 | CHAPTER II.
WHO SHALL HAVE THE BRUSH? The story of Kennett |  |
2. CHAPTER II.
WHO SHALL HAVE THE BRUSH?
Mr. Barton and Fortune, who seemed to have become
wonderfully intimate during the half hour in which they
had ridden together, arrived at the same time. The hunters,
of whom a dozen were now assembled (some five or
six inferior horses being still a mile in the rear), were all
astounded, and some of them highly vexed, at the result
of the chase. Gilbert's friends crowded about him, asking
questions as to the course he had taken, and examining the
horse, which had maliciously resumed its sleepy look, and
stood with drooping head. The others had not sufficient
tact to disguise their ill-humor, for they belonged to that
class which, in all countries, possesses the least refinement
— the uncultivated rich.
“The hunt started well, but it 's a poor finish,” said one
of these.
“Never mind!” Mr. Ferris remarked; “such things
come by chance.”
These words struck the company to silence. A shock,
felt rather than perceived, fell upon them, and they looked
at each other with an expression of pain and embarrassment.
Gilbert's face faded to a sallow paleness, and his
eyes were fastened upon those of the speaker with a fierce
and dangerous intensity. Mr. Ferris colored, turned away,
and called to his hounds.
Fortune was too sharp an observer not to remark the
disturbance. He cried out, and his words produced an instant,
general sense of relief: —
“It 's been a fine run, friends, and we can't do better
`smaller' — or a `bigger' for that matter — at my expense.
You must let me pay my footing now, for I hope to ride
with you many a time to come. Faith! If I don't happen
to buy that place down by the Rising Sun, I 'll try to find
another, somewhere about New London or Westgrove, so
that we can be nearer neighbors.”
With that he grinned, rather than smiled; but although
his manner would have struck a cool observer as being
mocking instead of cordial, the invitation was accepted with
great show of satisfaction, and the horsemen fell into pairs,
forming a picturesque cavalcade as they passed under the
tall, leafless oaks.
Gilbert Potter speedily recovered his self-possession, but
his face was stern and his manner abstracted. Even the
marked and careful kindness of his friends seemed secretly
to annoy him, for it constantly suggested the something by
which it had been prompted. Mr. Alfred Barton, however,
whether under the influence of Fortune's friendship,
or from a late suspicion of his duties as host of the day,
not unkindly complimented the young man, and insisted
on filling his glass. Gilbert could do no less than courteously
accept the attention, but he shortly afterwards stole
away from the noisy company, mounted his horse, and rode
slowly towards Kennett Square.
As he thus rides, with his eyes abstractedly fixed before
him, we will take the opportunity to observe him more
closely. Slightly under-sized, compactly built, and with
strongly-marked features, his twenty-four years have the
effect of thirty. His short jacket and knee-breeches of
gray velveteen cover a chest broad rather than deep, and
reveal the fine, narrow loins and muscular thighs of a
frame matured and hardened by labor. His hands, also,
are hard and strong, but not ungraceful in form. His
neck, not too short, is firmly planted, and the carriage of
his head indicates patience and energy. Thick, dark hair
brows. His eyes of soft dark-gray, are large, clear, and
steady, and only change their expression under strong excitement.
His nose is straight and short, his mouth a little
too wide for beauty, and less firm now than it will be ten
years hence, when the yearning tenderness shall have vanished
from the corners of the lips; and the chin, in its
broad curve, harmonizes with the square lines of the brow.
Evidently a man whose youth has not been a holiday; who
is reticent rather than demonstrative; who will be strong
in his loves and long in his hates; and, without being of a
despondent nature, can never become heartily sanguine.
The spring-day was raw and overcast, as it drew towards
its close, and the rider's musings seemed to accord with
the change in the sky. His face expressed a singular mixture
of impatience, determined will, and unsatisfied desire.
But where most other men would have sighed, or given
way to some involuntary exclamation, he merely set his
teeth, and tightened the grasp on his whip-handle.
He was not destined, however, to a solitary journey.
Scarcely had he made three quarters of a mile, when, on
approaching the junction of a wood-road which descended
to the highway from a shallow little glen on the north, the
sound of hoofs and voices met his ears. Two female figures
appeared, slowly guiding their horses down the rough
road. One, from her closely-fitting riding-habit of drab
cloth, might have been a Quakeress, but for the feather (of
the same sober color) in her beaver hat, and the rosette of
dark red ribbon at her throat. The other, in bluish-gray,
with a black beaver and no feather, rode a heavy old horse
with a blind halter on his head, and held the stout leathern
reins with a hand covered with a blue woollen mitten. She
rode in advance, paying little heed to her seat, but rather
twisting herself out of shape in the saddle in order to chatter
to her companion in the rear.
“Do look where you are going, Sally!” cried the latter,
at a little brook that oozed forth from under the dead
leaves.
Thus appealed to, the other lady whirled around with a
half-jump, and caught sight of Gilbert Potter and of her
horse's head at the same instant.
“Whoa there, Bonnie!” she cried. “Why, Gilbert,
where did you come from? Hold up your head, I say!
Martha, here 's Gilbert, with a brush in his hat! Don't
be afraid, you beast; did you never smell a fox? Here,
ride in between, Gilbert, and tell us all about it! No, not
on that side, Martha; you can manage a horse better than
I can!”
In her efforts to arrange the order of march, she drove
her horse's head into Gilbert's back, and came near losing
her balance. With amused screams, and bursts of laughter,
and light, rattling exclamations, she finally succeeded
in placing herself at his left hand, while her adroit and
self-possessed companion quietly rode up to his right.
Then, dropping the reins on their horses' necks, the two
ladies resigned themselves to conversation, as the three
slowly jogged homewards abreast.
“Now, Gilbert!” exclaimed Miss Sally Fairthorn, after
waiting a moment for him to speak; “did you really earn
the brush, or beg it from one of them, on the way home?”
“Begging, you know, is my usual habit,” he answered,
mockingly.
“I know you 're as proud as Lucifer, when you 've a
mind to be so. There!”
Gilbert was accustomed to the rattling tongue of his
left-hand neighbor, and generally returned her as good as
she gave. To-day, however, he was in no mood for repartee.
He drew down his brows and made no answer to her
charge.
“Where was the fox earthed?” asked the other lady,
after a rapid glance at his face.
Martha Deane's voice was of that quality which compels
an answer, and a courteous answer, from the surliest of
mankind. It was not loud, it could scarcely be called
musical; but every tone seemed to exhale freshness as of
dew, and brightness as of morning. It was pure, slightly
resonant; and all the accumulated sorrows of life could
not have veiled its inherent gladness. It could never grow
harsh, never be worn thin, or sound husky from weariness;
its first characteristic would always be youth, and the joy
of youth, though it came from the lips of age.
Doubtless Gilbert Potter did not analyze the charm
which it exercised upon him; it was enough that he felt
and submitted to it. A few quiet remarks sufficed to draw
from him the story of the chase, in all its particulars, and
the lively interest in Martha Deane's face, the boisterous
glee of Sally Fairthorn, with his own lurking sense of triumph,
soon swept every gloomy line from his visage. His
mouth relaxed from its set compression, and wore a winning
sweetness; his eyes shone softly-bright, and a nimble
spirit of gayety gave grace to his movements.
“Fairly won, I must say!” exclaimed Miss Sally Fairthorn,
when the narrative was finished. “And now, Gilbert,
the brush?”
“The brush?”
“Who 's to have it, I mean. Did you never get one before,
as you don't seem to understand?”
“Yes, I understand,” said he, in an indifferent tone; “it
may be had for the asking.”
“Then it 's mine!” cried Sally, urging her heavy horse
against him and making a clutch at his cap. But he leaned
as suddenly away, and shot a length ahead, out of her reach.
Miss Deane's horse, a light, spirited animal, kept pace with
his.
“Martha!” cried the disappointed damsel, “Martha!
one of us must have it; ask him, you!”
“No,” answered Martha, with her clear blue eyes fixed
on Gilbert's face, “I will not ask.”
He returned her gaze, and his eyes seemed to say:
“Will you take it, knowing what the acceptance implies?”
She read the question correctly; but of this he was not
sure. Neither, if it were so, could he trust himself to
interpret the answer. Sally had already resumed her
place on his left, and he saw that the mock strife would be
instantly renewed. With a movement so sudden as to
appear almost ungracious, he snatched the brush from his
cap and extended it to Martha Deane, without saying a
word.
If she hesitated, it was at least no longer than would be
required in order to understand the action. Gilbert might
either so interpret it, or suspect that she had understood
the condition in his mind, and meant to signify the rejection
thereof. The language of gestures is wonderfully
rapid, and all that could be said by either, in this way, was
over, and the brush in Martha Deane's hand, before Sally
Fairthorn became aware of the transfer.
“Well-done, Martha!” she exclaimed: “Don't let him
have it again! Do you know to whom he would have
given it: an A. and a W., with the look of an X, — so!”
Thereupon Sally pulled off her mittens and crossed her
forefingers, an action which her companions understood —
in combination with the mysterious initials — to be the
rude, primitive symbol of a squint.
Gilbert looked annoyed, but before he could reply, Sally
let go the rein in order to put on her mittens, and the
blinded mare quickly dropping her head, the rein slipped
instantly to the animal's ears. The latter perceived her
advantage, and began snuffing along the edges of the road
in a deliberate search for spring grass. In vain Sally
called and kicked; the mare provokingly preserved her
independence. Finally, a piteous appeal to Gilbert, who
had pretended not to notice the dilemma, and was a hundred
yards in advance, was Sally's only resource. The two
halted and enjoyed her comical helplessness.
“That 's enough, Gilbert,” said Martha Deane, presently,
“go now and pick up the rein.”
He rode back, picked it up, and handed it to Sally without
speaking.
“Gilbert,” she said, with a sudden demure change of
tone, as they rode on to where Miss Deane was waiting.
“come and take supper with us, at home. Martha has
promised. You 've hardly been to see us in a month.”
“You know how much I have to do, Sally,” he answered.
“It is n't only that, to-day being a Saturday; but I 've
promised mother to be at home by dark, and fetch a quarter
of tea from the store.”
“When you 've once promised, I know, oxen could n't
pull you the other way.”
“I don't often see your mother, Gilbert,” said Martha
Deane; “she is well?”
“Thank you, Martha, — too well, and yet not well
enough.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” he answered, “that she does more than she
has strength to do. If she had less she would be forced
to undertake less; if she had more, she would be equal to
her undertaking.”
“I understand you now. But you should not allow her
to go on in that way; you should” —
What Miss Deane would have said must remain unwritten.
Gilbert's eyes were upon her, and held her own;
perhaps a little more color came into her face, but she did
not show the slightest embarrassment. A keen observer
might have supposed that either a broken or an imperfect
relation existed between the two, which the gentleman was
trying to restore or complete without the aid of words;
and that, furthermore, while the lady was the more skilful
in the use of that silent language, neither rightly understood
the other.
By this time they were ascending the hill from Redley
carried the brush carelessly in her right hand; she now
rolled it into a coil and thrust it into a large velvet reticule
which hung from the pommel of her saddle. A few dull
orange streaks in the overcast sky, behind them, denoted
sunset, and a raw, gloomy twilight crept up from the east.
“You 'll not go with us?” Sally asked again, as they
reached the corner, and the loungers on the porch of the
Unicorn Tavern beyond, perceiving Gilbert, sprang from
their seats to ask for news of the chase.
“Sally, I cannot!” he answered. “Good-night!”
Joe and Jake Fairthorn rushed up with a whoop, and
before Gilbert could satisfy the curiosity of the tavern-idlers,
the former sat behind Sally, on the old mare, with
his face to her tail, while Jake, prevented by Miss Deane's
riding-whip from attempting the same performance, capered
behind the horses and kept up their spirits by flinging handfuls
of sand.
Gilbert found another group in “the store” — farmers
or their sons who had come in for a supply of groceries, or
the weekly mail, and who sat in a sweltering atmosphere
around the roaring stove. They, too, had heard of the
chase, and he was obliged to give them as many details as
possible while his quarter of tea was being weighed, after
which he left them to supply the story from the narrative
of Mr. Joel Ferris, who, a new-comer announced, had just
alighted at the Unicorn, a little drunk, and in a very bad
humor.
“Where 's Barton?” Gilbert heard some one ask of
Ferris, as he mounted.
“In his skin!” was the answer, “unless he 's got into
that fellow Fortune's. They 're as thick as two pickpockets!”
Gilbert rode down the hill, and allowed his horse to plod
leisurely across the muddy level, regardless of the deepening
twilight.
He was powerfully moved by some suppressed emotion.
The muscles of his lips twitched convulsively, and there
was a hot surge and swell somewhere in his head, as of
tears about to overrun their secret reservoir. But they
failed to surprise him, this time. As the first drops fell
from his dark eyelashes, he loosed the rein and gave the
word to his horse. Over the ridge, along the crest, between
dusky thorn-hedges, he swept at full gallop, and so, slowly
sinking towards the fair valley which began to twinkle with
the lights of scattered farms to the eastward, he soon
reached the last steep descent, and saw the gray gleam of
his own barn below him.
By this time his face was sternly set. He clinched his
hands, and muttered to himself —
“It will almost kill me to ask, but I must know, and —
and she must tell.”
It was dark now. As he climbed again from the bottom
of the hill towards the house, a figure on the summit was
drawn indistinctly against the sky, unconscious that it was
thus betrayed. But it vanished instantly, and then he
groaned —
“God help me! I cannot ask.”
| CHAPTER II.
WHO SHALL HAVE THE BRUSH? The story of Kennett | |