
dozen impatient questioners before she could reach the
shelter of Dr. Deane's roof; and could only purchase
release by a hurried statement of the main facts, in which
Alfred Barton's cruelty, and his wife's wonderful fidelity to
her oath, and the justice done to her and Gilbert by the
old man's will, were set forth with an energy that multiplied
itself as the gossip spread.

In the adjoining townships, it was reported and believed,
the very next day, that Alfred Barton had tried to murder
his wife and poison his father — that Mary had saved the
latter, and inherited, as her reward, the entire property.

Once safely housed, Miss Lavender enjoyed another triumph.
She related the whole story, in every particular, to
Martha Deane, in the Doctor's presence, taking especial
care not to omit Alfred's words in relation to his enforced
wooing.

“And there 's one thing I must n't forgit, Martha,” she
declared, at the close of her narrative. “Gilbert sends
word to you that he needs your true-love more 'n ever, and
he 's comin' up to see you to-morrow; and says I to him,
The door 's open, even accordin' to the Doctor's words; and
so it is, for he 's got his true name, and free to come.
You 're a man o' your word, Doctor, and nothin' 's been said
or done, thank Goodness, that can't be easy mended!”

What impression this announcement made upon Dr.
Deane could not be guessed by either of the women. He

rose, went to the window, looked into the night for a long
time without saying a word, and finally betook himself to
his bed.

The next morning, although there were no dangerous
cases on his hands, he rode away, remarking that he should
not be home again until the evening. Martha knew what
this meant, and also what Miss Lavender meant in hurrying
down to Fairthorn's, soon after the Doctor's departure.
She became restless with tender expectation; her cheeks
burned, and her fingers trembled so that she was forced to
lay aside her needle-work. It seemed very long since she
had even seen Gilbert; it was a long time (in the calendar
of lovers) since the two had spoken to each other. She
tried to compare the man he had been with the man he
now was, — Gilbert poor, disgraced and in trouble, with
Gilbert rich and honorably born; and it almost seemed as
if the latter had impoverished her heart by taking from it
the need of that faithful, passionate sympathy which she
had bestowed upon the former.

The long hour of waiting came to an end. Roger was
once more tethered at the gate, and Gilbert was in the
room. It was not danger, this time, beyond the brink of
which they met, but rather a sudden visitation of security;
yet both were deeply and powerfully agitated. Martha was
the first to recover her composure. Withdrawing herself
from Gilbert's arms, she said, —

“It was not right that the tests should be all on my side.
Now it is my turn to try you, Gilbert!”

Even her arch, happy smile did not enlighten him.
“How, Martha?” he asked.

“Since you don't know, you are already tested. But
how grave you look! Have I not yet learned all of this
wonderful, wonderful history? Did Betsy Lavender keep
something back?”

“Martha!” he cried, “you shame me out of the words I
had meant to say. But they were doubts of my own position,

not of you. Is my new name better or worse in your
ears, than my old one?”

“To me you are only Gilbert,” she answered, “as I am
Martha to you. What does it matter whether we write
Potter or Barton? Either is good in itself, and so would
any other name be; but Barton means something, as the
world goes, and therefore we will take it. Gilbert, I have
put myself in your place, since I learned the whole truth.
I guessed you would come to me with a strange, uncertain
feeling, — not a doubt, but rather a wonder; and I endeavored
to make your new circumstances clear to my mind.
Our duty to your mother is plain; she is a woman beside
whom all other women we know seem weak and insignificant.
It is not that which troubled you, I am sure, when
you thought of me. Let me say, then, that so far as our
relation to your father is concerned, I will be guided entirely
by your wishes.”

“Martha,” he said, “that is my trouble, — or, rather, my
disappointment, — that with my true name I must bring
to you and fasten upon you the whole mean and shameful
story! One parent must always be honored at the expense
of the other, and my name still belongs to the one
that is disgraced.”

“I foresaw your feeling, Gilbert. You were on the
point of making another test for me; that is not fair.
The truth has come too suddenly, — the waters of your
life have been stirred too deeply; you must wait until
they clear. Leave that to Alfred Barton and your mother.
To me, I confess, he seems very weak rather than very
bad. I can now understand the pains which his addresses
to me must have cost him. If I ever saw fear on a man's
face, it was on his when he thought I might take him at his
word. But, to a man like you, a mean nature is no better
than a bad one. Perhaps I feel your disappointment as
deeply as you can; yet it is our duty to keep this feeling
to ourselves. For your mother's sake, Gilbert; you must

not let the value of her justification be lessened in her
eyes. She deserves all the happiness you and I can give
her, and if she is willing to receive me, some day, as a
daughter” —

Gilbert interrupted her words by clasping her in his
arms. “Martha!” he exclaimed, “your heart points out
the true way because it is true to the core! In these
things a woman sees clearer than a man; when I am with
you only, I seem to have proper courage and independence
— I am twice myself! Won't you let me claim you — take
you — soon? My mother loves you; she will welcome you
as my wife, and will your father still stand between us?”

Martha smiled. “My father is a man of strong will,”
she said, “and it is hard for him to admit that his judgment
was wrong. We must give him a little time, — not
urge, not seem to triumph, spare his pride, and trust to
his returning sense of what is right. You might claim
reparation, Gilbert, for his cruel words; I could not forbid
you; but after so much strife let there be peace, if
possible.”

“It is at least beyond his power,” Gilbert replied, “to
accuse me of sordid motives. As I said before, Martha,
give up your legacy, if need be, but come to me!”

“As I said before, Gilbert, the legacy is honestly mine,
and I will come to you with it in my hands.”

Then they both began to smile, but it was a conflict of
purpose which drew them nearer together, in both senses,
— an emulation of unselfish love, which was compromised
by clasping arms and silent lips.

There was a sudden noise in the back part of the house.
A shrill voice was heard, exclaiming, — “I will — I will!
don't hold me!” — the door burst open, and Sally Fairthorn
whirled into the room, with the skirt of her gown
torn loose, on one side, from the body. Behind her followed
Miss Lavender, in a state of mingled amusement
and anger.

Sally kissed Martha, then Gilbert, then threw an arm
around the neck of each, crying and laughing hysterically:
“O Martha! O Gilbert! you 'll be married first, — I said
it, — but Mark and I must be your bridesmaids; don't
laugh, you know what I mean; and Betsy would n't have
me break in upon you; but I waited half an hour, and
then off, up here, she after me, and we 're both out o'
breath! Did ever, ever such a thing happen!”

“You crazy thing!” cried Miss Lavender. “No, such
a thing never happened, and would n't ha' happened this
time, if I 'd ha' been a little quicker on my legs; but never
mind, it serves me right; you two are to blame, for why
need I trouble my head furder about ye? There 's cases,
they say, where two 's company, and three 's overmuch;
but you may fix it for yourselves next time, and welcome;
and there 's one bit o' wisdom I 've got by it, — foller
true-lovyers, and they 'll wear your feet off, and then want
you to go on the stumps!”

“We won't relieve you yet, Betsy,” said Gilbert; “will
we, Martha? The good work you 've done for us is n't
finished.”

“Is n't finished. Well, you 'll gi' me time to make my
will, first. How long d' ye expect me to last, at this rate?
Is my bones brass and my flesh locus'-wood? Am I like
a tortle, that goes around the fields a hundred years?”

“No,” Gilbert answered, “but you shall be like an angel,
dressed all in white, with roses in your hair. Sally and
Mark, you know, want to be the first bridesmaids” —

Sally interrupted him with a slap, but it was not very
violent, and he did not even attempt to dodge it.

“Do you hear, Betsy?” said Martha. “It must be as
Gilbert says.”

“A pretty fool you 'd make o' me,” Miss Lavender remarked,
screwing up her face to conceal her happy emotion.

Gilbert soon afterwards left for home, but returned towards

evening, determined, before all things, to ascertain
his present standing with Dr. Deane. He did not anticipate
that the task had been made easy for him; but this
was really the case. Wherever Dr. Deane had been that
day, whoever he had seen, the current of talk all ran one
way. When the first surprise of the news had been exhausted,
and the Doctor had corrected various monstrous
rumors from his own sources of positive knowledge, one
inference was sure to follow, — that now there could be no
objection to his daughter becoming Gilbert Barton's wife.
He was sounded, urged, almost threatened, and finally
returned home with the conviction that any further opposition
must result in an immense sacrifice of popularity.

Still, he was not ready to act upon that conviction, at
once. He met Gilbert with a bland condescension, and
when the latter, after the first greeting, asked, —

“Have I now the right to enter your house?”

The Doctor answered, —

“Certainly. Thee has kept thy word, and I will willingly
admit that I did thee wrong in suspecting thee of
unworthy devices. I may say, also, that so far as I was
able to judge, I approved of thy behavior on the day of
thy grandfather's funeral. In all that has happened heretofore,
I have endeavored to act cautiously and prudently;
and thee will grant, I doubt not, that thy family history is
so very far out of the common way, as that no man could
be called upon to believe it without the strongest evidence.
Of course, all that I brought forward against thee now falls
to the ground.”

“I trust, then,” Gilbert said, “that you have no further
cause to forbid my engagement with Martha. My mother
has given her consent, and we both hope for yours.”

Dr. Deane appeared to reflect, leaning back in his chair,
with his cane across his knees. “It is a very serious
thing,” he said, at last, — “very serious, indeed. Not a
subject for hasty decision. Thee offered, if I remember

rightly, to give me time to know thee better; therefore
thee cannot complain if I were now disposed to accept thy
offer.”

Gilbert fortunately remembered Martha's words, and
restrained his impatience.

“I will readily give you time, Dr. Deane,” he replied,
“provided you will give me opportunities. You are free to
question all who know me, of course, and I suppose you
have done so. I will not ask you to take the trouble to
come to me, in order that we may become better acquainted,
but only that you will allow me to come to you.”

“It would hardly be fair to deny thee that much,” said
the Doctor.

“I will ask no more now. I never meant, from the first,
to question your interest in Martha's happiness, or your
right to advise her. It may be too soon to expect your
consent, but at least you 'll hold back your refusal?”

“Thee 's a reasonable young man, Gilbert,” the Doctor
remarked, after a pause which was quite unnecessary. “I
like that in thee. We are both agreed, then, that while
I shall be glad to see thee in my house, and am willing
to allow to Martha and thee the intercourse proper to a
young man and woman, it is not yet to be taken for granted
that I sanction your desired marriage. Remember me
kindly to thy mother, and say, if thee pleases, that I shall
soon call to see her.”

Gilbert had scarcely reached home that evening, before
Deb. Smith, who had left the farm-house on the day following
the recovery of the money, suddenly made her
appearance. She slipped into the kitchen without knocking,
and crouched down in a corner of the wide chimney-place,
before she spoke. Both mother and son were
struck by the singular mixture of shyness and fear in
her manner.

“I heerd all about it, to-day,” she presently said, “and
I would n't ha' come here, if I 'd ha' knowed where else

to go to. They 're after me, this time, Sandy's friends,
in dead earnest; they 'll have my blood, if they can git it;
but you said once't you 'd shelter me, Mr. Gilbert!”

“So I will, Deborah!” he exclaimed; “do you doubt my
word?”

“No, I don't; but I dunno how 't is — you 're rich now,
and as well-born as the best of 'em, and Mary 's lawful-married
and got her lawful name; and you both seem to
be set among the folks that can't feel for a body like me;
not that your hearts is changed, only it comes different to
me, somehow.”

“Stay here, Deborah, until you feel sure you 're safe,”
said Mary. “If Gilbert or I should refuse to protect you,
your blood would be upon our heads. I won't blame you
for doubting us; I know how easy it is to lose faith in
others; but if you think I was a friend to you while my
name was disgraced, you must also remember that I knew
the truth then as well as the world knows it now.”

“Bless you for sayin' that, Mary! There was n't much
o' my name at any time; but what little I might ha' had is
clean gone — nothin' o' me left but the strong arm! I 'm
not a coward, as you know, Mr. Gilbert; I 'll meet any
man, face to face, in a fair and open fight. Let 'em come
in broad day, and on the high road! — not lay in wait in
bushes and behind fences, to shoot me down unawares.”

They strove to quiet her fears, and little by little she
grew composed. The desperate recklessness of her mood
contrasted strangely with her morbid fear of an ambushed
enemy. Gilbert suspected that it might be a temporary
insanity, growing out of her remorse for having betrayed
Sandy Flash. When she had been fed, and had smoked
a pipe or two, she seemed quite to forget it, and was almost
her own self when she went up to her bed in the western
room.

The moon, three quarters full, was hanging over the
barn, and made a peaceful, snowy light about the house.

She went to the window, opened it, and breathed the cool
air of the April night. The “herring-frogs” were keeping
up an incessant, birdlike chirp down the glen, and
nearer at hand the plunging water of the mill-race made
a soothing noise. It really seemed that the poor creature
had found a quiet refuge at last.

Suddenly, something rustled and moved behind the
mass of budding lilacs, at the farther corner of the garden-paling.
She leaned forward; the next moment there was
a flash, the crack of a musket rang sharp and loud through
the dell, followed by a whiz and thud at her very ear. A
thin drift of smoke rose above the bushes, and she saw a
man's figure springing to the cover of the nearest apple-tree.
In another minute, Gilbert made his appearance,
gun in hand.

“Shoot him, Gilbert!” cried Deb. Smith; “it 's Dougherty!”

Whoever it was, the man escaped; but by a singular
coincidence, the Irish ostler disappeared that night from
the Unicorn tavern, and was never again seen in the neighborhood.

The bullet had buried itself in the window-frame, after
having passed within an inch or two of Deb. Smith's head.[1]
To Gilbert's surprise, all her fear was gone; she was again
fierce and defiant, and boldly came and went, from that
night forth, saying that no bullet was or would be cast, to
take her life.

Therein she was right; but it was a dreary life and a
miserable death which awaited her. For twenty-five years
she wandered about the neighborhood, achieving wonders
in spinning, reaping and threshing, by the undiminished
force of her arm, though her face grew haggard and her
hair gray; sometimes plunging into wild drinking-bouts
with the rough male companions of her younger days;

sometimes telling a new generation, with weeping and violent
self-accusation, the story of her treachery; but always
with the fearful conviction of a yet unfulfilled curse hanging
over her life. Whether it was ever made manifest,
no man could tell; but when she was found lying dead
on the floor of her lonely cabin on the Woodrow farm,
with staring, stony eyes, and the lines of unspeakable
horror on her white face, there were those who recalled
her own superstitious forebodings, and believed them.