THE STORY OF KENNETT

BY

BAYARD TAYLOR

PROLOGUE. 

TO MY FRIENDS AND NEIGHBORS OF KENNETT:

I wish to dedicate this Story to you, not only because some of youinhabit the very houses, and till the very fields which I have given tothe actors in it, but also because many of you will recognize certain ofthe latter, and are therefore able to judge whether they are drawn withthe simple truth at which I have aimed. You are, naturally, the criticswhom I have most cause to fear; but I do not inscribe these pages to youwith the design of purchasing your favor. I beg you all to accept thefact as an acknowledgment of the many quiet and happy years I have spentamong you; of the genial and pleasant relations into which I was born, and which have never diminished, even when I have returned to you fromthe farthest ends of the earth; and of the use (often unconsciously toyou, I confess, ) which I have drawn from your memories of former days, your habits of thought and of life. 

I am aware that truth and fiction are so carefully woven together inthis Story of Kennett, that you will sometimes be at a loss todisentangle them. The lovely pastoral landscapes which I know by heart, have been copied, field for field and tree for tree, and these you willimmediately recognize. Many of you will have no difficulty in detectingthe originals of Sandy Flash and Deb. Smith; a few will remember thenoble horse which performed the service I have ascribed to Roger; andthe descendants of a certain family will not have forgotten some of thepranks of Joe and Jake Fairthorn. Many more than these particulars aredrawn from actual sources; but as I have employed them with a strictregard to the purposes of the Story, transferring dates and charactersat my pleasure, you will often, I doubt not, attribute to invention thatwhich I owe to family tradition. Herein, I must request that you willallow me to keep my own counsel; for the processes which led to thecompleted work extend through many previous years, and cannot readily berevealed. I will only say that every custom I have described is true tothe time, though some of them are now obsolete; that I have used nopeculiar word or phrase of the common dialect of the country which Ihave not myself heard; and further, that I owe the chief incidents ofthe last chapter, given to me on her death-bed, to the dear and noblewoman whose character (not the circumstances of her life) I haveendeavored to reproduce in that of Martha Deane. 

The country life of our part of Pennsylvania retains more elements ofits English origin than that of New England or Virginia. Until within afew years, the conservative influence of the Quakers was so powerfulthat it continued to shape the habits even of communities whosereligious sentiment it failed to reach. Hence, whatever might beselected as incorrect of American life, in its broader sense, in thesepages, is nevertheless locally true; and to this, at least, all of you, my Friends and Neighbors, can testify. In these days, when Fictionprefers to deal with abnormal characters and psychological problems moreor less exceptional or morbid, the attempt to represent the elements oflife in a simple, healthy, pastoral community, has been to me a sourceof uninterrupted enjoyment. May you read it with half the interest Ihave felt in writing it!

BAYARD TAYLOR. 

CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER I. THE CHASE

CHAPTER II. WHO SHALL HAVE THE BRUSH?

CHAPTER III. MARY POTTER AND HER SON

CHAPTER IV. FORTUNE AND MISFORTUNE

CHAPTER V. GUESTS AT FAIRTHORN'S

CHAPTER VI. THE NEW GILBERT

CHAPTER VII. OLD KENNETT MEETING

CHAPTER VIII. AT DR. DEANE'S

CHAPTER IX. THE RAISING

CHAPTER X. THE RIVALS

CHAPTER XI. GUESTS AT POTTER'S

CHAPTER XII. THE EVENTS OF AN EVENING

CHAPTER XIII. TWO OLD MEN

CHAPTER XIV. DOUBTS AND SURMISES

CHAPTER XV. ALFRED BARTON BETWEEN TWO FIRES

CHAPTER XVI. MARTHA DEANE

CHAPTER XVII. CONSULTATIONS

CHAPTER XVIII. SANDY FLASH REAPPEARS

CHAPTER XIX. THE HUSKING FROLIC

CHAPTER XX. GILBERT ON THE ROAD TO CHESTER

CHAPTER XXI. ROGER REPAYS HIS MASTER

CHAPTER XXII. MARTHA DEANE TAKES A RESOLUTION

CHAPTER XXIII. A CROSS-EXAMINATION

CHAPTER XXIV. DEB. SMITH TAKES A RESOLUTION

CHAPTER XXV. TWO ATTEMPTS

CHAPTER XXVI. THE LAST OF SANDY FLASH

CHAPTER XXVII. GILBERT INDEPENDENT

CHAPTER XXVIII. MISS LAVENDER MAKES A GUESS

CHAPTER XXIX. MYSTERIOUS MOVEMENTS

CHAPTER XXX. THE FUNERAL

CHAPTER XXXI. THE WILL

CHAPTER XXXII. THE LOVERS

CHAPTER XXXIII. HUSBAND AND WIFE

CHAPTER XXXIV. THE WEDDING

CHAPTER I. 

THE CHASE. 

At noon, on the first Saturday of March, 1796, there was an unusual stirat the old Barton farm-house, just across the creek to the eastward, asyou leave Kennett Square by the Philadelphia stage-road. Any gatheringof the people at Barton's was a most rare occurrence; yet, on that dayand at that hour, whoever stood upon the porch of the corner house, inthe village, could see horsemen approaching by all the four roads whichthere met. Some five or six had already dismounted at the UnicornTavern, and were refreshing themselves with stout glasses of "Old Rye, "while their horses, tethered side by side to the pegs in the longhitching-bar, pawed and stamped impatiently. An eye familiar with theways of the neighborhood might have surmised the nature of the occasionwhich called so many together, from the appearance and equipment ofthese horses. They were not heavy animals, with the marks ofplough-collars on their broad shoulders, or the hair worn off theirrumps by huge breech-straps; but light and clean-limbed, one or two ofthem showing signs of good blood, and all more carefully groomed thanusual. 

Evidently, there was no "vendue" at the Barton farmhouse; neither afuneral, nor a wedding, since male guests seemed to have beenexclusively bidden. To be sure, Miss Betsy Lavender had been observed toissue from Dr. Deane's door, on the opposite side of the way, and turninto the path beyond the blacksmith's, which led down through the woodand over the creek to Barton's; but then, Miss Lavender was known to behandy at all times, and capable of doing all things, from laying out acorpse to spicing a wedding-cake. Often self-invited, but alwayswelcome, very few social or domestic events could occur in fourtownships (East Marlborough, Kennett, Pennsbury, and New-Garden) withouther presence; while her knowledge of farms, families, and genealogiesextended up to Fallowfield on one side, and over to Birmingham on theother. 

It was, therefore, a matter of course, whatever the present occasionmight be, that Miss Lavender put on her broad gray beaver hat, and brownstuff cloak, and took the way to Barton's. The distance could easily bewalked in five minutes, and the day was remarkably pleasant for theseason. A fortnight of warm, clear weather had extracted the last fangof frost, and there was already green grass in the damp hollows. Bluebirds picked the last year's berries from the cedar-trees; budswere bursting on the swamp-willows; the alders were hung with tassels, and a powdery crimson bloom began to dust the bare twigs of the maple-trees. All these signs of an early spring Miss Lavender noted as shepicked her way down the wooded bank. Once, indeed, she stopped, wet herforefinger with her tongue, and held it pointed in the air. There wasvery little breeze, but this natural weathercock revealed from whatdirection it came. 

"Southwest!" she said, nodding her head--"Lucky!"

Having crossed the creek on a flat log, secured with stakes at eitherend, a few more paces brought her to the warm, gentle knoll, upon whichstood the farm-house. Here, the wood ceased, and the creek, sweepingaround to the eastward, embraced a quarter of a mile of rich bottomland, before entering the rocky dell below. It was a pleasant seat, and theage of the house denoted that one of the earliest settlers had beenquick to perceive its advantages. A hundred years had already elapsedsince the masons had run up those walls of rusty hornblende rock, and itwas even said that the leaden window-sashes, with their diamond-shapedpanes of greenish glass, had been brought over from England, in the daysof William Penn. In fact, the ancient aspect of the place--the tall, massive chimney at the gable, the heavy, projecting eaves, and theholly-bush in a warm nook beside the front porch, had, nineteen yearsbefore, so forcibly reminded one of Howe's soldiers of his father'shomestead in mid-England, that he was numbered among the missing afterthe Brandywine battle, and presently turned up as a hired hand on theBarton farm, where he still lived, year in and year out. 

An open, grassy space, a hundred yards in breadth, intervened betweenthe house and the barn, which was built against the slope of the knoll, so that the bridge to the threshing-floor was nearly level, and thestables below were sheltered from the north winds, and open to thewinter sun. On the other side of the lane leading from the high-roadstood a wagon-house and corn-crib--the latter empty, yet evidently, inspite of its emptiness, the principal source of attraction to thevisitors. A score of men and boys peeped between the upright laths, anda dozen dogs howled and sprang around the smooth corner-posts upon whichthe structure rested. At the door stood old Giles, the militarystraggler already mentioned--now a grizzly, weather-beaten man offifty--with a jolly grin on his face, and a short leather whip in hishand. 

"Want to see him, Miss Betsy?" he asked, touching his mink-skin cap, asMiss Lavender crawled through the nearest panel of the lofty picketfence. 

"See him?" she repeated. "Don't care if I do, afore goin' into th'house. "

"Come up, then; out o' the way, Cato! Fan, take that, you slut! Don't beafeard, Miss Betsy; if folks kept 'em in the leash, as had ought to bedone, I'd have less trouble. They're mortal eager, and no wonder. There!--a'n't he a sly-lookin' divel? If I'd a hoss, Miss Betsy, I'dfoller with the best of 'em, and maybe you wouldn't have the brush?"

"Have the brush. Go along, Giles! He's an old one, and knows how to takecare of it. Do keep off the dreadful dogs, and let me git down!" criedMiss Lavender, gathering her narrow petticoats about her legs, andsurveying the struggling animals before her with some dismay. 

Giles's whip only reached the nearest, and the excited pack rushedforward again after every repulse; but at this juncture a tall, smartly-dressed man came across the lane, kicked the hounds out of theway, and extended a helping hand to the lady. 

"Ho, Mr. Alfred!" said she; "Much obliged. Miss Ann's havin' her handsfull, I reckon?"

Without waiting for an answer, she slipped into the yard and along thefront of the house, to the kitchen entrance, at the eastern end. Therewe will leave her, and return to the group of gentlemen. 

Any one could see at a glance that Mr. Alfred Barton was the mostimportant person present. His character of host gave him, of course, theright to control the order of the coming chase; but his size andswaggering air of strength, his new style of hat, the gloss of his bluecoat, the cut of his buckskin breeches, and above all, the splendor ofhis tasselled top-boots, distinguished him from his more homelyapparelled guests. His features were large and heavy: the full, widelips betrayed a fondness for indulgence, and the small, uneasy eyes acapacity for concealing this and any other quality which neededconcealment. They were hard and cold, generally more than half hiddenunder thick lids, and avoided, rather than sought, the glance of the manto whom he spoke. His hair, a mixture of red-brown and gray, descended, without a break, into bushy whiskers of the same color, and was cutshorter at the back of the head than was then customary. Somethingcoarse and vulgar in his nature exhaled, like a powerful odor, throughthe assumed shell of a gentleman, which he tried to wear, and renderedthe assumption useless. 

A few guests, who had come from a distance, had just finished theirdinner in the farm-house. Owing to causes which will hereafter beexplained, they exhibited less than the usual plethoric satisfactionafter the hospitality of the country, and were the first to welcome theappearance of a square black bottle, which went the rounds, with theobservation: "Whet up for a start!"

Mr. Barton drew a heavy silver watch from his fob, and carefully holdingit so that the handful of glittering seals could be seen by everybody, appeared to meditate. 

"Five minutes to one, " he said at last. "No use in waiting much longer;'t isn't good to keep the hounds fretting. Any signs of anybody else?"

The others, in response, turned towards the lane and highway. Some, withkeen eyes, fancied they could detect a horseman through the wood. Presently Giles, from his perch at the door of the corn-crib, cried out:

"There's somebody a-comin' up the meadow. I don't know the hoss; rideslike Gilbert Potter. Gilbert it is, blast me! new-mounted. "

"Another plough-horse!" suggested Mr. Joel Ferris, a young Pennsburybuck, who, having recently come into a legacy of four thousand pounds, wished it to be forgotten that he had never ridden any but plough-horsesuntil within the year. 

The others laughed, some contemptuously, glancing at their ownwell-equipped animals the while, some constrainedly, for they knew theapproaching guest, and felt a slight compunction in seeming to side withMr. Ferris. Barton began to smile stiffly, but presently bit his lip anddrew his brows together. 

Pressing the handle of his riding-whip against his chin, he staredvacantly up the lane, muttering "We must wait, I suppose. "

His lids were lifted in wonder the next moment; he seized Ferris by thearm, and exclaimed:--

"Whom have we here?"

All eyes turned in the same direction, descried a dashing horseman inthe lane. 

"Upon my soul I don't know, " said Ferris. "Anybody expected from theFagg's Manor way?"

"Not of my inviting, " Barton answered. 

The other guests professed their entire ignorance of the stranger, who, having by this time passed the bars, rode directly up to the group. Hewas a short, broad-shouldered man of nearly forty, with a red, freckledface, keen, snapping gray eyes, and a close, wide mouth. Thick, jet-black whiskers, eyebrows and pig-tail made the glance of thoseeyes, the gleam of his teeth, and the color of his skin where it was notreddened by the wind, quite dazzling. This violent and singular contrastgave his plain, common features an air of distinction. Although hismulberry coat was somewhat faded, it had a jaunty cut, and if hisbreeches were worn and stained, the short, muscular thighs and strongknees they covered, told of a practised horseman. 

He rode a large bay gelding, poorly groomed, and apparently notremarkable for blood, but with no marks of harness on his rough coat. 

"Good-day to you, gentlemen!" said the stranger, familiarly knocking thehandle of his whip against his cocked hat. "Squire Barton, how do youdo?"

"How do you do, sir?" responded Mr. Barton, instantly flattered by thetitle, to which he had no legitimate right. "I believe, " he added, "youhave the advantage of me. "

A broad smile, or rather grin, spread over the stranger's face. Histeeth flashed, and his eyes shot forth a bright, malicious ray. Hehesitated a moment, ran rapidly over the faces of the others withoutperceptibly moving his head, and noting the general curiosity, said, atlast:--

"I hardly expected to find an acquaintance in this neighborhood, but achase makes quick fellowship. I happened to hear of it at the AnvilTavern, --am on my way to the Rising Sun; so, you see, if the hunt goesdown Tuffkenamon, as is likely, it's so much of a lift on the way. "

"All right, --glad to have you join us. What did you say your name was?"inquired Mr. Barton. 

"I didn't say what; it's Fortune, --a fortune left to me by my father, ha! ha! Don't care if I do"--

With the latter words, Fortune (as we must now call him) leaned downfrom his saddle, took the black bottle from the unresisting hands of Mr. Ferris, inverted it against his lips, and drank so long and luxuriouslyas to bring water into the mouths of the spectators. Then, wiping hismouth with the back of his freckled hand, he winked and nodded his headapprovingly to Mr. Barton. 

Meanwhile the other horseman had arrived from the meadow, afterdismounting and letting down the bars, over which his horse steppedslowly and cautiously, --a circumstance which led some of the youngerguests to exchange quiet, amused glances. Gilbert Potter, however, received a hearty greeting from all, including the host, though thelatter, by an increased shyness in meeting his gaze, manifested somesecret constraint. 

"I was afraid I should have been too late, " said Gilbert; "the old breakin the hedge is stopped at last, so I came over the hill above, withoutthinking on the swampy bit, this side. "

"Breaking your horse in to rough riding, eh?" said Mr. Ferris, touchinga neighbor with his elbow. 

Gilbert smiled good-humoredly, but said nothing, and a little laugh wentaround the circle. Mr. Fortune seemed to understand the matter in aflash. He looked at the brown, shaggy-maned animal, standing behind itsowner, with its head down, and said, in a low, sharp tone: "I see--wheredid you get him?"

Gilbert returned the speaker's gaze a moment before he answered. "From adrover, " he then said. 

"By the Lord!"-ejaculated Mr. Barton, who had again conspicuouslydisplayed his watch, "it's over half-past one. Look out for thehounds, --we must start, if we mean to do any riding this day!"

The owners of the hounds picked out their several animals and draggedthem aside, in which operation they were uproariously assisted by theboys. The chase in Kennett, it must be confessed, was but a very faintshadow of the old English pastime. It had been kept up, in theneighborhood, from the force of habit in the Colonial times, and underthe depression which the strong Quaker element among the peopleexercised upon all sports and recreations. The breed of hounds, notbeing restricted to close communion, had considerably degenerated, andfew, even of the richer farmers, could afford to keep thoroughbredhunters for this exclusive object. Consequently all the features of thepastime had become rude and imperfect, and, although very respectablegentlemen still gave it their countenance, there was a growing suspicionthat it was a questionable, if not demoralizing diversion. It would bemore agreeable if we could invest the present occasion with a littlemore pomp and dignity; but we must describe the event precisely as itoccurred. 

The first to greet Gilbert were his old friends, Joe and Jake Fairthorn. These boys loudly lamented that their father had denied them the loan ofhis old gray mare, Bonnie; they could ride double on a gallop, theysaid; and wouldn't Gilbert take them along, one before and one behindhim? But he laughed and shook his head. 

"Well, we've got Watch, anyhow, " said Joe, who thereupon beganwhispering very earnestly to Jake, as the latter seized the big familybull-dog by the collar. Gilbert foreboded mischief, and kept his eyeupon the pair. 

A scuffle was heard in the corn-crib, into which Giles had descended. The boys shuddered and chuckled in a state of delicious fear, whichchanged into a loud shout of triumph, as the soldier again made hisappearance at the door, with the fox in his arms, and a fearless handaround its muzzle. 

"By George! what a fine brush!" exclaimed Mr. Ferris. 

A sneer, quickly disguised in a grin, ran over Fortune's face. Thehounds howled and tugged; Giles stepped rapidly across the open spacewhere the knoll sloped down to the meadow. It was a moment of intenseexpectation. 

Just then, Joe and Jake Fairthorn let go their hold on the bull-dog'scollar; but Gilbert Potter caught the animal at the second bound. Theboys darted behind the corn-crib, scared less by Gilbert's brandishedwhip than by the wrath and astonishment in Mr. Barton's face. 

"Cast him off, Giles!" the latter cried. 

The fox, placed upon the ground, shot down the slope and through thefence into the meadow. Pausing then, as if first to assure himself ofhis liberty, he took a quick, keen survey of the ground before him, andthen started off towards the left. 

"He's making for the rocks!" cried Mr. Ferris; to which the stranger, who was now watching the animal with sharp interest, abruptly answered, "Hold your tongue!"

Within a hundred yards the fox turned to the right, and now, havingapparently made up his mind to the course, struck away in a steady butnot hurried trot. In a minute he had reached the outlying trees of thetimber along the creek. 

"He's a cool one, he is!" remarked Giles, admiringly. 

By this time he was hidden by the barn from the sight of the hounds, andthey were let loose. While they darted about in eager quest of thescent, the hunters mounted in haste. Presently an old dog gave tonguelike a trumpet, the pack closed, and the horsemen followed. The boyskept pace with them over the meadow, Joe and Jake taking the lead, untilthe creek abruptly stopped their race, when they sat down upon the bankand cried bitterly, as the last of the hunters disappeared through thethickets on the further side. 

It was not long before a high picket-fence confronted the riders. Mr. Ferris, with a look of dismay, dismounted. Fortune, Barton, and GilbertPotter each threw off a heavy "rider, " and leaped their horses over therails. The others followed through the gaps thus made, and all sweptacross the field at full speed, guided by the ringing cry of the hounds. 

When they reached the Wilmington road, the cry swerved again to theleft, and most of the hunters, with Barton at their head, took thehighway in order to reach the crossroad to New-Garden more conveniently. Gilbert and Fortune alone sprang into the opposite field, and kept astraight southwestern course for the other branch of Redley Creek. Thefield was divided by a stout thorn-hedge from the one beyond it, and thetwo horsemen, careering neck and neck, glanced at each other curiouslyas they approached this barrier. Their respective animals weretransformed; the unkempt manes were curried by the wind, as they flew;their sleepy eyes were full of fire, and the splendid muscles, arousedto complete action, marked their hides with lines of beauty. There wasno wavering in either; side by side they hung in flight above the hedge, and side by side struck the clean turf beyond. 

Then Fortune turned his head, nodded approvingly to Gilbert, andmuttered to himself: "He's a gallant fellow, --I'll not rob him of thebrush. " But he laughed a short, shrill, wicked laugh the next moment. 

Before they reached the creek, the cry of the hounds ceased. They halteda moment on the bank, irresolute. 

"He must have gone down towards the snuff-mill, " said Gilbert, and wasabout to change his course. 

"Stop, " said the stranger; "if he has, we've lost him any way. Hark!hurrah!"

A deep bay rang from the westward, through the forest. Gilbert shouted:"The lime-quarry!" and dashed across the stream. A lane was soonreached, and as the valley opened, they saw the whole pack headingaround the yellow mounds of earth which marked the locality of thequarry. At the same instant some one shouted in the rear, and they sawMr. Alfred Barton, thundering after, and apparently bent on diminishingthe distance between them. 

A glance was sufficient to show that the fox had not taken refuge in thequarry, but was making a straight course up the centre of the valley. Here it was not so easy to follow. The fertile floor of Tuffkenamon, stripped of woods, was crossed by lines of compact hedge, and, moreover, the huntsmen were not free to tear and trample the springing wheat ofthe thrifty Quaker farmers. Nevertheless, one familiar with the groundcould take advantage of a gap here and there, choose the connectingpasture-fields, and favor his course with a bit of road, when the chaseswerved towards either side of the valley. Gilbert Potter soon took thelead, closely followed by Fortune. Mr. Barton was perhaps better mountedthan either, but both horse and rider were heavier, and lost in themoist fields, while they gained rapidly where the turf was firm. 

After a mile and a half of rather toilsome riding, all three were nearlyabreast. The old tavern of the Hammer and Trowel was visible, at thefoot of the northern hill; the hounds, in front, bayed in a straightline towards Avondale Woods, --but a long slip of undrained bog made itsappearance. Neither gentleman spoke, for each was silently tasking hiswits how to accomplish the passage most rapidly. The horses began tosink into the oozy soil: only a very practised eye could tell where thesurface was firmest, and even this knowledge was but slight advantage. 

Nimbly as a cat Gilbert sprang from the saddle, still holding the pummelin his right hand, touched his horse's flank with the whip, and boundedfrom one tussock to another. The sagacious animal seemed to understandand assist his manoeuvre. Hardly had he gained firm ground than he was inhis seat again, while Mr. Barton was still plunging in the middle of thebog. 

By the time he had reached the road, Gilbert shrewdly guessed where thechase would terminate. The idlers on the tavern-porch cheered him as heswept around the corner; the level highway rang to the galloping hoofsof his steed, and in fifteen minutes he had passed the long and loftyoak woods of Avondale. At the same moment, fox and hounds broke intofull view, sweeping up the meadow on his left. The animal made a lastdesperate effort to gain a lair among the bushes and loose stones on thenorthern hill; but the hunter was there before him, the hounds werewithin reach, and one faltering moment decided his fate. 

Gilbert sprang down among the frantic dogs, and saved the brush from therapid dismemberment which had already befallen its owner. Even then, hecould only assure its possession by sticking it into his hat andremounting his horse. When he looked around, no one was in sight, butthe noise of hoofs was heard crashing through the wood. 

Mr. Ferris, with some dozen others, either anxious to spare their horsesor too timid to take the hedges in the valley, had kept the cross-roadto New-Garden, whence a lane along the top of the southern hill led theminto the Avondale Woods. They soon emerged, shouting and yelling, uponthe meadow. 

The chase was up; and Gilbert Potter, on his "plough horse, " was theonly huntsman in at the death. 

CHAPTER II. 

WHO SHALL HAVE THE BRUSH?

Mr. Barton and Fortune, who seemed to have become wonderfully intimateduring the half hour in which they had ridden together, arrived at thesame time. The hunters, of whom a dozen were now assembled (some five orsix 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'sfriends crowded about him, asking questions as to the course he hadtaken, and examining the horse, which had maliciously resumed its sleepylook, and stood with drooping head. The others had not sufficient tactto disguise their ill-humor, for they belonged to that class which, inall 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 thanperceived, fell upon them, and they looked at each other with anexpression of pain and embarrassment. Gilbert's face faded to a sallowpaleness, and his eyes were fastened upon those of the speaker with afierce and dangerous intensity. Mr. Ferris colored, turned away, andcalled to his hounds. 

Fortune was too sharp an observer not to remark the disturbance. Hecried out, and his words produced an instant, general sense of relief:--

"It's been a fine run, friends, and we can't do better than ride back tothe Hammer and Trowel, and take a 'smaller'--or a 'bigger' for thatmatter--at my expense. You must let me pay my footing now, for I hope toride with you many a time to come. Faith! If I don't happen to buy thatplace down by the Rising Sun, I'll try to find another, somewhere aboutNew London or Westgrove, so that we can be nearer neighbors. "

With that he grinned, rather than smiled; but although his manner wouldhave struck a cool observer as being mocking instead of cordial, theinvitation was accepted with great show of satisfaction, and thehorsemen fell into pairs, forming a picturesque cavalcade as they passedunder the tall, leafless oaks. 

Gilbert Potter speedily recovered his self-possession, but his face wasstern and his manner abstracted. Even the marked and careful kindness ofhis friends seemed secretly to annoy him, for it constantly suggestedthe something by which it had been prompted. Mr. Alfred Barton, however, whether under the influence of Fortune's friendship, or from a latesuspicion of his duties as host of the day, not unkindly complimentedthe young man, and insisted on filling his glass. Gilbert could do noless than courteously accept the attention, but he shortly afterwardsstole away from the noisy company, mounted his horse, and rode slowlytowards Kennett Square. 

As he thus rides, with his eyes abstractedly fixed before him, we willtake the opportunity to observe him more closely. Slightly under-sized, compactly built, and with strongly-marked features, his twenty-fouryears have the effect of thirty. His short jacket and knee-breeches ofgray velveteen cover a chest broad rather than deep, and reveal thefine, narrow loins and muscular thighs of a frame matured and hardenedby labor. His hands, also, are hard and strong, but not ungraceful inform. His neck, not too short, is firmly planted, and the carriage ofhis head indicates patience and energy. Thick, dark hair enframes hissquare forehead, and straight, somewhat heavy brows. His eyes of softdark-gray, are large, clear, and steady, and only change theirexpression under strong excitement. His nose is straight and short, hismouth a little too wide for beauty, and less firm now than it will beten years hence, when the yearning tenderness shall have vanished fromthe corners of the lips; and the chin, in its broad curve, harmonizeswith the square lines of the brow. Evidently a man whose youth has notbeen a holiday; who is reticent rather than demonstrative; who will bestrong in his loves and long in his hates; and, without being of adespondent nature, can never become heartily sanguine. 

The spring-day was raw and overcast, as it drew towards its close, andthe rider's musings seemed to accord with the change in the sky. Hisface expressed a singular mixture of impatience, determined will, andunsatisfied desire. But where most other men would have sighed, or givenway to some involuntary exclamation, he merely set his teeth, andtightened the grasp on his whip-handle. 

He was not destined, however, to a solitary journey. Scarcely had hemade three quarters of a mile, when, on approaching the junction of awood-road which descended to the highway from a shallow little glen onthe north, the sound of hoofs and voices met his ears. Two femalefigures appeared, slowly guiding their horses down the rough road. One, from her closely-fitting riding-habit of drab cloth, might have been aQuakeress, but for the feather (of the same sober color) in her beaverhat, and the rosette of dark red ribbon at her throat. The other, inbluish-gray, with a black beaver and no feather, rode a heavy old horsewith a blind halter on his head, and held the stout leathern reins witha hand covered with a blue woollen mitten. She rode in advance, payinglittle heed to her seat, but rather twisting herself out of shape in thesaddle in order to chatter to her companion in the rear. 

"Do look where you are going, Sally!" cried the latter as the blindedhorse turned aside from the road to drink at a little brook that oozedforth from under the dead leaves. 

Thus appealed to, the other lady whirled around with a half-jump, andcaught sight of Gilbert Potter and of her horse's head at the sameinstant. 

"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 hishat! Don't be afraid, you beast; did you never smell a fox? Here, ridein 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 headinto Gilbert's back, and came near losing her balance. With amusedscreams, and bursts of laughter, and light, rattling exclamations, shefinally succeeded in placing herself at his left hand, while her adroitand self-possessed companion quietly rode up to his right Then, droppingthe reins on their horses' necks, the two ladies resigned themselves toconversation, as the three slowly jogged homewards abreast. 

"Now, Gilbert!" exclaimed Miss Sally Fairthorn, after waiting a momentfor him to speak; "did you really earn the brush, or beg it from one ofthem, 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 wasin no mood for repartee. He drew down his brows and made no answer toher charge. 

"Where was the fox earthed?" asked the other lady, after a rapid glanceat his face. 

Martha Deane's voice was of that quality which compels an answer, and acourteous answer, from the surliest of mankind. It was not loud, itcould scarcely be called musical; but every tone seemed to exhalefreshness as of dew, and brightness as of morning. It was pure, slightlyresonant; and all the accumulated sorrows of life could not have veiledits inherent gladness. It could never grow harsh, never be worn thin, orsound husky from weariness; its first characteristic would always beyouth, and the joy of youth, though it came from the lips of age. 

Doubtless Gilbert Potter did not analyze the charm which it exercisedupon him; it was enough that he felt and submitted to it. A few quietremarks sufficed to draw from him the story of the chase, in all itsparticulars, and the lively interest in Martha Deane's face, theboisterous glee of Sally Fairthorn, with his own lurking sense oftriumph, soon swept every gloomy line from his visage. His mouth relaxedfrom its set compression, and wore a winning sweetness; his eyes shonesoftly-bright, and a nimble spirit of gayety gave grace to hismovements. 

"Fairly won, I must say!" exclaimed Miss Sally Fairthorn, when thenarrative 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'tseem to understand?"

"Yes, I understand, " said he, in an indifferent tone; "it may be had forthe asking. "

"Then it's mine!" cried Sally, urging her heavy horse against him andmaking a clutch at his cap. But he leaned as suddenly away, and shot alength ahead, out of her reach. Miss Deane's horse, a light, spiritedanimal, kept pace with his. 

"Martha!" cried the disappointed damsel, "Martha! one of us must haveit; 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 hadalready resumed her place on his left, and he saw that the mock strifewould be instantly renewed. With a movement so sudden as to appearalmost ungracious, he snatched the brush from his cap and extended it toMartha Deane, without saying a word. 

If she hesitated, it was at least no longer than would be required inorder to understand the action. Gilbert might either so interpret it, orsuspect that she had understood the condition in his mind, and meant tosignify the rejection thereof. The language of gestures is wonderfullyrapid, and all that could be said by either, in this way, was over, andthe brush in Martha Deane's hand, before Sally Fairthorn became aware ofthe transfer. 

"Well-done, Martha!" she exclaimed: "Don't let him have it again! Do youknow to whom he would have given it: an A. And a W. , with the look of anX, --so!"

Thereupon Sally pulled off her mittens and crossed her forefingers, anaction which her companions understood--in combination with themysterious initials--to be the rude, primitive symbol of a squint. 

Gilbert looked annoyed, but before he could reply, Sally let go the reinin order to put on her mittens, and the blinded mare quickly droppingher head, the rein slipped instantly to the animal's ears. The latterperceived her advantage, and began snuffing along the edges of the roadin a deliberate search for spring grass. In vain Sally called andkicked; the mare provokingly preserved her independence. Finally, apiteous appeal to Gilbert, who had pretended not to notice the dilemma, and was a hundred yards in advance, was Sally's only resource. The twohalted and enjoyed her comical helplessness. 

"That's enough, Gilbert, " said Martha Deane, presently, "go now and pickup 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 rodeon to where Miss Deane was waiting, "come and take supper with us, athome. 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 isn't onlythat, to-day being a Saturday; but I've promised mother to be at homeby dark, and fetch a quarter of tea from the store. "

"When you've once promised, I know, oxen couldn't pull you the otherway. "

"I don't often see your mother, Gilbert, " said Martha Deane; "she iswell?"

"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 thatway; you should"--

What Miss Deane would have said must remain unwritten. Gilbert's eyeswere upon her, and held her own; perhaps a little more color came intoher face, but she did not show the slightest embarrassment. A keenobserver might have supposed that either a broken or an imperfectrelation existed between the two, which the gentleman was trying torestore 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 Creek to KennettSquare. Martha Deane had thus far carried the brush carelessly in herright hand; she now rolled it into a coil and thrust it into a largevelvet reticule which hung from the pommel of her saddle. A few dullorange streaks in the overcast sky, behind them, denoted sunset, and araw, 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, perceivingGilbert, 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 couldsatisfy the curiosity of the tavern-idlers, the former sat behind Sally, on the old mare, with his face to her tail, while Jake, prevented byMiss Deane's riding-whip from attempting the same performance, caperedbehind the horses and kept up their spirits by flinging handfuls ofsand. 

Gilbert found another group in "the store"--farmers or their sons whohad come in for a supply of groceries, or the weekly mail, and who satin a sweltering atmosphere around the roaring stove. They, too, hadheard of the chase, and he was obliged to give them as many details aspossible while his quarter of tea was being weighed, after which he leftthem to supply the story from the narrative of Mr. Joel Ferris, who, anew-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 fellowFortune's. They're as thick as two pickpockets!"

Gilbert rode down the hill, and allowed his horse to plod leisurelyacross the muddy level, regardless of the deepening twilight. 

He was powerfully moved by some suppressed emotion. The muscles of hislips twitched convulsively, and there was a hot surge and swellsomewhere in his head, as of tears about to overrun their secretreservoir. But they failed to surprise him, this time. As the firstdrops fell from his dark eyelashes, he loosed the rein and gave the wordto his horse. Over the ridge, along the crest, between duskythorn-hedges, he swept at full gallop, and so, slowly sinking towardsthe fair valley which began to twinkle with the lights of scatteredfarms to the eastward, he soon reached the last steep descent, and sawthe gray gleam of his own barn below him. 

By this time his face was sternly set. He clinched his hands, andmuttered to himself--

"It will almost kill me to ask, but I must know, and--and she musttell. "

It was dark now. As he climbed again from the bottom of the hill towardsthe house, a figure on the summit was drawn indistinctly against thesky, unconscious that it was thus betrayed. But it vanished instantly, and then he groaned--

"God help me! I cannot ask. "

CHAPTER III. 

MARY POTTER AND HER SON. 

While Gilbert was dismounting at the gate leading into his barn-yard, hewas suddenly accosted by a boyish voice:--

"Got back, have you?"

This was Sam, the "bound-boy, "--the son of a tenant on the old Carsonplace, who, in consideration of three months' schooling every winter, and a "freedom suit" at the age of seventeen, if he desired then tolearn a trade, was duly made over by his father to Gilbert Potter. Hisposition was something between that of a poor relation and a servant. Hewas one of the family, eating at the same table, sleeping, indeed, (foreconomy of house-work, ) in the same bed with his master, and privilegedto feel his full share of interest in domestic matters; but on the otherhand bound to obedience and rigid service. 

"Feed's in the trough, " said he, taking hold of the bridle. "I'll fixhim. Better go into th' house. Tea's wanted. "

Feeling as sure that all the necessary evening's work was done as if hehad performed it with his own hands, Gilbert silently followed the boy'sfamiliar advice. 

The house, built like most other old farm-houses in that part of thecounty, of hornblende stone, stood near the bottom of a rounded knoll, overhanging the deep, winding valley. It was two stories in height, thegable looking towards the road, and showing, just under the broad doublechimney, a limestone slab, upon which were rudely carved the initials ofthe builder and his wife, and the date "1727. " A low portico, overgrownwith woodbine and trumpet-flower, ran along the front. In the narrowflower-bed, under it, the crocuses and daffodils were beginning tothrust up their blunt, green points. A walk of flag-stones separatedthem from the vegetable garden, which was bounded at the bottom by amill-race, carrying half the water of the creek to the saw and gristmill on the other side of the road. 

Although this road was the principal thoroughfare between Kennett Squareand Wilmington, the house was so screened from the observation oftravellers, both by the barn, and by some huge, spreading apple-treeswhich occupied the space between the garden and road, that its inmatesseemed to live in absolute seclusion. Looking from the front door acrossa narrow green meadow, a wooded hill completely shut out all glimpse ofthe adjoining farms; while an angle of the valley, to the eastward, hidfrom sight the warm, fertile fields higher up the stream. 

The place seemed lonelier than ever in the gloomy March twilight; or wasit some other influence which caused Gilbert to pause on the flaggedwalk, and stand there, motionless, looking down into the meadow until awoman's shadow crossing the panes, was thrown upon the square of lightedearth at his feet? Then he turned and entered the kitchen. 

The cloth was spread and the table set. A kettle, humming on a heap offresh coals, and a squat little teapot of blue china, were waitinganxiously for the brown paper parcel which he placed upon the cloth. Hismother was waiting also, in a high straight-backed rocking-chair, withher hands in her lap. 

"You're tired waiting, mother, I suppose?" he said, as he hung his hatupon a nail over the heavy oak mantel-piece. 

"No, not tired, Gilbert, but it's hungry _you'll_ be. It won't take longfor the tea to draw. Everything else has been ready this half-hour. "

Gilbert threw himself upon the settle under the front window, andmechanically followed her with his eyes, as she carefully measured theprecious herb, even stooping to pick up a leaf or two that had fallenfrom the spoon to the floor. 

The resemblance between mother and son was very striking. Mary Potterhad the same square forehead and level eyebrows, but her hair was darkerthan Gilbert's, and her eyes more deeply set. The fire of a lifelongpain smouldered in them, and the throes of some never-ending strugglehad sharpened every line of cheek and brow, and taught her lips theclose, hard compression, which those of her son were also beginning tolearn. She was about forty-five years of age, but there was even now aweariness in her motions, as if her prime of strength were already past. She wore a short gown of brown flannel, with a plain linen stomacher, and a coarse apron, which she removed when the supper had been placedupon the table. A simple cap, with a narrow frill, covered her head. 

The entire work of the household devolved upon her hands alone. Gilbertwould have cheerfully taken a servant to assist her, but this shepositively refused, seeming to court constant labor, especially duringhis absence from the house. Only when he was there would she takeoccasion to knit or sew. The kitchen was a marvel of neatness and order. The bread-trough and dresser-shelves were scoured almost to thewhiteness of a napkin, and the rows of pewter-plates upon the latterflashed like silver sconces. To Gilbert's eyes, indeed, the effect wassometimes painful. He would have been satisfied with less laboriousorder, a less eager and unwearied thrift. To be sure, all this was infurtherance of a mutual purpose; but he mentally determined that whenthe purpose had been fulfilled, he would insist upon an easier and morecheerful arrangement. The stern aspect of life from which his naturecraved escape met him oftenest at home. 

Sam entered the kitchen barefooted, having left his shoes at the backdoor. The tea was drawn, and the three sat down to their supper ofbacon, bread and butter, and apple-sauce. Gilbert and his mother ate anddrank in silence, but Sam's curiosity was too lively to be restrained. 

"I say, how did Roger go?" he asked. 

Mary Potter looked up, as if expecting the question to be answered, andGilbert said:--

"He took the lead, and kept it. "

"O cracky!" exclaimed the delighted Sam. 

"Then you think it's a good bargain, Gilbert. Was it a long chase? Washe well tried?"

"All right, mother. I could sell him for twenty dollars advance--even toJoel Ferris, " he answered. 

He then gave a sketch of the afternoon's adventures, to which his motherlistened with a keen, steady interest. She compelled him to describe thestranger, Fortune, as minutely as possible, as if desirous of findingsome form or event in her own memory to which he could be attached; butwithout result. 

After supper Sam squatted upon a stool in the corner of the fireplace, and resumed his reading of "The Old English Baron, " by the light of theburning back-log, pronouncing every word to himself in something betweena whisper and a whistle. Gilbert took an account-book, a leadeninkstand, and a stumpy pen from a drawer under the window, andcalculated silently and somewhat laboriously. His mother produced aclocked stocking of blue wool, and proceeded to turn the heel. 

In half an hour's time, however, Sam's whispering ceased; his headnodded violently, and the book fell upon the hearth. 

"I guess I'll go to bed, " he said; and having thus conscientiouslyannounced his intention, he trotted up the steep back-stairs on hishands and feet. In two minutes more, a creaking overhead announced thatthe act was accomplished. 

Gilbert filliped the ink out of his pen into the fire, laid it in hisbook, and turned away from the table. 

"Roger has bottom, " he said at last, "and he's as strong as a lion. Heand Fox will make a good team, and the roads will be solid in threedays, if it don't rain. "

"Why, you don't mean, "--she commenced. 

"Yes, mother. You were not for buying him, I know, and you were right, inasmuch as there is always _some_ risk. But it will make a differenceof two barrels a load, besides having a horse at home. If I plough bothfor corn and oats next week, --and it will be all the better for corn, asthe field next to Carson's is heavy, --I can begin hauling the weekafter, and we'll have the interest by the first of April, withoutborrowing a penny. "

"That would be good, --very good, indeed, " said she, dropping herknitting, and hesitating a moment before she continued; "only--only, Gilbert, I didn't expect you would be going so soon. "

"The sooner I begin, mother, the sooner I shall finish. "

"I know that, Gilbert, --I know that; but I'm always looking forward tothe time when you won't be bound to go at all. Not that Sam and I can'tmanage awhile--but if the money was paid once"--

"There's less than six hundred now, altogether. It's a good deal toscrape together in a year's time, but if it can be done I will do it. Perhaps, then, you will let some help come into the house. I'm asanxious as you can be, mother. I'm not of a roving disposition, that youknow; yet it isn't pleasant to me to see you slave as you do, and forthat very reason, it's a comfort when I'm away, that you've one less towork for. "

He spoke earnestly, turning his face full upon her. 

"We've talked this over, often and often, but you never can make me seeit in your way, " he then added, in a gentler tone. 

"Ay, Gilbert, " she replied, somewhat bitterly, "I've had my thoughts. Maybe they were too fast; it seems so. I meant, and mean, to make a goodhome for you, and I'm happiest when I can do the most towards it. I wantyou to hold up your head and be beholden to no man. There are them inthe neighborhood that were bound out as boys, and are now as good as thebest. "

"But they are not, "--burst from his lips, as the thought on which he sogloomily brooded sprang to the surface and took him by surprise. Hechecked his words by a powerful effort, and the blood forsook his face. Mary Potter placed her hand on her heart, and seemed to gasp for breath. 

Gilbert could not bear to look upon her face. He turned away, placed hiselbow on the table, and leaned his head upon his hand. It never occurredto him that the unfinished sentence might be otherwise completed. Heknew that his _thought_ was betrayed, and his heart was suddenly filledwith a tumult of shame, pity, and fear. 

For a minute there was silence. Only the long pendulum, swinging openlyalong the farther wall, ticked at each end of its vibration. Then MaryPotter drew a deep, weary breath, and spoke. Her voice was hollow andstrange, and each word came as by a separate muscular effort. 

"_What_ are they not? What word was on your tongue, Gilbert?"

He could not answer. He could only shake his head, and bring forth acowardly, evasive word, --"Nothing. "

"But there _is_ something! Oh, I knew it must come some time!" shecried, rather to herself than to him. "Listen to me, Gilbert! Has anyone dared to say to your face that you are basely born?"

He felt, now, that no further evasion was possible; she had put intowords the terrible question which he could not steel his own heart toask. Perhaps it was better so, --better a sharp, intense pain than a dullperpetual ache. So he answered honestly now, but still kept his headturned away, as if there might be a kindness in avoiding her gaze. 

"Not in so many words, mother, " he said; "but there are ways, and waysof saying a thing; and the cruellest way is that which everybodyunderstands, and I dare not. But I have long known what it meant. It isten years, mother, since I have mentioned the word '_father_' in yourhearing. "

Mary Potter leaned forward, hid her face in her hands, and rocked to andfro, as if tortured with insupportable pain. She stifled her sobs, butthe tears gushed forth between her fingers. 

"O my boy, --my boy!" she moaned. "Ten years?--and you believed it, allthat time!"

He was silent. She leaned forward and grasped his arm. 

"Did you, --_do_ you believe it? Speak, Gilbert!"

When he did speak, his voice was singularly low and gentle. "Never mind, mother!" was all he could say. His head was still turned away from her, but she knew there were tears on his cheeks. 

"Gilbert, it is a lie!" she exclaimed, with startling vehemence. "Alie, --A LIE! You are my lawful son, born in wedlock! There is no stainupon your name, of my giving, and I know there will be none of yourown. "

He turned towards her, his eyes shining and his lips parted inbreathless joy and astonishment. 

"Is it--is it true?" he whispered. 

"True as there is a God in Heaven. "

"Then, mother, give me my name! Now I ask you, for the first time, whowas my father?"

She wrung her hands and moaned. The sight of her son's eager, expectantface, touched with a light which she had never before seen upon it, seemed to give her another and a different pang. 

"That, too!" She murmured to herself. 

"Gilbert, " she then said, "have I always been a faithful mother to you?Have I been true and honest in word and deed? Have I done my best tohelp you in all right ways, --to make you comfortable, to spare youtrouble? Have I ever, --I'll not say acted, for nobody's judgment isperfect, --but tried to act otherwise than as I thought it might be foryour good?"

"You have done all that you could say, and more, mother. "

"Then, my boy, is it too much for me to ask that you should believe myword, --that you should let it stand for the truth, without my givingproofs and testimonies? For, Gilbert, that I _must_ ask of you, hard asit may seem. If you will only be content with the knowledge--: but then, you have felt the shame all this while; it was my fault, mine, and Iought to ask your forgiveness"--

"Mother--mother!" he interrupted, "don't talk that way! Yes--I believeyou, without testimony. You never said, or thought, an untruth; and yourexplanation will be enough not only for me, but for the wholeneighborhood, if all witnesses are dead or gone away. If you knew of theshameful report, why didn't you deny it at once? Why let it spread andbe believed in?"

"Oh, " she moaned again, "if my tongue was not tied--if my tongue was nottied! There was my fault, and what a punishment! Never--never was womanpunished as I have been. Gilbert, whatever you do, bind yourself by novow, except in the sight of men!"

"I do not understand you, mother, " said he. 

"No, and I dare not make myself understood. Don't ask me anything more!It's hard to shut my mouth, and bear everything in silence, but it cutsmy very heart in twain to speak and not tell!"

Her distress was so evident, that Gilbert, perplexed and bewildered asher words left him, felt that he dared not press her further. He couldnot doubt the truth of her first assertion; but, alas! it availed onlyfor his own private consciousness, --it took no stain from him, in theeyes of the world. Yet, now that the painful theme had been opened, --notless painful, it seemed, since the suspected dishonor did not exist, --hecraved and decided to ask, enlightenment on one point. 

"Mother, " he said, after a pause, "I do not want to speak about thisthing again. I believe you, and my greatest comfort in believing is foryour sake, not for mine. I see, too, that you are bound in some waywhich I do not understand, so that we cannot be cleared from the blamethat is put upon us. I don't mind that so much, either--for my own sake, and I will not ask for an explanation, since you say you dare not giveit. But tell me one thing, --will it always be so? Are you bound forever, and will I never learn anything more? I can wait; but, mother, you knowthat these things work in a man's mind, and there will come a time whenthe knowledge of the worst thing that could be will seem better than noknowledge at all. "

Her face brightened a little. "Thank you, Gilbert!" she said. "Yes;there will come a day when you shall know all, --when you and me shallhave justice. I do not know how soon; I cannot guess. In the Lord's goodtime. I have nigh out-suffered my fault, I think, and the reward cannotbe far off. A few weeks, perhaps, --yet, maybe, for oh, I am not allowedeven to hope for it!--maybe a few years. It will all come to the light, after so long--so long--an eternity. If I had but known!"

"Come, we will say no more now. Surely I may wait a little while, whenyou have waited so long. I believe you, mother. Yes, I believe you; I amyour lawful son. "

She rose, placed her hands on his shoulders, and kissed him. Nothingmore was said. 

Gilbert raked the ashes over the smouldering embers on the hearth, lighted his mother's night-lamp, and after closing the chamber-doorsoftly behind her, stole up-stairs to his own bed. 

It was long past midnight before he slept. 

CHAPTER IV. 

FORTUNE AND MISFORTUNE. 

On the same evening, a scene of a very different character occurred, inwhich certain personages of this history were actors. In order todescribe it, we must return to the company of sportsmen whom GilbertPotter left at the Hammer-and-Trowel Tavern, late in the afternoon. 

No sooner had he departed than the sneers of the young bucks, who feltthemselves humiliated by his unexpected success, became loud andfrequent. Mr. Alfred Barton, who seemed to care little for the generaldissatisfaction, was finally reproached with having introduced such anunfit personage at a gentleman's hunt; whereupon he turned impatiently, and retorted:

"There were no particular invitations sent out, as all of you know. Anybody that had a horse, and knew how to manage him, was welcome. Zounds! if you fellows are afraid to take hedges, am I to blame forthat? A hunter's a hunter, though he's born on the wrong side of themarriage certificate. "

"That's the talk, Squire!" cried Fortune, giving his friend a heartyslap between the shoulders. "I've seen riding in my day, " he continued, "both down in Loudon and on the Eastern Shore--men born with spurs ontheir heels, and I tell you this Potter could hold his own, even withthe Lees and the Tollivers. We took the hedge together, while you weremaking a round of I don't know how many miles on the road; and I neversaw a thing neater done. If you thought there was anything unfair abouthim, why didn't you head him off?"

"Yes, damme, " echoed Mr. Barton, bringing down his fist upon the bar, sothat the glasses jumped, "why didn't you head him off?" Mr. Barton'sface was suspiciously flushed, and he was more excited than the occasionjustified. 

There was no answer to the question, except that which none of the youngbucks dared to make. 

"Well, I've had about enough of this, " said Mr. Joel Ferris, turning onhis heel; "who's for home?"

"Me!" answered three or four, with more readiness than grammar. Some ofthe steadier young farmers, who had come for an afternoon's recreation, caring little who was first in at the death, sat awhile and exchangedopinions about crops and cattle; but Barton and Fortune kept together, whispering much, and occasionally bursting into fits of uproariouslaughter. The former was so captivated by his new friend, that before heknew it every guest was gone. The landlord had lighted two or threetallow candles, and now approached with the question:

"Will you have supper, gentlemen?"

"That depends on what you've got, " said Fortune. 

This was not language to which the host was accustomed. His guests werealso his fellow-citizens: if they patronized him, he accommodated them, and the account was balanced. His meals were as good as anybody's, though he thought it that shouldn't, and people so very particular mightstay away. But he was a mild, amiable man, and Fortune's keen eye anddazzling teeth had a powerful effect upon him. He answered civilly, inspite of an inward protest:

"There's ham and eggs, and frizzled beef. "

"Nothing could be better!" Fortune exclaimed, jumping up. "Come'Squire--if I stay over Sunday with you, you must at least take supperat my expense. "

Mr. Barton tried to recollect whether he had invited his friend to spendSunday with him. It must be so, of course; only, he could not rememberwhen he had spoken, or what words he had used. It would be verypleasant, he confessed, but for one thing; and how was he to get overthe difficulty?

However, here they were, at the table, Fortune heaping his plate like abountiful host, and talking so delightfully about horses and hounds, anddrinking-bouts, and all those wild experiences which have such a charmfor bachelors of forty-five or fifty, that it was impossible todetermine in his mind what he should do. 

After the supper, they charged themselves with a few additionalpotations, to keep off the chill of the night air, mounted their horses, and took the New-Garden road. A good deal of confidential whisperinghad preceded their departure. 

"They're off on a lark, " the landlord remarked to himself, as they rodeaway, "and it's a shame, in men of their age. "

After riding a mile, they reached the cross-road on the left, which thehunters had followed, and Fortune, who was a little in advance, turnedinto it. 

"After what I told you, 'Squire, " said he, "you won't wonder that I knowthe country so well. Let us push on; it's not more than two miles. Iwould be very clear of showing you one of my nests, if you were not sucha good fellow. But mum's the word, you know. "

"Never fear, " Barton answered, somewhat thickly; "I'm an old bird, Fortune. "

"That you are! Men like you and me are not made of the same stuff asthose young nincompoops; we can follow a trail without giving tongue atevery jump. "

Highly flattered, Barton rode nearer, and gave his friend anaffectionate punch in the side. Fortune answered with an arm around hiswaist and a tight hug, and so they rode onward through the darkness. 

They had advanced for somewhat more than a mile on the cross-road, andfound themselves in a hollow, with tall, and added in a low, significanttone, "If you stir from this spot in less than one hour, you are a deadman. "

Then he rode on, whistling "Money Musk" as he went. Once or twice hestopped, as if to listen, and Barton's heart ceased to beat; but bydegrees the sound of his horse's hoofs died away. The silence thatsucceeded was full of terrors. Barton's horse became restive, and hewould have dismounted and held him, but for the weakness in every jointwhich made him think that his body was falling asunder. Now and then aleaf rustled, or the scent of some animal, unperceived by his ownnostrils, caused his horse to snort and stamp. The air was raw and senta fearful chill through his blood. Moreover, how was he to measure thehour? His watch was gone; he might have guessed by the stars, but thesky was overcast. Fortune and Sandy Flash--for there were twoindividuals in his bewildered brain--would surely fulfil their threat ifhe stirred before the appointed time. What under heaven should he do?

Wait; that was all; and he waited until it seemed that morning must benear at hand. Then, turning his horse, he rode back very slowly towardsthe New-Garden road, and after many panics, to the Hammer-and-Trowel. There was still light in the bar-room; should the door open, he would beseen. He put spurs to his horse and dashed past. Once in motion, itseemed that he was pursued, and along Tuffkenamon went the race, untilhis horse, panting and exhausted, paused to drink at Redley Creek. Theyhad gone to bed at the Unicorn; he drew a long breath, and felt that thedanger was over. In five minutes more he was at home. 

Putting his horse in the stable, he stole quietly to the house, pulledoff his boots in the wood-shed, and entered by a back way through thekitchen. Here he warmed his chill frame before the hot ashes, and thenvery gently and cautiously felt his way to bed in the dark. 

The next morning, being Sunday, the whole household, servants and all, slept an hour later than usual, as was then the country custom. Giles, the old soldier, was the first to appear. He made the fire in thekitchen, put on the water to boil, and then attended to the feeding ofthe cattle at the barn. When this was accomplished, he returned to thehouse and entered a bedroom adjoining the kitchen, on the ground-floor. Here slept "Old-man Barton, " as he was generally called, --Alfred'sfather, by name Abiah, and now eighty-five years of age. For many yearshe had been a paralytic, and unable to walk, but the disease had notaffected his business capacity. He was the hardest, shrewdest, andcunningest miser in the county. There was not a penny of the income andexpenditure of the farm, for any year, which he could not accountfor, --not a date of a deed, bond, or note of hand, which he had evergiven or received, that was not indelibly burnt upon his memory. No one, not even his sons, knew precisely how much he was worth. The old lawyerin Chester, who had charge of much of his investments, was as shrewd ashimself, and when he made his annual visit, the first week in April, thedoors were not only closed, but everybody was banished from hearingdistance so long as he remained. 

Giles assisted in washing and dressing the old man, then seated him in arude arm-chair, resting on clumsy wooden castors, and poured out for hima small wine-glass full of raw brandy. Once or twice a year, usuallyafter the payment of delayed interest, Giles received a share of thebrandy; but he never learned to expect it. Then a long hickory staff wasplaced in the old man's hand, and his arm-chair was rolled into thekitchen, to a certain station between the fire and the southern window, where he would be out of the way of his daughter Ann, yet could measurewith his eye every bit of lard she put into the frying-pan, and everyspoonful of molasses that entered into the composition of her pies. 

She had already set the table for breakfast. The bacon and slicedpotatoes were frying in separate pans, and Ann herself was lifting thelid of the tin coffee-pot, to see whether the beverage had "come to aboil, " when the old man entered, or, strictly speaking, _was_ entered. 

As his chair rolled into the light, the hideousness, not the grace andserenity of old age, was revealed. His white hair, thin and half-combed, straggled over the dark-red, purple-veined skin of his head; his cheekswere flabby bags of bristly, wrinkled leather; his mouth was a sunken, irregular slit, losing itself in the hanging folds at the corners, andeven the life, gathered into his small, restless gray eyes, was halfquenched under the red and heavy edges of the lids. The third and fourthfingers of his hands were crooked upon the skinny palms, beyond anypower to open them. 

When Ann--a gaunt spinster of fifty-five--had placed the coffee on thetable, the old man looked around, and asked with a snarl: "Where'sAlfred?"

"Not up yet, but you needn't wait, father. "

"Wait?" was all he said, yet she understood the tone, and wheeled him tothe table. As soon as his plate was filled, he bent forward over it, rested his elbows on the cloth, and commenced feeding himself with handsthat trembled so violently that he could with great difficulty bring thefood to his mouth. But he resented all offers of assistance, whichimplied any weakness beyond that of the infirmity which it wasimpossible for him to conceal. His meals were weary tasks, but he shookand jerked through them, and would have gone away hungry rather thanacknowledge the infirmity of his great age. 

Breakfast was nearly over before Alfred Barton made his appearance. Notruant school-boy ever dreaded the master's eye as he dreaded to appearbefore his father that Sunday morning. His sleep had been broken andrestless; the teeth of Sandy Flash had again grinned at him innightmare-dreams, and when he came to put on his clothes, the sense ofemptiness in his breast-pocket and watch-fob impressed him like aviolent physical pain. His loss was bad enough, but the inability toconceal it caused him even greater distress. 

Buttoning his coat over the double void, and trying to assume his usualair, he went down to the kitchen and commenced his breakfast. Wheneverhe looked up, he found his father's eyes fixed upon him, and before aword had been spoken, he felt that he had already betrayed something, and that the truth would follow, sooner or later. A wicked wish crossedhis mind, but was instantly suppressed, for fear lest that, also, shouldbe discovered. 

After Ann had cleared the table, and retired to her own room in order toarray herself in the black cloth gown which she had worn every Sundayfor the past fifteen years, the old man said, or rather wheezed out thewords, --

"Kennett, meetin'?"

"Not to-day, " said his son, "I've a sort of chill from yesterday. " Andhe folded his arms and shivered very naturally. 

"Did Ferris pay you?" the old man again asked. 

"Y--yes. "

"Where's the money?"

There was the question, and it must be faced. Alfred Barton worked thefarm "on shares, " and was held to a strict account by his father, notonly for half of all the grain and produce sold, but of all the horsesand cattle raised, as well as those which were bought on speculation. Onhis share he managed--thanks to the niggardly system enforced in thehouse--not only to gratify his vulgar taste for display, but even to layaside small sums from time to time. It was a convenient arrangement, butmight be annulled any time when the old man should choose, and Alfredknew that a prompt division of the profits would be his surest guaranteeof permanence. 

"I have not the money with me, " he answered, desperately, after a pause, during which he felt his father's gaze travelling over him, from head tofoot. 

"Why not! You haven't spent it?" The latter question was a croakingshriek, which seemed to forebode, while it scarcely admitted, thepossibility of such an enormity. 

"I spent only four shillings, father, but--but--but the money's allgone!"

The crooked fingers clutched the hickory staff, as if eager to wield it;the sunken gray eyes shot forth angry fire, and the broken figureuncurved and straightened itself with a wrathful curiosity. 

"Sandy Flash robbed me on the way home, " said the son, and now that thetruth was out, he seemed to pluck up a little courage. 

"What, what, what!" chattered the old man, incredulously; "no lies, boy, no lies!"

The son unbuttoned his coat, and showed his empty watch-fob. Then hegave an account of the robbery, not strictly correct in all its details, but near enough for his father to know, without discovering inaccuraciesat a later day. The hickory-stick was shaken once or twice during therecital, but it did not fall upon the culprit--though this correction(so the gossip of the neighborhood ran) had more than once beenadministered within the previous ten years. As Alfred Barton told hisstory, it was hardly a case for anger on the father's part, so he tookhis revenge in another way. 

"This comes o' your races and your expensive company, " he growled, aftera few incoherent sniffs and snarls; "but I don't lose my half of thehorse. No, no! I'm not paid till the money's been handed over. Twenty-five dollars, remember!--and soon, that I don't lose the use ofit too long. As for _your_ money and the watch, I've nothing to do withthem. I've got along without a watch for eighty-five years, and I neverwore as smart a coat as that in my born days. Young men understood howto save, in my time. "

Secretly, however, the old man was flattered by his son's love ofdisplay, and enjoyed his swaggering air, although nothing would haveinduced him to confess the fact. His own father had come to Pennsylvaniaas a servant of one of the first settlers, and the reverence which hehad felt, as a boy, for the members of the Quaker and farmer aristocracyof the neighborhood, had now developed into a late vanity to see his ownfamily acknowledged as the equals of the descendants of the former. Alfred had long since discovered that when he happened to return homefrom the society of the Falconers, or the Caswells, or the Carsons, theold man was in an unusual good-humor. At such times, the son felt surethat he was put down for a large slice of the inheritance. 

After turning the stick over and over in his skinny hands, and pressingthe top of it against his toothless gums, the old man again spoke. 

"See here, you're old enough now to lead a steady life. You might ha'had a farm o' your own, like Elisha, if you'd done as well. A very fairbit o' money he married, --very fair, --but I don't say you couldn't do aswell, or, maybe, better. "

"I've been thinking of that, myself, " the son replied. 

"Have you? Why don't you step up to her then? Ten thousand dollarsaren't to be had every day, and you needn't expect to get it without theaskin'! Where molasses is dropped, you'll always find more than one fly. Others than you have got their eyes on the girl. "

The son's eyes opened tolerably wide when the old man began to speak, but a spark of intelligence presently flashed into them, and anexpression of cunning ran over his face. 

"Don't be anxious, daddy!" said he, with assumed playfulness; "she's nota girl to take the first that offers. She has a mind of her own, --withher the more haste the less speed. I know what I'm about; I have my topeye open, and when there's a good chance, you won't find me sneakingbehind the wood-house. "

"Well, well!" muttered the old man, "we'll see, --we'll see! A goodfamily, too, --not that I care for that. My family's as good as thenext. But if you let her slip, boy"--and here he brought down the end ofhis stick with a significant whack, upon the floor. "This I'll tellyou, " he added, without finishing the broken sentence, "that whetheryou're a rich man or a beggar, depends on yourself. The more you have, the more you'll get; remember that! Bring me my brandy!"

Alfred Barton knew the exact value of his father's words. Having alreadyneglected, or, at least, failed to succeed, in regard to two matcheswhich his father had proposed, he understood the risk to his inheritancewhich was implied by a third failure. And yet, looking at the subjectsoberly, there was not the slightest prospect of success. Martha Deanewas the girl in the old man's mind, and an instinct, stronger than hisvanity, told him that she never would, or could, be his wife. But, inspite of that, it must be his business to create a contrary impression, and keep it alive as long as possible, --perhaps until--until--

We all know what was in his mind. Until the old man should die. 

CHAPTER V. 

GUESTS AT FAIRTHORN'S. 

The Fairthorn farm was immediately north of Kennett Square. For thefirst mile towards Unionville, the rich rolling fields which anytraveller may see, to this day, on either side of the road, belonged toit. The house stood on the right, in the hollow into which the roaddips, on leaving the village. Originally a large cabin of hewn logs, itnow rejoiced in a stately stone addition, overgrown with ivy up to theeaves, and a long porch in front, below which two mounds of box guardedthe flight of stone steps leading down to the garden. The hill in therear kept off the north wind, and this garden caught the earliest warmthof spring. Nowhere else in the neighborhood did the crocuses bloom soearly, or the peas so soon appear above ground. The lack of order, theair of old neglect about the place, in nowise detracted from its warm, cosy character; it was a pleasant nook, and the relatives and friends ofthe family (whose name was Legion) always liked to visit there. 

Several days had elapsed since the chase, and the eventful evening whichfollowed it. It was baking-day, and the plump arms of Sally Fairthornwere floury-white up to the elbows. She was leaning over thedough-trough, plunging her fists furiously into the spongy mass, whenshe heard a step on the porch. Although her gown was pinned up, leavinghalf of her short, striped petticoat visible, and a blue and whitespotted handkerchief concealed her dark hair, Sally did not stop tothink of that. She rushed into the front room, just as a gaunt femalefigure passed the window, at the sight of which she clapped her hands sothat the flour flew in a little white cloud, and two or three strips ofdough peeled off her arms and fell upon the floor. 

The front-door opened, and our old friend, Miss Betsy Lavender, walkedinto the room. 

Any person, between Kildeer Hill and Hockessin, who did not know MissBetsy, must have been an utter stranger to the country, or an idiot. Shehad a marvellous clairvoyant faculty for the approach of either Joy orGrief, and always turned up just at the moment when she was most wanted. Profession had she none; neither a permanent home, but for twenty yearsshe had wandered hither and thither, in highly independent fashion, turning her hand to whatever seemed to require its cunning. A betterhousekeeper never might have lived, if she could have stuck to one spot;an admirable cook, nurse, seamstress, and spinner, she refused alike thehigh wages of wealthy farmers and the hands of poor widowers. She had alittle money of her own, but never refused payment from those who wereable to give it, in order that she might now and then make a present ofher services to poorer friends. Her speech was blunt and rough, her waysodd and eccentric; her name was rarely mentioned without a laugh, butthose who laughed at her esteemed her none the less. In those days ofweekly posts and one newspaper, she was Politics, Art, Science, andLiterature to many families. 

In person, Miss Betsy Lavender was peculiar rather than attractive. Shewas nearly, if not quite fifty years of age, rather tall, and a littlestoop-shouldered. Her face, at first sight, suggested that of a horse, with its long, ridged nose, loose lips and short chin. Her eyes weredull gray, set near together, and much sharper in their operation than astranger would suppose. Over a high, narrow forehead she wore thin bandsof tan-colored hair, somewhat grizzled, and forming a coil at the backof her head, barely strong enough to hold the teeth of an enormoustortoise-shell comb. Yet her grotesqueness had nothing repellant; it wasa genial caricature, at which no one could take offence. "The veryperson I wanted to see!" cried Sally. "Father and mother are going up toUncle John's this afternoon; Aunt Eliza has an old woman'squilting-party, and they'll stay all night, and however am I to manageJoe and Jake by myself? Martha's half promised to come, but not tillafter supper. It will all go right, since you are here; come intomother's room and take off your things!"

"Well, " said Miss Betsy, with a snort, "_that's_ to be my business, eh?I'll have my hands full; a pearter couple o' lads a'n't to be found thisside o' Nottin'gam. They might ha' growed up wild on the Barrens, forall the manners they've got. "

Sally knew that this criticism was true; also that Miss Betsy's task wasno sinecure, and she therefore thought it best to change the subject. 

"There!" said she, as Miss Betsy gave the thin rope of her back hair afierce twist, and jammed her high comb inward and outward that the teethmight catch, --"there! now you'll do! Come into the kitchen and tell methe news, while I set my loaves to rise. "

"Loaves to rise, " echoed Miss Betsy, seating herself on a tall, rush-bottomed chair near the window. She had an incorrigible habit ofrepeating the last three words of the person with whom she spoke, --ahabit which was sometimes mimicked good-humoredly, even by her bestfriends. Many persons, however, were flattered by it, as it seemed todenote an earnest attention to what they were saying. Between the two, there it was and there it would be, to the day of her death, --MissLavender's "keel-mark, [Footnote: Keel, a local term for red chalk. ] asthe farmers said of their sheep. 

"Well, " she resumed, after taking breath, "no news is good news, thesedays. Down Whitely Creek way, towards Strickersville, there's fever, they say; Richard Rudd talks o' buildin' higher up the hill, --you knowit's low and swampy about the old house, --but Sarah, she says it'll be amortal long ways to the spring-house, and so betwixt and between them Idunno how it'll turn out. Dear me! I was up at Aunt Buffin'ton's t'other day; she's lookin' poorly; her mother, I remember, went off in adecline, the same year the Tories burnt down their barn, and I'm afeardshe's goin' the same way. But, yes! I guess there's one thing you'lllike to hear. Old-man Barton is goin' to put up a new wagon-house, andMark is to have the job. "

"Law!" exclaimed Sally, "what's that to me?" But there was a decidedsmile on her face as she put another loaf into the pan, and, althoughher head was turned away, a pretty flush of color came up behind herear, and betrayed itself to Miss Lavender's quick eye. 

"Nothin' much, I reckon, " the latter answered, in the mostmatter-of-fact way, "only I thought you might like to know it, Markbein' a neighbor, like, and a right-down smart young fellow. "

"Well, I _am_ glad of it, " said Sally, with sudden candor, "he'sMartha's cousin. "

"Martha's cousin, --and I shouldn't wonder if he'd be something more toher, some day. "

"No, indeed! What are you thinking of, Betsy?" Sally turned around andfaced her visitor, regardless that her soft brunette face showed adecided tinge of scarlet. At this instant clattering feet were heard, and Joe and Jake rushed into the kitchen. They greeted their old friendwith boisterous demonstrations of joy. 

"Now we'll have dough-nuts, " cried Joe. 

"No; 'lasses-wax!" said Jake. "Sally, where's mother? Dad's out at thewall, and Bonnie's jumpin' and prancin' like anything!"

"Go along!" exclaimed Sally, with a slap which, lost its force in theair, as Jake jumped away. Then they all left the kitchen together, andescorted the mother to the garden-wall by the road, which served thepurpose of a horseblock. Farmer Fairthorn--a hale, ruddy, honest figure, in broad-brimmed hat, brown coat and knee-breeches--already sat upon theold mare, and the pillion behind his saddle awaited the coming burden. Mother Fairthorn, a cheery little woman, with dark eyes and roundbrunette face, like her daughter, wore the scoop bonnet and drab shawlof a Quakeress, as did many in the neighborhood who did not belong tothe sect. Never were people better suited to each other than these two:they took the world as they found it, and whether the crops were poor orabundant, whether money came in or had to be borrowed, whether the roofleaked, or a broken pale let the sheep into the garden, they were alikeeasy of heart, contented and cheerful. 

The mare, after various obstinate whirls, was finally brought near thewall; the old woman took her seat on the pillion, and after a partingadmonition to Sally: "Rake the coals and cover 'em up, before going tobed, whatever you do!"--they went off, deliberately, up the hill. 

"Miss Betsy, " said Joe, with a very grave air, as they returned to thekitchen, "I want you to tell me one thing, --whether it's true or not. Sally says I'm a monkey. "

"I'm a monkey, " repeated the unconscious Miss Lavender, whereupon bothboys burst into shrieks of laughter, and made their escape. 

"Much dough-nuts they'll get from me, " muttered the ruffled spinster, asshe pinned up her sleeves and proceeded to help Sally. The work went onrapidly, and by the middle of the afternoon, the kitchen wore its normalaspect of homely neatness. Then came the hour or two of quiet and rest, nowhere in the world so grateful as in a country farm-house, to itsmistress and her daughters, when all the rough work of the day is over, and only the lighter task of preparing supper yet remains. Then, whenthe sewing or knitting has been produced, the little painted-pinework-stand placed near the window, and a pleasant neighbor drops in toenliven the softer occupation with gossip, the country wife or girlfinds her life a very happy and cheerful possession. No dresses are wornwith so much pleasure as those then made; no books so enjoyed as thosethen read, a chapter or two at a time. 

Sally Fairthorn, we must confess, was not in the habit of reading much. Her education had been limited. She had ciphered as far as CompoundInterest, read Murray's "Sequel, " and Goldsmith's "Rome, " and couldwrite a fair letter, without misspelling many words; but very few othergirls in the neighborhood possessed greater accomplishments than these, and none of them felt, or even thought of, their deficiencies. Therewere no "missions" in those days; it was fifty or sixty years before theformation of the "Kennett Psychological Society, " and "Pamela, ""Rasselas, " and "Joseph Andrews, " were lent and borrowed, as at present"Consuelo, " Buckle, Ruskin, and "Enoch Arden. "

One single work of art had Sally created, and it now hung, stately in aframe of curled maple, in the chilly parlor. It was a sampler, containing the alphabet, both large and small, the names and dates ofbirth of both her parents, a harp and willow-tree, the twigs whereofwere represented by parallel rows of "herring-bone" stitch, a sharpzigzag spray of rose-buds, and the following stanza, placed directlyunderneath the harp and willow:--

 "By Babel's streams we Sat and Wept When Zion we thought on; For Grief thereof, we Hang our Harp The Willow Tree upon. "

Across the bottom of the sampler was embroidered the inscription: "Doneby Sarah Ann Fairthorn, May, 1792, in the 16th year of her age. "

While Sally went up-stairs to her room, to put her hair into order, andtie a finer apron over her cloth gown, Miss Betsy Lavender was made thevictim of a most painful experience. 

Joe and Jake, who had been dodging around the house, half-coaxing andhalf-teasing the ancient maiden whom they both plagued and liked, hadnot been heard or seen for a while. Miss Betsy was knitting by the frontwindow, waiting for Sally, when the door was hastily thrown open, andJoe appeared, panting, scared, and with an expression of horror upon hisface. 

"Oh, Miss Betsy!" was his breathless exclamation, "Jake! thecherry-tree!"

Dropping her work upon the floor, Miss Lavender hurried out of thehouse, with beating heart and trembling limbs, following Joe, who rantowards the field above the barn, where, near the fence, there stood alarge and lofty cherry-tree. As she reached the fence she beheld Jake, lying motionless on his back, on the brown grass. 

"The Lord have mercy!" she cried; her knees gave way, and she sank uponthe ground in an angular heap. When, with a desperate groan, she liftedher head and looked through the lower rails, Jake was not to be seen. With a swift, convulsive effort she rose to her feet, just in time tocatch a glimpse of the two young scamps whirling over the farther fenceinto the wood below. 

She walked unsteadily back to the house. "It's given me such a turn, "she said to Sally, after describing the trick, "that I dunno when I'llget over it. "

Sally gave her some whiskey and sugar, which soon brought a vivid red tothe tip of her chin and the region of her cheek-bones, after which sheprofessed that she felt very comfortable. But the boys, frightened atthe effect of their thoughtless prank, did not make their appearance. Joe, seeing Miss Betsy fall, thought she was dead, and the two hidthemselves in a bed of dead leaves, beside a fallen log, not daring toventure home for supper. Sally said they should have none, and wouldhave cleared the table; but Miss Betsy, whose kind heart had long sincerelented, went forth and brought them to light, promising that she wouldnot tell their father, provided they "would never do such a wicked thingagain. " Their behavior, for the rest of the evening, was irreproachable. 

Just as candles were being lighted, there was another step on the porch, and the door opened on Martha Deane. 

"I'm _so_ glad!" cried Sally. "Never mind your pattens, Martha; Joeshall carry them into the kitchen. Come, let me take off your cloak andhat. "

Martha's coming seemed to restore the fading daylight. Not boisterous orimpulsive, like Sally, her nature burned with a bright and steadyflame, --white and cold to some, golden and radiant to others. Her formwas slender, and every motion expressed a calm, serene grace, whichcould only spring from some conscious strength of character. Her facewas remarkably symmetrical, its oval outline approaching the Greekideal; but the brow was rather high than low, and the light brown haircovered the fair temples evenly, without a ripple. Her eyes were purelyblue, and a quick, soft spark was easily kindled in their depths; thecheeks round and rosy, and the mouth clearly and delicately cut, with anunusual, yet wholly feminine firmness in the lines of the upper lip. This peculiarity, again, if slightly out of harmony with the pervadinggentleness of her face, was balanced by the softness and sweetness ofher dimpled chin, and gave to her face a rare union of strength andtenderness. It very rarely happens that decision and power of will in ayoung woman are not manifested by some characteristic rather masculinethan feminine; but Martha Deane knew the art of unwearied, softassertion and resistance, and her beautiful lips could pronounce, whennecessary, a final word. 

Joe and Jake came forward with a half-shy delight, to welcome "CousinMartha, " as she was called in the Fairthorn household, her mother andSally's father having been "own" cousins. There was a cheerful fire onthe hearth, and the three ladies gathered in front of it, with thework-stand in the middle, while the boys took possession of thecorner-nooks. The latter claimed their share of the gossip; they knewthe family histories of the neighborhood much better than theirschool-books, and exhibited a precocious interest in this form ofknowledge. The conversation, therefore, was somewhat guarded, and theknitting and sewing all the more assiduously performed, until, withgreat reluctance, and after repeated commands, Joe and Jake stole off tobed. 

The atmosphere of the room then became infinitely more free andconfidential. Sally dropped her hands in her lap, and settled herselfmore comfortably in her chair, while Miss Lavender, with an unobservedside-glance at her, said:--

"Mark is to put up Barton's new wagon-house, I hear, Martha. "

"Yes, " Martha answered; "it is not much, but Mark, of course, is veryproud of his first job. There is a better one in store, though he doesnot know of it. "

Sally pricked up her ears. "What is it?" asked Miss Betsy. 

"It is not to be mentioned, you will understand. I saw Alfred Bartonto-day. He seems to take quite an interest in Mark, all at once, and hetold me that the Hallowells are going to build a new barn this summer. He spoke to them of Mark, and thinks the work is almost sure. "

"Well, now!" Miss Betsy exclaimed, "if he gets that, after a year'sjourney-work, Mark is a made man. And I'll speak to Richard Rudd thenext time I see him. He thinks he's beholden to me, since Sarah had thefever so bad. I don't like folks to think that, but there's times whenit appears to come handy. "

Sally arose, flushed and silent, and brought a plate of cakes and abasket of apples from the pantry. The work was now wholly laid aside, and the stand cleared to receive the refreshments. 

"Now pare your peels in one piece, girls, " Miss Betsy advised, "and thenwhirl 'em to find the _initials_ o' your sweethearts' names. "

"You, too, Miss Betsy!" cried Sally, "we must find out the widower'sname!"

"The widower's name, " Miss Betsy gravely repeated, as she took a knife. 

With much mirth the parings were cut, slowly whirled three times aroundthe head, and then let fly over the left shoulder. Miss Betsy's wasfirst examined and pronounced to be an A. 

"Who's A?" she asked. 

"Alfred!" said Sally. "Now, Martha, here's yours--an S, no it's a G!"

"The curl is the wrong way, " said Martha, gravely, "it's a figure 3; so, I have three of them, have I?"

"And mine, " Sally continued, "is a W!"

"Yes, if you look at it upside down. The inside of the peel isuppermost: you must turn it, and then it will be an M. "

Sally snatched it up in affected vexation, and threw it into the fire. "Oh, I know a new way!" she cried; "did you ever try it, Martha--withthe key and the Bible!"

"Old as the hills, but awful sure, " remarked Miss Lavender. "When it'sdone serious, it's never been known to fail. "

Sally took the house-key, and brought from the old walnut cabinet aplump octavo Bible, which she opened at the Song of Solomon, eighthchapter and sixth verse. The end of the key being carefully placedtherein, the halves of the book were bound together with cords, so thatit could be carried by the key-handle. Then Sally and Martha, sittingface to face, placed each the end of the fore finger of the right handunder the half the ring of the key nearest to her. 

"Now, Martha, " said Sally, "we'll try your fortune first. Say 'A, ' andthen repeat the verse: 'set me as a seal upon thy heart, as a seal uponthine arm; for love is strong as death, jealousy is cruel as the grave:the coals thereof are coals of fire, which hath a most vehement flame. '"

Martha did as she was bidden, but the book hung motionless. She wasthereupon directed to say B, and repeat the verse; and so on, letter byletter. The slender fingers trembled a little with the growing weight ofthe book, and, although Sally protested that she was holding as still"as she knew how, " the trembling increased, and before the verse whichfollowed G had been finished, the ring of the key slowly turned, and thevolume fell to the floor. 

Martha picked it up with a quiet smile. 

"It is easy to see who was in _your_ mind, Sally, " she said. "Now let metell your fortune: we will begin at L--it will save time. "

"Save time, " said Miss Lavender, rising. "Have it out betwixt andbetween you, girls: I'm a-goin' to bed. "

The two girls soon followed her example. Hastily undressing themselvesin the chilly room, they lay down side by side, to enjoy the blendedwarmth and rest, and the tender, delicious interchanges of confidencewhich precede sleep. Though so different in every fibre of theirnatures, they loved each other with a very true and tender affection. 

"Martha, " said Sally, after an interval of silence, "did you think I_made_ the Bible turn at G?"

"I think you thought it would turn, and therefore it did. Gilbert Potterwas in your mind, of course. "

"And not in yours, Martha?"

"If any man was seriously in my mind, Sally, do you think I would takethe Bible and the door-key in order to find out his name?"

Sally was not adroit in speech: she felt that her question had not beenanswered, but was unable to see precisely how the answer had beenevaded. 

"I certainly was beginning to think that you liked Gilbert, " she said. 

"So I do. Anybody may know that who cares for the information. " AndMartha laughed cheerfully. 

"Would you say so to Gilbert himself?" Sally timidly suggested. 

"Certainly; but why should he ask? I like a great many young men. "

"Oh, Martha!"

"Oh, Sally!--and so do you. But there's this I will say: if I were tolove a man, neither he nor any other living soul should know it, untilhe had told me with his own lips that his heart had chosen me. "

The strength of conviction in Martha's grave, gentle voice, struck Sallydumb. Her lips were sealed on the delicious secret she was longing, andyet afraid, to disclose. _He_ had not spoken: she hoped he loved her, she was sure she loved him. Did she speak now, she thought, she wouldlower herself in Martha's eyes. With a helpless impulse, she threw onearm over the latter's neck, and kissed her cheek. She did not know thatwith the kiss she had left a tear. 

"Sally, " said Martha, in a tender whisper, "I only spoke for myself. Some hearts must be silent, while it is the nature of others to speakout. You are not afraid of me: it will be womanly in you to tell meeverything. Your cheek is hot: you are blushing. Don't blush, Sallydear, for I know it already. "

Sally answered with an impassioned demonstration of gratitude andaffection. Then she spoke; but we will not reveal the secrets of hervirgin heart. It is enough that, soothed and comforted by Martha's wisecounsel and sympathy, she sank into happy slumber at her side. 

CHAPTER VI. 

THE NEW GILBERT. 

This time the weather, which so often thwarts the farmer's calculations, favored Gilbert Potter. In a week the two fields were ploughed, and whatlittle farm-work remained to be done before the first of April, couldbe safely left to Sam. On the second Monday after the chase, therefore, he harnessed his four sturdy horses to the wagon, and set off before thefirst streak of dawn for Columbia, on the Susquehanna. Here he wouldtake from twelve to sixteen barrels of flour (according to the state ofthe roads) and haul them, a two days' journey, to Newport, on theChristiana River. The freight of a dollar and a half a barrel, which hereceived, yielded him what in those days was considered a handsomeprofit for the service, and it was no unusual thing for farmers who werein possession of a suitable team, to engage in the business wheneverthey could spare the time from their own fields. 

Since the evening when she had spoken to him, for the first time in herlife, of the dismal shadow which rested upon their names, Mary Potterfelt that there was an indefinable change in her relation to her son. Heseemed suddenly drawn nearer to her, and yet, in some other sense whichshe could not clearly comprehend, thrust farther away. His manner, always kind and tender, assumed a shade of gentle respect, grateful initself, yet disturbing, because new in her experience of him. His headwas slightly lifted, and his lips, though firm as ever, less rigidlycompressed. She could not tell how it was, but his voice had moreauthority in her ears. She had never before quite disentangled the manthat he was from the child that he had been; but now the separation, sharp, sudden, and final, was impressed upon her mind. Under all theloneliness which came upon her, when the musical bells of his teamtinkled into silence beyond the hill, there lurked a strange sense ofrelief, as if her nature would more readily adjust itself during hisabsence. 

Instead of accepting the day with its duties, as a sufficient burden, she now deliberately reviewed the Past. It would give her pain, sheknew; but what pain could she ever feel again, comparable to that whichshe had so recently suffered? Long she brooded over that bitter periodbefore and immediately succeeding her son's birth, often declaring toherself how fatally she had erred, and as often shaking her head inhopeless renunciation of any present escape from the consequences ofthat error. She saw her position clearly, yet it seemed that she had soentangled herself in the meshes of a merciless Fate, that the onlyreparation she could claim, either for herself or her son, would bethrown away by forestalling--after such endless, endless submission andsuffering--the Event which should set her free. 

Then she recalled and understood, as never before, Gilbert's childhoodand boyhood. For his sake she had accepted menial service in familieswhere he was looked upon and treated as an incumbrance. The child, ithad been her comfort to think, was too young to know or feel this, --butnow, alas! the remembrance of his shyness and sadness told her adifferent tale. So nine years had passed, and she was then forced topart with her boy. She had bound him to Farmer Fairthorn, whose goodheart, and his wife's, she well knew, and now she worked for him, alone, putting by her savings every year, and stinting herself to the utmostthat she might be able to start him in life, if he should live to be hisown master. Little by little, the blot upon her seemed to fade out or beforgotten, and she hoped--oh, how she had hoped!--that he might bespared the knowledge of it. 

She watched him grow up, a boy of firm will, strong temper, yet greatself-control; and the easy Fairthorn rule, which would have spoiled ayouth of livelier spirits, was, providentially, the atmosphere in whichhis nature grew more serene and patient. He was steady, industrious, andfaithful, and the Fairthorns loved him almost as their own son. When hereached the age of eighteen, he was allowed many important privileges:he hauled flour to Newport, having a share of the profits, and in otherways earned a sum which, with his mother's aid, enabled him to buy ateam of his own, on coming of age. 

Two years more of this weary, lonely labor, and the one absorbing aim ofMary Potter's life, which she had impressed upon him ever since he wasold enough to understand it, drew near fulfilment. The farm upon whichthey now lived was sold, and Gilbert became the purchaser. There wasstill a debt of a thousand dollars upon the property, and she felt thatuntil it was paid, they possessed no secure home. During the year whichhad elapsed since the purchase, Gilbert, by unwearied labor, had laid upabout four hundred dollars, and another year, he had said, if he shouldprosper in his plans, would see them free at last! Then, --let the worldsay what it chose! They had fought their way from shame and poverty tohonest independence, and the respect which follows success would atleast be theirs. 

This was always the consoling thought to which Mary Potter returned, from the unallayed trouble of her mind. Day by day, Gilbert's new figurebecame more familiar, and she was conscious that her own manner towardshim must change with it The subject of his birth, however, and the newdifficulties with which it beset her, would not be thrust aside. Foryears she had almost ceased to think of the possible release, of whichshe had spoken; now it returned and filled her with a strange, restlessimpatience. 

Gilbert, also, had ample time to review his own position, during thefortnight's absence. After passing the hills and emerging upon the long, fertile swells of Lancaster, his experienced leaders but rarely neededthe guidance of his hand or voice. Often, sunk in revery, the familiarlandmarks of the journey went by unheeded; often he lay awake in thecrowded bedroom of a tavern, striving to clear a path for his feet alittle way into the future. Only men of the profoundest culture make adeliberate study of their own natures, but those less gifted often actwith an equal or even superior wisdom, because their qualities operatespontaneously, unwatched by an introverted eye. Such men may be dimlyconscious of certain inconsistencies, or unsolved puzzles, inthemselves, but instead of sitting down to unravel them, they seek theeasiest way to pass by and leave them untouched. For them the materialaspects of life are of the highest importance, and a true instinct showsthem that beyond the merest superficial acquaintance with their ownnatures lie deep and disturbing questions, with which they are notfitted to grapple. 

There comes a time, however, to every young man, even the mostuncultivated, when he touches one of the primal, eternal forces of life, and is conscious of other needs and another destiny. This time had cometo Gilbert Potter, forcing him to look upon the circumstances of hislife from a loftier point of view. He had struggled, passionately but atrandom, for light, --but, fortunately, every earnest struggle is towardsthe light, and it now began to dawn upon him. 

He first became aware of one enigma, the consideration of which was notso easy to lay aside. His mother had not been deceived: there was achange in the man since that evening. Often and often, in gloomybreedings over his supposed disgrace, he had fiercely asserted tohimself that _he_ was free from stain, and the unrespect in which hestood was an injustice to be bravely defied. The brand which he wore, and which he fancied was seen by every eye he met, existed in his ownfancy; his brow was as pure, his right to esteem and honor equal, tothat of any other man. But it was impossible to act upon this reasoning;still when the test came he would shrink and feel the pain, instead oftrampling it under his feet. 

Now that the brand _was_ removed, the strength which he had sodesperately craved, was suddenly his. So far as the world was concerned, nothing was altered; no one knew of the revelation which his mother hadmade to him; he was still the child of her shame, but this knowledge wasno longer a torture. Now he had a right to respect, not asserted only tohis own heart, but which every man would acknowledge, were it madeknown. He was no longer a solitary individual, protesting againstprejudice and custom. Though still feeling that the protest was just, and that his new courage implied some weakness, he could not concealfrom himself the knowledge that this very weakness was the practicalfountain of his strength. He was a secret and unknown unit of the greatmajority. 

There was another, more intimate subject which the new knowledge touchedvery nearly; and here, also, hope dawned upon a sense akin to despair. With all the force of his nature, Gilbert Potter loved Martha Deane. Hehad known her since he was a boy at Fairthorn's; her face had alwaysbeen the brightest in his memory; but it was only since the purchase ofthe farm that his matured manhood had fully recognized its answeringwomanhood in her. He was slow to acknowledge the truth, even to his ownheart, and when it could no longer be denied, he locked it up and sealedit with seven seals, determined never to betray it, to her or any one. Then arose a wild hope, that respect might come with the independencefor which he was laboring, and perhaps he might dare to drawnearer, --near enough to guess if there were any answer in her heart. Itwas a frail support, but he clung to it as with his life, for there wasnone other. 

Now, --although his uncertainty was as great as ever, --his approach couldnot humiliate her. His love brought no shadow of shame; it was proudlywhite and clean. Ah! he had forgotten that she did not know, --that hislips were sealed until his mother's should be opened to the world. Thecurse was not to be shaken off so easily. 

By the time he had twice traversed the long, weary road between Columbiaand Newport, Gilbert reached a desperate solution of this difficulty. The end of his meditations was: "I will see if there be love in woman asin man!--love that takes no note of birth or station, but, once havingfound its mate, is faithful from first to last. " In love, an honest andfaithful heart touches the loftiest ideal. Gilbert knew that, were thecase reversed, no possible test could shake his steadfast affection, andhow else could he measure the quality of hers? He said to himself:"Perhaps it is cruel, but I cannot spare her the trial. " He was prouderthan he knew, --but we must remember all that he endured. 

It was a dry, windy March month, that year, and he made four good tripsbefore the first of April. Returning home from Newport, by way ofWilmington, with seventy-five dollars clear profit in his pocket, hisprospects seemed very cheerful. Could he accomplish two more months ofhauling during the year, and the crops should be fair, the money fromthese sources, and the sale of his wagon and one span, would besomething more than enough to discharge the remaining debt. He knew, moreover, how the farm could be more advantageously worked, having usedhis eyes to good purpose in passing through the rich, abundant fields ofLancaster. The land once his own, --which, like his mother, he could notyet feel, --his future, in a material sense, was assured. 

Before reaching the Buck Tavern, he overtook a woman plodding slowlyalong the road. Her rusty beaver hat, tied down over her ears, and herfaded gown, were in singular contrast to the shining new scarlet shawlupon her shoulders. As she stopped and turned, at the sound of histinkling bells, she showed a hard red face, not devoid of a certaincoarse beauty, and he recognized Deb. Smith, a lawless, irregularcreature, well known about Kennett. 

"Good-day, Deborah!" said he; "if you are going my way, I can give you alift. "

"He calls me 'Deborah, '" she muttered to herself; then aloud--"Ay, andthank ye, Mr. Gilbert. "

Seizing the tail of the near horse with one hand, she sprang upon thewagon-tongue, and the next moment sat upon the board at his side. Then, rummaging in a deep pocket, she produced, one after the other, a shortblack pipe, an eel-skin tobacco-pouch, flint, tinder, and a clumsyknife. With a dexterity which could only have come from long habit, sheprepared and kindled the weed, and was presently puffing forth rankstreams, with an air of the deepest satisfaction. 

"Which way?" asked Gilbert. 

"Your'n, as far as you go, --always providin' you takes me. "

"Of course, Deborah, you're welcome. I have no load, you see. "

"Mighty clever in you, Mr. Gilbert; but you always was one o' the cleverones. Them as thinks themselves better born"--

"Come, Deborah, none of that!" he exclaimed. 

"Ax your pardon, " she said, and smoked her pipe in silence. When she hadfinished and knocked the ashes out against the front panel of the wagon, she spoke again, in a hard, bitter voice, --

"'Tisn't much difference what _I_ am. I was raised on hard knocks, andnow I must git my livin' by 'em. But I axes no'un's help, I'm _that_proud, anyways. I go my own road, and a straighter one, too, damme, thanI git credit for, but I let other people go their'n. You might have wusscompany than me, though _I_ say it. "

These words hinted at an inward experience in some respects sosurprisingly like his own, that Gilbert was startled. He knew thereputation of the woman, though he would have found it difficult to tellwhereupon it was based. Everybody said she was bad, and nobody knewparticularly why. She lived alone, in a log-cabin in the woods; didwashing and house-cleaning; worked in the harvest-fields; smoked, andtook her gill of whiskey with the best of them, --but other vices, thoughinferred, were not proven. Involuntarily, he contrasted her position, inthis respect, with his own. The world, he had recently learned, waswrong in his case; might it not also be doing her injustice? Her pride, in its coarse way, was his also, and his life, perhaps, had onlyunfolded into honorable success through a mother's ever-watchful careand never-wearied toil. 

"Deborah, " he said, after a pause, "no man or woman who makes an honestliving by hard work, is bad company for me. I am trying to do the samething that you are, --to be independent of others. It's not an easy thingfor anybody, starting from nothing, but I can guess that it must be muchharder for you than for me. "

"Yes, you're a man!" she cried. "Would to God I'd been one, too! A mancan do everything that I do, and it's all right and proper. Why did theLord give me strength? Look at that!" She bared her right arm--hard, knitted muscle from wrist to shoulder--and clenched her fist. "What'sthat for?--not for a woman, I say; I could take two of 'em by the necksand pitch 'em over yon fence. I've felled an Irishman like an ox when hecalled me names. The anger's in me, and the boldness and the roughness, and the cursin'; I didn't put 'em there, and I can't git 'em out now, ifI tried ever so much. Why did they snatch the sewin' from me when Iwanted to learn women's work, and send me out to yoke th' oxen? I dobelieve I was a gal onc't, a six-month or so, but it's over long ago. I've been a man ever since!"

She took a bottle out of her pocket, and offered it to Gilbert. When herefused, she simply said: "You're right!" set it to her mouth, and dranklong and deeply. There was a wild, painful gleam of truth in her words, which touched his sympathy. How should he dare to judge this unfortunatecreature, not knowing what perverse freak of nature, and untowardcircumstances of life had combined to make her what she was? His mannertowards her was kind and serious, and by degrees this covert respectawoke in her a desire to deserve it. She spoke calmly and soberly, exhibiting a wonderful knowledge as they rode onwards, not only offarming, but of animals, trees, and plants. 

The team, knowing that home and rest were near, marched cheerily up anddown the hills along the border, and before sunset, emerging from thewoods, they overlooked the little valley, the mill, and the nestlingfarmhouse. An Indian war-whoop rang across the meadow, and Gilbertrecognized Sam's welcome therein. 

"Now, Deborah, " said he, "you shall stop and have some supper, beforeyou go any farther. "

"I'm obliged, all the same, " said she, "but I must push on. I've to gobeyond the Square, and couldn't wait. But tell your mother if she wantsa man's arm in house-cleanin' time to let me know. And, Mr. Gilbert, letme say one thing: give me your hand. "

The horses had stopped to drink at the creek. He gave her his righthand. 

She held it in hers a moment, gazing intently on the palm. Then she benther head and blew upon it gently, three times. 

"Never mind: it's my fancy, " she said. "You're born for trial andgood-luck, but the trials come first, all of a heap, and the good luckafterwards. You've got a friend in Deb. Smith, if you ever need one. Good-bye to ye!"

With these words she sprang from the wagon, and trudged off silently upthe hill. The horses turned of themselves into the lane leading to thebarn, and Gilbert assisted Sam in unharnessing and feeding them beforeentering the house. By the time he was ready to greet his mother, andenjoy, without further care, his first evening at home, he kneweverything that had occurred on the farm during his absence. 

CHAPTER VII. 

OLD KENNETT MEETING. 

On the Sunday succeeding his return, Gilbert Potter proposed to hismother that they should attend the Friends' Meeting at Old Kennett. 

The Quaker element, we have already stated, largely predominated in thispart of the county; and even the many families who were not actuallymembers of the sect were strongly colored with its peculiarcharacteristics. Though not generally using "the plain speech" amongthemselves, they invariably did so towards Quakers, varied but littlefrom the latter in dress and habits, and, with very few exceptions, regularly attended their worship. In fact, no other religious attendancewas possible, without a Sabbath journey too long for the well-usedfarm-horses. To this class belonged Gilbert and his mother, theFairthorns, and even the Bartons. Farmer Fairthorn had a birthright, itis true, until his marriage, which having been a stolen match, and notperformed according to "Friends' ceremony, " occasioned hisexcommunication. He might have been restored to the rights of membershipby admitting his sorrow for the offence, but this he stoutly refused todo. The predicament was not an unusual one in the neighborhood; but afew, among whom was Dr. Deane, Martha's father, submitted to therequired humiliation. As this did not take place, however, until afterher birth, Martha was still without the pale, and preferred to remainso, for two reasons: first, that a scoop bonnet was monstrous on a youngwoman's head; and second, that she was passionately fond of music, andsaw no harm in a dance. This determination of hers was, as her fatherexpressed himself, a "great cross" to him; but she had a habit ofparalyzing his argument by turning against him the testimony of theFriends in regard to forms and ceremonies, and their reliance on theguidance of the Spirit. 

Herein Martha was strictly logical, and though she, and others whobelonged to the same class, were sometimes characterized, by a zealousQuaker, in moments of bitterness, as being "the world's people, " theywere generally regarded, not only with tolerance, but in a spirit offraternity. The high seats in the gallery were not for them, but theywere free to any other part of the meeting-house during life, and to agrave in the grassy and briery enclosure adjoining, when dead. Thenecessity of belonging to some organized church was recognized butfaintly, if at all; provided their lives were honorable, they wereconsidered very fair Christians. 

Mary Potter but rarely attended meeting, not from any lack of the needof worship, but because she shrank with painful timidity from appearingin the presence of the assembled neighborhood. She was, nevertheless, grateful for Gilbert's success, and her heart inclined to thanksgiving;besides, he desired that they should go, and she was not able to offerany valid objection. So, after breakfast, the two best horses of theteam were very carefully groomed, saddled, and--Sam having been sent offon a visit to his father, with the house-key in his pocket--the motherand son took the road up the creek. 

Both were plainly, yet very respectably, dressed, in garments of thesame home-made cloth, of a deep, dark brown color, but Mary Potter woreunder her cloak the new crape shawl which Gilbert had brought to herfrom Wilmington, and his shirt of fine linen displayed a modest rufflein front. The resemblance in their faces was even more strongly marked, in the common expression of calm, grave repose, which sprang from thenature of their journey. A stranger meeting them that morning, wouldhave seen that they were persons of unusual force of character, andbound to each other by an unusual tie. 

Up the lovely valley, or rather glen, watered by the eastern branch ofRedley Creek, they rode to the main highway. It was an early spring, andthe low-lying fields were already green with the young grass; theweeping-willows in front of the farm-houses seemed to spout up and falllike broad enormous geysers as the wind swayed them, and daffodilsbloomed in all the warmer gardens. The dark foliage of the cedarsskirting the road counteracted that indefinable gloom which thelandscapes of early spring, in their grayness and incompleteness, sooften inspire, and mocked the ripened summer in the close shadows whichthey threw. It was a pleasant ride, especially after mother and son hadreached the main road, and other horsemen and horsewomen issued from thegates of farms on either side, taking their way to the meeting-house. Only two or three families could boast vehicles, --heavy, cumbrous"chairs, " as they were called, with a convex canopy resting on fourstout pillars, and the bulging body swinging from side to side on hugesprings of wood and leather. No healthy man or woman, however, unless heor she were very old, travelled otherwise than on horseback. 

Now and then exchanging grave but kindly nods with their acquaintances, they rode slowly along the level upland, past the Anvil Tavern, throughLogtown, --a cluster of primitive cabins at the junction of theWilmington Road, --and reached the meeting-house in good season. Gilbertassisted his mother to alight at the stone platform built for thatpurpose near the women's end of the building, and then fastened thehorses in the long, open shed in the rear. Then, as was the custom, heentered by the men's door, and quietly took a seat in the silentassembly. 

The stiff, unpainted benches were filled with the congregation, youngand old, wearing their hats, and with a stolid, drowsy look upon theirfaces. Over a high wooden partition the old women in the gallery, butnot the young women on the floor of the house, could be seen. Twostoves, with interminable lengths of pipe, suspended by wires from theceiling, created a stifling temperature. Every slight sound ormotion, --the moving of a foot, the drawing forth of a pocket-handkerchief, the lifting or lowering of a head, --seemed to disturb thequiet as with a shock, and drew many of the younger eyes upon it; whilein front, like the guardian statues of an Egyptian temple, sat the oldermembers, with their hands upon their knees or clasped across their laps. Their faces were grave and severe. 

After nearly an hour of this suspended animation, an old Friend rose, removed his broad-brimmed hat, and placing his hands upon the railbefore him, began slowly swaying to and fro, while he spoke. As he roseinto the chant peculiar to the sect, intoning alike his quotations fromthe Psalms and his utterances of plain, practical advice, an expressionof quiet but almost luxurious satisfaction stole over the faces of hisaged brethren. With half-closed eyes and motionless bodies, they drankin the sound like a rich draught, with a sense of exquisite refreshment. A close connection of ideas, a logical derivation of argument from text, would have aroused their suspicions that the speaker depended ratherupon his own active, conscious intellect, than upon the moving of theSpirit; but this aimless wandering of a half-awake soul through thecadences of a language which was neither song nor speech, was, to theirminds, the evidence of genuine inspiration. 

When the old man sat down, a woman arose and chanted forth thesuggestions which had come to her in the silence, in a voice ofwonderful sweetness and strength. Here Music seemed to revenge herselffor the slight done to her by the sect. The ears of the hearers were socharmed by the purity of tone, and the delicate, rhythmical cadences ofthe sentences, that much of the wise lessons repeated from week to weekfailed to reach their consciousness. 

After another interval of silence, the two oldest men reached theirhands to each other, --a sign which the younger members had anxiouslyawaited. The spell snapped in an instant; all arose and moved into theopen air, where all things at first appeared to wear the same aspect ofsolemnity. The poplar-trees, the stone wall, the bushes in the cornersof the fence, looked grave and respectful for a few minutes. Neighborssaid, "How does thee do?" to each other, in subdued voices, and therewas a conscientious shaking of hands all around before they dared toindulge in much conversation. 

Gradually, however, all returned to the out-door world and itsinterests. The fences became so many posts and rails once more, thebushes so many elders and blackberries to be cut away, and thehalf-green fields so much sod for corn-ground. Opinions in regard tothe weather and the progress of spring labor were freely interchanged, and the few unimportant items of social news, which had collected inseven days, were gravely distributed. This was at the men's end of themeeting-house; on their side, the women were similarly occupied, but wecan only conjecture the subjects of their conversation. The youngmen--as is generally the case in religious sects of a rigid andclannish character--were by no means handsome. Their faces all bore thestamp of _repression_, in some form or other, and as they talked theireyes wandered with an expression of melancholy longing and timiditytowards the sweet, maidenly faces, whose bloom, and pure, gentle beautynot even their hideous bonnets could obscure. 

One by one the elder men came up to the stone platform with the stableold horses which their wives were to ride home; the huge chair, in whichsat a privileged couple, creaked and swayed from side to side, as itrolled with ponderous dignity from the yard; and now, while the girlswere waiting their turn, the grave young men plucked up courage, wandered nearer, greeted, exchanged words, and so were helped into anatmosphere of youth. 

Gilbert, approaching with them, was first recognized by his old friend, Sally Fairthorn, whose voice of salutation was so loud and cheery, as tocause two or three sedate old "women-friends" to turn their heads ingrave astonishment. Mother Fairthorn, with her bright, round face, followed, and then--serene and strong in her gentle, symmetricalloveliness--Martha Deane. Gilbert's hand throbbed, as he held hers amoment, gazing into the sweet blue of her eyes; yet, passionately as hefelt that he loved her in that moment, perfect as was the delight of herpresence, a better joy came to his heart when she turned away to speakwith his mother. Mark Deane--a young giant with curly yellow locks, anda broad, laughing mouth--had just placed a hand upon his shoulder, andhe could not watch the bearing of the two women to each other; but allhis soul listened to their voices, and he heard in Martha Deane's thekindly courtesy and respect which he did not see. 

Mother Fairthorn and Sally so cordially insisted that Mary Potter andher son should ride home with them to dinner, that no denial waspossible. When the horses were brought up to the block the yard wasnearly empty, and the returning procession was already winding up thehill towards Logtown. 

"Come, Mary, " said Mother Fairthorn, "you and I will ride together, andyou shall tell me all about your ducks and turkeys. The young folks canget along without us, I guess. "

Martha Deane had ridden to meeting in company with her cousin Mark andSally, but the order of the homeward ride was fated to be different. Joeand Jake, bestriding a single horse, like two of the Haymon's-children, were growing inpatient, so they took the responsibility of dashing up toMark and Sally, who were waiting in the road, and announcing, --

"Cousin Martha says we're to go on; she'll ride with Gilbert. "

Both well knew the pranks of the boys, but perhaps they found themessage well-invented if not true; for they obeyed with secretalacrity, although Sally made a becoming show of reluctance. Before theyreached the bottom of the hollow, Joe and Jake, seeing two school-matesin advance, similarly mounted, dashed off in a canter, to overtake them, and the two were left alone. 

Gilbert and Martha naturally followed, since not more than two couldconveniently ride abreast. But their movements were so quiet anddeliberate, and the accident which threw them together was accepted sosimply and calmly that no one could guess what warmth of longing, ofreverential tenderness, beat in every muffled throb of one of the twohearts. 

Martha was an admirable horsewoman, and her slender, pliant figure nevershowed to greater advantage than in the saddle. Her broad beaver hat wastied down over the ears, throwing a cool gray shadow across her clear, joyous eyes and fresh cheeks. A pleasanter face never touched a youngman's fancy, and every time it turned towards Gilbert it brightened awaythe distress of love. He caught, unconsciously, the serenity of hermood, and foretasted the peace which her being would bring to him if itwere ever intrusted to his hands. 

"Did you do well by your hauling, Gilbert, " she asked, "and are you nowhome for the summer?"

"Until after corn-planting, " he answered. "Then I must take two or threeweeks, as the season turns out. I am not able to give up my team yet. "

"But you soon will be, I hope. It must be very lonely for your mother tobe on the farm without you. "

These words touched him gratefully, and led him to a candid openness ofspeech which he would not otherwise have ventured, --not from anyinherent lack of candor, but from a reluctance to speak of himself. 

"That's it, Martha, " he said. "It is her work that I have the farm atall, and I only go away the oftener now, that I may the sooner stay withher altogether. The thought of her makes each trip lonelier than thelast. "

"I like to hear you say that, Gilbert. And it must be a comfort to you, withal, to know that you are working as much for your mother's sake asyour own. I think I should feel so, at least, in your place. I feel myown mother's loss more now than when she died, for I was then so youngthat I can only just remember her face. "

"But you have a father!" he exclaimed, and the words were scarcely outof his mouth before he became aware of their significance, uttered byhis lips. He had not meant so much, --only that she, like him, stillenjoyed one parent's care. The blood came into his face; she saw andunderstood the sign, and broke a silence which would soon have becomepainful. 

"Yes, " she said, "and I am very grateful that he is spared; but we seemto belong most to our mothers. "

"That is the truth, " he said firmly, lifting his head with the impulseof his recovered pride, and meeting her eyes without flinching. "Ibelong altogether to mine. She has made me a man and set me upon myfeet. From this time forward, my place is to stand between her and theworld!"

Martha Deane's blood throbbed an answer to this assertion of himself. Asympathetic pride beamed in her eyes; she slightly bent her head, inanswer, without speaking, and Gilbert felt that he was understood andvalued. He had drawn a step nearer to the trial which he had resolved tomake, and would now venture no further. 

There was a glimmering spark of courage in his heart. He was surprised, in recalling the conversation afterwards, to find how much of his planshe had communicated to her during the ride, encouraged by the kindlyinterest she manifested, and the sensible comments she uttered. Joe andJake, losing their mates at a cross-road, and finding Sally and MarkDeane not very lively company for them, rode back and disturbed theseconfidences, but not until they had drawn the two into a relation ofacknowledged mutual interest. 

Martha Deane had always, as she confessed to Sally, _liked_ GilbertPotter; she liked every young man of character and energy; but now shebegan to suspect that there was a rarer worth in his nature than she hadguessed. From that day he was more frequently the guest of her thoughtsthan ever before. Instinct, in him, had performed the same service whichmen of greater experience of the world would have reached through keenperception and careful tact, --in confiding to her his position, hislabors and hopes, material as was the theme and seemingly unsuited tothe occasion, he had in reality appreciated the serious, reflectivenature underlying her girlish grace and gayety. What other young man ofher acquaintance, she asked herself, would have done the same thing?

When they reached Kennett Square, Mother Fairthorn urged Martha toaccompany them, and Sally impetuously seconded the invitation. Dr. Deane's horse was at his door, however, and his daughter, with her eyeson Gilbert, as if saying "for my father's sake, " steadfastly declined. Mark, however, took her place, but there never had been, or could be, too many guests at the Fairthorn table. 

When they reached the garden-wall, Sally sprang from her horse with suchhaste that her skirt caught on the pommel and left her hanging, beingmade of stuff too stout to tear. It was well that Gilbert was near, onthe same side, and disengaged her in an instant; but her troubles didnot end here. As she bustled in and out of the kitchen, preparing thedinner-table in the long sitting-room, the hooks and door-handles seemedto have an unaccountable habit of thrusting themselves in her way, andshe was ready to cry at each glance of Mark's laughing eyes. She hadnever heard the German proverb, "who loves, teases, " and was tooinexperienced, as yet, to have discovered the fact for herself. 

Presently they all sat down to dinner, and after the first solemnquiet, --no one venturing to eat or speak until the plates of all hadbeen heaped with a little of everything upon the table, --the meal becamevery genial and pleasant. A huge brown pitcher of stinging cider addedits mild stimulus to the calm country blood, and under its mellowinginfluence Mark announced the most important fact of his life, --he was tohave the building of Hallowell's barn. 

As Gilbert and his mother rode homewards, that afternoon, neither spokemuch, but both felt, in some indefinite way, better prepared for thelife that lay before them. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

AT DR. DEANE'S. 

As she dismounted on the large flat stone outside the paling, MarthaDeane saw her father's face at the window. It was sterner and graverthan usual. 

The Deane mansion stood opposite the Unicorn Tavern. When built, ninetyyears previous, it had been considered a triumph of architecture; thematerial was squared logs from the forest, dovetailed, and overlappingat the corners, which had the effect of rustic quoins, as contrastedwith the front, which was plastered and yellow-washed. A small portico, covered with a tangled mass of eglantine and coral honeysuckle, with abench at each end, led to the door; and the ten feet of space between itand the front paling were devoted to flowers and rose-bushes. At eachcorner of the front rose an old, picturesque, straggling cedar-tree. 

There were two front doors, side by side, --one for the familysitting-room, the other (rarely opened, except when guests arrived) forthe parlor. Martha Deane entered the former, and we will enter with her. 

The room was nearly square, and lighted by two windows. On those sidesthe logs were roughly plastered; on the others there were partitions ofpanelled oak, nearly black with age and smoke, as were the heavy beamsof the same wood which formed the ceiling. In the corner of the roomnext the kitchen there was an open Franklin stove, --an innovation atthat time, --upon which two or three hickory sticks were smouldering intosnowy ashes. The floor was covered with a country-made rag carpet, inwhich an occasional strip of red or blue listing brightened theprevailing walnut color of the woof. The furniture was simple andmassive, its only unusual feature being a tall cabinet with shelvesfilled with glass jars, and an infinity of small drawers. A few bulkyvolumes on the lower shelf constituted the medical library of Dr. Deane. 

This gentleman was still standing at the window, with his hands claspedacross his back. His Quaker suit was of the finest drab broadcloth, andthe plain cravat visible above his high, straight waistcoat, was ofspotless cambric. His knee-and shoe-buckles were of the simplestpattern, but of good, solid silver, and there was not a wrinkle in thestockings of softest lamb's-wool, which covered his massive calves. There was always a faint odor of lavender, bergamot, or sweet marjoramabout him, and it was a common remark in the neighborhood that the sightand smell of the Doctor helped a weak patient almost as much as hismedicines. 

In his face there was a curious general resemblance to his daughter, though the detached features were very differently formed. Large, unsymmetrical, and somewhat coarse, --even for a man, --they derived muchof their effect from his scrupulous attire and studied air of wisdom. His long gray hair was combed back, that no portion of the moderatefrontal brain might be covered; the eyes were gray rather than blue, anda habit of concealment had marked its lines in the corners, unlike theopen, perfect frankness of his daughter's. The principal resemblance wasin the firm, clear outline of the upper lip, which alone, in his face, had it been supported by the under one, would have made him almosthandsome; but the latter was large and slightly hanging. There weremarked inconsistencies in his face, but this was no disadvantage in acommunity unaccustomed to studying the external marks of character. 

"Just home, father? How did thee leave Dinah Passmore?" asked Martha, asshe untied the strings of her beaver. 

"Better, " he answered, turning from the window; "but, Martha, who did Isee thee riding with?"

"Does thee mean Gilbert Potter?"

"I do, " he said, and paused. Martha, with her cloak over her arm andbonnet in her hand, in act to leave the room, waited, saying, --

"Well, father?"

So frank and serene was her bearing, that the old man felt both relievedand softened. 

"I suppose it happened so, " he said. "I saw his mother with FriendFairthorn. I only meant thee shouldn't be seen in company with youngPotter, when thee could help it; thee knows what I mean. "

"I don't think, father, " she slowly answered, "there is anything againstGilbert Potter's life or character, except that which is no justreproach to _him_. "

"'The sins of the parents shall be visited upon the children, even tothe third and fourth generation. ' That is enough, Martha. "

She went up to her room, meditating, with an earnestness almost equal toGilbert's, upon this form of the world's injustice, which he waspowerless to overcome. Her father shared it, and the fact did notsurprise her; but her independent spirit had already ceased to beguided, in all things, by his views. She felt that the young mandeserved the respect and admiration which he had inspired in her mind, and until a better reason could be discovered, she would continue so toregard him. The decision was reached rapidly, and then laid aside forany future necessity; she went down-stairs again in her usual quiet, cheerful mood. 

During her absence another conversation had taken place. 

Miss Betsy Lavender (who was a fast friend of Martha, and generallyspent her Sundays at the Doctor's, ) was sitting before the stove, dryingher feet. She was silent until Martha left the room, when she suddenlyexclaimed:

"Doctor! Judge not that ye be not judged. "

"Thee may think as thee pleases, Betsy, " said he, rather sharply: "it'sthy nature, I believe, to take everybody's part. "

"Put yourself in his place, " she continued, --"remember them that's inbonds as bound with 'em, --I disremember exackly how it goes, but nomatter: I say your way a'n't right, and I'd say it seven times, if needbe! There's no steadier nor better-doin' young fellow in these partsthan Gilbert Potter. Ferris, down in Pennsbury, or Alf Barton, here, forthat matter, a'n't to be put within a mile of him. I could say somethingin Mary Potter's behalf, too, but I won't: for there's Scribes andPharisees about. "

Dr. Deane did not notice this thrust: it was not his habit to get angry. "Put _thyself_ in _my_ place, Betsy, " he said. "He's a worthy young man, in some respects, I grant thee, but would thee like _thy_ daughter to beseen riding home beside him from Meeting? It's one thing speaking forthyself, and another for thy daughter. "

"Thy daughter!" she repeated. "Old or young can't make any difference, as I see. "

There was something else on her tongue, but she forcibly withheld thewords. She would not exhaust her ammunition until there was both achance and a necessity to do some execution. The next moment Marthareentered the room. 

After dinner, they formed a quiet group in the front sitting-room. Dr. Deane, having no more visits to make that day, took a pipe of choicetobacco, --the present of a Virginia Friend, whose acquaintance he hadmade at Yearly Meeting, --and seated himself in the arm-chair beside thestove. Martha, at the west window, enjoyed a volume of Hannah More, andMiss Betsy, at the front window, labored over the Psalms. The sun shonewith dim, muffled orb, but the air without was mild, and there werealready brown tufts, which would soon be blossoms, on the lilac twigs. 

Suddenly Miss Betsy lifted up her head and exclaimed, "Well, I never!"As she did so, there was a knock at the door. 

"Come in!" said Dr. Deane, and in came Mr. Alfred Barton, resplendent inblue coat, buff waistcoat, cambric ruffles, and silver-gilt buckles. But, alas! the bunch of seals--topaz, agate, and cornelian--no longerbuoyed the deep-anchored watch. The money due his father had beenpromptly paid, through the agency of a three-months' promissory note, and thus the most momentous result of the robbery was overcome. Thissecurity for the future, however, scarcely consoled him for the painfulprivation of the present. Without the watch, Alfred Barton felt thatmuch of his dignity and importance was lacking. 

Dr. Deane greeted his visitor with respect, Martha with the courtesy dueto a guest, and Miss Betsy with the offhand, independent manner, underwhich she masked her private opinions of the persons whom she met. 

"Mark isn't at home, I see, " said Mr. Barton, after having taken hisseat in the centre of the room: "I thought I'd have a little talk withhim about the wagon-house. I suppose he told you that I got Hallowell'snew barn for him?"

"Yes, and we're all greatly obliged to thee, as well as Mark, " said theDoctor. "The two jobs make a fine start for a young mechanic, and I hopehe'll do as well as he's been done by: there's luck in a goodbeginning. By the bye, has thee heard anything more of Sandy Flash'sdoings?"

Mr. Barton fairly started at this question. His own misfortune had beencarefully kept secret, and he could not suspect that the Doctor knew it;but he nervously dreaded the sound of the terrible name. 

"What is it?" he asked, in a faint voice. 

"He has turned up in Bradford, this time, and they say has robbed JesseFrame, the Collector, of between four and five hundred dollars. TheSheriff and a posse of men from the Valley hunted him for several days, but found no signs. Some think he has gone up into the Welch Mountain;but for my part, I should not be surprised if he were in thisneighborhood. "

"Good heavens!" exclaimed Mr. Barton, starting from his chair. 

"Now's your chance, " said Miss Betsy. "Git the young men together whowon't feel afraid o' bein' twenty ag'in one: you know the holes andcorners where he'll be likely to hide, and what's to hinder you fromketchin' him?"

"But he must have many secret friends, " said Martha, "if what I haveheard is true, --that he has often helped a poor man with the money whichhe takes only from the rich. You know he still calls himself a Tory, andmany of those whose estates have been confiscated, would not scruple toharbor him, or even take his money. "

"Take his money. That's a fact, " remarked Miss Betsy, "and now I dunnowhether I want him ketched. There's worse men goin' round, asrespectable as you please, stealin' all their born days, only cunnin'lyjukin' round the law instead o' buttin' square through it. Why, old LizWilliams, o' Birmingham, herself told me with her own mouth, how she wasridin' home from Phildelphy market last winter, with six dollars, theprice of her turkeys--and General Washin'ton's cook took one of 'em, butthat's neither here nor there--in her pocket, and fearful as death whenshe come to Concord woods, and lo and behold! there she was overtook bya fresh-complected man, and she begged him to ride with her, for she hadsix dollars in her pocket and Sandy was known to be about. So he rodewith her to her very lane-end, as kind and civil a person as she eversee, and then and there he said, 'Don't be afeard, Madam, for I, whichhave seen you home, is Sandy Flash himself, and here's somethin' more toremember me by, '--no sooner said than done, he put a gold guinea intoher hand, and left her there as petrified as Lot's wife. Now _I_ say, and it may be violation of the law, for all I know, but never mind, thatSandy Flash has got one corner of his heart in the right place, nomatter where the others is. There's honor even among thieves, they say. "

"Seriously, Alfred, " said Dr. Deane, cutting Miss Betsy short before shehad half expressed her sentiments, "it is time that something was done. If Flash is not caught soon, we shall be overrun with thieves, and therewill be no security anywhere on the high roads, or in our houses. I wishthat men of influence in the neighborhood, like thyself, would cometogether and plan, at least, to keep Kennett clear of him. Then othertownships may do the same, and so the thing be stopped. If I wereyounger, and my practice were not so laborious, I would move in thematter, but thee is altogether a more suitable person. "

"Do you think so?" Barton replied, with an irrepressible reluctance, around which he strove to throw an air of modesty. "That would be theproper way, certainly, but I, --I don't know, --that is, I can't flattermyself that I'm the best man to undertake it. "

"It requires some courage, you know, " Martha remarked, and her glancemade him feel very uncomfortable, "and you are too dashing a fox-hunternot to have that. Perhaps the stranger who rode with you toAvondale--what was his name?--might be of service. If I were in yourplace, I should be glad of a chance to incur danger for the good of theneighborhood. "

Mr. Alfred Barton was on nettles. If there were irony in her words hisintellect was too muddy to detect it: her assumption of his couragecould only be accepted as a compliment, but it was the last complimenthe desired to have paid to himself, just at that time. 

"Yes, " he said, with a forced laugh, rushing desperately into theopposite extreme, "but the danger and the courage are not worth talkingabout. Any man ought to be able to face a robber, single-handed, and asfor twenty men, why, when it's once known, Sandy Flash will only be tooglad to keep away. "

"Then, do thee do what I've recommended. It may be, as thee says, thatthe being prepared is all that is necessary, " remarked Dr. Deane. 

Thus caught, Mr. Barton could do no less than acquiesce, and very muchto his secret dissatisfaction, the Doctor proceeded to name the youngmen of the neighborhood, promising to summon such as lived on the linesof his professional journeys, that they might confer with the leader ofthe undertaking. Martha seconded the plan with an evident interest, yetit did not escape her that neither her father nor Mr. Barton hadmentioned the name of Gilbert Potter. 

"Is that all?" she asked, when a list of some eighteen persons had beensuggested. Involuntarily, she looked at Miss Betsy Lavender. 

"No, indeed!" cried the latter. "There's Jabez Travilla, up on theridge, and Gilbert Potter, down at the mill. "

"H'm, yes; what does thee say, Alfred?" asked the Doctor. 

"They're both good riders, and I think they have courage enough, but wecan never tell what a man is until he's been tried. They would increasethe number, and that, it seems to me, is a consideration. "

"Perhaps thee had better exercise thy own judgment there, " the Doctorobserved, and the subject, having been as fully discussed as waspossible without consultation with other persons, it was dropped, greatly to Barton's relief. 

But in endeavoring to converse with Martha he only exchanged onedifficulty for another. His vanity, powerful as it was, gave way beforethat instinct which is the curse and torment of vulgar natures, --whichleaps into life at every contact of refinement, showing them the gulfbetween, which they know not how to cross. The impudence, the aggressiverudeness which such natures often exhibit, is either a mask to concealtheir deficiency, or an angry protest against it. Where there is a dropof gentleness in the blood, it appreciates and imitates the highernature. 

This was the feeling which made Alfred Barton uncomfortable in thepresence of Martha Deane, --which told him, in advance, that natures sowidely sundered, never could come into near relations with each other, and thus quite neutralized the attraction of her beauty and her tenthousand dollars. His game, however, was to pay court to her, and in sopointed a way that it should be remarked and talked about in theneighborhood. Let it once come through others to the old man's ears, hewould have proved his obedience and could not be reproached if theresult were fruitless. 

"What are you reading, Miss Martha?" he asked, after a long and somewhatawkward pause. 

She handed him the book in reply. 

"Ah! Hannah More, --a friend of yours? Is she one of the West-WhitelandMoores?"

Martha could not suppress a light, amused laugh, as she answered: "Oh, no, she is an English woman. "

"Then it's a Tory book, " said he, handing it back; "I wouldn't read it, if I was you. "

"It is a story, and I should think you might. "

He heard other words than those she spoke. "As Tory as--what?" he askedhimself. "As I am, " of course; that is what she means. "Old-man Barton"had been one of the disloyal purveyors for the British army during itsoccupancy of Philadelphia in the winter of 1777-8, and though the mainfacts of the traffic wherefrom he had drawn immense profits, never couldbe proved against him, the general belief hung over the family, and madea very disagreeable cloud. Whenever Alfred Barton quarrelled with anyone, the taunt was sure to be flung into his teeth. That it came now, ashe imagined, was as great a shock as if Martha had slapped him in theface with her own delicate hand, and his visage reddened from the blow. 

Miss Betsy Lavender, bending laboriously over the Psalms, neverthelesskept her dull gray eyes in movement. She saw the misconception, andfearing that Martha did not, made haste to remark:--

"Well, Mr. Alfred, and do _you_ think it's a harm to read a story? Why, Miss Ann herself lent me 'Alonzo and Melissa, ' and 'Midnight Horrors, 'and I'll be bound you've read 'em yourself on the sly. 'T a'n't muchother readin' men does, save and except the weekly paper, and law enoughto git a tight hold on their debtors. Come, now, let's know what you_do_ read?"

"Not much of anything, that's a fact, " he answered, recovering himself, with a shudder at the fearful mistake he had been on the point ofmaking, "but I've nothing against women reading stories. I was ratherthinking of myself when I spoke to you, Miss Martha. "

"So I supposed, " she quietly answered. It was provoking. Everything shesaid made him think there was another meaning behind the words; hercomposed manner, though he knew it to be habitual, more and moredisconcerted him. Never did an intentional wooer find his wooing sopainful and laborious. After this attempt he addressed himself to DoctorDeane, for even the question of circumventing Sandy Flash now presenteditself to his mind as a relief. 

There he sat, and the conversation progressed in jerks and spirts, between pauses of embarrassing silence. The sun hung on the western hillin a web of clouds; Martha and Miss Betsy rose and prepared thetea-table, and the guest, invited perforce, perforce accepted. Soonafter the meal was over, however, he murmured something about cattle, took his hat and left. 

Two or three horses were hitched before the Unicorn, and he saw somefigures through the bar-room window. A bright thought struck him; hecrossed the road and entered. 

"Hallo, Alf! Where from now? Why, you're as fine as a fiddler!" criedMr. Joel Ferris, who was fast becoming familiar, on the strength of hisinheritance. 

"Over the way, " answered the landlord, with a wink and a jerk of histhumb. 

Mr. Ferris whistled, and one of the others suggested: "He must stand atreat, on that. "

"But, I say!" said the former, "how is it you're coming away so soon inthe evening?"

"I went very early in the afternoon, " Barton answered, with amysterious, meaning smile, as much as to say: "It's all right; I knowwhat I'm about. " Then he added aloud, --"Step up, fellows; what'll youhave?"

Many were the jests and questions to which he was forced to submit, buthe knew the value of silence in creating an impression, and allowed themto enjoy their own inferences. 

It is much easier to start a report, than to counteract it, when oncestarted; but the first, only, was his business. 

It was late in the evening when he returned home, and the household werein bed. Nevertheless, he did not enter by the back way, in hisstockings, but called Giles down from the garret to unlock thefront-door, and made as much noise as he pleased on his way to bed. 

The old man heard it, and chuckled under his coverlet. 

CHAPTER IX. 

THE RAISING. 

Steadily and serenely the Spring advanced. Old people shook their headsand said: "It will be April, this year, that comes in like a lamb andgoes out like a lion, "--but it was not so. Soft, warm showers andfrostless nights repaid the trustfulness of the early-expanding buds, and May came clothed completely in pale green, with a wreath of lilacand hawthorn bloom on her brow. For twenty years no such perfect springhad been known; and for twenty years afterwards the farmers looked backto it as a standard of excellence, whereby to measure the forwardness oftheir crops. 

By the twentieth of April the young white-oak leaves were the size of asquirrel's ear, --the old Indian sign of the proper time forcorn-planting, which was still accepted by the new race, and the firstof May saw many fields already specked with the green points of thespringing blades. A warm, silvery vapor hung over the land, mellowingthe brief vistas of the interlacing valleys, touching with a sweeterpastoral beauty the irregular alternation of field and forest, andlifting the wooded slopes, far and near, to a statelier and moreimposing height. The park-like region of Kennett, settled originally byemigrants from Bucks and Warwickshire, reproduced to their eyes--as itdoes to this day--the characteristics of their original home, and theytransplanted the local names to which they were accustomed, andpreserved, even long after the War of Independence, the habits of theirrural ancestry. The massive stone farm-houses, the walled gardens, thebountiful orchards, and, more than all, the well-trimmed hedges ofhawthorn and blackthorn dividing their fields, or bordering their roadswith the living wall, over which the clematis and wild-ivy love toclamber, made the region beautiful to their eyes. Although the largeoriginal grants, mostly given by the hand of William Penn, had beendivided and subdivided by three or four prolific generations, there wasstill enough and to spare, --and even the golden promise held out by "theBackwoods, " as the new States of Ohio and Kentucky were then called, tempted very few to leave their homes. 

The people, therefore, loved the soil and clung to it with a fidelityvery rare in any part of our restless nation. And, truly, no one who hadlived through the mild splendor of that spring, seeing, day by day, thevisible deepening of the soft woodland tints, hearing the cheerfulsounds of labor, far and wide, in the vapory air, and feeling at oncethe repose and the beauty of such a quiet, pastoral life, could haveturned his back upon it, to battle with the inhospitable wilderness ofthe West. Gilbert Potter had had ideas of a new home, to be created byhimself, and a life to which none should deny honor and respect: but nowhe gave them up forever. There was a battle to be fought--better herethan elsewhere--here, where every scene was dear and familiar, and everyobject that met his eye gave a mute, gentle sense of consolation. 

Restless, yet cheery labor was now the order of life on the farm. Fromdawn till dusk, Gilbert and Sam were stirring in field, meadow, andgarden, keeping pace with the season and forecasting what was yet tocome. Sam, although only fifteen, had a manly pride in being equal tothe duty imposed upon him by his master's absence, and when the timecame to harness the wagon-team once more, the mother and son walked overthe fields together and rejoiced in the order and promise of the farm. The influences of the season had unconsciously touched them both:everything conspired to favor the fulfilment of their common plan, and, as one went forward to the repetition of his tedious journeys back andforth between Columbia and Newport, and the other to her lonely labor inthe deserted farm-house, the arches of bells over the collars of theleaders chimed at once to the ears of both, an anthem of thanksgivingand a melody of hope. 

So May and the beginning of June passed away, and no important eventcame to any character of this history. When Gilbert had delivered thelast barrels at Newport, and slowly cheered homewards his weary team, hewas nearly two hundred dollars richer than when he started, and--if wemust confess a universal if somewhat humiliating truth--so much the morea man in courage and determination. 

The country was now covered with the first fresh magnificence of summer. The snowy pyramids of dog-wood bloom had faded, but the tulip trees weretall cones of rustling green, lighted with millions of orange-coloredstars, and all the underwood beneath the hemlock-forests by the coursesof streams, was rosy with laurels and azaleas. The vernal-grass in themeadows was sweeter than any garden-rose, and its breath met that of thewild-grape in the thickets and struggled for preeminence of sweetness. Alush, tropical splendor of vegetation, such as England never knew, heaped the woods and hung the road-side with sprays which grew andbloomed and wantoned, as if growth were a conscious joy, rather thanblind obedience to a law. 

When Gilbert reached home, released from his labors abroad untilOctober, he found his fields awaiting their owner's hand. His wheat hungalready heavy-headed, though green, and the grass stood so thick andstrong that it suggested the ripping music of the scythe-blade whichshould lay it low. Sam had taken good care of the cornfield, garden, andthe cattle, and Gilbert's few words of quiet commendation were a richreward for all his anxiety. His ambition was, to be counted "a fullhand, "--this was the _toga virilis, _ which, once entitled to wear, wouldmake him feel that he was any man's equal. 

Without a day's rest, the labor commenced again, and the passion ofGilbert's heart, though it had only strengthened during his absence, must be thrust aside until the fortune of his harvest was secured. 

In the midst of the haying, however, came a message which he could notdisregard, --a hasty summons from Mark Deane, who, seeing Gilbert in theupper hill-field, called from the road, bidding him to the raising ofHallowell's new barn, which was to take place on the following Saturday. "Be sure and come!" were Mark's closing words--"there's to be bothdinner and supper, and the girls are to be on hand!"

It was the custom to prepare the complete frame of a barn--sills, plates, girders, posts, and stays--with all their mortices and pins, ready for erection, and then to summon all the able-bodied men of theneighborhood to assist in getting the timbers into place. This service, of course, was given gratuitously, and the farmer who received it coulddo no less than entertain, after the bountiful manner of the country, his helping neighbors, who therefore, although the occasion implied acertain amount of hard work, were accustomed to regard it as a sort ofholiday, or merry-making. Their opportunities for recreation, indeed, were so scanty, that a barn-raising, or a husking-party by moonlight, was a thing to be welcomed. 

Hallowell's farm was just half-way between Gilbert's and Kennett Square, and the site of the barn had been well-chosen on a ridge, across theroad, which ran between it and the farm-house. The Hallowells were whatwas called "good providers, " and as they belonged to the class ofoutside Quakers, which we have already described, the chances were thatboth music and dance would reward the labor of the day. 

Gilbert, of course, could not refuse the invitation of so near aneighbor, and there was a hope in his heart which made it welcome. Whenthe day came he was early on hand, heartily greeted by Mark, whoexclaimed, --"Give me a dozen more such shoulders and arms as yours, andI'll make the timbers spin!"

It was a bright, breezy day, making the wheat roll and the leavestwinkle. Ranges of cumuli moved, one after the other, like heaps ofsilvery wool, across the keen, dark blue of the sky. "A wonderfulhay-day, " the old farmers remarked, with a half-stifled sense of regret;but the younger men had already stripped themselves to their shirts andknee-breeches, and set to work with a hearty good-will. Mark, as friend, half-host and commander, bore his triple responsibility with a mixtureof dash and decision, which became his large frame and ruddy, laughingface. It was--really, and not in an oratorical sense, --the proudest dayof his life. 

There could be no finer sight than that of these lithe, vigorousspecimens of a free, uncorrupted manhood, taking like sport the rudelabor which was at once their destiny and their guard of safety againstthe assaults of the senses. As they bent to their work, prying, rolling, and lifting the huge sills to their places on the foundation-wall, theyshowed in every movement the firm yet elastic action of muscles equal totheir task. Though Hallowell's barn did not rise, like the walls ofIlium, to music, a fine human harmony aided in its construction. 

There was a plentiful supply of whiskey on hand, but Mark Deane assumedthe charge of it, resolved that no accident or other disturbance shouldmar the success of this, his first raising. Everything went well, and bythe time they were summoned to dinner, the sills and some of theuprights were in place, properly squared and tied. 

It would require a Homeric catalogue to describe the dinner. To say thatthe table "groaned, " is to give no idea of its condition. Mrs. Hallowelland six neighbors' wives moved from kitchen to dining-room, replenishingthe dishes as fast as their contents diminished, and plying the doublerow of coatless guests with a most stern and exacting hospitality. Theformer would have been seriously mortified had not each man endeavoredto eat twice his usual requirement. 

After the slight rest which nature enforced--though far less than naturedemanded, after such a meal--the work went on again with greateralacrity, since every timber showed. Rib by rib the great frame grew, and those perched aloft, pinning the posts and stays, rejoiced in thebroad, bright landscape opened to their view. They watched the roads, inthe intervals of their toil, and announced the approach of delayedguests, all alert for the sight of the first riding-habit. 

Suddenly two ladies made their appearance, over the rise of the hill, one cantering lightly and securely, the other bouncing in her seat, fromthe rough trot of her horse. 

"Look out! there they come!" cried a watcher. 

"Who is it?" was asked from below. 

"Where's Barton? He ought to be on hand, --it's Martha Deane, --and Sallywith her; they always ride together. "

Gilbert had one end of a handspike, helping lift a heavy piece oftimber, and his face was dark with the strain; it was well that he darednot let go until the lively gossip which followed Barton's absence, --thelatter having immediately gone forward to take charge of thehorses, --had subsided. Leaning on the handspike, he panted, --notentirely from fatigue. A terrible possibility of loss flashed suddenlyacross his mind, revealing to him, in a new light, the desperate forceand desire of his love. 

There was no time for meditation; his help was again wanted, and heexpended therein the first hot tumult of his heart. By ones and twos thegirls now gathered rapidly, and erelong they came out in a body to havea look at the raising. Their coming in no wise interrupted the labor; itwas rather an additional stimulus, and the young men were right. Although they were not aware of the fact, they were never so handsome intheir uneasy Sunday costume and awkward social ways, as thus in theirfree, joyous, and graceful element of labor. Greetings wereinterchanged, laughter and cheerful nothings animated the company, andwhen Martha Deane said, --

"We may be in the way, now--shall we go in?"

Mark responded, --

"No, Martha! No, girls! I'll get twice as much work out o' mytwenty-five 'jours, ' if you'll only stand where you are and look at'em. "

"Indeed!" Sally Fairthorn exclaimed. "But we have work to do as well asyou. If you men can't get along without admiring spectators, we girlscan. "

The answer which Mark would have made to this pert speech was cut shortby a loud cry of pain or terror from the old half-dismantled barn on theother side of the road. All eyes were at once turned in that direction, and beheld Joe Fairthorn rushing at full speed down the bank, making forthe stables below. Mark, Gilbert Potter, and Sally, being nearest, hastened to the spot. 

"You're in time!" cried Joe, clapping his hands in great glee. "I wasawfully afeard he'd let go before I could git down to see him fall. Lookquick--he can't hold on much longer!"

Looking into the dusky depths, they saw Jake, hanging by his hands tothe edges of a hole in the floor above, yelling and kicking for dearlife. 

"You wicked, wicked boy!" exclaimed Sally, turning to Joe, "what haveyou been doing?"

"Oh, " he answered, jerking and twisting with fearful delight, "there wassuch a nice hole in the floor! I covered it all over with straw, but Ihad to wait ever so long before Jake stepped onto it, and then heketched hold goin' down, and nigh spoilt the fun. "

Gilbert made for the barn-floor, to succor the helpless victim; but justas his step was heard on the boards, Jake's strength gave way. Hisfingers slipped, and with a last howl down he dropped, eight or tenfeet, upon a bed of dry manure. Then his terror was instantly changed towrath; he bounced upon his feet, seized a piece of rotten board, andmade after Joe, who, anticipating the result, was already showing hisheels down the road. 

Meanwhile the other young ladies had followed, and so, after discussingthe incident with a mixture of amusement and horror, they betookthemselves to the house, to assist in the preparations for supper. Martha Deane's eyes took in the situation, and immediately perceivedthat it was capable of a picturesque improvement. In front of the housestood a superb sycamore, beyond which a trellis of grape-vines dividedthe yard from the kitchen-garden. Here, on the cool green turf, undershade, in the bright summer air, she proposed that the tables should beset, and found little difficulty in carrying her point. It was quiteconvenient to the outer kitchen door, and her ready invention foundmeans of overcoming all other technical objections. Erelong the tableswere transported to the spot, the cloth laid, and the aspect of thecoming entertainment grew so pleasant to the eye, that there was aspecial satisfaction in the labor. 

An hour before sundown the frame was completed; the skeleton of thegreat barn rose sharp against the sky, its fresh white-oak timber gildedby the sunshine. Mark drove in the last pin, gave a joyous shout, whichwas answered by an irregular cheer from below, and lightly clambereddown by one of the stays. Then the black jugs were produced, and passedfrom mouth to mouth, and the ruddy, glowing young fellows drew theirshirt-sleeves across their faces, and breathed the free, full breath ofrest. 

Gilbert Potter, sitting beside Mark, --the two were mutually drawntowards each other, without knowing or considering why, --had graduallyworked himself into a resolution to be cool, and to watch the movementsof his presumed rival. More than once, during the afternoon, he haddetected Barton's eyes, fixed upon him with a more than accidentalinterest; looking up now, he met them again, but they were quicklywithdrawn, with a shy, uneasy expression, which he could not comprehend. Was it possible that Barton conjectured the carefully hidden secret ofhis heart? Or had the country gossip been free with his name, in someway, during his absence? Whatever it was, the dearer interests at stakeprevented him from dismissing it from his mind. He was preternaturallyalert, suspicious, and sensitive. 

He was therefore a little startled, when, as they were all rising inobedience to Farmer Hallowell's summons to supper, Barton suddenly tookhold of his arm. 

"Gilbert, " said he, "we want your name in a list of young men we aregetting together, for the protection of our neighborhood. There aresuspicions, you know, that Sandy Flash has some friends hereabouts, though nobody seems to know exactly who they are; and our only safety isin clubbing together, to smoke him out and hunt him down, if he evercomes near us. Now, you're a good hunter"--

"Put me down, of course!" Gilbert interrupted, immensely relieved tofind how wide his suspicions had fallen from the mark. "That would be amore stirring chase than our last; it is a shame and a disgrace that heis still at large. "

"How many have we now?" asked Mark, who was walking on the other side ofBarton. 

"Twenty-one, with Gilbert, " the latter replied. 

"Well, as Sandy is said to count equal to twenty, we can meet himevenly, and have one to spare, " laughed Mark. 

"Has any one here ever seen the fellow?" asked Gilbert. "We ought toknow his marks. "

"He's short, thick-set, with a red face, jet-black hair, add heavywhiskers, " said Barton. 

"Jet-black hair!" Mark exclaimed; "why, it's red as brick-dust! And Inever heard that he wore whiskers. "

"Pshaw! what was I thinking of? Red, of course--I meant red, all thetime, " Barton hastily assented, inwardly cursing himself for a fool. Itwas evident that the less he conversed about Sandy Flash, the better. 

Loud exclamations of surprise and admiration interrupted them. In theshade of the sycamore, on the bright green floor of the silken turf, stood the long supper-table, snowily draped, and heaped with the richestproducts of cellar, kitchen, and dairy. Twelve chickens, stewed incream, filled huge dishes at the head and foot, while hams and rounds ofcold roast-beef accentuated the space between. The interstices werefilled with pickles, pies, jars of marmalade, bowls of honey, and platesof cheese. Four coffee-pots steamed in readiness on a separate table, and the young ladies, doubly charming in their fresh white aprons, stoodwaiting to serve the tired laborers. Clumps of crown-roses, in blossom, peered over the garden-paling, the woodbine filled the air with itsnutmeg odors, and a broad sheet of sunshine struck the upper boughs ofthe arching sycamore, and turned them into a gilded canopy for thebanquet. It might have been truly said of Martha Deane, that she touchednothing which she did not adorn. 

In the midst of her duties as directress of the festival, she caught aglimpse of the three men, as they approached together, somewhat in therear of the others. The embarrassed flush had not quite faded fromBarton's face, and Gilbert's was touched by a lingering sign of his newtrouble. Mark, light-hearted and laughing, precluded the least idea ofmystery, but Gilbert's eye met hers with what she felt to be a painfullyearnest, questioning expression. The next moment they were seated at thetable, and her services were required on behalf of all. 

Unfortunately for the social enjoyments of Kennett, eating had come tobe regarded as a part of labor; silence and rapidity were its principalfeatures. Board and platter were cleared in a marvellously short time, the plates changed, the dishes replenished, and then the wives andmaidens took the places of the young men, who lounged off to theroad-side, some to smoke their pipes, and all to gossip. 

Before dusk, Giles made his appearance, with an old green bag under hisarm. Barton, of course, had the credit of this arrangement, and it madehim, for the time, very popular. After a pull at the bottle, Giles beganto screw his fiddle, drawing now and then unearthly shrieks from itsstrings. The more eager of the young men thereupon stole to the house, assisted in carrying in the tables and benches, and in other ways busiedthemselves to bring about the moment when the aprons of the maidenscould be laid aside, and their lively feet given to the dance. The moonalready hung over the eastern wood, and a light breeze blew the dew-mistfrom the hill. 

Finally, they were all gathered on the open bit of lawn between thehouse and the road. There was much hesitation at first, ardent coaxingand bashful withdrawal, until Martha broke the ice by boldly choosingMark as her partner, apportioning Sally to Gilbert, and taking her placefor a Scotch reel. She danced well and lightly, though in a more subduedmanner than was then customary. In this respect, Gilbert resembled her;his steps, gravely measured, though sufficiently elastic, differedwidely from Mark's springs, pigeon-wings, and curvets. Giles played witha will, swaying head and fiddle up and down and beating time with hisfoot; and the reel went off so successfully that there was no hesitationin getting up the next dance. 

Mark was alert, and secured Sally this time. Perhaps Gilbert would havemade the like exchange, but Mr. Alfred Barton stepped before him, andbore off Martha. There was no appearance of design about the matter, butGilbert felt a hot tingle in his blood, and drew back a little to watchthe pair. Martha moved through the dance as if but half conscious of herpartner's presence, and he seemed more intent on making the proper stepsand flourishes than on improving the few brief chances for aconfidential word. When he spoke, it was with the unnecessary laugh, which is meant to show ease of manner, and betrays the want of it. Gilbert was puzzled; either the two were unconscious of the gossip whichlinked their names so intimately, (which seemed scarcely possible, ) orthey were studiedly concealing an actual tender relation. Among thosesimple-hearted people, the shyness of love rivalled the secrecy ofcrime, and the ways by which the lover sought to assure himself of hisfortune were made very difficult by the shrinking caution with which heconcealed the evidence of his passion. Gilbert knew how well the secretof his own heart was guarded, and the reflection, that others might beequally inscrutable, smote him with sudden pain. 

The figures moved before him in the splendid moonlight, and with everymotion of Martha's slender form the glow of his passion and the tormentof his uncertainty increased. Then the dance dissolved, and while hestill stood with folded arms, Sally Fairthorn's voice whispered eagerlyin his ear, --

"Gilbert--Gilbert! now is your chance to engage Martha for the Virginiareel!"

"Let me choose my own partners, Sally!" he said, so sternly, that sheopened wide her black eyes. 

Martha, fanning herself with her handkerchief spread over a bentwillow-twig, suddenly passed before him, like an angel in the moonlight. A soft, tender star sparkled in each shaded eye, a faint rose-tintflushed her cheeks, and her lips, slightly parted to inhale theclover-scented air, were touched with a sweet, consenting smile. 

"Martha!"

The word passed Gilbert's lips almost before he knew he had uttered it. Almost a whisper, but she heard, and, pausing, turned towards him. 

"Will you dance with me now?"

"Am I your choice, or Sally's, Gilbert? I overheard your veryindependent remark. "

"Mine!" he said, with only half truth. A deep color, shot into his face, and he knew the moonlight revealed it, but he forced his eyes to meethers. Her face lost its playful expression, and she said, gently, --

"Then I accept. "

They took their places, and the interminable Virginia reel--under whichname the old-fashioned Sir Roger de Coverley was known--commenced. It sohappened that Gilbert and Mr. Alfred Barton had changed their recentplaces. The latter stood outside the space allotted to the dance, andappeared to watch Martha Deane and her new partner. The reviving warmthin Gilbert's bosom instantly died, and gave way to a crowd of torturingconjectures. He went through his part in the dance so abstractedly, thatwhen they reached the bottom of the line, Martha, out of friendlyconsideration for him, professed fatigue and asked his permission towithdraw from the company. He gave her his arm, and they moved to one ofthe benches. 

"You, also, seem tired, Gilbert, " she said. 

"Yes--no!" he answered, confusedly, feeling that he was beginning totremble. He stood before her as she sat, moved irresolutely, as if toleave, and then, facing her with a powerful effort, heexclaimed, --"Martha, do you know what people say about Alfred Barton andyourself?"

"It would make no difference if I did, " she answered; "people will sayanything. "

"But is it--is it true?"

"Is what true?" she quietly asked. 

"That he is to marry you!" The words were said, and he would have givenhis life to recall them. He dropped his head, not daring to meet hereyes. 

Martha Deane rose to her feet, and stood before him. Then he lifted hishead; the moon shone full upon it, while her face was in shadow, but hesaw the fuller light of her eye, the firmer curve of her lip. 

"Gilbert Potter, " she said, "what right have you to ask me such aquestion?"

"I have no right--none, " he answered, in a voice whose suppressed, huskytones were not needed to interpret the pain and bitterness of his face. Then he quickly turned away and left her. 

Martha Deane remained a minute, motionless, standing as he left her. Herheart was beating fast, and she could not immediately trust herself torejoin the gay company. But now the dance was over, and the inseparableSally hastened forward. 

"Martha!" cried the latter, hot and indignant, "what is the matter withGilbert? He is behaving shamefully; I saw him just now turn away fromyou as if you were a--a shock of corn. And the way he snapped me up--itis really outrageous!"

"It _seems_ so, truly, " said Martha. But she knew that Gilbert Potterloved her, and with what a love. 

CHAPTER X. 

THE RIVALS. 

Due to the abundant harvest of that year, and the universal need ofextra labor for a time, Gilbert Potter would have found his burden tooheavy, but for welcome help from an unexpected quarter. On the verymorning that he first thrust his sickle into the ripened wheat, DebSmith made her appearance, in a short-armed chemise and skirt oftow-cloth. 

"I knowed ye'd want a hand, " she said, "without sendin' to ask. I'llreap ag'inst the best man in Chester County, and you won't begrudge memy bushel o' wheat a day, when the harvest's in. "

With this exordium, and a pull at the black jug under the elder-bushesin the fence-corner, she took her sickle and bent to work. It was herboast that she could beat both men and women on their own ground. Shehad spun her twenty-four cuts of yarn, in a day, and husked her fiftyshocks of heavy corn. For Gilbert she did her best, amazing him each daywith a fresh performance, and was well worth the additional daily quartof whiskey which she consumed. 

In this pressing, sweltering labor, Gilbert dulled, though he could notconquer, his unhappy mood. Mary Potter, with a true mother's instinct, surmised a trouble, but the indications were too indefinite forconjecture. She could only hope that her son had not been called upon tosuffer a fresh reproach, from the unremoved stain hanging over hisbirth. 

Miss Betsy Lavender's company at this time was her greatest relief, in adouble sense. No ten persons in Kennett possessed half the amount ofconfidences which were intrusted to this single lady; there was that inher face which said: "I only blab what I choose, and what's locked up, _is_ locked up. " This was true; she was the greatest distributor ofnews, and the closest receptacle of secrets--anomalous as the twocharacters may seem--that ever blessed a country community. 

Miss Betsy, like Deb Smith, knew that she could be of service on thePotter farm, and, although her stay was perforce short, on account of anapproaching house-warming near Doe-Run, her willing arms helped to tideMary Potter over the heaviest labor of harvest. There were thus hours ofafternoon rest, even in the midst of the busy season, and during one ofthese the mother opened her heart in relation to her son's silent, gloomy moods. 

"You'll perhaps say it's all my fancy, Betsy, " she said, "and indeed Ihope it is; but I know you see more than most people, and two heads arebetter than one. How does Gilbert seem to you?"

Miss Betsy mused awhile, with an unusual gravity on her long face. "Idunno, " she remarked, at length; "I've noticed that some men have theirvapors and tantrums, jist as some women have, and Gilbert's of an ageto--well, Mary, has the thought of his marryin' ever come into yourhead?"

"No!" exclaimed Mary Potter, with almost a frightened air. 

"I'll be bound! Some women are lookin' out for daughter-in-laws beforetheir sons have a beard, and others think theirs is only fit to wearshort jackets when they ought to be raisin' up families. I dunno butwhat it'll be a cross to you, Mary, --you set so much store by Gilbert, and it's natural, like, that you should want to have him all toy'rself, --but a man shall leave his father and mother and cleave untohis wife, --or somethin' like it. Yes, I say it, although nobody cloveunto me. "

Mary Potter said nothing. Her face grew very pale, and such anexpression of pain came into it that Miss Betsy, who saw everythingwithout seeming to look at anything, made haste to add a consoling word. 

"Indeed, Mary, " she said, "now I come to consider upon it, you won'thave so much of a cross. You a'n't the mother you've showed yourself tobe, if you're not anxious to see Gilbert happy, and as for leavin' hismother, there'll be no leavin' needful, in his case, but on thecontrary, quite the reverse, namely, a comin' to you. And it's no badfortin', though I can't say it of my own experience; but never mind, allthe same, I've seen the likes--to have a brisk, cheerful daughter-in-lawkeepin' house, and you a-settin' by the window, knittin' and restin'from mornin' till night, and maybe little caps and clothes to make, andlots o' things to teach, that young wives don't know o' theirselves. Andthen, after awhile you'll be called 'Granny, ' but you won't mind it, forgrandchildren's a mighty comfort, and no responsibility like your own. Why, I've knowed women that never seen what rest or comfort was, tillthey'd got to be grandmothers!"

Something in this homely speech touched Mary Potter's heart, and gaveher the relief of tears. "Betsy, " she said at last, "I have had a heavyburden to bear, and it has made me weak. "

"Made me weak, " Miss Betsy repeated. "And no wonder. Don't think I can'tguess that, Mary. "

Here two tears trickled down the ridge of her nose, and she furtivelywiped them off while adjusting her high comb. Mary Potter's face wasturned towards her with a wistful, appealing expression, which sheunderstood. 

"Mary, " she said, "I don't measure people with a two-foot rule. I take aten-foot pole, and let it cover all that comes under it. Them that doestheir dooty to Man, I guess you won't have much trouble in squarin'accounts with the Lord. You know how I feel towards you without mytellin' of it, and them that's quick o' the tongue are always full o'the heart. Now, Mary, I know as plain as if you 'd said it, that there'ssomethin' on your mind, and you dunno whether to share it with me ornot. What I say is, don't hurry yourself; I 'd rather show fellow-feelin' than cur'osity; so, see your way clear first, and when thetellin' _me_ anything can help, tell it--not before. "

"It wouldn't help now, " Mary Potter responded. 

"Wouldn't help now. Then wait awhile. Nothin' 's so dangerous asspeakin' before the time, whomsoever and wheresoever. Folks talk o'bridlin' the tongue; let 'em git a blind halter, say I, and a curb-bit, and a martingale! Not that I set an example, Goodness knows, for mineruns like a mill-clapper, rickety-rick, rickety-rick; but never mind, itmay be fast, but it isn't loose!"

In her own mysterious way, Miss Betsy succeeded in imparting a good dealof comfort to Mary Potter. She promised "to keep Gilbert under hereyes, "--which, indeed, she did, quite unconsciously to himself, duringthe last two days of her stay. At table she engaged him in conversation, bringing in references, in the most wonderfully innocent and randommanner, to most of the families in the neighborhood. So skilfully didshe operate that even Mary Potter failed to perceive her strategy. DebSmith, sitting bare-armed on the other side of the table, and eatinglike six dragoons, was the ostensible target of her speech, and Gilbertwas thus stealthily approached in flank. When she tied her bonnet-strings to leave, and the mother accompanied her to the gate, she leftthis indefinite consolation behind her:

"Keep up your sperrits, Mary. I think I'm on the right scent aboutGilbert, but these young men are shy foxes. Let me alone, awhile yet, and whatever you do, let _him_ alone. There's no danger--not even asnarl, I guess. Nothin' to bother your head about. You weren't hismother. Good lack! if I'm right, you'll see no more o' his tantrums intwo months' time--and so, good-bye to you!"

The oats followed close upon the wheat harvest, and there was no respitefrom labor until the last load was hauled into the barn, filling itsample bays to the very rafters. Then Gilbert, mounted on his favoriteRoger, rode up to Kennett Square one Saturday afternoon, in obedience toa message from Mr. Alfred Barton, informing him that the other gentlemenwould there meet to consult measures for mutual protection againsthighwaymen in general and Sandy Flash in particular. As every young manin the neighborhood owned his horse and musket, nothing more wasnecessary than to adopt a system of action. 

The meeting was held in the bar-room of the Unicorn, and as every secondman had his own particular scheme to advocate, it was both long andnoisy. Many thought the action unnecessary, but were willing, for thesake of the community, to give their services. The simplest plan--tochoose a competent leader, and submit to his management--never occurredto these free and independent volunteers, until all other means of unityhad failed. Then Alfred Barton, as the originator of the measure, waschosen, and presented the rude but sufficient plan which had beensuggested to him by Dr. Deane. The men were to meet every Saturdayevening at the Unicorn, and exchange intelligence; but they could becalled together at any time by a summons from Barton. The landlord ofthe Unicorn was highly satisfied with this arrangement, but no onenoticed the interest with which the ostler, an Irishman named Dougherty, listened to the discussion. 

Barton's horse was hitched beside Gilbert's, and as the two weremounting, the former said, --

"If you're going home, Gilbert, why not come down our lane, and gothrough by Carson's. We can talk the matter over a little; if there'sany running to do, I depend a good deal on your horse. "

Gilbert saw no reason for declining this invitation, and the two rodeside by side down the lane to the Barton farm-house. The sun was stillan hour high, but a fragrant odor of broiled herring drifted out of theopen kitchen-window. Barton thereupon urged him to stop and take supper, with a cordiality which we can only explain by hinting at his secretintention to become the purchaser of Gilbert's horse. 

"Old-man Barton" was sitting in his arm-chair by the window, feeblybrandishing his stick at the flies, and watching his daughter Ann, asshe transferred the herrings from the gridiron to a pewter platter. 

"Father, this is Gilbert Potter, " said Mr. Alfred, introducing hisguest. 

The bent head was lifted with an effort, and the keen eyes were fixed onthe young man, who came forward to take the crooked, half-extended hand. 

"What Gilbert Potter?" he croaked. 

Mr. Alfred bit his lips, and looked both embarrassed and annoyed. But hecould do no less than say, --

"Mary Potter's son. "

Gilbert straightened himself proudly, as if to face a coming insult. After a long, steady gaze, the old man gave one of his hieroglyphicsnorts, and then muttered to him self, --"Looks like her. "

During the meal, he was so occupied with the labor of feeding himself, that he seemed to forget Gilbert's presence. Bending his head sideways, from time to time, he jerked out a croaking question, which his son, whatever annoyance he might feel, was forced to answer according to theold man's humor. 

"In at the Doctor's, boy?"

"A few minutes, daddy, before we came together. "

"See her? Was she at home?"

"Yes, " came very shortly from Mr. Alfred's lips; he clenched his fistsunder the table-cloth. 

"That's right, boy; stick up to her!" and he chuckled and munchedtogether in a way which it made Gilbert sick to hear. The tail of thelean herring on his plate remained untasted; he swallowed the thin teawhich Miss Ann poured out, and the heavy "half-Indian" bread with achoking sensation. He had but one desire, --to get away from the room, out of human sight and hearing. 

Barton, ill at ease, and avoiding Gilbert's eye, accompanied him to thelane. He felt that the old man's garrulity ought to be explained, butknew not what to say. Gilbert spared him the trouble--

"When are we to wish you joy, Barton?" he asked, in a cold, hard voice. 

Barton laughed in a forced way, clutched at his tawny whisker, and withsomething like a flush on his heavy face, answered in what was meant tobe an indifferent tone:

"Oh, it's a joke of the old man's--don't mean anything. "

"It seems to be a joke of the whole neighborhood, then; I have heard itfrom others. "

"Have you?" Barton eagerly asked. "Do people talk about it much? What dothey say?"

This exhibition of vulgar vanity, as he considered it, was so repulsiveto Gilbert, in his desperate, excited condition, that for a moment hedid not trust himself to speak. Holding the bridle of his horse, hewalked mechanically down the slope, Barton following him. 

Suddenly he stopped, faced the latter, and said, in a stern voice: "Imust know, first, whether you are betrothed to Martha Deane. "

His manner was so unexpectedly solemn and peremptory that Barton, startled from his self-possession, stammered, --

"N-no: that is, not yet. "

Another pause. Barton, curious to know how far gossip had already gone, repeated the question:

"Well, what do people say?"

"Some, that you and she will be married, " Gilbert answered, speakingslowly and with difficulty, "and some that you won't. Which are right?"

"Damme, if _I_ know!" Barton exclaimed, returning to his customaryswagger. It was quite enough that the matter was generally talked about, and he had said nothing to settle it, in either way. But his manner, more than his words, convinced Gilbert that there was no betrothal asyet, and that the vanity of being regarded as the successful suitor of alovely girl had a more prominent place than love, in his rival's heart. By so much was his torture lightened, and the passion of the momentsubsided, after having so nearly betrayed itself. 

"I say, Gilbert, " Barton presently remarked, walking on towards the barswhich led into the meadow-field; "it's time you were looking around inthat way, hey?"

"It will be time enough when I am out of debt. "

"But you ought, now, to have a wife in your house. "

"I have a mother, Barton. "

"That's true, Gilbert. Just as I have a father. The old man's queer, asyou saw--kept me out of marrying; when I was young, and now drives meto it. I might ha' had children grown"--

He paused, laying his hand on the young man's shoulder. Gilbert fanciedthat he saw on Barton's coarse, dull face the fleeting stamp of somelong-buried regret, and a little of the recent bitterness died out ofhis heart. 

"Good-bye!" he said, offering his hand with greater ease than he wouldhave thought possible, fifteen minutes sooner. 

"Good-bye, Gilbert! Take care of Roger. Sandy Flash has a fine piece ofhorse-flesh, but you beat him once--Damnation! You _could_ beat him, Imean. If he comes within ten miles of us, I'll have the summonses out inno time. "

Gilbert cantered lightly down the meadow. The soft breath of the summerevening fanned his face, and something of the peace expressed in therich repose of the landscape fell upon his heart. But peace, he felt, could only come to him through love. The shame upon his name--the slowresult of labor--even the painful store of memories which the years hadcrowded in his brain--might all be lightly borne, or forgotten, couldhis arms once clasp the now uncertain treasure. A tender mist came overhis deep, dark eyes, a passionate longing breathed in his softened lips, and he said to himself, --

"I would lie down and die at her feet, if that could make her happy; buthow to live, and live without her?" This was a darkness which his mindrefused to entertain. Love sees no justice on Earth or in Heaven, thatincludes not its own fulfilled desire. 

Before reaching home, he tried to review the situation calmly. Barton'strue relation to Martha Deane he partially suspected, so far as regardedthe former's vanity and his slavish subservience to his father's will;but he was equally avaricious, and it was well known in Kennett thatMartha possessed, or would possess, a handsome property in her ownright. Gilbert, therefore, saw every reason to believe that Barton wasan actual, if not a very passionate wooer. 

That fact, however, was in itself of no great importance, unless Dr. Deane favored the suit. The result depended on Martha herself; she wascalled an "independent girl, " which she certainly was, by contrast withother girls of the same age. It was this free, firm, independent, yetwholly womanly spirit which Gilbert honored in her, and which (unlessher father's influence were too powerful) would yet save her to him, ifshe but loved him. Then he felt that his nervous, inflammable fear ofBarton was incompatible with true honor for her, with trust in her pureand lofty nature. If she were so easily swayed, how could she stand thetest which he was still resolved--nay, forced by circumstances--toapply?

With something like shame of his past excitement, yet with strengthwhich had grown out of it, his reflections were terminated by Rogerstopping at the barn-yard gate. 

CHAPTER XI. 

GUESTS AT POTTER'S. 

A week or two later, there was trouble, but not of a very unusual kind, in the Fairthorn household. It was Sunday, the dinner was on the table, but Joe and Jake were not to be found. The garden, the corn-crib, thebarn, and the grove below the house, were searched, without detectingthe least sign of the truants. Finally Sally's eyes descried aremarkable object moving over the edge of the hill, from the directionof the Philadelphia road. It was a huge round creature, something like acylindrical tortoise, slowly advancing upon four short, dark legs. 

"What upon earth is that?" she cried. 

All eyes were brought to bear upon this phenomenon, which graduallyadvanced until it reached the fence. Then it suddenly separated intothree parts, the round back falling off, whereupon it was seized by twofigures and lifted upon the fence. 

"It's the best wash-tub, I do declare!" said Sally; "whatever have theybeen doing with it?"

Having crossed the fence, the boys lifted the inverted tub over theirheads, and resumed their march. When they came near enough, it could beseen that their breeches and stockings were not only dripping wet, butstreaked with black swamp-mud. This accounted for the unsteady, hesitating course of the tub, which at times seemed inclined to approachthe house, and then tacked away towards the corner of the barn-yardwall. A few vigorous calls, however, appeared to convince it that thedirect course was the best, for it set out with a grotesque bobbingtrot, which brought it speedily to the kitchen-door. 

Then Joe and Jake crept out, dripping to the very crowns of their heads, with their Sunday shirts and jackets in a horrible plight. The truth, slowly gathered from their mutual accusations, was this: they hadresolved to have a boating excursion on Redley Creek, and had abstractedthe tub that morning when nobody was in the kitchen. Slipping downthrough the wood, they had launched it in a piece of still water. Joegot in first, and when Jake let go of the tub, it tilted over; then heheld it for Jake, who squatted in the centre, and floated successfullydown the stream until Joe pushed him with a pole, and made the tub loseits balance. Jake fell into the mud, and the tub drifted away; they hadchased it nearly to the road before they recovered it. 

"You bad boys, what shall I do with you?" cried Mother Fairthorn. "Puton your every-day clothes, and go to the garret. Sally, you can ridedown to Potter's with the pears; they won't keep, and I expect Gilberthas no time to come for any, this summer. "

"I'll go, " said Sally, "but Gilbert don't deserve it. The way he snappedme up at Hallowell's--and he hasn't been here since!"

"Don't be hard on him, Sally!" said the kindly old woman; nor wasSally's more than a surface grudge. She had quite a sisterly affectionfor Gilbert, and was rather hurt than angered by what he had said in thefret of a mood which she could not comprehend. 

The old mare rejoiced in a new bridle, with a head-stall of scarletmorocco, and Sally would have made a stately appearance, but for thepears, which, stowed in the two ends of a grain-bag, and hung over thesaddle, would not quite be covered by her riding-skirt. She trudged onslowly, down the lonely road, but had barely crossed the level belowKennett Square, when there came a quick sound of hoofs behind her. 

It was Mark and Martha Deane, who presently drew rein, one on eitherside of her. 

"Don't ride fast, please, " Sally begged; "_I_ can't, for fear ofsmashing the pears. Where are you going?"

"To Falconer's, " Martha replied; "Fanny promised to lend me some newpatterns; but I had great trouble in getting Mark to ride with me. "

"Not, if you will ride along, Sally, " Mark rejoined. "We'll go with youfirst, and then you'll come with us. What do you say, Martha?"

"I'll answer for Martha!" cried Sally; "I am going to Potter's, and it'sdirectly on your way. "

"Just the thing, " said Mark; "I have a little business with Gilbert. "

It was all settled before Martha's vote had been taken, and she acceptedthe decision without remark. She was glad, for Sally's sake, that theyhad fallen in with her, for she had shrewdly watched Mark, and foundthat, little by little, a serious liking for her friend was sending itsroots down through the gay indifference of his surface mood. Perhaps shewas not altogether calm in spirit at the prospect of meeting GilbertPotter; but, if so, no sign of the agitation betrayed itself in herface. 

Gilbert, sitting on the porch, half-hidden behind a mass of blossomingtrumpet-flower, was aroused from his Sabbath reverie by the sound ofhoofs. Sally Fairthorn's voice followed, reaching even the ears of MaryPotter, who thereupon issued from the house to greet the unexpectedguest. Mark had already dismounted, and although Sally protested thatshe would remain in the saddle, the strong arms held out to her provedtoo much of a temptation; it was so charming to put her hands on hisshoulders, and to have his take her by the waist, and lift her to theground so lightly!

While Mark was performing this service, (and evidently with as muchdeliberation as possible, ) Gilbert could do no less than offer his aidto Martha Deane, whose sudden apparition he had almost incredulouslyrealized. A bright, absorbing joy kindled his sad, strong features intobeauty, and Martha felt her cheeks grow warm, in spite of herself, astheir eyes met. The hands that touched her waist were firm, but no handshad ever before conveyed to her heart such a sense of gentleness andtenderness, and though her own gloved hand rested but a moment on hisshoulder, the action seemed to her almost like a caress. 

"How kind of you--all--to come!" said Gilbert, feeling that his voiceexpressed too much, and his words too little. 

"The credit of coming is not mine, Gilbert, " she answered. "We overtookSally, and gave her our company for the sake of hers, afterwards. But Ishall like to take a look at your place; how pleasant you are makingit!"

"You are the first to say so; I shall always remember that!"

Mary Potter now advanced, with grave yet friendly welcome, and wouldhave opened her best room to the guests, but the bowery porch, with itsswinging scarlet bloom, haunted by humming-birds and hawk-moths, wooedthem "o take their seats in its shade. The noise of a plunging cascade, which restored the idle mill-water to its parted stream, made a mellow, continuous music in the air. The high road was visible at one point, across the meadow, just where it entered the wood; otherwise, theseclusion of the place was complete. 

"You could not have found a lovelier home, M--Mary, " said Martha, terrified to think how near the words "Mrs. Potter" had been to herlips. But she had recovered herself so promptly that the hesitation wasnot noticed. 

"Many people think the house ought to be upon the road, " Mary Potterreplied, "but Gilbert and I like it as it is. Yes, I hope it will be agood home, when we can call it our own. "

"Mother is a little impatient, " said Gilbert, "and perhaps I am also. But if we have health, it won't be very long to wait. "

"That's a thing soon learned!" cried Mark. "I mean to be impatient. Why, when I was doing journey-work, I was as careless as the day's long, andso from hand to mouth didn't trouble me a bit; but now, I ha'n't beenundertaking six months, and it seems that I feel worried if I don't getall the jobs going!"

Martha smiled, well pleased at this confession of the change, which sheknew better how to interpret than Mark himself. But Sally, in herinnocence, remarked:

"Oh Mark! that isn't right. "

"I suppose it isn't. But maybe you've got to wish for more than you get, in order to get what you do. I guess I take things pretty easy, on thewhole, for it's nobody's nature to be entirely satisfied. Gilbert, willyou be satisfied when your farm's paid for?"

"No!" answered Gilbert with an emphasis, the sound of which, as soon asuttered, smote him to the heart. He had not thought of his mother. Sheclasped her hands convulsively, and looked at him, but his face wasturned away. 

"Why, Gilbert!" exclaimed Sally. 

"I mean, " he said, striving to collect his thoughts, "that there issomething more than property"--but how should he go on? Could he speakof the family relation, then and there? Of honor in the community, therespect of his neighbors, without seeming to refer to the brand upon hisand his mother's name? No; of none of these things. With sudden energy, he turned upon himself, and continued:

"I shall not feel satisfied until I am cured of my own impatience--untilI can better control my temper, and get the weeds and rocks and stumpsout of myself as well as out of my farm. "

"Then you've got a job!" Mark laughed. "I think your fields are prettytolerable clean, what I've seen of 'em. Nobody can say they're not wellfenced in. Why, compared with you, I'm an open common, like theWastelands, down on Whitely Creek, and everybody's cattle run over me!"

Mark's thoughtlessness was as good as tact. They all laughed heartily athis odd continuation of the simile, and Martha hastened to say:

"For my part, I don't think you are quite such an open common, Mark, orGilbert so well fenced in. But even if you are, a great many things maybe hidden in a clearing, and some people are tall enough to look over ahigh hedge. Betsy Lavender says some men tell all about themselveswithout saying a word, while others talk till Doomsday and tellnothing. "

"And tell nothing, " gravely repeated Mark, whereat no one could repressa smile, and Sally laughed outright. 

Mary Potter had not mingled much in the society of Kennett, and did notknow that this imitation of good Miss Betsy was a very common thing, andhad long ceased to mean any harm. It annoyed her, and she felt it herduty to say a word for her friend. 

"There is not a better or kinder-hearted woman in the county, " she said, "than just Betsy Lavender. With all her odd ways of speech, she talksthe best of sense and wisdom, and I don't know who I'd sooner take for aguide in times of trouble. "

"You could not give Betsy a higher place than she deserves, " Marthaanswered. "We all esteem her as a dear friend, and as the best helperwhere help is needed. She has been almost a mother to me. "

Sally felt rebuked, and exclaimed tearfully, with her usual impetuouscandor, --"Now you know I meant no harm; it was all Mark's doing!"

"If you've anything against me, Sally, I forgive you for it. It isn't inmy nature to bear malice, " said Mark, with so serious an air, that poorSally was more bewildered than ever. Gilbert and Martha, however, couldnot restrain their laughter at the fellow's odd, reckless humor, whereupon Sally, suddenly comprehending the joke, sprang from her seat. Mark leaped from the porch, and darted around the house, followed bySally with mock-angry cries and brandishings of her riding-whip. 

The scene was instantly changed to Gilbert's eyes. It was wonderful!There, on the porch of the home he so soon hoped to call his own, sathis mother, Martha Deane, and himself. The two former had turned towardseach other, and were talking pleasantly; the hum of the hawk-moths, themellow plunge of the water, and the stir of the soft summer breeze inthe leaves, made a sweet accompaniment to their voices. His brain grewdizzy with yearning to fix that chance companionship, and make it theboundless fortune of his life. Under his habit of repression, his lovefor her had swelled and gathered to such an intensity, that it seemed hemust either speak or die. 

Presently the rollicking couple made their appearance. Sally's foot hadcaught in her riding-skirt as she ran, throwing her at full length onthe sward, and Mark, in picking her up, had possessed himself of thewhip. She was not hurt in the least, (her life having been a successionof tears and tumbles, ) but Mark's arm found it necessary to encircle herwaist, and she did not withdraw from the support until they came withinsight of the porch. 

It was now time for the guests to leave, but Mary Potter must firstproduce her cakes and currant-wine, --the latter an old and highlysuperior article, for there had been, alas! too few occasions whichcalled for its use. 

"Gilbert, " said Mark, as they moved towards the gate, "why can't youcatch and saddle Roger, and ride with us? You have nothing to do?"

"No; I would like--but where are you going?"

"To Falconer's; that is, the girls; but we won't stay for supper--Idon't fancy quality company. "

"Nor I, " said Gilbert, with a gloomy face. "I have never visitedFalconer's, and they might not thank you for introducing me. "

He looked at Martha, as he spoke. She understood him, and gave him herentire sympathy and pity, --yet it was impossible for her to proposegiving up the visit, solely for his sake. It was not want ofindependence, but a maidenly shrinking from the inference of the act, which kept her silent. 

Mark, however, cut through the embarrassment. "I'll tell you what, Gilbert!" he exclaimed, "you go and get Roger from the field, while weride on to Falconer's. If the girls will promise not to be too longabout their patterns and their gossip, and what not, we can be back tothe lane-end by the time you get there; then we'll ride up t' otherbranch o' Redley Creek, to the cross-road, and out by Hallowell's. Iwant to have a squint at the houses and barns down that way; nothinglike business, you know!"

Mark thought he was very cunning in thus disposing of Martha during theride, unconscious of the service he was offering to Gilbert. Thelatter's eagerness shone from his eyes, but still he looked at Martha, trembling for a sign that should decide his hesitation. Her lids fellbefore his gaze, and a faint color came into her face, yet she did notturn away. This time it was Sally Fairthorn who spoke. 

"Five minutes will be enough for us, Mark, " she said. "I'm not muchacquainted with Fanny Falconer. So, Gilbert, hoist Martha into hersaddle, and go for Roger. "

He opened the gate for them, and then climbed over the fence into thehill-field above his house. Having reached the crest, he stopped towatch the three riding abreast, on a smart trot, down the glen. Sallylooked back, saw him, and waved her hand; then Mark and Martha turned, giving no sign, yet to his eyes there seemed a certain expectancy in themovement. 

Roger came from the farthest corner of the field at his call, andfollowed him down the hill to the bars, with the obedient attachment ofa dog. When he had carefully brushed and then saddled the horse, he wentto seek his mother, who was already making preparations for their earlysupper. 

"Mother, " he said, "I am going to ride a little way. "

She looked at him wistfully and questioningly, as if she would fain haveasked more; but only said, --

"Won't you be home to supper, Gilbert?"

"I can't tell, but don't wait a minute, if I'm not here when it'sready. "

He turned quickly, as if fearful of a further question, and the nextmoment was in the saddle. 

The trouble in Mary Potter's face increased. Sighing sorely, shefollowed to the bridge of the barn, and presently descried him, beyondthe mill, cantering lightly down the road. Then, lifting her arms, as ina blind appeal for help, she let them fall again, and walked slowly backto the house. 

CHAPTER XII. 

THE EVENTS OF AN EVENING. 

At the first winding of the creek, Gilbert drew rein, with a vague, half-conscious sense of escape. The eye which had followed him thus farwas turned away at last. 

For half a mile the road lay through a lovely solitude of shade andtangled bowery thickets, beside the stream. The air was soft andtempered, and filled the glen like the breath of some utterly peacefuland happy creature; yet over Gilbert's heart there brooded anotheratmosphere than this. The sultriness that precedes an emotional crisisweighed heavily upon him. 

No man, to whom Nature has granted her highest gift, --that ofexpression, --can understand the pain endured by one of strong feelings, to whom not only this gift has been denied, but who must also wrestlewith an inherited reticence. It is well that in such cases a kindly lawexists, to aid the helpless heart. The least portion of the love whichlights the world has been told in words; it works, attracts, and bindsin silence. The eye never knows its own desire, the hand its warmth, thevoice its tenderness, nor the heart its unconscious speech throughthese, and a thousand other vehicles. Every endeavor to hide the specialfact betrays the feeling from which it sprang. 

Like all men of limited culture, Gilbert felt his helplessness keenly. His mind, usually clear in its operations, if somewhat slow andcautious, refused to assist him here; it lay dead or apathetic in an airsurcharged with passion. An anxious expectancy enclosed him withstifling pressure; he felt that it must be loosened, but knew not how. His craving for words--words swift, clear, and hot as lightning, throughwhich his heart might discharge itself--haunted him like a furioushunger. 

The road, rising out of the glen, passed around the brow of a grassyhill, whence he could look across a lateral valley to the Falconerfarm-house. Pausing here, he plainly descried a stately "chair" leaningon its thills, in the shade of the weeping-willow, three horses hitchedside by side to the lane-fence, and a faint glimmer of color between themounds of box which almost hid the porch. It was very evident to hismind that the Falconers had other visitors, and that neither Mark norSally, (whatever might be Martha Deane's inclination, ) would be likelyto prolong their stay; so he slowly rode on, past the lane-end, andawaited them at the ford beyond. 

It was not long--though the wood on the western hill already threw itsshadow into the glen--before the sound of voices and hoofs emerged fromthe lane. Sally's remark reached him first:

"They may be nice people enough, for aught I know, but their ways arenot my ways, and there's no use in trying to mix them. "

"That's a fact!" said Mark. "Hallo, here's Gilbert, ahead of us!"

They rode into the stream together, and let their horses drink from theclear, swift-flowing water. In Mark's and Sally's eyes, Gilbert was asgrave and impassive as usual, but Martha Deane was conscious of astrange, warm, subtle power, which seemed to envelop her as she drewnear him. Her face glowed with a sweet, unaccustomed flush; his waspale, and the shadow of his brows lay heavier upon his eyes. Fate wasalready taking up the invisible, floating filaments of these twoexistences, and weaving them together. 

Of course it happened, and of course by the purest accident, that Markand Sally first reached the opposite bank, and took the narrowwood-road, where the loose, briery sprays of the thickets brushed themon either side. Sally's hat, and probably her head, would have beencarried off by a projecting branch, had not Mark thrown his arm aroundher neck and forcibly bent her forwards. Then she shrieked and struck athim with her riding-whip, while Mark's laugh woke all the echoes of thewoods. 

"I say, Gilbert!" he cried, turning back in his saddle, "I'll hold _you_responsible for Martha's head; it's as much as _I_ can do to keepSally's on her shoulders. "

Gilbert looked at his companion, as she rode slowly by his side, throughthe cool, mottled dusk of the woods. She had drawn the strings of herbeaver through a buttonhole of her riding-habit, and allowed it to hangupon her back. The motion of the horse gave a gentle, undulating graceto her erect, self-reliant figure, and her lips, slightly parted, breathed maidenly trust and consent. She turned her face towards him andsmiled, at Mark's words. 

"The warning is unnecessary, " he said. "You will give me no chance totake care of you, Martha. "

"Is it not better so?" she asked. 

He hesitated; he would have said "No, " but finally evaded a directanswer. 

"I would be glad enough to do you a service--even so little as that, "were his words, and the tender tone in which they were spoken madeitself evident to his own ears. 

"I don't doubt it, Gilbert, " she answered, so kindly and cordially thathe was smitten to the heart. Had she faltered in her reply, --had sheblushed and kept silence, --his hope would have seized the evidence andrushed to the trial; but this was the frankness of friendship, not thetimidity of love. She could not, then, suspect his passion, and ah, howthe risks of its utterance were multiplied!

Meanwhile, the wonderful glamour of her presence--that irresistibleinfluence which at once takes hold of body and spirit--had entered intoevery cell of his blood. Thought and memory were blurred intonothingness by this one overmastering sensation. Riding through thelonely woods, out of shade into yellow, level sunshine, in the odors ofminty meadows and moist spices of the creekside, they twain seemed tohim to be alone in the world. If they loved not each other, why shouldnot the leaves shrivel and fall, the hills split asunder, and the skyrain death upon them? Here she moved at his side--he could stretch outhis hand and touch her; his heart sprang towards her, his arms ached forvery yearning to clasp her, --his double nature demanded her with thewill and entreated for her with the affection! Under all, felt thoughnot suspected, glowed the vast primal instinct upon which the strengthof manhood and of womanhood is based. 

Sally and Mark, a hundred yards in advance, now thrown into sight andnow hidden by the windings of the road, were so pleasantly occupied witheach other that they took no heed of the pair behind them. Gilbert wassilent; speech was mockery, unless it gave the words which he did notdare to pronounce. His manner was sullen and churlish in Martha's eyes, he suspected; but so it must be, unless a miracle were sent to aid him. She, riding as quietly, seemed to meditate, apparently unconscious ofhis presence; how could he know that she had never before been sovitally conscious of it?

The long rays of sunset withdrew to the tree-tops, and a deeper hushfell upon the land. The road which had mounted along the slope of astubble-field, now dropped again into a wooded hollow, where a tree, awkwardly felled, lay across it. Roger pricked up his ears and leapedlightly over. Martha's horse followed, taking the log easily, but shereined him up the next moment, uttering a slight exclamation, andstretched out her hand wistfully towards Gilbert. 

To seize it and bring Roger to a stand was the work of an instant. "Whatis the matter, Martha?" he cried. 

"I think the girth is broken, " said she. "The saddle is loose, and I wasnigh losing my balance. Thank you, I can sit steadily now. "

Gilbert sprang to the ground and hastened to her assistance. 

"Yes, it is broken, " he said, "but I can give you mine. You had betterdismount, though; see, I will hold the pommel firm with one hand, whileI lift you down with the other. Not too fast, I am strong; place yourhands on my shoulders--so!"

She bent forward and laid her hands upon his shoulders. Then, as sheslid gently down, his right arm crept around her waist, holding her sofirmly and securely that she had left the saddle and hung in its supportwhile her feet had not yet touched the earth. Her warm breath was onGilbert's forehead; her bosom swept his breast, and the arm that untilthen had supported, now swiftly, tenderly, irresistibly embraced her. Trembling, thrilling from head to foot, utterly unable to control themad impulse of the moment, he drew her to his heart and laid his lips tohers. All that he would have said--all, and more than all, that wordscould have expressed--was now said, without words. His kiss clung as ifit were the last this side of death--clung until he felt that Marthafeebly strove to be released. 

The next minute they stood side by side, and Gilbert, by a revulsionequally swift and overpowering, burst into a passion of tears. 

He turned and leaned his head against Roger's neck. Presently a lighttouch came upon his shoulder. 

"Gilbert!"

He faced her then, and saw that her own cheeks were wet. "Martha!" hecried, "unless you love me with a love like mine for you, you can neverforgive me!"

She came nearer; she laid her arms around him, and lifted her face tohis. Then she said, in a tender, tremulous whisper, --

"Gilbert--Gilbert! I forgive you. "

A pang of wonderful, incredulous joy shot through his heart. Exalted byhis emotion above the constraints of his past and present life, he aroseand stood free and strong in his full stature as a man. He held hersoftly and tenderly embraced, and a purer bliss than the physicaldelight of her warm, caressing presence shone upon his face as heasked, --

"Forever, Martha?"

"Forever. "

"Knowing what I am?"

"Because I know what you are, Gilbert!"

He bowed his head upon her shoulder, and she felt softer tears--tearswhich came this time without sound or pang--upon her neck. It wasinfinitely touching to see this strong nature so moved, and the bestbliss that a true woman's heart can feel--the knowledge of the boundlessbounty which her love brings with it--opened upon her consciousness. Aswift instinct revealed to her the painful struggles of Gilbert'slife, --the stern, reticent strength they had developed, --the anxietyand the torture of his long-suppressed passion, and the power and purityof that devotion with which his heart had sought and claimed her. Shenow saw him in his true character, --firm as steel, yet gentle as dew, patient and passionate, and purposely cold only to guard the sanctity ofhis emotions. 

The twilight deepened in the wood, and Roger, stretching and shakinghimself, called the lovers to themselves. Gilbert lifted his head andlooked into Martha's sweet, unshrinking eyes. 

"May the Lord bless you, as you have blessed me!" he said, solemnly. "Martha, did you guess this before?"

"Yes, " she answered, "I felt that it must be so. "

"And you did not draw back from me--you did not shun the thought of me!You were"--

He paused; was there not blessing enough, or must he curiously questionits growth?

Martha, however, understood the thought in his mind. "No, Gilbert!" shesaid, "I cannot truly say that I loved you at the time when I firstdiscovered your feeling towards me. I had always esteemed and trustedyou, and you were much in my mind; but when I asked myself if I couldlook upon you as my husband, my heart hesitated with the answer. I didnot deserve your affection then, because I could not repay it in thesame measure. But, although the knowledge seemed to disturb me, sometimes, yet it was very grateful, and therefore I could not quitemake up my mind to discourage you. Indeed, I knew not what was right todo, but I found myself more and more strongly drawn towards you; a powercame from you when we met, that touched and yet strengthened me, andthen I thought, 'Perhaps I _do_ love him. ' To-day, when I first saw yourface, I knew that I did. I felt your heart calling to me like one thatcries for help, and mine answered. It has been slow to speak, Gilbert, but I know it has spoken truly at last!"

He replaced the broken girth, lifted her into the saddle, mounted hisown horse, and they resumed their ride along the dusky valley. But howotherwise their companionship now!

"Martha, " said Gilbert, leaning towards her and touching her softly ashe spoke, as if fearful that some power in his words might drive themapart, --"Martha, have you considered what I am called? That the familyname I bear is in itself a disgrace? Have you imagined what it is tolove one so dishonored as I am?"

The delicate line of her upper lip grew clear and firm again, temporarily losing its relaxed gentleness. "I have thought of it, " sheanswered, "but not in that way. Gilbert, I honored you before I lovedyou. I will not say that this thing makes no difference, for it does--adifference in the name men give you, a difference in your work throughlife (for you must deserve more esteem to gain as much as othermen)--and a difference in my duty towards you. They call me'independent, ' Gilbert, because, though a woman, I dare to think formyself; I know not whether they mean praise by the word, or no; but Ithink it would frighten away the thought of love from many men. It hasnot frightened you; and you, however you were born, are the faithfullestand best man I know. I love you with my whole heart, and I will be trueto you!"

With these words, Martha stretched out her hand. Gilbert took and heldit, bowing his head fondly over it, and inwardly thanking God that thetest which his pride had exacted was over at last. He could reward hertruth, spare her the willing sacrifice, --and he would. 

"Martha, " he said, "if I sometimes doubted whether you could share mydisgrace, it was because I had bitter cause to feel how heavy it is tobear. God knows I would have come to you with a clean and honorablename, if I could have been patient to wait longer in uncertainty. But Icould not tell how long the time might be, --I could not urge my mother, nor even ask her to explain"--

"No, no, Gilbert! Spare _her!"_ Martha interrupted. 

"I _have, _ Martha, --God bless you for the words!--and I _will_; it wouldbe the worst wickedness not to be patient, now! But I have not yet toldyou"--

A loud halloo rang through the dusk. 

"It is Mark's voice, " said Martha; "answer him!"

Gilbert shouted, and a double cry instantly replied. They had reachedthe cross-road from New-Garden, and Mark and Sally, who had beenwaiting impatiently for a quarter of an hour, rode to meet them. "Didyou lose the road?" "Whatever kept you so long?" were the simultaneousquestions. 

"My girth broke in jumping over the tree, " Martha answered, in herclear, untroubled voice. "I should have been thrown off, but forGilbert's help. He had to give me his own girth, and so we have riddenslowly, since he has none. "

"Take my breast-strap, " said Mark. 

"No, " said Gilbert, "I can ride Roger bareback, if need be, with thesaddle on my shoulder. "

Something in his voice struck Mark and Sally singularly. It was graveand subdued, yet sweet in its tones as never before; he had not yetdescended from the solemn exaltation of his recent mood. But the dusksheltered his face, and its new brightness was visible only to Martha'seyes. 

Mark and Sally again led the way, and the lovers followed in silence upthe hill, until they struck the Wilmington road, below Hallowell's. HereGilbert felt that it was best to leave them. 

"Well, you two are cheerful company!" exclaimed Sally, as they checkedtheir horses. "Martha, how many words has Gilbert spoken to you thisevening?"

"As many as I have spoken to him, " Martha answered; "but I will saythree more, --Good-night, Gilbert!"

"Good-night!" was all he dared say, in return, but the pressure of hishand burned long upon her fingers. 

He rode homewards in the starlight, transformed by love and gratitude, proud, tender, strong to encounter any fate. His mother sat in thelonely kitchen, with the New Testament in her lap; she had tried toread, but her thoughts wandered from the consoling text. The table wasbut half-cleared, and the little old teapot still squatted beside thecoals. 

Gilbert strove hard to assume his ordinary manner, but he could not hidethe radiant happiness that shone from his eyes and sat upon his lips. 

"You've not had supper?" Mary Potter asked. 

"No, mother! but I'm sorry you kept things waiting; I can do well enoughwithout. "

"It's not right to go without your regular meals, Gilbert. Sit up to thetable!"

She poured out the tea, and Gilbert ate and drank in silence. His mothersaid nothing, but he knew that her eye was upon him, and that he was thesubject of her thoughts. Once or twice he detected a wistful, questioning expression, which, in his softened mood, touched him almostlike a reproach. 

When the table had been cleared and everything put away, she resumed herseat, breathing an unconscious sigh as she dropped her hands into herlap. Gilbert felt that he must now speak, and only hesitated while heconsidered how he could best do so, without touching her secret andmysterious trouble. 

"Mother!" he said at last, "I have something to tell you. "

"Ay, Gilbert?"

"Maybe it'll seem good news to you; but maybe not. I have asked MarthaDeane to be my wife!"

He paused, and looked at her. She clasped her hands, leaned forward, andfixed her dark, mournful eyes intently upon his face. 

"I have been drawn towards her for a long time, " Gilbert continued. "Ithas been a great trouble to me, because she is so pretty, and withal soproud in the way a girl should be, --I liked her pride, even while itmade me afraid, --and they say she is rich also. It might seem likelooking too high, mother, but I couldn't help it. "

"There's no woman too high for you, Gilbert!" Mary Potter exclaimed. Then she went on, in a hurried, unsteady voice: "It isn't that--Imistrusted it would come so, some day, but I hoped--only for your good, my boy, only for that--I hoped not so soon. You're still young--nottwenty-five, and there's debt on the farm;--couldn't you ha' waited alittle, Gilbert?"

"I have waited, mother, " he said, slightly turning away his head, thathe might not see the tender reproach in her face, which her questionseemed to imply. "I _did_ wait--and for that reason. I wanted first tobe independent, at least; and I doubt that I would have spoken so soon, but there were others after Martha, and that put the thought of losingher into my head. It seemed like a matter of life or death. AlfredBarton tried to keep company with her--he didn't deny it to my face; thepeople talked of it. Folks always say more than they know, to be sure, but then, the chances were so much against _me, _ mother! I was nighcrazy, sometimes. I tried my best and bravest to be patient, but to-daywe were riding alone, --Mark and Sally gone ahead, --and--and then it camefrom my mouth, I don't know how; I didn't expect it. But I shouldn'thave doubted Martha; she let me speak; she answered me--I can't tell youher words, mother, though I'll never forget one single one of 'em to mydying day. She gave me her hand and said she would be true to meforever. "

Gilbert waited, as if his mother might here speak, but she remainedsilent. 

"Do you understand, mother?" he continued. "She pledged herself tome--she will be my wife. And I asked her--you won't be hurt, for I feltit to be my duty--whether she knew how disgraced I was in the eyes ofthe people, --whether my name would not be a shame for her to bear? Shecouldn't know what we know: she took me even with the shame, --and shelooked prouder than ever when she stood by me in the thought of it! Shewould despise me, now, if I should offer to give her up on account ofit, but she may know as much as I do, mother? She deserves it. "

There was no answer. Gilbert looked up. 

Mary Potter sat perfectly still in her high rocking-chair. Her arms hungpassively at her sides, and her head leaned back and was turned to oneside, as if she were utterly exhausted. But in the pale face, the closedeyes, and the blue shade about the parted lips, he saw that she wasunconscious of his words. She had fainted. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

TWO OLD MEN. 

Shortly after Martha Deane left home for her eventful ride toFalconer's, the Doctor also mounted his horse and rode out of thevillage in the opposite direction. Two days before, he had been summonedto bleed "Old-man Barton, " on account of a troublesome buzzing in thehead, and, although not bidden to make a second professional visit, there was sufficient occasion for him to call upon his patient in thecapacity of a neighbor. 

Dr. Deane never made a step outside the usual routine of his businesswithout a special and carefully considered reason. Various causescombined to inspire his movement in the present instance. Theneighborhood was healthy; the village was so nearly deserted that nocurious observers lounged upon the tavern-porch, or sat upon thehorse-block at the corner-store; and Mr. Alfred Barton had been seenriding towards Avondale. There would have been safety in a much moreunusual proceeding; this, therefore, might be undertaken in that secure, easy frame of mind which the Doctor both cultivated and recommended tothe little world around him. 

The Barton farm-house was not often molested by the presence of guests, and he found it as quiet and lifeless as an uninhabited island of thesea. Leaving his horse hitched in the shade of the corn-crib, he firstcame upon Giles, stretched out under the holly-bush, and fast asleep, with his head upon his jacket. The door and window of the family-roomwere open, and Dr. Deane, walking softly upon the thick grass, saw thatOld-man Barton was in his accustomed seat. His daughter Ann was notvisible; she was at that moment occupied in taking out of the drawers ofher queer old bureau, in her narrow bedroom up-stairs, various bits oflace and ribbon, done up in lavender, and perchance (for we must not betoo curious) a broken sixpence or a lock of dead hair. 

The old man's back was towards the window, but the Doctor could hearthat papers were rustling and crackling in his trembling hands, andcould see that an old casket of very solid oak, bound with iron, stoodon the table at his elbow. Thereupon he stealthily retraced his steps tothe gate, shut it with a sharp snap, cleared his throat, and mounted theporch with slow, loud, deliberate steps. When he reached the open door, he knocked upon the jamb without looking into the room. There was ajerking, dragging sound for a moment, and then the old man's snarl washeard:

"Who's there?"

Dr. Deane entered, smiling, and redolent of sweet-marjoram. "Well, Friend Barton, " he said, "let's have a look at thee now!"

Thereupon he took a chair, placed it in front of the old man, and satdown upon it, with his legs spread wide apart, and his ivory-headed cane(which he also used as a riding-whip) bolt upright between them. He wasvery careful not to seem to see that a short quilt, which the old manusually wore over his knees, now lay in a somewhat angular heap upon thetable. 

"Better, I should say, --yes, decidedly better, " he remarked, nodding hishead gravely. "I had nothing to do this afternoon, --the neighborhood isvery healthy, --and thought I would ride down and see how thee's gettingon. Only a friendly visit, thee knows. "

The old man had laid one shaking arm and crooked hand upon the edge ofthe quilt, while with the other he grasped his hickory staff. His facehad a strange, ashy color, through which the dark, corded veins on histemples showed with singular distinctness. But his eye was unusuallybright and keen, and its cunning, suspicious expression did not escapethe Doctor's notice. 

"A friendly visit--ay!" he growled--"not like Doctors' visits generally, eh? Better?--of course I'm better. It's no harm to tap one of afull-blooded breed. At our age, Doctor, a little blood goes a greatway. "

"No doubt, no doubt!" the Doctor assented. "Especially in thy case. Ioften speak of thy wonderful constitution. "

"Neighborly, you say, Doctor--only neighborly?" asked the old man. TheDoctor smiled, nodded, and seemed to exhale a more powerful herbaceousodor. 

"Mayhap, then, you'll take a bit of a dram?--a thimble-full won't comeamiss. You know the shelf where it's kep'--reach to, and help yourself, and then help me to a drop. "

Dr. Deane rose and took down the square black bottle and the diminutivewine-glass beside it. Half-filling the latter, --a thimble-full inverity, --he drank it in two or three delicate little sips, puckering hislarge under-lip to receive them. 

"It's right to have the best, Friend Barton, " he said, "there's morelife in it!" as he filled the glass to the brim and held it to the slitin the old man's face. 

The latter eagerly drew off the top fulness, and then seized the glassin his shaky hand. "Can help myself, " he croaked--"don't need waitin'on; not so bad as that!"

His color presently grew, and his neck assumed a partial steadiness. "What news, what news?" he asked. "You gather up a plenty in yourgoin's-around. It's little I get, except the bones, after they've beengnawed over by the whole neighborhood. "

"There is not much now, I believe, " Dr. Deane observed. 

"Jacob and Leah Gilpin have another boy, but thee hardly knows them, Ithink. William Byerly died last week in Birmingham; thee's heard ofhim, --he had a wonderful gift of preaching. They say Maryland cattlewill be cheap, this fall: does Alfred intend to fatten many? I saw himriding towards New-Garden. "

"I guess he will, " the old man answered, --"must make somethin' out o'the farm. That pastur'-bottom ought to bring more than it does. "

"Alfred doesn't look to want for much, " the Doctor continued. "It's afine farm he has. "

"_Me_, I say!" old Barton exclaimed, bringing down the end of his stickupon the floor. "The farm's mine!"

"But it's the same thing, isn't it?" asked Dr. Deane, in his cheeriestvoice and with his pleasantest smile. 

The old man looked at him for a moment, gave an incoherent grunt, themeaning of which the Doctor found it impossible to decipher, andpresently, with a cunning leer, said. --

"Is all your property the same thing as your daughter's?"

"Well--well, " replied the Doctor, softly rubbing his hands, "I shouldhope so--yes, I should hope so. "

"Besides what she has in her own right?"

"Oh, thee knows that will be hers without my disposal. What I should dofor her would be apart from that. I am not likely, at my time of life, to marry again--but we are led by the Spirit, thee knows; we cannotsay, I will do thus and so, and these and such things shall happen, andthose and such other shall not. "

"Ay, that's my rule, too, Doctor, " said the old man, after a pause, during which he had intently watched his visitor, from under hiswrinkled eyelids. 

"I thought, " the Doctor resumed, "thee was pretty safe against anothermarriage, at any rate, and thee had perhaps made up thy mind aboutproviding for thy children. 

"It's better for us old men to have our houses set in order, that we mayspare ourselves worry and anxiety of mind. Elisha is already establishedin his own independence, and I suppose Ann will give thee no particulartrouble; but if Alfred, now, should take a notion to marry, he couldn't, thee sees, be expected to commit himself without having some idea ofwhat thee intends to do for him. "

Dr. Deane, having at last taken up his position and uncovered his frontof attack, waited for the next movement of his adversary. He was evenaware of a slight professional curiosity to know how far the old man'skeen, shrewd, wary faculties had survived the wreck of his body. 

The latter nodded his head, and pressed the top of his hickory stickagainst his gums several times, before he answered. He enjoyed theencounter, though not so sure of its issue as he would have been tenyears earlier. 

"I'd do the fair thing, Doctor!" he finally exclaimed; "whatever itmight be, it'd be fair. Come, isn't that enough?"

"In a general sense, it is. But we are talking now as neighbors. We areboth old men, Friend Barton, and I think we know how to keep our owncounsel. Let us suppose a case--just to illustrate the matter, theeunderstands. Let us say that Friend Paxson--a widower, thee knows--had adaughter Mary, who had--well, a nice little penny in her own right, --andthat thy son Alfred desired her in marriage. Friend Paxson, as a prudentfather, knowing his daughter's portion, both what it is and what it willbe, --he would naturally wish, in Mary's interest, to know that Alfredwould not be dependent on her means, but that the children they mighthave would inherit equally from both. Now, it strikes me that FriendPaxson would only be right in asking thee what thee would do for thyson--nay, that, to be safe, he would want to see some evidence thatwould hold in law. Things are so uncertain, and a wise man guardeth hisown household. "

The old man laughed until his watery eyes twinkled. "Friend Paxson is amighty close and cautious one to deal with, " he said. "Mayhap he'd liketo manage to have me bound, and himself go free?"

"Thee's mistaken, indeed!" Dr. Deane protested. "He's not that kind of aman. He only means to do what's right, and to ask the same security fromthee, which thee--I'm sure of it, Friend Barton!--would expect _him_ tofurnish. "

The old man began to find this illustration uncomfortable; it wasaltogether one-sided. Dr. Deane could shelter himself behind FriendPaxson and the imaginary daughter, but the applications came personallyhome to him. His old patience had been weakened by his isolation fromthe world, and his habits of arbitrary rule. He knew, moreover, theprobable amount of Martha's fortune, and could make a shrewd guess atthe Doctor's circumstances; but if the settlements were to be equal, each must give his share its highest valuation in order to secure morefrom the other. It was a difficult game, because these men viewed it inthe light of a business transaction, and each considered that anyadvantage over the other would be equivalent to a pecuniary gain on hisown part. 

"No use beatin' about the bush, Doctor, " the old man suddenly said. "Youdon't care for Paxson's daughter, that never was; why not put yourMartha in her place. She has a good penny, I hear--five thousand, somesay. "

"Ten, every cent of it!" exclaimed Dr. Deane, very nearly thrown off hisguard. "That is, she will have it, at twenty-five; and sooner, if shemarries with my consent. But why does thee wish particularly to speak ofher?"

"For the same reason you talk about Alfred. He hasn't been about yourhouse lately, I s'pose, hey?"

The Doctor smiled, dropping his eyelids in a very sagacious way. "He_does_ seem drawn a little our way, I must confess to thee, " he said, "but we can't always tell how much is meant. Perhaps thee knows his mindbetter than I do?"

"Mayhap I do--know what it will be, if _I_ choose! But I don't begrudgesayin' that he likes your girl, and I shouldn't wonder if he'd showedit. "

"Then thee sees, Friend Barton, " Dr. Deane continued, "that the case isprecisely like the one I supposed; and what I would consider right forFriend Paxson, would even be right for myself. I've no doubt thee coulddo more for Alfred than I can do for Martha, and without wrong to thyother children, --Elisha, as I said, being independent, and Ann notrequiring a great deal, --and the two properties joined together would bea credit to us, and to the neighborhood. Only, thee knows, there must besome legal assurance beforehand. There is nothing certain, --even thymind is liable to change, --ah, the mind of man is an unstable thing!"

The Doctor delivered these words in his most impressive manner, uplifting both eyes and hands. 

The old man, however, seemed to pay but little attention to it. Turninghis head on one side, he said, in a quick, sharp voice: "Time enough forthat when we come to it How's the girl inclined? Is the money hers, anyhow, at twenty-five, --how old now? Sure to be a couple, hey?--settlethat first!"

Dr. Deane crossed his legs carefully, so as not to crease the cloth toomuch, laid his cane upon them, and leaned back a little in his chair. "Of course I've not spoken to Martha, " he presently said; "I can onlysay that she hasn't set her mind upon anybody else, and that is the mainthing. She has followed my will in all, except as to joining theFriends, and there I felt that I couldn't rightly command, where theSpirit had not spoken. Yes, the money will be hers at twenty-five, --sheis twenty-one now, --but I hardly think it necessary to take that intoconsideration. If thee can answer for Alfred, I think I can answer forher. "

"The boy's close about _his_ money, " broke in the old man, with a sly, husky chuckle. "What he has, Doctor, you understand, goes towardbalancin' what she has, afore you come onto me, at all. Yes, yes, I knowwhat I'm about. A good deal, off and on, has been got out o' this farm, and it hasn't all gone into _my_ pockets. I've a trifle put out, but youcan't expect me to strip myself naked, in my old days. But I'll dowhat's fair--I'll do what's fair!"

"There's only this, " the Doctor added, meditatively, "and I want thee tounderstand, since we've, somehow or other, come to mention the matter, that we'd better have another talk, after we've had more time to thinkof it. Thee can make up thy mind, and let me know _about_ what thee'lldo; and I the same. Thee _has_ a starting-point on my side, knowing theamount of Martha's fortune--_that_, of course, thee must come up tofirst, and then we'll see about the rest!"

Old-man Barton felt that he was here brought up to the rack. Herecognized Dr. Deane's advantage, and could only evade it by acceptinghis proposition for delay. True, he had already gone over the subject, in his lonely, restless broodings beside the window, but this encounterhad freshened and resuscitated many points. He knew that the businesswould be finally arranged, but nothing would have induced him to hastenit. There was a great luxury in this preliminary skirmishing. 

"Well, well!" said he, "we needn't hurry. You're right there, Doctor. Is'pose you won't do anything to keep the young ones apart?"

"I think I've shown my own wishes very plainly, Friend Barton. It isnecessary that Alfred should speak for himself, though, and after allwe've said, perhaps it might be well if thee should give him a hint. Thee must remember that he has never yet mentioned the subject to me. "

Dr. Deane thereupon arose, smoothed his garments, and shook out, notonly sweet marjoram, but lavender, cloves, and calamus. Hisbroad-brimmed drab hat had never left his head during the interview. There were steps on the creaking floor overhead, and the Doctorperceived that the private conference must now close. It was nearly adrawn game, so far; but the chance of advantage was on his side. 

"Suppose I look at thy arm, --in a neighborly way, of course, " he said, approaching the old man's chair. 

"Never mind--took the bean off this mornin'--old blood, you know, butlively yet. Gad, Doctor! I've not felt so brisk for a year. " His eyestwinkled so, under their puffy lids, the flabby folds in which his mouthterminated worked so curiously, --like those of a bellows, where they runtogether towards the nozzle, --and the two movable fingers on each handopened and shut with such a menacing, clutching motion, that for onemoment the Doctor felt a chill, uncanny creep run over his nerves. 

"Brandy!" the old man commanded. "I've not talked so much at once't formonths. You might take a little more, maybe. No? well, you hardly needit. Good brandy's powerful dear, these times. "

Dr. Deane had too much tact to accept the grudging invitation. After theold man had drunk, he carefully replaced the bottle and glass on theiraccustomed shelf, and disposed himself to leave. On the whole, he waswell satisfied with the afternoon's work, not doubting but that he hadacted the part of a tender and most considerate parent towards hisdaughter. 

Before they met, she also had disposed of her future, but in a verydifferent way. 

Miss Ann descended the stairs in time to greet the Doctor before hisdeparture. She would have gladly retained him to tea, as a little reliefto the loneliness and weariness of the day; but she never dared to givean invitation except when it seconded her father's, which, in thepresent case, was wanting. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

DOUBTS AND SURMISES. 

Gilbert's voice, sharpened by his sudden and mortal fear, recalled MaryPotter to consciousness. After she had drunk of the cup of water whichhe brought, she looked slowly and wearily around the kitchen, as if someinstinct taught her to fix her thoughts on the signs and appliances ofher every-day life, rather than allow them to return to the pang whichhad overpowered her. Little by little she recovered her calmness and aportion of her strength, and at last, noticing her son's anxious face, she spoke. 

"I have frightened you, Gilbert; but there is no occasion for it. Iwasn't rightly prepared for what you had to say--and--and--but, please, don't let us talk any more about it to-night. Give me a little time tothink--if I _can_ think. I'm afraid it's but a sad home I'm making foryou, and sure it's a sad load I've put upon you, my poor boy! But oh, try, Gilbert, try to be patient a little while longer, --it can't be forlong, --for I begin to see now that I've worked out my fault, and thatthe Lord in Heaven owes me justice!"

She clenched her hands wildly, and rose to her feet. Her steps tottered, and he sprang to her support. 

"Mother, " he said, "let me help you to your room. I'll not speak of thisagain; I wouldn't have spoken to-night, if I had mistrusted that itcould give you trouble. Have no fear that I can ever be impatient again;patience is easy to me now!"

He spoke kindly and cheerfully, registering a vow in his heart that hislips should henceforth be closed upon the painful theme, until hismother's release (whatever it was and whenever it might come) shouldopen them. 

But competent as he felt in that moment to bear the delay cheerfully, and determined as he was to cast no additional weight on his mother'sheart, it was not so easy to compose his thoughts, as he lay in thedusky, starlit bedroom up-stairs. The events of the day, and theirrecent consequences, had moved his strong nature to its veryfoundations. A chaos of joy, wonder, doubt, and dread surged throughhim. Over and over he recalled the sweet pressure of Martha Deane's lip, the warm curve of her bosom, the dainty, delicate firmness of her hand. Was this--could this possession really be his? In his mother'smysterious secret there lay an element of terror. He could not guess whythe revelation of his fortunate love should agitate her so fearfully, unless--and the suspicion gave him a shock--her history were in some wayinvolved with that of Martha Deane. 

This thought haunted and perplexed him, continually returning to disturbthe memory of those holy moments in the twilight dell, and to ruffle thebright current of joy which seemed to gather up and sweep away with itall the forces of his life. Any fate but to lose her, he said tohimself; let the shadow fall anywhere, except between them! There wouldbe other troubles, he foresaw, --the opposition of her father; the rageand hostility of Alfred Barton; possibly, when the story became known(as it must be in the end), the ill-will or aversion of theneighborhood. Against all these definite and positive evils, he feltstrong and tolerably courageous, but the Something which evidentlymenaced him through his mother made him shrink with a sense ofcowardice. 

Hand in hand with this dread he went into the world of sleep. He stoodupon the summit of the hill behind Falconer's farm-house, and saw Marthabeckoning to him from the hill on the other side of the valley. Theystretched and clasped hands through the intervening space; the hillssank away, and they found themselves suddenly below, on the banks of thecreek. He threw his arms around her, but she drew back, and then he sawthat it was Betsy Lavender, who said: "I am your father--did you neverguess it before?" Down the road came Dr. Deane and his mother, walkingarm in arm; their eyes were fixed on him, but they did not speak. Thenhe heard Martha's voice, saying: "Gilbert, why did you tell AlfredBarton? Nobody must know that I am engaged to both of you. " BetsyLavender said: "He can only marry with my consent--Mary Potter hasnothing to do with it. " Martha then came towards him smiling, and said:"I will not send back your saddle-girth--see, I am wearing it as abelt!" He took hold of the buckle and drew her nearer; she began toweep, and they were suddenly standing side by side, in a dark room, before his dead mother, in her coffin. 

This dream, absurd and incoherent as it was, made a strange impressionupon Gilbert's mind. He was not superstitious, but in spite of himselfthe idea became rooted in his thoughts that the truth of his ownparentage affected, in some way, some member of the Deane family. Hetaxed his memory in vain for words or incidents which might help him tosolve this doubt. Something told him that his obligation to his motherinvolved the understanding that he would not even attempt to discoverher secret; but he could not prevent his thoughts from wandering aroundit, and making blind guesses as to the vulnerable point. 

Among these guesses came one which caused him to shudder; he called itimpossible, incredible, and resolutely barred it from his mind. But withall his resolution, it only seemed to wait at a little distance, as ifconstantly seeking an opportunity to return. What if Dr. Deane were hisown father? In that case Martha would be his half-sister, and the stainof illegitimacy would rest on her, not on him! There was ruin anddespair in the supposition; but, on the other hand, he asked himself whyshould the fact of his love throw his mother into a swoon? Among thehealthy, strong-nerved people of Kennett such a thing as a swoon was ofthe rarest occurrence, and it suggested some terrible cause to Gilbert'smind. It was sometimes hard for him to preserve his predeterminedpatient, cheerful demeanor in his mother's presence, but he triedbravely, and succeeded. 

Although the harvest was well over, there was still much work to do onthe farm, in order that the month of October might be appropriated tohauling, --the last time, Gilbert hoped, that he should be obliged toresort to this source of profit. Though the price of grain was sure todecline, on account of the extraordinary harvest, the quantity wouldmake up for this deficiency. So far, his estimates had been verified. Agood portion of the money was already on hand, and his coveted freedomfrom debt in the following spring became now tolerably secure. Hiscourse, in this respect, was in strict accordance with the cautious, plodding, conscientious habits of the community in which he lived. Theywere satisfied to advance steadily and slowly, never establishing a newmark until the old one had been reached. 

Gilbert was impatient to see Martha again, not so much for the delightof love, as from a sense of the duty which he owed to her. His motherhad not answered his question, --possibly not even heard it, --and he didnot dare to approach her with it again. But so much as he knew might berevealed to the wife of his heart; of that he was sure. If she could butshare his confidence in his mother's words, and be equally patient toawait the solution, it would give their relation a new sweetness, anadded sanctity and trust. 

He made an errand to Fairthorn's at the close of the week, hoping thatchance might befriend him, but almost determined, in any case, to forcean interview. The dread he had trampled down still hung around him, andit seemed that Martha's presence might dissipate it. Something, atleast, he might learn concerning Dr. Deane's family, and here histhoughts at once reverted to Miss Betsy Lavender. In her he had the truefriend, the close mouth, the brain crammed with family intelligence!

The Fairthorns were glad to see their "boy, " as the old woman stillcalled him. Joe and Jake threw their brown legs over the barn-yard fenceand clamored for a ride upon Roger. "Only along the level, t'other sideo' the big hill, Gilbert!" said Joe, whereupon the two boys punched eachother in the sides and nearly smothered with wicked laughter. Gilbertunderstood them; he shook his head, and said: "You rascals, I think Isee you doing that again!" But he turned away his face, to conceal asmile at the recollection. 

It was, truly, a wicked trick. The boys had been in the habit of takingthe farm-horses out of the field and riding them up and down theUnionville road. It was their habit, as soon as they had climbed "thebig hill, " to use stick and voice with great energy, force the animalsinto a gallop, and so dash along the level. Very soon, the horses knewwhat was expected of them, and whenever they came abreast of the greatchestnut-tree on the top of the hill, they would start off as ifpossessed. If any business called Farmer Fairthorn to the Street Road, or up Marlborough way, Joe and Jake, dancing with delight, would dartaround the barn, gain the wooded hollow, climb the big hill behind thelime-kiln, and hide themselves under the hedge, at the commencement ofthe level road. Here they could watch their father, as his benign, unsuspecting face came in sight, mounting the hill, either upon the graymare, Bonnie, or the brown gelding, Peter. As the horse neared thechestnut-tree, they fairly shook with eager expectancy--then came thestart, the astonishment of the old man, his frantic "Whoa, there, whoa!"his hat soaring off on the wind, his short, stout body bouncing in thesaddle, as, half-unseated, he clung with one hand to the mane and theother to the bridle!--while the wicked boys, after breathlessly watchinghim out of sight, rolled over and over on the grass, shrieking andyelling in a perfect luxury of fun. 

Then they knew that a test would come, and prepared themselves to meetit. When, at dinner, Farmer Fairthorn turned to his wife and said:"Mammy, " (so he always addressed her) "I don't know what's the matterwith Bonnie; why. She came nigh runnin' off with me!"--Joe. Being theoldest and boldest, would look up in well-affected surprise, and ask, "Why, how, Daddy?" while Jake would bend down his head andwhimper, --"Somethin' 's got into my eye. " Yet the boys were very good-hearted fellows, at bottom, and we are sorry that we must chronicle somany things to their discredit. 

Sally Fairthorn met Gilbert in her usual impetuous way. She was glad tosee him, but she could not help saying: "Well, have you got your tongueyet, Gilbert? Why, you're growing to be as queer as Dick's hat-band! Idon't know any more where to find you, or how to place you; whatever isthe matter?"

"Nothing, Sally, " he answered, with something of his old playfulness, "nothing except that the pears were very good. How's Mark?"

"Mark!" she exclaimed with a very well assumed sneer. "As if I kept anaccount of Mark's comings and goings!" But she could not prevent anextra color from rising into her face. 

"I wish you did, Sally, " Gilbert gravely remarked. "Mark is a finefellow, and one of my best friends, and he'd be all the better, if asmart, sensible girl like yourself would care a little for him. "

There was no answer to this, and Sally, with a hasty "I'll tell motheryou're here!" darted into the house. 

Gilbert was careful not to ask many questions during his visit; butSally's rattling tongue supplied him with all he would have been likelyto learn, in any case. She had found Martha at home the day before, andhad talked about him, Gilbert. Martha hadn't noticed anything "queer" inhis manner, whereupon she, Sally, had said that Martha was growing"queer" too; then Martha remarked that--but here Sally found that shehad been talking altogether too fast, so she bit her tongue and blusheda little. The most important piece of news, however, was that MissLavender was then staying at Dr. Deane's. 

On his way to the village, Gilbert chose the readiest and simplest wayof accomplishing his purpose. He would call on Betsy Lavender, and askher to arrange her time so that she could visit his mother during hisapproaching absence from home. Leaving his horse at the hitching-post infront of the store, he walked boldly across the road and knocked at Dr. Deane's door. 

The Doctor was absent. Martha and Miss Lavender were in thesitting-room, and a keen, sweet throb in his blood responded to thevoice that bade him enter. 

"Gilbert Potter, I'll be snaked!" exclaimed Miss Lavender, jumping upwith a start that overturned her footstool. 

"Well, Gilbert!" and "Well, Martha!" were the only words the loversexchanged, on meeting, but their hands were quick to clasp and loath toloose. Martha Deane was too clear-headed to be often surprised by animpulse of the heart, but when the latter experience came to her, shenever thought of doubting its justness. She had not been fully, vitallyaware of her love for Gilbert until the day when he declared it, andnow, in memory, the two circumstances seemed to make but one fact. Thewarmth, the beauty, the spiritual expansion which accompany love hadsince then dawned upon her nature in their true significance. Proudlyand cautiously as she would have guarded her secret from an intrusiveeye, just as frank, tender, and brave was she to reveal every emotion ofher heart to her lover. She was thoroughly penetrated with theconviction of his truth, of the integral nobility of his manhood; andthese, she felt, were the qualities her heart had unconsciously craved. Her mind was made up inflexibly; it rejoiced in his companionship, ittrusted in his fidelity, and if she considered conventionaldifficulties, it was only to estimate how they could most speedily beoverthrown. Martha Deane was in advance of her age, --or, at least, ofthe community in which she lived. 

They could only exchange common-places, of course, in Miss Lavender'spresence; and perhaps they were not aware of the gentle, affectionateway in which they spoke of the weather and similar topics. Miss Lavenderwas; her eyes opened widely, then nearly closed with an expression ofsuperhuman wisdom; she looked out of the window and nodded to thelilac-bush, then exclaiming in desperate awkwardness: "Goodness me, Imust have a bit o' sage!" made for the garden, with long strides. 

Gilbert was too innocent to suspect the artifice--not so Martha. Butwhile she would have foiled the inference of any other woman, sheaccepted Betsy's without the least embarrassment, and took Gilbert'shand again in her own before the door had fairly closed. 

"O Martha!" he cried, "if I could but see you oftener--but for a minute, every day! But there--I won't be impatient. I've thought of you eversince, and I ask myself, the first thing when I wake, morning aftermorning, is it really true?"

"And I say to myself, every morning, it _is_ true, " she answered. Herlovely blue eyes smiled upon him with a blissful consent, so gentle andso perfect, that he would fain have stood thus and spoken no word more. 

"Martha, " he said, returning to the thought of his duty, "I havesomething to say. You can hear it now. My mother declares that I am herlawful son, born in wedlock--she gave me her solemn word--but more thanthat she will not allow me to ask, saying she's bound for a time, andsomething, I don't know what, must happen before she can set herselfright in the eyes of the world. I believe her, Martha, and I want thatyou should believe her, for her sake and for mine. I can't make thingsclear to you, now, because they're not clear to myself; only, what shehas declared is and must be true! I am not base-born, and it'll be mademanifest, I'm sure; the Lord will open her mouth in his own goodtime--and until then, we must wait! Will you wait with me?"

He spoke earnestly and hurriedly, and his communication was sounexpected that she scarcely comprehended its full import. But for hissake, she dared not hesitate to answer. 

"Can you ask it, Gilbert? Whatever your mother declares to you, must betrue; yet I scarcely understand it. "

"Nor can I! I've wearied my brains, trying to guess why she can't speak, and what it is that'll give her the liberty at last. I daren't ask hermore--she fainted dead away, the last time. "

"Strange things sometimes happen in this world, " said Martha, with agrave tenderness, laying her hand upon his arm, "and this seems to beone of the strangest. I am glad you have told me, Gilbert, --it will makeso much difference to you!"

"So it don't take you from me, Martha, " he groaned, in a return of histerrible dread. 

"Only Death can do that--and then but for a little while. "

Here Miss Betsy Lavender made her appearance, but without the sage. 

"How far a body can see, Martha, " she exclaimed, "since the biggum-tree's been cut down. It lays open the sight o' the road across thecreek, and I seen your father ridin' down the hill, as plain as couldbe!"

"Betsy, " said Gilbert, "I wanted to ask you about coming down our way. "

"Our way. Did you? I see your horse hitched over at the store. I've anarrand, --sewin'-thread and pearl buttons, --and so I'll git my bonnetand you can tell me on the way. "

The lovers said farewell, and Betsy Lavender accompanied Gilbert, proposing to walk a little way with him and get the articles on herreturn. 

"Gilbert Potter, " she said, when they were out of sight and ear-shot ofthe village, "I want you to know that I've got eyes in my head. _I_'m asafe body, as you can see, though it mayn't seem the proper thing in meto say it, but all other folks isn't, so look out!"

"Betsy!" he exclaimed, "you seem to know everything about everybody--atleast, you know what I am, perhaps better than I do myself; now supposeI grant you're right, what do you think of it?"

"Think of it? Go 'long!--you know what you want me to say, that therenever was such a pair o' lovyers under the firmament! Let my deeds provewhat I think, say I--for here's a case where deeds is wanted!"

"You can help me, Betsy--you can help me now! Do you know--can youguess--who was my father?"

"Good Lord!" was her surprised exclamation--"No, I don't, and that's thefact. "

"Who was Martha Deane's mother?"

"A Blake--Naomi, one o' the Birmingham Blakes, and a nice woman she was, too. I was at her weddin', and I helped nuss her when Martha was born. ""Had Dr. Deane been married before?"

"Married before? Well--no!" Here Miss Betsy seemed to be suddenly putupon her guard. "Not to that extent, I should say. However, it's neitherhere nor there. Good lack, boy!" she cried, noticing a deadly palenesson Gilbert's face--"a-h-h-h, I begin to understand now. Look here, Gilbert! Git that nonsense out o' y'r head, jist as soon as _you_ can. There's enough o' trouble ahead, without borrowin' any more out o' y'rwanderin' wits. I don't deny but what I was holdin' back somethin', butit's another thing as ever was. I'll speak _you_ clear o' yourmisdoubtin's, if that's y'r present bother. You don't feel quite as muchlike a live corpse, now, I reckon, hey?"

"O, Betsy!" he said, "if you knew how I have been perplexed, youwouldn't wonder at my fancies!"

"I can fancy all that, my boy, " she gently answered, "and I'll tell youanother thing, Gilbert--your mother has a heavy secret on her mind, andI rather guess it concerns your father. No--don't look so eager-like--Idon't know it. All I do know is that you were born in Phildelphy. "

"In Philadelphia! I never heard that. "

"Well--it's neither here nor there. I've had my hands too full to spyout other people's affairs, but many a thing has come to me in a nateralway, or half-unbeknown. You can't do better than leave all sich wildguesses and misdoubtin's to me, that's better able to handle 'em. Notthat I'm a-goin' to preach and declare anything until I know the rightsof it, whatever and wherever. Well, as I was sayin'--for there's BeulahGreen comin' up the road, and you must git your usual face onto you, though Goodness knows, mine's so crooked, I've often said nothin' shorto' Death'll ever make much change in it--but never mind, I'll go down afew days to your mother, when you're off, though I don't promise to domuch, except, maybe, cheer her up a bit; but we'll see, and so rememberme to her, and good-bye!"

With these words and a sharp, bony wring of his hand. Bliss Betsy stroderapidly back to the village. It did not escape Gilbert's eye that, strongly as she had pronounced against his secret fear, the detection ofit had agitated her. She had spoken hurriedly, and hastened away as ifdesiring to avoid further questions. He could not banish the suspicionthat she knew something which might affect his fortune; but she had notforbidden his love for Martha--she had promised to help him, and thatwas a great consolation. His cheerfulness, thenceforth, was not assumed, and he rejoiced to see a very faint, shadowy reflection of it, at times, in his mother's face. 

CHAPTER XV. 

ALFRED BARTON BETWEEN TWO FIRES. 

For some days after Dr. Deane's visit, Old-man Barton was a continualsource of astonishment to his son Alfred and his daughter Ann. The signsof gradual decay which one of them, at least, had watched with thekeenest interest, had suddenly disappeared; he was brighter, sharper, more talkative than at any time within the previous five years. Thealmost worn-out machinery of his life seemed to have been mysteriouslyrepaired, whether by Dr. Deane's tinkering, or by one of those freaks ofNature which sometimes bring new teeth and hair to an aged head, neitherthe son nor the daughter could guess. To the former this awakenedactivity of the old man's brain was not a little annoying. He had beenobliged to renew his note for the money borrowed to replace that whichhad been transferred to Sandy Flash, and in the mean time was concoctingan ingenious device by which the loss should not entirely fall on hisown half-share of the farm-profits. He could not have endured hisfather's tyranny without the delight of the cautious and wary revengesof this kind which he sometimes allowed himself to take. Anothercircumstance, which gave him great uneasiness, was this: the old manendeavored in various ways, both direct and indirect, to obtainknowledge of the small investments which he had made from time to time. The most of these had been, through the agency of the old lawyer atChester, consolidated into a first-class mortgage; but it was Alfred'sinterest to keep his father in ignorance of the other sums, not becauseof their importance, but because of their insignificance. He knew thatthe old man's declaration was true, --"The more you have, the more you'llget!"

The following Sunday, as he was shaving himself at the backkitchen-window, --Ann being up-stairs, at her threadbare toilet, --OldBarton, who had been silent during breakfast, suddenly addressed him:

"Well, boy, how stands the matter now?"

The son knew very well what was meant, but he thought it best to ask, with an air of indifference, --

"What matter, Daddy?"

"What matter, eh? The colt's lame leg, or the farrow o' the big sow?Gad, boy! don't you ever think about the gal, except when I put it intoyour head?"

"Oh, that!" exclaimed Alfred, with a smirk of well-assumedsatisfaction--"that, indeed! Well, I think I may say, Daddy, that all'sright in that quarter. "

"Spoken to her yet?"

"N-no, not right out, that is; but since other folks have found out whatI'm after, I guess it's plain enough to her. And a good sign is, thatshe plays a little shy. "

"Shouldn't wonder, " growled the old man. "Seems to me _you_ play alittle shy, too. Have to take it in my own hands, if it ever comes toanything. "

"Oh, it isn't at all necessary; I can do my own courting, " Alfredreplied, as he wiped his razor and laid it away. 

"Do it, then, boy, in short order! You're too old to stand in need o'much billin' and cooin'--but the gal's rayther young, and may expectit--and I s'pose it's the way. But I'd sooner you'd step up to theDoctor, bein' as I can only take him when he comes here to me loaded andprimed. He's mighty cute and sharp, but if you've got any gumption, we'll be even with him. "

Alfred turned around quickly and looked at his father. 

"Ay, boy, I've had one bout with him, last Sunday, and there's more tocome. "

"What was it?"

"Set yourself down on that cheer, and keep your head straight a bit, sothat what goes into one ear, don't fly out at the t'other. "

While Alfred, with a singular expression of curiosity and distrust, obeyed this command, the old man deliberated, for the last time, on thepeculiar tactics to be adopted, so that his son should be made an ally, as against Dr. Deane, and yet be prevented from becoming a second foe, as against his own property. For it was very evident that while it wasthe father's interest to exaggerate the son's presumed wealth, it wasthe latter's interest to underrate it. Thus a third element came intoplay, making this a triangular game of avarice. If Alfred could haveunderstood his true position, he would have been more courageous; buthis father had him at a decided advantage. 

"Hark ye, boy!" said he, "I've waited e'en about long enough, and it'stime this thing was either a hit or a flash in the pan. The Doctor'sready for 't; for all his cunnin' he couldn't help lettin' me see that;but he tries to cover both pockets with one hand while he stretches outthe t'other. The gal's money's safe, ten thousand of it, and we'veagreed that it'll be share and share; only, your'n bein' more thanher'n, why, of course he must make up the difference. "

The son was far from being as shrewd as the father, or he would haveinstantly chosen the proper tack; but he was like a vessel caught instays, and experienced considerable internal pitching and jostling. Inone sense it was a relief that the old man supposed him to be worth muchmore than was actually the case, but long experience hinted that afavorable assumption of this kind often led to a damaging result. Sowith a wink and grin, the miserable hypocrisy of which was evident tohis own mind, he said:

"Of course he must make up the difference, and more too! I know what'sfair and square. "

"Shut your mouth, boy, till I give you leave to open it. Do youhear?--the gal's ten thousand dollars must be put ag'inst the tenthousand you've saved off the profits o' the farm; then, the rest you'vemade bein' properly accounted for, he must come down with the sameamount. Then, you must find out to a hair what he's worth of hisown--not that it concerns you, but _I_ must know. What you've got to dois about as much as you've wits for. Now, open your mouth!"

"Ten thousand!" exclaimed Alfred, beginning to comprehend the mattermore clearly; "why, it's hardly quite ten thousand altogether, let aloneanything over!"

"No lies, no lies! I've got it all in my head, if you haven't. Twentyyears on shares--first year, one hundred and thirty-seven dollars--thatwas the year the big flood swep' off half the corn on the bottom; secondyear, two hundred and fifteen, with interest on the first, say six on ahundred, allowin' the thirty-seven for your squanderin's, two hundredand twenty-one; third year, three hundred and five, with interest, seventeen, makes three hundred and twenty-two, and twenty, your half ofthe bay horse sold to Sam Falconer, forty-two; fourth year"--

"Never mind, Daddy!" Alfred interrupted; "I've got it all down in mybooks; you needn't go over it. "

The old man struck his hickory staff violently upon the floor. "I _will_go over it!" he croaked, hoarsely. "I mean to show you, boy, to your owneyes and your own ears, that you're now worth thirteen thousand twohundred and forty-nine dollars and fifteen cents! And ten thousand ofit balances the gal's ten thousand, leavin' three thousand two hundredand forty-nine and fifteen cents, for the Doctor to make up to _you!_And you'll show him your papers, for you're no son of mine if you've putout your money without securin' it. I don't mind your goin' your ownroad with what you've arned, though, for your proper good, you needn'tha' been so close; but now you've got to show what's in your hand, ifyou mean to git it double!"

Alfred Barton was overwhelmed by the terrors of this unexpected dilemma. His superficial powers of dissimulation forsook him; he could onlysuggest, in a weak voice:

"Suppose my papers don't show that much?"

"You've made that, or nigh onto it, and your papers _must_ show it! Ifmoney can't stick to your fingers, do you s'pose I'm goin' to put moreinto 'em? Fix it any way you like with the Doctor, so you squareaccounts. Then, afterwards, let him come to me--ay, let him come!"

Here the old man chuckled until he brought on a fit of coughing, whichdrove the dark purple blood into his head. His son hastened to restorehim with a glass of brandy. 

"There, that'll do, " he said, presently; "now you know what's what. Goup to the Doctor's this afternoon, and have it out before you come home. I can't dance at your weddin', but I wouldn't mind help nuss anothergrandchild or two--eh, boy?"

"Damme, and so you shall, Dad!" the son exclaimed, relapsing into hiscustomary swagger, as the readiest means of flattering the old man'smore amiable mood. It was an easier matter to encounter Dr. Deane--toprocrastinate and prolong the settlement of terms, or shift theresponsibility of the final result from his own shoulders. Of course thepresent command must be obeyed, and it was by no means an agreeable one;but Alfred Barton had courage enough for any emergency not yet arrived. So he began to talk and joke very comfortably about his possiblemarriage, until Ann, descending to the kitchen in her solemn black gown, interrupted the conference. 

That afternoon, as Alfred took his way by the foot-path to the village, he seated himself in the shade, on one end of the log which spanned thecreek, in order to examine his position, before venturing on a furtherstep. We will not probe the depths of his meditations; probably theywere not very deep, even when most serious; but we may readilyconjecture those considerations which were chiefly obvious to his mind. The affair, which he had so long delayed, through a powerful and perhapsa natural dread, was now brought to a crisis. He could not retreatwithout extreme risk to his prospects of inheritance; since his fatherand Dr. Deane had come to an actual conference, he was forced to assumethe part which was appropriate to him. Sentiment, he was aware, wouldnot be exacted, but a certain amount of masculine anticipation belongedto his character of lover; should he assume this, also, or meet Dr. Deane on a hard business ground?

It is a matter of doubt whether any vulgar man suspects the full extentof his vulgarity; but there are few who are not conscious, now and then, of a very uncomfortable difference between themselves and the refinednatures with whom they come in contact. Alfred Barton had never been sotroubled by this consciousness as when in the presence of Martha Deane. He was afraid of her; he foresaw that she, as his wife, would place himin a more painful subjection than that which his father now enforced. Hewas weary of bondage, and longed to draw a free, unworried breath. Withall his swagger, his life had not always been easy or agreeable. A yearor two more might see him, in fact and in truth, his own master. He wasfifty years old; his habits of life were fixed; he would have shrunkfrom the semi-servitude of marriage, though with a woman after his ownheart, and there was nothing in this (except the money) to attract him. 

"I see no way!" he suddenly exclaimed, after a fit of long andunsatisfactory musing. 

"Nor I neither, unless you make room for me!" answered a shrill voice athis side. 

He started as if shot, becoming aware of Miss Betsy Lavender, who hadjust emerged from the thicket. 

"Skeered ye, have I?" said she. "Why, how you do color up, to be sure! Inever was that red, even in my blushin' days; but never mind, what'ssaid to nobody is nobody's business. "

He laughed a forced laugh. "I was thinking, Miss Betsy, " he said, "howto get the grain threshed and sent to the mills before prices come down. Which way are you going?"

She had been observing him through half-closed eyes, with her head alittle thrown back. First slightly nodding to herself, as if assentingto some mental remark, she asked, --

"Which way are _you_ goin'? For my part I rather think we're changin'places, --me to see Miss Ann, and you to see Miss Martha. "

"You're wrong!" he exclaimed. "I was only going to make a littleneighborly call on the Doctor. "

"On the Doctor! Ah-ha! it's come to that, has it? Well, I won't be inthe way. "

"Confound the witch!" he muttered to himself, as she sprang upon the logand hurried over. 

Mr. Alfred Barton was not acquainted with the Greek drama, or he wouldhave had a very real sense of what is meant by Fate. As it was, hesubmitted to circumstances, climbed the hill, and never halted until hefound himself in Dr. Deane's sitting-room. 

Of course, the Doctor was alone and unoccupied; it always happens so. Moreover he knew, and Alfred Barton knew that he knew, the subject to bediscussed; but it was not the custom of the neighborhood to approach animportant interest except in a very gradual and roundabout manner. Therefore the Doctor said, after the first greeting, --

"Thee'll be getting thy crops to market soon, I imagine?"

"I'd like to, " Barton replied, "but there's not force enough on ourplace, and the threshers are wanted everywhere at once. What would youdo, --hurry off the grain now, or wait to see how it may stand in thespring?"

Dr. Deane meditated a moment, and then answered with great deliberation:"I never like to advise, where the chances are about even. It depends, thee knows, on the prospect of next year's crops. But, which ever waythee decides, it will make less difference to thee than to them thatdepend altogether upon their yearly earnings. "

Barton understood this stealthy approach to the important subject, andmet it in the same way. "I don't know, " he said; "it's slow saving onhalf-profits. I have to look mighty close, to make anything decent. "

"Well, " said the Doctor, "what isn't laid up _by_ thee, is laid up _for_thee, I should judge. "

"I should hope so, Doctor; but I guess you know the old man as well as Ido. If anybody could tell what's in his mind, it's Lawyer Stacy, andhe's as close as a steel-trap. I've hardly had a fair chance, and itought to be made up to me. "

"It will be, no doubt. " And then the Doctor, resting his chin upon hiscane, relapsed into a grave, silent, expectant mood, which his guestwell understood. 

"Doctor, " he said at last, with an awkward attempt at a gay, confidential manner, "you know what I come for today. Perhaps I'm ratheran old boy to be here on such an errand; I've been a bit afraid lest youmight think me so; and for that reason I haven't spoken to Martha atall, (though I think she's smart enough to guess how my mind turns, ) andwon't speak, till I first have your leave. I'm not so young as to belight-headed in such matters; and, most likely, I'm not everything thatMartha would like; but--but--there's other things to be considered--notthat I mind 'em much, only the old man, you know, is very particularabout 'em, and so I've come up to see if we can't agree without muchtrouble. "

Dr. Deane took a small pinch of Rappee, and then touched his noselightly with his lavendered handkerchief. He drew up his hangingunder-lip until it nearly covered the upper, and lifted his nostrilswith an air at once of reticence and wisdom. "I don't deny, " he saidslowly, "that I've suspected something of what is in thy mind, and Iwill further say that thee's done right in coming first to me. Marthabeing an only d--child, I have her welfare much at heart, and if I hadknown anything seriously to thy discredit, I would not have permittedthy attentions. So far as that goes, thee may feel easy. I _did_ hope, however, that thee would have some assurance of what thy father intendsto do for thee--and perhaps thee has, --Elisha being established in hisown independence, and Ann not requiring a great deal, thee would inheritconsiderable, besides the farm. And it seems to me that I might justly, in Martha's interest, ask for some such assurance. "

If Alfred Barton's secret thought had been expressed in words, it wouldhave been: "Curse the old fool--he knows what the old man is, as well asI do!" But he twisted a respectful hypocrisy out of his whisker, andsaid, --

"Ye-e-es, that seems only fair. How am _I_ to get at it, though? Idaren't touch the subject with a ten-foot pole, and yet it stands bothto law and reason that I should come in for a handsome slice o' theproperty. You might take it for granted, Doctor?"

"So I might, if _thy_ father would take for granted what _I_ might beable to do. I can see, however, that it's hardly thy place to ask him;that might be left to me. "

This was an idea which had not occurred to Alfred Barton. A thrill ofgreedy curiosity shot through his heart; he saw that, with Dr. Deane'shelp, he might be able to ascertain the amount of the inheritance whichmust so soon fall to him. This feeling, fed by the impatience of hislong subjection, took complete possession of him, and he resolved tofurther his father's desires, without regard to present results. 

"Yes, that might be left to me, " the Doctor repeated, "after the othermatter is settled. Thee knows what I mean. Martha will have ten thousanddollars in her own right, at twenty-five, --and sooner, if she marrieswith my approbation. Now, thee or thy father must bring an equal sum;that is understood between us--and I think thy father mentioned thatthee could do it without calling upon him. Is that the case?"

"Not quite--but, yes, very nearly. That is, the old man's been so closewith me, that I'm a little close with him, Doctor, you see! He doesn'tknow exactly how much I have got, and as he threatens to leave meaccording to what I've saved, why, I rather let him have his own wayabout the matter. "

A keen, shrewd smile flitted over the Doctor's face. 

"But if it isn't quite altogether ten thousand, Doctor, " Bartoncontinued, "I don't say but what it could be easily made up to thatfigure. You and I could arrange all that between our two selves, withoutconsulting the old man, --and, indeed, it's not _his_ business, in anyway, --and so, you might go straight to the other matter at once. "

"H'm, " mused the Doctor, with his chin again upon his stick, "I shouldperhaps be working in thy interest, as much as in mine. Then thee canafford to come up fair and square to the mark. Of course, thee has allthe papers to show for thy own property?"

"I guess there'll be no trouble about that, " Barton answered, carelessly. "I lend on none but the best security. 'T will take a littletime--must go to Chester--so we needn't wait for that; 't will be allright!"

"Oh, no doubt; but hasn't thee overlooked one thing?"

"What?"

"That Martha should first know thy mind towards her. "

It was true, he had overlooked that important fact, and the suggestioncame to him very like an attack of cramp. He laughed, however, took outa red silk handkerchief, and tried to wipe a little eagerness into hisface. 

"No, Doctor!" he exclaimed, "not forgot, only keeping the best for thelast. I wasn't sure but you might want to speak to her yourself, first;but she knows, doesn't she?"

"Not to my direct knowledge; and I wouldn't like to venture to speak inher name. "

"Then, I'll--that is, you think I'd better have a talk with her. Alittle tough, at my time of life, ha! ha!--but faint heart never wonfair lady; and I hadn't thought of going that far to-day, though ofcourse, I'm anxious, --been in my thoughts so long, --andperhaps--perhaps"--

"I'll tell thee, " said the Doctor, seeming not to notice Barton'svisible embarrassment, which he found very natural; "do thee come upagain next First-day afternoon prepared to speak thy mind. I will giveMartha a hint of thy purpose beforehand, but only a hint, mind thee; thegirl has a smart head of her own, and thee'll come on faster with her ifthee pleads thy own cause with thy own mouth. "

"Yes, I'll come then!" cried Barton, so relieved at his present escapethat his relief took the expression of joy. Dr. Deane was a fair judgeof character; he knew all of Alfred Barton's prominent traits, andimagined that he was now reading him like an open book; but it was likereading one of those Latin sentences which, to the ear, are made up ofEnglish words. The signs were all correct, only they belonged to anotherlanguage. 

The heavy wooer shortly took his departure. While on the return path, hecaught sight of Miss Betsy Lavender's beaver, bobbing along behind thepickets of the hill-fence, and, rather than encounter its wearer in hispresent mood, he stole into the shelter of one of the cross-hedges, andmade his way into the timbered bottom below. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

MARTHA DEANE. 

Little did Dr. Deane suspect the nature of the conversation which hadthat morning been held in his daughter's room, between herself and BetsyLavender. 

When the latter returned from her interview with Gilbert Potter, theprevious evening, she found the Doctor already arrived. Mark came homeat supper-time, and the evening was so prolonged by his rattling tonguethat no room was left for any confidential talk with Martha, althoughMiss Betsy felt that something ought to be said, and it properly fell toher lot to broach the delicate subject. 

After breakfast on Sunday morning, therefore, she slipped up to Martha'sroom, on the transparent pretence of looking again at a new dress, whichhad been bought some days before. She held the stuff to the light, turned it this way and that, and regarded it with an importancealtogether out of proportion to its value. 

"It seems as if I couldn't git the color rightly set in my head, " sheremarked; "'t a'n't quiet laylock, nor yit vi'let, and there ought, byrights, to be quilled ribbon round the neck, though the Doctor mightconsider it too gay; but never mind, he'd dress you in drab or slate ifhe could, and I dunno, after all"--

"Betsy!" exclaimed Martha, with an impetuousness quite unusual to hercalm nature, "throw down the dress! Why won't you speak of what is inyour mind; don't you see I'm waiting for it?"

"You're right, child!" Miss Betsy cried, flinging the stuff to thefarthest corner of the room; "I'm an awkward old fool, with all myexper'ence. Of course I seen it with half a wink; there! don't be sotrembly now. I know how you feel, Martha; you wouldn't think it, but Ido. I can tell the real signs from the passin' fancies, and if ever Isee true-love in my born days, I see it in you, child, and in _him. "_

Martha's face glowed in spite of herself. The recollection of Gilbert'sembrace in the dusky glen came to her, already for the thousandth time, but warmer, sweeter at each recurrence. She felt that her hand trembledin that of the spinster, as they sat knee to knee, and that a tender dewwas creeping into her eyes; leaning forward, she laid her face a momenton her friend's shoulder, and whispered, --

"It is all very new and strange, Betsy; but I am happy. "

Miss Lavender did not answer immediately. With her hand on Martha'ssoft, smooth hair, she was occupied in twisting her arm so that thesleeve might catch and conceal two troublesome tears which were at thatmoment trickling down her nose. Besides, she was not at all sure of hervoice, until something like a dry crust of bread in her throat had beenforcibly swallowed down. 

Martha, however, presently lifted her head with a firm, courageousexpression, though the rosy flush still suffused her cheeks. "I'm not asindependent as people think, " she said, "for I couldn't help myself whenthe time came, and I seem to belong to him, ever since. "

"Ever since. Of course you do!" remarked Miss Betsy, with her head downand her hands busy at her high comb and thin twist of hair; "everywoman, savin' and exceptin' myself, and no fault o' mine, must play Jillto somebody's Jack; it's man's way and the Lord's way, but worked outwith a mighty variety, though I say it, but why not, my eyes bein' asgood as anybody else's! Come now, you're lookin' again after your ownbrave fashion; and so, you're sure o' your heart, Martha?"

"Betsy, my heart speaks once and for all, " said Martha, with kindlingeyes. 

"Once and for all. I knowed it--and so the Lord help us! For here Ismell wagon-loads o' trouble; and if you weren't a girl to know her ownmind and stick to it, come weal, come woe, and he with a bull-dog's jawthat'll never let go, and I mean no runnin' of him down, but on thecontrary, quite the reverse, I'd say to both, git over it somehow for itwon't be, and no matter if no use, it's my dooty, --well, it's t'otherway, and I've got to give a lift where I can, and pull this way, andshove that way, and hold back everybody, maybe, and fit things tothings, and unfit other things, --Good Lord, child, you've made an awfuljob for _me!"_

Therewith Miss Betsy laughed, with a dry, crisp, cheerfulness whichquite covered up and concealed her forebodings. Nothing pleased herbetter than to see realized in life her own views of what ought to be, and the possibility of becoming one of the shaping and regulating powersto that end stirred her nature to its highest and most joyous activity. 

Martha Deane, equally brave, was more sanguine. The joy of her expandinglove foretold its fulfilment to her heart. "I know, Betsy, " she said, "that father would not hear of it now; but we are both young and canwait, at least until I come into my property--_ours, _ I ought to say, for I think of it already as being as much Gilbert's as mine. What othertrouble can there be?"

"Is there none on his side, Martha?"

"His birth? Yes, there is--or was, though not to me--never to me! I amso glad, for his sake, --but, Betsy, perhaps you do not know"--

"If there's anything I need to know, I'll find it out, soon or late. He's worried, that I see, and no wonder, poor boy! But as you say, there's time enough, and my single and solitary advice to both o' you, is, don't look at one another before folks, if you can't keep your eyesfrom blabbin'. Not a soul suspicions anything now, and if you two'llonly fix it betwixt and between you to keep quiet, and patient, and asforbearin' in showin' feelin' as people that hate each other likesnakes, why, who knows but somethin' may turn up, all unexpected, tomake the way as smooth for ye as a pitch-pine plank!"

"Patient!" Martha murmured to herself. A bright smile broke over herface, as she thought how sweet it would be to match, as best a womanmight, Gilbert's incomparable patience and energy of purpose. The tenderhumility of her love, so beautifully interwoven with the texture of itspride and courage, filled her heart with a balmy softness and peace. Shewas already prepared to lay her firm, independent spirit at his feet, orexercise it only as her new, eternal duty to him might require. BetsyLavender's warning could not ripple the bright surface of her happiness;she knew that no one (hardly even Gilbert, as yet) suspected that in herheart the love of a strong and faithful and noble man outweighed allother gifts or consequences of life--that, to keep it, she would give uphome, friends, father, the conventional respect of every one she knew!

"Well, child!" exclaimed Miss Lavender, after a long lapse of silence;"the words is said that can't be taken back, accordin' to _my_ views o'things, though, Goodness knows, there's enough and enough thinksdifferent, and you must abide by 'em; and what I think of it all I'lltell you when the end comes, not before, so don't ask me now; but onething more, there's another sort of a gust brewin', and goin' to breaksoon, if ever, and that is, Alf. Barton, --though you won't believeit, --he's after you in his stupid way, and your father favors him. Andmy advice is, hold him off as much as you please, but say nothin' o'Gilbert!"

This warning made no particular impression upon Martha. She playfullytapped Miss Betsy's high comb, and said: "Now, if you are going to be somuch worried about me, I shall be sorry that you found it out. "

"Well I won't!--and now let me hook your gownd. "

Often, after that, however, did Martha detect Miss Betsy's eyes fixedupon her with a look of wistful, tender interest, and she knew, thoughthe spinster would not say it, that the latter was alive with sympathy, and happy in the new confidence between them. With each day, her ownpassion grew and deepened, until it seemed that the true knowledge oflove came after its confession. A sweet, warm yearning for Gilbert'spresence took its permanent seat in her heart; not only his sterlingmanly qualities, but his form, his face--the broad, square brow; thelarge, sad, deep-set gray eyes; the firm, yet impassioned lips--hauntedher fancy. Slowly and almost unconsciously as her affection had beendeveloped, it now took the full stature and wore the radiant form of hermaiden dream of love. 

If Dr. Deane noticed the physical bloom and grace which those daysbrought to his daughter, he was utterly innocent of the true cause. Perhaps he imagined that his own eyes were first fairly opened to herbeauty by the prospect of soon losing her. Certainly she had neverseemed more obedient and attractive. He had not forgotten his promise toAlfred Barton; but no very convenient opportunity for speaking to her onthe subject occurred until the following Sunday morning. Mark was not athome, and he rode with her to Old Kennett Meeting. 

As they reached the top of the long hill beyond the creek, Martha reinedin her horse to enjoy the pleasant westward view over the fair Septemberlandscape. The few houses of the village crowned the opposite hill; buton this side the winding, wooded vale meandered away, to lose itselfamong the swelling slopes of clover and stubble-field; and beyond, overthe blue level of Tuffkenamon, the oak-woods of Avondale slept on thehorizon. It was a landscape such as one may see, in a more culturedform, on the road from Warwick to Stratford. Every one in Kennettenjoyed the view, but none so much as Martha Deane, upon whom itsharmonious, pastoral aspect exercised an indescribable charm. 

To the left, on the knoll below, rose the chimneys of the Bartonfarm-house, over the round tops of the apple-trees, and in the nearestfield Mr. Alfred's Maryland cattle were fattening on the second growthof clover. 

"A nice place, Martha!" said Dr. Deane, with a wave of his arm, and awhiff of sweet herbs. 

"Here, in this first field, is the true place for the house, " sheanswered, thinking only of the landscape beauty of the farm. 

"Does thee mean so?" the Doctor eagerly asked, deliberating with himselfhow much of his plan it was safe to reveal. "Thee may be right, andperhaps thee might bring Alfred to thy way of thinking. "

She laughed. "It's hardly worth the trouble. "

"I've noticed, of late, " her father continued, "that Alfred seems to seta good deal of store by thee. He visits us pretty often. "

"Why, father!" she exclaimed, as they, rode onward, "it's rather _thee_that attracts him, and cattle, and crops, and the plans for catchingSandy Flash! He looks frightened whenever I speak to him. "

"A little nervous, perhaps. Young men are often so, in the company ofyoung women, I've observed. "

Martha laughed so cheerily that her father said to himself: "Well, itdoesn't displease her, at any rate. " On the other hand, is was possiblethat she might have failed to see Barton in the light of a wooer, andtherefore a further hint would be required. 

"Now that we happen to speak of him, Martha, " he said, "I might as welltell thee that, in my judgment, he seems to be drawn towards thee in theway of marriage. He may be a little awkward in showing it, but that's acommon case. When he was at our house, last First-day, he spoke of theefrequently, and said that he would like to--well, to see thee soon. Ibelieve he intends coming up this afternoon. "

Martha became grave, as Betsy Lavender's warning took so suddenly apositive form. However, she had thought of this contingency as apossible thing, and must prepare herself to meet it with firmness. 

"What does thee say?" the Doctor asked, after waiting a few minutes foran answer. 

"Father, I hope thee's mistaken. Alfred Barton is not overstocked withwit, I know, but he can hardly be that foolish. He is almost as old asthee. "

She spoke quietly, but with that tone of decision which Dr. Deane sowell knew. He set his teeth and drew up his under-lip to a grim pout. Ifthere was to be resistance, he thought, she would not find him soyielding as on other points; but he would first try a middle course. 

"Understand me, Martha, " he said; "I do not mean to declare what AlfredBarton's sentiments really are, but what, in my judgment, they _might_be. And thee had better wait and learn, before setting thy mind eitherfor or against him: It's hardly putting much value upon thyself, to callhim foolish. "

"It is a humiliation to me, if thee is right, father, " she said. 

"I don't see that. Many young women would be proud of it. I'll only sayone thing, Martha; if he seeks thee, and _does_ speak his mind, do theetreat him kindly and respectfully. "

"Have I ever treated thy friends otherwise?" she asked. 

"My friends! thee's right--he _is_ my friend. "

She made no reply, but her soul was already courageously arming itselffor battle. Her father's face was stern and cold, and she saw, at once, that he was on the side of the enemy. This struggle safely over, therewould come another and a severer one. It was well that she had givenherself time, setting the fulfilment of her love so far in advance. 

Nothing more was said on this theme, either during the ride to OldKennett, or on the return. Martha's plan was very simple: she wouldquietly wait until Alfred Barton should declare his sentiments, and thenreject him once and forever. She would speak clearly, and finally; thereshould be no possibility of misconception. It was not a pleasant task;none but a vain and heartless woman would be eager to assume it; andMartha Deane hoped that it might be spared her. 

But she, no less than her irresolute lover, (if we can apply that wordto Alfred Barton, ) was an instrument in the hands of an uncomfortableFate. Soon after dinner a hesitating knock was heard at the door, andBarton entered with a more uneasy air than ever before. Erelong, Dr. Deane affected to have an engagement with an invalid on the New-Gardenroad; Betsy Lavender had gone to Fairthorn's for the afternoon, and thetwo were alone. 

For a few moments, Martha was tempted to follow her father's example, and leave Alfred Barton to his own devices. Then she reflected that thiswas a cowardly feeling; it would only postpone her task. He had takenhis seat, as usual, in the very centre of the room; so she came forwardand seated herself at the front window, with her back to the light, thus, woman-like, giving herself all the advantages of position. 

Having his large, heavy face before her, in full light, she was at firsta little surprised on finding that it expressed not even the fondanxiety, much less the eagerness, of an aspiring wooer. The hair andwhiskers, it is true, were so smoothly combed back that they made longlappets on either side of his face; unusual care had been taken with hiscambric cravat and shirt-ruffles, and he wore his best blue coat, whichwas entirely too warm for the season. In strong contrast to thisexternal preparation, were his restless eyes which darted hither andthither in avoidance of her gaze, the fidgety movements of his thickfingers, creeping around buttons and in and out of button-holes, andfinally the silly, embarrassed half-smile which now and then came to hismouth, and made the platitudes of his speech almost idiotic. 

Martha Deane felt her courage rise as she contemplated this picture. Inspite of the disgust which his gross physical appearance, and thecontempt which his awkward helplessness inspired, she was conscious of alurking sense of amusement. Even a curiosity, which we cannot reprehend, to know by what steps and in what manner he would come to thedeclaration, began to steal into her mind, now that it was evident heranswer could not possibly wound any other feeling than vanity. 

In this mood, she left the burden of the conversation to him. He mightflounder, or be completely stalled, as often as he pleased; it was nopart of her business to help him. 

In about three minutes after she had taken her seat by the window, heremarked, with a convulsive smile, --

"Apples are going to be good, this year. "

"Are they?" she said. 

"Yes; do you like 'em? Most girls do. "

"I believe I do, --except Russets, " Martha replied, with her handsclasped in her lap, and her eyes full upon his face. 

He twisted the smoothness out of one whisker, very much disconcerted ather remark, because he could not tell--he never could, when speakingwith her--whether or not she was making fun of him. But he could thinkof nothing to say, except his own preferences in the matter ofapples, --a theme which he pursued until Martha was very tired of it. 

He next asked after Mark Deane, expressing at great length his favorableopinion of the young, carpenter, and relating what pains he had taken toprocure for him the building of Hallowell's barn. But to eachobservation Martha made the briefest possible replies, so that in ashort time he was forced to start another topic. 

Nearly an hour had passed, and Martha's sense of the humorous had longsince vanished under the dreary monotony of the conversation, whenAlfred Barton seemed to have come to a desperate resolution to end hisembarrassment. Grasping his knees with both hands, and dropping his headforward so that the arrows of her eyes might glance from his fatforehead, he said, --

"I suppose you know why I come here to-day, Miss Martha?"

All her powers were awake and alert in a moment. She scrutinized hisface keenly, and, although his eyes were hidden, there were lines enoughvisible, especially about the mouth, to show that the bitterpredominated over the sweet, in his emotions. 

"To see my father, wasn't it? I'm sorry he was obliged to leave home, "she answered. 

"No, Miss Martha, I come to see you. I have some thing to say to you, and I 'in sure you know what I mean by this time, don't you?"

"No. How should I?" she coolly replied. It was not true; but thetruest-hearted woman that ever lived could have given no other answer. 

Alfred Barton felt the sensation of a groan pass through him, and itvery nearly came out of his mouth. Then he pushed on, in a last wildeffort to perform the remainder of his exacted task in one piece:

"I want you to be--to be--my--wife! That is, my father and yours areagreed about it, and they think I ought to speak to you. I'm a good dealolder, and--and perhaps you mightn't fancy me in all things, but theysay it'll make little difference; and if you haven't thought about itmuch, why, there's no hurry as to making up your mind. I've told younow, and to be sure you ought to know, while the old folks are trying toarrange property matters, and it's my place, like, to speak to youfirst. "

Here he paused; his face was very red, and the perspiration was oozingin great drops from every pore. He drew forth the huge red silkhandkerchief, and mopped his cheeks, his nose, and his forehead; thenlifted his head and stole a quick glance at Martha. Something in hisface puzzled her, and yet a sudden presentiment of his true state offeeling flashed across her mind. She still sat, looking steadily at him, and for a few moments did not speak. 

"Well?" he stammered. 

"Alfred Barton, " she said, "I must ask you one question, do you loveme?"

He seemed to feel a sharp sting. The muscles of his mouth twitched; hebit his lip, sank his head again, and murmured, --

"Y-yes. "

"He does not, " she said to herself. "I am spared this humiliation. It isa mean, low nature, and fears mine--fears, and would soon hate. He shallnot see even so much of me as would be revealed by a frank, respectfulrejection. I must punish him a little for the deceit, and I now see howto do it. "

While these thoughts passed rapidly through her brain, she waited untilhe should again venture to meet her eye. When he lifted his head, sheexclaimed, --

"You have told an untruth! Don't turn your head away; look me in theface, and hear me tell you that you do not love me--that you have notcome to me of your own desire, and that you would rather ten thousandtimes I should say No, if it were not for a little property of mine! Butsuppose I, too, were of a similar nature; suppose I cared not for whatis called love, but only for money and lands such as you will inherit;suppose I found the plans of my father and your father very shrewd andreasonable, and were disposed to enter into them--what then?"

Alfred Barton was surprised out of the last remnant of his hypocrisy. His face, so red up to this moment, suddenly became sallow; his chindropped, and an expression of amazement and fright came into the eyesfixed on Martha's. 

The game she was playing assumed a deeper interest; here was somethingwhich she could not yet fathom. She saw what influence had driven him toher, against his inclination, but his motive for seeming to obey, whiledreading success, was a puzzle. Singularly enough, a slight feeling ofcommiseration began to soften her previous contempt, and hastened herfinal answer. 

"I see that these suppositions would not please you, " she said, "andthank you for the fact. Your face is more candid than your speech. I amnow ready to say, Alfred Barton, --because I am sure the knowledge willbe agreeable to you, --that no lands, no money, no command of my father, no degree of want, or misery, or disgrace, could ever make me yourwife!"

She had risen from her chair while speaking, and he also started to hisfeet. Her words, though such an astounding relief in one sense, hadnevertheless given him pain; there was a sting in them which cruellygalled his self-conceit. It was enough to be rejected; she need not haveput an eternal gulf between their natures. 

"Well, " said he, sliding the rim of his beaver backwards and forwardsbetween his fingers, "I suppose I'll have to be going. You're veryplain-spoken, as I might ha' known. I doubt whether we two would make agood team, and no offence to you, Miss Martha. Only, it'll be a mortaldisappointment to the old man, and--look here, it a'n't worth while tosay anything about it, is it?"

Alfred Barton was strongly tempted to betray the secret reason whichMartha had not yet discovered. After the strong words he had taken fromher, she owed him a kindness, he thought; if she would only allow theimpression that the matter was still undecided--that more time (which acoy young maiden might reasonably demand) had been granted! On the otherhand, he feared that her clear, firm integrity of character would berepelled by the nature of his motive. He was beginning to feel, greatlyto his own surprise, a profound respect for her. 

"If my father questions me about your visit, " she said, "I shall tellhim simply that I have declined your offer. No one else is likely to askme. "

"I don't deny, " he continued, still lingering near the door, "that I'vebeen urged by my father--yours, too, for that matter--to make the offer. But I don't want you to think hard of me. I've not had an easy time ofit, and if you knew everything, you'd see that a good deal isn't rightlyto be laid to my account. "

He spoke sadly, and so genuine a stamp of unhappiness was impressed uponhis face, that Martha's feeling of commiseration rose to the surface. 

"You'll speak to me, when we happen to meet?" he said. 

"If I did not, " she answered, "every one would suspect that somethinghad occurred. That would be unpleasant for both of us. Do not think thatI shall bear malice against you; on the contrary, I wish you well. "

He stooped, kissed her hand, and then swiftly, silently, and withaverted head, left the room. 

CHAPTER XVII. 

CONSULTATIONS. 

When Dr. Deane returned home, in season for supper, he found Martha andBetsy Lavender employed about their little household matters. The formershowed no lack of cheerfulness or composure, nor, on the other hand, anysuch nervous unrest as would be natural to a maiden whose hand had justbeen asked in marriage. The Doctor could not at all guess, from herdemeanor, whether anything had happened during his absence. That AlfredBarton had not remained was rather an unfavorable circumstance; butthen, possibly, he had not found courage to speak. All things beingconsidered, it seemed best that he should say nothing to Martha, untilhe had had another interview with his prospective son-in-law. 

At this time Gilbert Potter, in ignorance of the cunning plans whichwere laid by the old men, was working early and late to accomplish allnecessary farm-labor by the first of October. That month he hadresolved to devote to the road between Columbia and Newport, and if butaverage success attended his hauling, the earnings of six round trips, with the result of his bountiful harvest, would at last place in hishands the sum necessary to defray the remaining debt upon the farm. Hisnext year's wheat-crop was already sowed, the seed-clover cut, and thefortnight which still intervened was to be devoted to threshing. In thisemergency, as at reaping-time, when it was difficult to obtain extrahands, he depended on Deb. Smith, and she did not fail him. 

Her principal home, when she was not employed on farm-work, was alog-hut, on the edge of a wood, belonging to the next farm north ofFairthorn's. This farm--the "Woodrow property, " as it was called--hadbeen stripped of its stock and otherwise pillaged by the British troops, (Howe and Cornwallis having had their headquarters at Kennett Square), the day previous to the Battle of Brandywine, and the proprietor hadnever since recovered from his losses. The place presented a ruined anddesolated appearance, and Deb. Smith, for that reason perhaps, hadsettled herself in the original log-cabin of the first settler, beside aswampy bit of ground, near the road. The Woodrow farm-house was on aridge beyond the wood, and no other dwelling was in sight. 

The mysterious manner of life of this woman had no doubt given rise tothe bad name which she bore in the neighborhood. She would oftendisappear for a week or two at a time, and her return seemed to takeplace invariably in the night. Sometimes a belated farmer would see thesingle front window of her cabin lighted at midnight, and hear thedulled sound of voices in the stillness. But no one cared to play thespy upon her movements very closely; her great strength and fierce, reckless temper made her dangerous, and her hostility would have beenworse than the itching of ungratified curiosity. So they let her alone, taking their revenge in the character they ascribed to her, and theepithets they attached to her name. 

When Gilbert, after hitching his horse in a corner of the zigzagpicket-fence, climbed over and approached the cabin, Deb. Smith issuedfrom it to meet him, closing the heavy plank door carefully behind her. 

"So, Mr. Gilbert!" she cried, stretching out her hard, red hand, "Ireckon you want me ag'in: I've been holdin off from many jobs o'thrashin', this week, because I suspicioned ye'd be comin' for me. "

"Thank you, Deborah!" said he, "you're a friend in need. "

"Am I? There you speak the truth. Wait till you see me thump the Devil'stattoo with my old flail on your thrashin'-floor! But you look as cheeryas an Easter-mornin' sun; you've not much for to complain of, thesedays, I guess?"

Gilbert smiled. 

"Take care!" she cried, a kindly softness spreading over her rough face, "good luck's deceitful! If I had the strands o' your fortin' in _my_hands, may be I wouldn't twist 'em even; but I ha'n't, and my fingers istoo thick to manage anything smaller 'n a rope-knot. You're goin'? Well, look out for me bright and early o' Monday, and my sarvice to yourmother!"

As he rode over the second hill, on his way to the village, Gilbert'sheart leaped, as he beheld Betsy Lavender just turning into Fairthorn'sgate. Except his mother, she was the only person who knew of his love, and he had great need of her kind and cautious assistance. 

He had not allowed his heart simply to revel in the ecstasy of itswonderful fortune, or to yearn with inexpressible warmth for Martha'sdearest presence, though these emotions haunted him constantly; he hadalso endeavored to survey the position in which he stood, and to choosethe course which would fulfil both his duty towards her and towards hismother. His coming independence would have made the prospect hopefullybright, but for the secret which lay across it like a threateningshadow. Betsy Lavender's assurances had only partially allayed hisdread; something hasty and uncertain in her manner still lingereduneasily in his memory, and he felt sure that she knew more than she waswilling to tell. Moreover, he craved with all the strength of his heartfor another interview with Martha, and he knew of no way to obtain itwithout Betsy's help. 

Her hand was on the gate-latch when his call reached her ears. Lookingup the road, she saw that he had stopped his horse between the high, bushy banks, and was beckoning earnestly. Darting a hasty glance at theivy-draped windows nearest the road, and finding that she was notobserved, she hurried to meet him. 

"Betsy, " he whispered, "I _must_ see Martha again before I leave, andyou must tell me how. "

"Tell me how. Folks say that lovyers' wits are sharp, " said she, "but Iwouldn't give much for either o' your'n. I don't like underhandedgoin's-on, for my part, for things done in darkness'll come to light, orsomethin' like it; but never mind, if they're crooked everyway theywon't run in straight tracks, all't once't. This I see, and you see, andshe sees, that we must all keep as dark as sin. "

"But there must be some way, " Gilbert insisted. "Do you never walk outtogether? And couldn't we arrange a time--you, too, Betsy, I want you aswell!"

"I'm afeard I'd be like the fifth wheel to a wagon. "

"No, no! You must be there--you must hear a good part of what I have tosay. "

"A good part--that'll do; thought you didn't mean the whole. Don't fretso, lad; you'll have Roger trampin' me down, next thing. Martha and metalk o' walkin' over to Polly Withers's. She promised Martha apa'tridge-breasted aloe, and they say you've got to plant it in pewtersand, and only water it once't a month, and how it can grow I can't see;but never mind, all the same--s'pose we say Friday afternoon about threeo'clock, goin' through the big woods between the Square and Witherses, and you might have a gun, for the squirls is plenty, and soaccidental-like, if anybody should come along"--

"That's it, Betsy!" Gilbert cried, his face flashing, "thank you, athousand times!"

"A thousand times, " she repeated. "Once't is enough. "

Gilbert rode homewards, after a pleasant call at Fairthorn's, in a veryjoyous mood. Not daring to converse with his mother on the one subjectwhich filled his heart, he showed her the calculations which positivelyassured his independence in a short time. She was never weary of goingover the figures, and although her sad, cautious nature always led herto anticipate disappointments, there was now so much already in handthat she was forced to share her son's sanguine views. Gilbert could nothelp noticing that this idea of independence, for which she had laboredso strenuously, seemed to be regarded, in her mind, as the first steptowards her mysterious and long-delayed justification; she was soimpatient for its accomplishment, her sad brow lightened so, her breathcame so much freer as she admitted that his calculations were correct!

Nevertheless, as he frequently referred to the matter on the followingdays, she at last said, --

"Please, Gilbert, don't always talk so certainly of what isn't over andsettled! It makes me fearsome, so to take Providence for grantedbeforehand. I don't think the Lord likes it, for I've often noticed thatit brings disappointment; and I'd rather be humble and submissive inheart, the better to deserve our good fortune when it comes. "

"You may be right, mother, " he answered; "but it's pleasant to me to seeyou looking a little more hopeful. "

"Ay, lad, I'd never look otherwise, for your sake, if I could. " Andnothing more was said. 

Before sunrise on Monday morning, the rapid, alternate beats of threeflails, on Gilbert's threshing-floor, made the autumnal music which thefarmer loves to hear. Two of these--Gilbert's and Sam's--kept time witheach other, one falling as the other rose; but the third, quick, loud, and filling all the pauses with thundering taps, was wielded by the armof Deb. Smith. Day by day, the pile of wheat-sheaves lessened in thegreat bay, and the cone of golden straw rose higher in the barn-yard. Ifa certain black jug, behind the barn-door, needed frequent replenishing, Gilbert knew that the strength of its contents passed into the red, bare, muscular arms which shamed his own, and that Deb. , while she wasunder his roof, would allow herself no coarse excess, either of manneror speech. The fierce, defiant look left her face, and when she sat, ofan evening, with her pipe in the chimney-corner, both mother and sonfound her very entertaining company. In Sam she inspired at onceadmiration and despair. She could take him by the slack of thewaist-band and lift him at arm's-length, and he felt that he shouldnever be "a full hand, " if he were obliged to equal her performanceswith the flail. 

Thus, his arm keeping time to the rhythm of joy in his heart, andtasting the satisfaction of labor as never before in his life, the dayspassed to Gilbert Potter. Then came the important Friday, hazy with "thesmoke of burning summer, " and softly colored with the drifts ofgolden-rods and crimson sumac leaves along the edges of the yet greenforests. Easily feigning an errand to the village, he walked rapidly upthe road in the warm afternoon, taking the cross-road to New-Gardenjust before reaching Hallowell's, and then struck to the right acrossthe fields. 

After passing the crest of the hill, the land sloped gradually down tothe eastern end of Tuffkenamon valley, which terminates at the ridgeupon which Kennett Square stands. Below him, on the right, lay the fieldand hedge, across which he and Fortune (he wondered what had become ofthe man) had followed the chase; and before him, on the level, rose thestately trees of the wood which was to be his trysting-place. It was asweet, peaceful scene, and but for the under-current of trouble uponwhich all his sensations floated, he could have recognized the beautyand the bliss of human life, which such golden days suggest. 

It was scarcely yet two o'clock, and he watched the smooth field nearestthe village for full three-quarters of an hour, before his sharp eyescould detect any moving form upon its surface. To impatience succeededdoubt, to doubt, at its most cruel height, a shock of certainty. BetsyLavender and Martha Deane had entered the field at the bottom, and, concealed behind the hedge of black-thorn, had walked half-way to thewood before he discovered them, by means of a lucky break in the hedge. With breathless haste he descended the slope, entered the wood at itslower edge, and traversed the tangled thickets of dogwood and haw, untilhe gained the foot-path, winding through the very heart of the shade. 

It was not many minutes before the two advancing forms glimmered amongthe leaves. As he sprang forward to meet them, Miss Betsy Lavendersuddenly exclaimed, --"Well, I never, Martha! here's wintergreen!" andwas down on her knees, on the dead leaves, with her long nose nearlytouching the plants. 

When the lovers saw each other's eyes, one impulse drew them heart toheart. Each felt the clasp of the other's arms, and the sweetness ofthat perfect kiss, which is mutually given, as mutually taken, --the ripefruit of love, which having once tasted, all its first timid tokens seemever afterwards immature and unsatisfactory. The hearts of both hadunconsciously grown in warmth, in grace and tenderness; and they nowfelt, for the first time, the utter, reciprocal surrender of theirnatures which truly gave them to each other. 

As they slowly unwound the blissful embrace, and, holding each other'shands, drew their faces apart until either's eyes could receive theother's beloved countenance, no words were spoken, --and none wereneeded. Thenceforward, neither would ever say to the other, --"Do youlove me as well as ever?" or "Are you sure you can never change?"--fortheirs were natures to which such tender doubt and curiosity wereforeign. It was not the age of introversion or analytical love; theywere sound, simple, fervent natures, and believed forever in the greattruth which had come to them. 

"Gilbert, " said Martha, presently, "it was right that we should meetbefore you leave home. I have much to tell you--for now you must knoweverything that concerns me; it is your right. "

Her words were very grateful. To hear her say "It is your right, " sent athrill of purely unselfish pride through his breast. He admitted anequal right, on her part; the moments were precious, and he hastened toanswer her declaration by one as frank and confiding. 

"And I, " he said, "could not take another step until I had seen you. Donot fear, Martha, to test my patience or my faith in you, for anythingyou may put upon me will be easy to bear. I have turned our love overand over in my mind; tried to look at it--as we both must, sooner orlater--as something which, though it don't in any wise belong to others, yet with which others have the power to interfere. The world isn't madequite right, Martha, and we're living in it. "

Martha's lip took a firmer curve. "Our love is right, Gilbert, " sheexclaimed, "and the world must give way!"

"It must--I've sworn it! Now let us try to see what are the mountains inour path, and how we can best get around or over them. First, this is myposition. "

Thereupon Gilbert clearly and rapidly explained to her his precisesituation. He set forth his favorable prospects of speedy independence, the obstacle which his mother's secret threw in their way, and hisinability to guess any means which might unravel the mystery, and hastenhis and her deliverance. The disgrace once removed, he thought, allother impediments to their union would be of trifling importance. 

"I see all that clearly, " said Martha, when he had finished; "now, thisis _my_ position. "

She told him frankly her father's plans concerning her and gave him, with conscientious minuteness, all the details of Alfred Barton'sinterview. At first his face grew dark, but at the close he was able toview the subject in its true character, and to contemplate it with ascareless a merriment as her own. 

"You see, Gilbert, " were Martha's final words, "how we are situated. IfI marry, against my father's consent, before I am twenty-five"--

"Don't speak of your property, Martha!" he cried; "I never took thatinto mind!"

"I know you didn't. Gilbert, but _I_ do! It is mine, and must be mine, to be yours; here you must let me have my own way--I will obey you ineverything else. Four years is not long for us to wait, having faith ineach other; and in that time, I doubt not, your mother's secret will berevealed. You cannot, must not, press her further; in the meantime wewill see each other as often as possible"--

"Four years!" Gilbert interrupted, in a tone almost of despair. 

"Well--not quite, " said Martha, smiling archly; "since you must know myexact age, Gilbert, I was twenty-one on the second of last February; sothat the time is really three years, four months, and eleven days. "

"I'd serve seven years, as Jacob served, if need be, " he said. "It's notalone the waiting; it's the anxiety, the uncertainty, the terrible fearof that which I don't know. I'm sure that Betsy Lavender guessessomething about it; have you told her what my mother says?"

"It was _your_ secret, Gilbert. "

"I didn't think, " he answered, softly. "But it's well she should know. She is the best friend we have. Betsy!"

"A mortal long time afore _I_'m wanted!" exclaimed Miss Lavender, withassumed grimness, as she obeyed the call. "I s'pose you thought therewas no watch needed, and both ends o' the path open to all the world. Well--what am _I_ to do?--move mountains like a grain o' mustard seed(or however it runs), dip out th' ocean with a pint-pot, or ketch oldbirds with chaff, eh?"

Gilbert, aware that she was familiar with the particular difficulties onMartha's side, now made her acquainted with his own. At the mention ofhis mother's declaration in regard to his birth, she lifted her handsand nodded her head, listening, thenceforth to the end, with half-closedeyes and her loose lips drawn up in a curious pucker. 

"What do you think of it?" he asked, as she remained silent. 

"Think of it? About as pretty a snarl as ever I see. I can't say as I'mso over and above taken aback by what your mother says. I've all alonghad a hankerin' suspicion of it in my bones. Some things seems to melike the smell o' water-melons, that I've knowed to come with freshsnow; you know there _is_ no water-melons, but then, there's the smellof 'em! But it won't do to hurry a matter o' this kind--long-sufferin'and slow to anger, though that don't quite suit, but never mind, all thesame--my opinion is, ye've both o' ye got to wait!"

"Betsy, do you know nothing about it? Can you guess nothing?" Gilbertpersisted. 

She stole a quick glance at Martha, which he detected, and a chill ranthrough his blood. His face grew pale. 

"Nothin' that fits your case, " said Miss Lavender, presently. She sawthe renewal of Gilbert's suspicion, and was casting about in her mindhow to allay it without indicating something else which she wished toconceal. "This I'll say, " she exclaimed at last, with desperatefrankness, "that I _do_ know somethin' that may be o' use, when thingscomes to the wust, as I hope they won't, but it's neither here nor thereso far as _you two_ are concerned; so don't ask me, for I won't tell, and if it's to be done, _I'm_ the only one to do it! If I've got mylittle secrets, I'm keepin' 'em in your interest, remember that!"

There was the glimmer of a tear in each of Miss Lavender's eyes beforeshe knew it. 

"Betsy, my dear friend!" cried Gilbert, "we know you and trust you. Onlysay this, for my sake--that you think my mother's secret is nothingwhich will part Martha and me!"

"Martha and me. I _do_ think so--am I a dragon, or a--what's that Jobtalks about?--a behemoth? It's no use; we must all wait and see what'llturn up. But, Martha, I've rather a bright thought, for a wonder; whatif we could bring Alf. Barton into the plot, and git him to help us forthe sake o' _his_ bein' helped?"

Martha looked surprised, but Gilbert flushed up to the roots of hishair, and set his lips firmly together. 

"I dunno as it'll do, " continued Miss Betsy, with perfect indifferenceto these signs, "but then it _might_. First and foremost, we must try tofind out what he wants, for it isn't you, Martha; so you, Gilbert, mightas well be a little more of a cowcumber than you are at this presentmoment. But if it's nothin' ag'inst the law, and not likely, for he'stoo cute, we might even use a vessel--well, not exackly o' wrath, butsomethin' like it. There's more 'n one concern at work in all this, itstrikes _me_, and it's wuth while to know 'em all. "

Gilbert was ashamed of his sensitiveness in regard to Barton, especiallyafter Martha's frank and merry confession; so he declared himselfentirely willing to abide by her judgment. 

"It would not be pleasant to have Alfred Barton associated with us, evenin the way of help, " she said. "I have a woman's curiosity to know whathe means, I confess, but, unless Betsy could make the discovery withoutme, I would not take any steps towards it. "

"Much would be fittin' to me, child, " said Miss Lavender, "that wouldn'tpass for you, at all. We've got six weeks till Gilbert comes back, andno need o' hurry, except our arrand to Polly Withers's, which'll come tonothin', unless you each take leave of other mighty quick, while I'mlookin' for some more wintergreen. "

With these words she turned short around and strode away. 

"It had best be our own secret yet, Martha?" he asked. 

"Yes, Gilbert, and all the more precious. "

They clasped hands and kissed, once, twice, thrice, and then theunderwood slowly deepened between them, and the shadows of the forestseparated them from each other. 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

SANDY FLASH REAPPEARS. 

During the month of October, while Gilbert Potter was occupied with hislonely and monotonous task, he had ample leisure to evolve a clear, calm, happy purpose from the tumult of his excited feelings. This was, first, to accomplish his own independence, which now seemed inevitablynecessary, for his mother's sake, and its possible consequences to her;then, strong in the knowledge of Martha Deane's fidelity, to wait withher. 

With the exception of a few days of rainy weather, his haulingprospered, and he returned home after five weeks' absence, to count upthe gains of the year and find that very little was lacking of theentire amount to be paid. 

Mary Potter, as the prospect of release drew so near, became suddenlyanxious and restless. The knowledge that a very large sum of money (asshe considered it) was in the house, filled her with a thousand newfears. There were again rumors of Sandy Flash lurking aroundMarlborough, and she shuddered and trembled whenever his name wasmentioned. Her uneasiness became at last so great that Gilbert finallyproposed writing to the conveyancer in Chester who held the mortgage, and asking whether the money might not as well be paid at once, since hehad it in hand, as wait until the following spring. 

"It's not the regular way, " said she, "but then, I suppose it'll holdin law. You can ask Mr. Trainer about that. O Gilbert, if it can bedone, it'll take a great load off my mind!"

"Whatever puts the mortgage into my hands, mother, " said he, "is legalenough for us. I needn't even wait to sell the grain; Mark Deane willlend me the seventy-five dollars still to be made up, if he hasthem--or, if he can't, somebody else will. I was going to the Squarethis evening; so I'll write the letter at once, and put it in theoffice. "

The first thing Gilbert did, on reaching the village, was to post theletter in season for the mail-rider, who went once a week to and frobetween Chester and Peach-bottom Ferry, on the Susquehanna. Then hecrossed the street to Dr. Deane's, in order to inquire for Mark, butwith the chief hope of seeing Martha for one sweet moment, at least. Inthis, however, he was disappointed; as he reached the gate, Mark issuedfrom the door. 

"Why, Gilbert, old boy!" he shouted; "the sight o' you's good for soreeyes! What have you been about since that Sunday evening we rode up thewest branch? I was jist steppin' over to the tavern to see thefellows--come along, and have a glass o' Rye!"

He threw his heavy arm over Gilbert's shoulder, and drew him along. 

"In a minute, Mark; wait a bit--I've a little matter of business withyou. I need to borrow seventy-five dollars for a month or six weeks, until my wheat is sold. Have you that much that you're not using?"

"That and more comin' to me soon, " said Mark, "and of course you canhave it. Want it right away?"

"Very likely in ten or twelve days. "

"Oh, well, never fear--I'll have some accounts squared by that time!Come along!" And therewith the good-natured fellow hurried his friendinto the bar-room of the Unicorn. 

"Done pretty well, haulin', this time?" asked Mark, as they touchedglasses. 

"Very well, " answered Gilbert, "seeing it's the last time. I'm at anend with hauling now. "

"You don't say so? Here's to your good luck!" exclaimed Mark, emptyinghis glass. 

A man, who had been tilting his chair against the wall, in the farthercorner of the room, now arose and came forward. It was Alfred Barton. 

During Gilbert's absence, neither this gentleman's plan nor that of hisfather, had made much progress. It was tolerably easy, to be sure, togive the old man the impression that the preliminary arrangements withregard to money were going on harmoniously; but it was not so easy toprocure Dr. Deane's acceptance of the part marked out for him. Alfredhad sought an interview with the latter soon after that which he had hadwith Martha, and the result was not at all satisfactory. The wooer hadbeen obliged to declare that his suit was unsuccessful; but, hebelieved, only temporarily so. Martha had been taken by surprise; thequestion had come upon her so suddenly that she could scarcely be saidto know her own mind, and time must be allowed her. Although thisstatement seemed probable to Dr. Deane, as it coincided with his ownexperience in previously sounding his daughter's mind, yet Alfred'sevident anxiety that nothing should be said to Martha upon the subject, and that the Doctor should assume to his father that the question ofbalancing her legacy was as good as settled, (then proceed at once tothe discussion of the second and more important question, ) excited theDoctor's suspicions. He could not well avoid giving the required promisein relation to Martha, but he insisted on seeing the legal evidences ofAlfred Barton's property, before going a step further. 

The latter was therefore in a state of great perplexity. The game he wasplaying seemed safe enough, so far, but nothing had come of it, andbeyond this point it could not be carried, without great increase ofrisk. He was more than once tempted to drop it entirely, confessing hiscomplete and final rejection, and allowing his father to take whatcourse he pleased; but presently the itching of his avaricious curiosityreturned in full force, and suggested new expedients. 

No suspicion of Gilbert Potter's relation to Martha Deane had everentered his mind. He had always had a liking for the young man, andwould, no doubt, have done him any good service which did not requirethe use of money. He now came forward very cordially and shook-handswith the two. 

Gilbert had self-possession enough to control his first impulse, and tomeet his rival with his former manner. Secure in his own fortune, heeven felt that he could afford to be magnanimous, and thus, by degrees, the dislike wore off which Martha's confession had excited. 

"What is all this talk about Sandy Flash?" he asked. 

"He's been seen up above, " said Barton; "some say, about Marlborough, and some, along the Strasburg road. He'll hardly come this way; he's toocunning to go where the people are prepared to receive him. "

If either of the three had happened to look steadily at the back windowof the bar-room, they might have detected, in the dusk, the face ofDougherty, the Irish ostler of the Unicorn Tavern. It disappearedinstantly, but there was a crack nearly half an inch wide between thebottom of the back-door and the sill under it, and to that crack alarge, flat ear was laid. 

"If he comes any nearer, you must send word around at once, " saidGilbert, --"not wait until he's already among us. "

"Let me alone for that!" Barton exclaimed; "Damn him, I only wish he hadpluck enough to come!"

Mark was indignant "What's the sheriff and constables good for?" hecried. "It's a burnin' shame that the whole country has been plunderedso long, and the fellow still runnin' at large. Much he cares for thefive hundred dollars on his head. "

"It's a thousand, now, " said Barton. "They've doubled it. "

"Come, that'd be a good haul for us. We're not bound to keep inside ofour township; I'm for an up and down chase all over the country, as soonas the fall work's over!"

"And I, too, " said Gilbert

"You 're fellows after my own heart, both o' you!" Barton asserted, slapping them upon the back. "What'll you take to drink?"

By this time several others had assembled, and the conversation becamegeneral. While the flying rumors about Sandy Flash were being producedand discussed, Barton drew Gilbert aside. 

"Suppose we step out on the back-porch, " he said, "I want to have a wordwith you. "

The door closed between them and the noisy bar-room. There was arustling noise under the porch, as of a fowl disturbed on its roost, andthen everything was still. 

"Your speaking of your having done well by hauling put it into my head, Gilbert, " Barton continued. "I wanted to borrow a little money for awhile, and there's reasons why I shouldn't call upon anybody who'd tellof it. Now, as you've got it, lying idle"--

"It happens to be just the other way, Barton, " said Gilbert, interrupting him. "I came here to-night to borrow. "

"How's that?" Barton could not help asking, with a momentary sense ofchagrin. But the next moment he added, in a milder tone, "I don't meanto pry into your business. "

"I shall very likely have to use my money soon, " Gilbert explained, "andmust at least wait until I hear from Chester. That will be another week, and then, if the money should not be wanted, I can accommodate you. But, to tell you the truth, I don't think there's much chance of that"

"Shall you have to go down to Chester?"

"I hope so. "

"When?"

"In ten or twelve days from now. "

"Then, " said Barton, "I 'II fix it this way. 'Tisn't only the money Iwant, but to have it paid in Chester, without the old man or Stacyknowing anything of the matter. If I was to go myself, Stacy'd neverrest till he found out my business--Faith! I believe if I was hid inthe hayloft o' the William Penn Tavern, he'd scent me out. Now, I canget the money of another fellow I know, if you'll take it down and handit over for me. Would you be that obliging?"

"Of course, " Gilbert answered. "If I go it will be no additionaltrouble. "

"All right, " said Barton, "between ourselves, you understand. "

A week later, a letter, with the following address was brought to thepost-office by the mail-rider, --

_"To Mr. Gilbert Potter, Esq. Kennett Square P. O. These, with Care and Speed. "_

Gilbert, having carefully cut around the wafer and unfolded the sheet ofstrong yellowish paper, read this missive, --

"Sir: Yr respd favour of ye [Footnote: This form of the article, thoughin general disuse at the time, was still frequently employed inepistolary writing, in that part of Pennsylvania. [ed note: The r in Yrand e in ye, etc. Are superscripted. ]] 11th came duly to hand, and yeproposition wh it contains has been submitted to Mr. Jones, ye presenthoulder of ye mortgage. He wishes me to inform you that he did notanticipate ye payment before ye first day of April, 1797, wh was ye termagreed upon at ye payment of ye first note; nevertheless, being requiredto accept full and lawful payment, whensoever tendered, he hathimpowered me to receive ye moneys at yr convenience, providing yesettlement be full and compleat, as aforesaid, and not merely ye paymentof a part or portion thereof. 

"Yr obt servt, "ISAAC TRAINER. "

Gilbert, with his limited experience of business matters, had entirelyoverlooked the fact, that the permission of the creditor is notnecessary to the payment of a debt. He had a profound respect for alllegal forms, and his indebtedness carried with it a sense of stern andperpetual responsibility, which, alas! has not always been inherited bythe descendants of that simple and primitive period. 

Mary Potter received the news with a sigh of relief. The money was againcounted, the interest which would be due somewhat laboriously computed, and finally nothing remained but the sum which Mark Deane had promisedto furnish. This Mark expected to receive on the following Wednesday, and Gilbert and his mother agreed that the journey to Chester should bemade at the close of the same week. 

They went over these calculations in the quiet of the Sabbath afternoon, sitting alone in the neat, old-fashioned kitchen, with the dim light ofan Indian-summer sun striking through the leafless trumpet-vines, andmaking a quaint network of light and shade on the whitewashedwindow-frame. The pendulum ticked drowsily along the opposite wall, andthe hickory back-log on the hearth hummed a lamentable song through allits simmering pores of sap. Peaceful as the happy landscape without, dozing in dreams of the departed summer, cheery as the tidy householdsigns within, seemed at last the lives of the two inmates. Mary Potterhad not asked how her son's wooing had further sped, but she felt thathe was contented of heart; she, too, indulging finally in the nearconsummation of her hopes, --which touched her like the pitying sympathyof the Power that had dealt so singularly with her life, --was nearer thefeeling of happiness than she had been for long and weary years. 

Gilbert was moved by the serenity of her face, and the trouble, which heknew it concealed, seemed, to his mind, to be wearing away. Carefullysecuring the doors, they walked over the fields together, pausing on thehilltop to listen to the caw of the gathering crows, or to watch theruby disc of the beamless sun stooping to touch the western rim of thevalley. Many a time had they thus gone over the farm together, but neverbefore with such a sense of peace and security. The day was removed, mysteriously, from the circle of its fellows, and set apart by apeculiar influence which prevented either from ever forgetting it, during all the years that came after. 

They were not aware that at the very moment this influence wasprofoundest in their hearts, new rumors of Sandy Flash's movements hadreached Kennett Square, and were being excitedly discussed at theUnicorn Tavern. He had been met on the Street Road, riding towards theRed Lion, that very afternoon, by a man who knew his face; and, later inthe evening came a second report, that an individual of his build hadcrossed the Philadelphia Road, this side of the Anvil, and gonesouthward into the woods. Many were the surmises, and even detailedaccounts, of robberies that either had been or might be committed, butno one could say precisely how much was true. 

Mark Deane was not at home, and the blacksmith was commissioned tosummon Alfred Barton, who had ridden over to Pennsbury, on a friendlyvisit to Mr. Joel Ferris. When he finally made his appearance, towardsten o'clock, he was secretly horror-stricken at the great danger he hadescaped; but it gave him an admirable opportunity to swagger. He coulddo no less than promise to summon the volunteers in the morning, andprovision was made accordingly, for despatching as many messengers asthe village could afford. 

Since the British occupation, nearly twenty years before, Kennett Squarehad not known as lively a day as that which followed. The men and boyswere in the street, grouped in front of the tavern, the women at thewindows, watching, some with alarmed, but many with amused faces. SallyFairthorn, although it was washing-day, stole up through Dr. Deane'sgarden and into Martha's room, for at least half an hour, but Joe andJake left their overturned shocks of corn unhusked for the whole day. 

Some of the young farmers to whom the message had been sent, returnedanswer that they were very busy and could not leave their work; thehorses of others were lame; the guns of others broken. By ten o'clock, however, there were nine volunteers, very irregularly armed and mounted, in attendance; by eleven o'clock, thirteen, and Alfred Barton, whoseplace as leader was anything but comfortable, began to swell with an airof importance, and set about examining the guns of his command. Neitherhe nor any one else noticed particularly that the Irish ostler appearedto be a great connoisseur in muskets, and was especially interested inthe structure of the flints and pans. 

"Let's look over the roll, and see how many are true blue, " said Barton, drawing a paper from his pocket. "There's failing nine or ten, among 'emsome I fully counted on--Withers, he _may_ come yet; Ferris, hardly timeto get word; but Carson, Potter, and Travilla ought to turn up curstsoon, or we'll have the sport without 'em!"

"Give me a horse, Mr. Barton, and I'll ride down for Gilbert!" cried JoeFairthorn. 

"No use, --Giles went this morning, " growled Barton. 

"It's time we were starting; which road would be best to take?" askedone of the volunteers. 

"All roads lead to Rome, but all don't lead to Sandy Flash, ha! ha!"said another, laughing at his own smartness. 

"Who knows where he was seen last?" Barton asked, but it was not easy toget a coherent answer. One had heard one report, and another another; hehad been seen from the Street Road on the north all the way aroundeastward by the Red Lion and the Anvil, and in the rocky glen below theBarton farm, to the lime-quarries of Tuffkenamon on the west. 

"Unless we scatter, it'll be like looking for a needle in a haystack, "remarked one of the more courageous volunteers. 

"If they'd all had spunk enough to come, " said Barton, "we might ha'made four parties, and gone out on each road. As it is, we're onlystrong enough for two. "

"Seven to one?--that's too much odds in Sandy's favor!" cried alight-headed youth, whereat the others all laughed, and some of themblushed a little. 

Barton bit his lip, and with a withering glance at the young man, replied, --"Then we'll make three parties, and you shall be the third. "

Another quarter of an hour having elapsed, without any accession to thetroop, Barton reluctantly advised the men to get their arms, which hadbeen carelessly placed along the tavern-porch, and to mount for thechase. 

Just then Joe and Jake Fairthorn, who had been dodging back and forththrough the village, watching the roads, made their appearance with theannouncement, --

"Hurray--there's another--comin' up from below, but it a'n't Gilbert. He's stuck full o' pistols, but he's a-foot, and you must git him ahorse. I tell you, he looks like a real buster!"

"Who can it be?" asked Barton. 

"We'll see, in a minute, " said the nearest volunteers, taking up theirmuskets. 

"There he is, --there he is!" cried Joe. 

All eyes, turned towards the crossing of the roads, beheld, justrounding the corner-house, fifty paces distant, a short, broad-shouldered, determined figure, making directly for the tavern. Hisface was red and freckled, his thin lips half-parted with a grin whichshowed the flash of white teeth between them, and his eyes sparkled withthe light of a cold, fierce courage. He had a double-barrelled musketon his shoulder, and there were four pistols in the tight leathern beltabout his waist. 

Barton turned deadly pale as he beheld this man. An astonished silencefell upon the group, but, the next moment, some voice exclaimed, in anundertone, which, nevertheless, every one heard, --

"By the living Lord! Sandy Flash himself!"

There was a general confused movement, of which Alfred Barton tookadvantage to partly cover his heavy body by one of the porch-pillars. Some of the volunteers started back, others pressed closer together. Thepert youth, alone, who was to form the third party, brought his musketto his shoulder. 

Quick as lightning Sandy Flash drew a pistol from his belt and levelledit at the young man's breast. 

"Ground arms!" he cried, "or you are a dead man. "

He was obeyed, although slowly and with grinding teeth. 

"Stand aside!" he then commanded. "_You_ have pluck, and I should hateto shoot you. Make way, the rest o' ye! I've saved ye the trouble o'ridin' far to find me. Whoever puts finger to trigger, falls. Back, back, I say, and open the door for me!"

Still advancing as he spoke, and shifting his pistol so as to cover nowone, now another of the group, he reached the tavern-porch. Some oneopened the door of the barroom, which swung inwards. The highwaymanstrode directly to the bar, and there stood, facing the open door, whilehe cried to the trembling bar-keeper, --

"A glass o' Rye, good and strong!"

It was set before him. Holding the musket in his arm, he took the glass, drank, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and then, spinning asilver dollar into the air, said, as it rang upon the floor, --

"_I_ stand treat to-day; let the rest o' the gentlemen drink at myexpense!"

He then walked out, and slowly retreated backwards towards thecorner-house, covering his retreat with the levelled pistol, and theflash of his dauntless eye. 

He had nearly reached the corner, when Gilbert Potter dashed up behindhim, with Roger all in a foam. Joe Fairthorn, seized with deadly terrorwhen he heard the terrible name, had set off at full speed for home; butdescrying Gilbert approaching on a gallop, changed his course, met thelatter, and gasped out the astounding intelligence. All this was thework of a minute, and when Gilbert reached the corner, a single glanceshowed him the true state of affairs. The confused group in front of thetavern, some faces sallow with cowardice, some red with indignation andshame; the solitary, retreating figure, alive in every nerve withsplendid courage, told him the whole story, which Joe's broken words hadonly half hinted. 

Flinging himself from his horse, he levelled his musket, and criedout, --

"Surrender!"

Sandy Flash, with a sudden spring, placed his back against the house, pointed his pistol at Gilbert, and said: "Drop your gun, or I fire!"

For answer, Gilbert drew the trigger; the crack of the explosion rangsharp and clear, and a little shower of mortar covered Sandy Flash'scocked hat. The ball had struck the wall about four inches above hishead. 

He leaped forward; Gilbert clubbed his musket and awaited him. They werescarcely two yards apart; the highwayman's pistol-barrel was oppositeGilbert's heart, and the two men were looking into each other's eyes. The group in front of the tavern stood as if paralyzed, every manholding his breath. 

"Halt!" said Sandy Flash. "Halt! I hate bloodshed, and besides that, young Potter, you're not the man that'll take me prisoner. I could blowyour brains out by movin' this finger, but _you_'re safe from any bulleto' mine, whoever a'n't!"

At the last words a bright, mocking, malicious grin stole over his face. Gilbert, amazed to find himself known to the highwayman, and puzzledwith certain familiar marks in the latter's countenance, was swiftlyenlightened by this grin. It was Fortune's face before him, without theblack hair and whiskers, --and Fortune's voice that spoke!

Sandy Flash saw the recognition. He grinned again. "You'll know yourfriend, another time, " he said, sprang five feet backward, whirled, gained the cover of the house, and was mounting his horse among thebushes at the bottom of the garden, before any of the others reachedGilbert, who was still standing as if thunder-struck. 

By this time Sandy Flash had leaped the hedge and was careering likelightning towards the shelter of the woods. The interest now turned uponGilbert Potter, who was very taciturn and thoughtful, and had little torelate. They noticed, however, that his eyes were turned often andinquiringly upon Alfred Barton, and that the latter as steadily avoidedmeeting them. 

When Gilbert went to bring Roger, who had quietly waited at the crossingof the roads, Deb. Smith suddenly made her appearance. 

"I seen it all, " she said. "I was a bit up the road, but I seen it. Youshouldn't ha' shot, Mr. Gilbert, though it isn't him that's born to behit with a bullet; but _you_'re safe enough from _his_ bullets, anyhow--whatever happens, _you_'re safe!"

"What do you mean, Deborah?" he exclaimed, as she almost repeated to himSandy Flash's very words. 

"I mean what I say, " she answered. "_You_ wouldn't be afeard, but it'llbe a comfort to your mother. I must have a drink o' whiskey after thatsight. "

With these words she elbowed her way into the barroom. Most of theKennett Volunteers were there engaged in carrying out a similarresolution. They would gladly have kept the whole occurrence secret, butthat was impossible. It was known all over the country, in three days, and the story of it has not yet died out of the local annals. 

CHAPTER XIX. 

THE HUSKING FROLIC. 

Jake Fairthorn rushed into Dr. Deane's door with a howl of terror. 

"Cousin Martha! Betsy!" he cried; "he's goin' to shoot Gilbert!"

"None o' your tricks, boy!" Betsy Lavender exclaimed, in her most savagetone, as she saw the paleness of Martha's face. "I'm up to 'em. Who'dshoot Gilbert Potter? Not Alf Barton, I'll be bound; he'd be afeard toshoot even Sandy Flash!"

"It's Sandy Flash, --he's there! Gilbert shot his hat off!" cried Jake. 

"The Lord have mercy!" And the next minute Miss Betsy found herself, shescarcely knew how, in the road. 

Both had heard the shot, but supposed that it was some volunteerdischarging an old load from his musket; they knew nothing of Sandy'svisit to the Unicorn, and Jake's announcement seemed simply incredible. 

"O you wicked boy! What'll become o' you?" cried Miss Lavender, as shebeheld Gilbert Potter approaching, leading Roger by the bridle. But atthe same instant she saw, from the faces of the crowd, that somethingunusual had happened. While the others instantly surrounded Gilbert, theyoung volunteer who alone had made any show of fight, told the story tothe two ladies. Martha Deane's momentary shock of terror disappearedunder the rush of mingled pride and scorn which the narrative called upin her heart. 

"What a pack of cowards!" she exclaimed, her cheeks flushing, --"to standstill and see the life of the only man that dares to face a robber atthe mercy of the robber's pistol!"

Gilbert approached. His face was grave and thoughtful, but his eyebrightened as it met hers. No two hands ever conveyed so many and suchswift messages as theirs, in the single moment when they touched eachother. The other women of the village crowded around, and he wasobliged, though with evident reluctance, to relate his share in theevent. 

In the mean time the volunteers had issued from the tavern, and wereloudly discussing what course to pursue. The most of them were in favorof instant pursuit. To their credit it must be said that very few ofthem were actual cowards; they had been both surprised by the incredibledaring of the highwayman, and betrayed by the cowardly inefficiency oftheir own leader. Barton, restored to his usual complexion by twoglasses of whiskey, was nearly ready to head a chase which he suspectedwould come to nothing; but the pert young volunteer, who had beenwhispering with some of the younger men, suddenly cried out, --

"I say, fellows, we've had about enough o' Barton's command; and I, forone, am a-goin' to enlist under Captain Potter. "

"Good!" "Agreed!" responded a number of others, and some eight or tenstepped to one side. The few remaining around Alfred Barton began tolook doubtful, and all eyes were turned curiously upon him. 

Gilbert, however, stepped forward and said: "It's bad policy to divideour forces just now, when we ought to be off on the hunt. Mr. Barton, weall know, got up the company, and I am willing to serve under him, ifhe'll order us to mount at once! If not, rather than lose more time, I'll head as many as are ready to go. "

Barton saw how the tide was turning, and suddenly determined to cover uphis shame, if possible, with a mantle of magnanimity. 

"The fellows are right, Gilbert!" he said. "You deserve to take the leadto-day, so go ahead; I'll follow you!"

"Mount, then, all of you!" Gilbert cried, without further hesitation. Ina second he was on Roger's back. "You, Barton, " he ordered, "take threewith you and make for the New-Garden cross-road as fast as you can. Pratt, you and three more towards the Hammer-and-Trowel; while I, withthe rest, follow the direct trail. "

No more time was wasted in talking. The men took their guns and mounted, the two detached commands were told off, and in five minutes the villagewas left to its own inhabitants. 

Gilbert had a long and perplexing chase, but very little came of it. Thetrail of Sandy Flash's horse was followed without much difficulty untilit struck the west branch of Redley Creek. There it suddenly ceased, andmore than an hour elapsed before some one discovered it, near the road, a quarter of a mile further up the stream. Thence it turned towards theHammer-and-Trowel, but no one at the farm-houses on the road had seenany one pass except a Quaker, wearing the usual broad-brimmed hat anddrab coat, and mounted on a large, sleepy-looking horse. 

About the middle of the afternoon, Gilbert detected, in one of the lanesleading across to the Street Road, the marks of a galloping steed, andthose who had a little lingering knowledge of wood-craft noticed thatthe gallop often ceased suddenly, changed to a walk, and was then assuddenly resumed. Along the Street Road no one had been seen except aQuaker, apparently the same person. Gilbert and his hunters nowsuspected the disguise, but the difficulty of following the trail hadincreased with every hour of lost time; and after scouring along theBrandywine and then crossing into the Pocopsin valley, they finally gaveup the chase, late in the day. It was the general opinion that Sandy hadstruck northward, and was probably safe in one of his lairs among theWelch Mountains. 

When they reached the Unicorn tavern at dusk, Gilbert found JoeFairthorn impatiently waiting for him. Sally had been "tearin' aroundlike mad, " (so Joe described his sister's excitement, ) having twicevisited the village during the afternoon in the hope of seeing the heroof the day--after Sandy Flash, of course, who had, and deserved, thefirst place. 

"And, Gilbert, " said Joe, "I wasn't to forgit to tell you that we'rea-goin' to have a huskin' frolic o' Wednesday night, --day afterto-morrow, you know. Dad's behindhand with huskin', and the moon's goin'to be full, and Mark he said Let's have a frolic, and I'm comin' home tomeet Gilbert anyhow, and so I'll be there. And Sally she said I'll haveMartha and lots o' girls, only we shan't come out into the field tillyou're nigh about done. Then Mark he said That won't take long, and ifyou don't help me with my shocks I won't come, and Sally she hit him, and so it's all agreed. And you'll come, Gilbert, won't you?"

"Yes, yes, Joe, " Gilbert answered, a little impatiently; "tell SallyI'll come. " Then he turned Roger's head towards home. 

He was glad of the solitary ride which allowed him to collect histhoughts. Fearless as was his nature, the danger he had escaped mightwell have been cause for grave self-congratulation; but the thought ofit scarcely lingered beyond the moment of the encounter. The astonishingdiscovery that the stranger, Fortune, and the redoubtable Sandy Flashwere one and the same person; the mysterious words which this person hadaddressed to him; the repetition of the same words by Deb. Smith, --allthese facts, suggesting, as their common solution, some secret whichconcerned himself, perplexed his mind, already more than sufficientlyoccupied with mystery. 

It suddenly flashed across his memory, as he rode homeward, that on theevening when he returned from the fox-chase, his mother had manifestedan unusual interest in the strange huntsman, questioning him minutely asto the latter's appearance. Was she--or, rather, had she been, at onetime of her life--acquainted with Sandy Flash? And if so--

"No!" he cried aloud, "it is impossible! It could not--cannot be!" Thenew possibility which assailed him was even more terrible than hisprevious belief in the dishonor of his birth. Better, a thousand times, he thought, be basely born than the son of an outlaw! It seemed thatevery attempt he made to probe his mother's secret threatened tooverwhelm him with a knowledge far worse than the fret of his ignorance. Why not be patient, therefore, leaving the solution to her and to time?

Nevertheless, a burning curiosity led him to relate to his mother, thatevening, the events of the day. He watched her closely as he describedhis encounter with the highwayman, and repeated the latter's words. Itwas quite natural that Mary Potter should shudder and turn pale duringthe recital--quite natural that a quick expression of relief shouldshine from her face at the close; but Gilbert could not be sure that herinterest extended to any one except himself. She suggested noexplanation of Sandy Flash's words, and he asked none. 

"I shall know no peace, child, " she said, "until the money has beenpaid, and the mortgage is in your hands. "

"You won't have long to wait, now, mother, " he answered cheerily. "Ishall see Mark on Wednesday evening, and therefore can start for Chesteron Friday, come rain or shine. As for Sandy Flash, he's no doubt up onthe Welch Mountain by this time. It isn't his way to turn up twice insuccession, in the same place. "

"You don't know him, Gilbert. He won't soon forget that you shot athim. "

"I seem to be safe enough, if he tells the truth. " Gilbert could nothelp remarking. 

Mary Potter shook her head, and said nothing. 

Two more lovely Indian-summer days went by, and as the wine-red sunslowly quenched his lower limb in the denser smoke along the horizon, the great bronzed moon struggled out of it, on the opposite rim of thesky. It was a weird light and a weird atmosphere, such as we mightimagine overspreading Babylonian ruins, on the lone plains of theEuphrates; but no such fancies either charmed or tormented the lusty, wide-awake, practical lads and lasses, whom the brightening moon beheldon their way to the Fairthorn farm. "The best night for huskin' thatever was, " comprised the sum of their appreciation. 

At the old farm-house there was great stir of preparation. Sally, withher gown pinned up, dodged in and out of kitchen and sitting-room, catching herself on every door-handle, while Mother Fairthorn, beamingwith quiet content, stood by the fire, and inspected the great kettleswhich were to contain the materials for the midnight supper. Both wererelieved when Betsy Lavender made her appearance, saying, --

"Let down your gownd, Sally, and give _me_ that ladle. What'd be amighty heap o' work for you, in that flustered condition, ischild's-play to the likes o' me, that's as steady as a cart-horse, --notthat self-praise, as the sayin' is, is any recommendation, --but mykickin' and prancin' days is over, and high time, too. "

"No, Betsy, I'll not allow it!" cried Sally. "You must enjoy yourself, too. " But she had parted with the ladle, while speaking, and MissLavender, repeating the words "Enjoy yourself, too!" quietly took herplace in the kitchen. 

The young men, as they arrived, took their way to the corn-field, piloted by Joe and Jake Fairthorn. These boys each carried a wallet overhis shoulders, the jug in the front end balancing that behind, and theonly casualty that occurred was when Jake, jumping down from a fence, allowed his jugs to smite together, breaking one of them to shivers. 

"There, that'll come out o' your pig-money, " said Joe. 

"I don't care, " Jake retorted, "if daddy only pays me the rest. "

The boys, it must be known, received every year the two smallest pigs ofthe old sow's litter, with the understanding that these were to be theirseparate property, on condition of their properly feeding and fosteringthe whole herd. This duty they performed with great zeal and enthusiasm, and numberless and splendid were the castles which they built with thecoming money; yet, alas! when the pigs were sold, it always happenedthat Farmer Fairthorn found some inconvenient debt pressing him, and theboys' pig-money was therefore taken as a loan, --only as a loan, --andpermanently invested. 

There were between three and four hundred shocks to husk, and the youngmen, armed with husking-pegs of hickory, fastened by a leathern strapover the two middle fingers, went bravely to work. Mark Deane, who hadreached home that afternoon, wore the seventy-five dollars in a buckskinbelt around his waist, and anxiously awaited the arrival of GilbertPotter, of whose adventure he had already heard. Mark's presumedobligations to Alfred Barton prevented him from expressing hisoverpowering contempt for that gentleman's conduct, but he was notobliged to hold his tongue about Gilbert's pluck and decision, and hedid not. 

The latter, detained at the house by Mother Fairthorn and Sally, --bothof whom looked upon him as one arisen from the dead, --did not reach thefield until the others had selected their rows, overturned the shocks, and were seated in a rustling line, in the moonlight. 

"Gilbert!" shouted Mark, "come here! I've kep' the row next to mine, foryou! And I want to get a grip o' your hand, my bold boy!"

He sprang up, flinging an armful of stalks behind him, and withdifficulty restrained an impulse to clasp Gilbert to his broad breast. It was not the custom of the neighborhood; the noblest masculinefriendship would have been described by the people in no other termsthan "They are very thick, " and men who loved each other were accustomedto be satisfied with the knowledge. The strong moonlight revealed toGilbert Potter the honest heart which looked out of Mark's blue eyes, asthe latter held his hand like a vice, and said, --

"I've heard all about it. "

"More than there was occasion for, very likely, " Gilbert replied. "I'lltell you my story some day, Mark; but tonight we must work and nottalk. "

"All right, Gilbert. I say, though, I've got the money you wanted; we'llfix the matter after supper. "

The rustling of the corn-stalks recommenced, and the tented lines ofshocks slowly fell as the huskers worked their way over the brow of thehill, whence the ground sloped down into a broad belt of shade, cast bythe woods in the bottom. Two or three dogs which had accompanied theirmasters coursed about the field, or darted into the woods in search ofan opossum-trail. Joe and Jake Fairthorn would gladly have followedthem, but were afraid of venturing into the mysterious gloom; so theyamused themselves with putting on the coats which the men had thrownaside, and gravely marched up and down the line, commending the rapidand threatening the tardy workers. 

Erelong, the silence was broken by many a shout of exultation or banter, many a merry sound of jest or fun, as the back of the night's task wasfairly broken. One husker mimicked the hoot of an owl in the thicketsbelow; another sang a melody popular at the time, the refrain of whichwas, --

 "Be it late or early, be it late or soon, It's I will enjoy the sweet rose in June!"

"Sing out, boys!" shouted Mark, "so the girls can hear you! It's timethey were comin' to look after us. "

"Sing, yourself!" some one replied. "You can out-bellow the whole raft. "

Without more ado, Mark opened his mouth and began chanting, in aponderous voice, --

 "On yonder mountain summit My castle you will find, Renown'd in ann-cient historee, -- My name it's Rinardine!"

Presently, from the upper edge of the wood, several feminine voices wereheard, singing another part of the same song:--

 "Beware of meeting Rinar, All on the mountains high!"

Such a shout of fun ran over the field, that the frighted owl ceased hishooting in the thicket. The moon stood high, and turned the night-hazeinto diffused silver. Though the hollows were chill with gatheringfrost, the air was still mild and dry on the hills, and the youngladies, in their warm gowns of home-made flannel, enjoyed both thesplendor of the night and the lively emulation of the scatteredlaborers. 

"Turn to, and give us a lift, girls, " said Mark. 

"Beware of meeting Rinar!" Sally laughed. 

"Because you know what you promised him, Sally, " he retorted. "Come, abargain's a bargain; there's the outside row standin'--not enough of usto stretch all the way acrost the field--so let's you and me take thatand bring it down square with th' others. The rest may keep my rowa-goin', if they can. "

Two or three of the other maidens had cut the supporting stalks of thenext shock, and overturned it with much laughing. "I can't husk, Mark, "said Martha Deane, "but I'll promise to superintend these, if you willkeep Sally to her word. "

There was a little running hither and thither, a show of fight, a mockscramble, and it ended by Sally tumbling over a pumpkin, and then beingcarried off by Mark to the end of the outside row of shocks, somedistance in the rear of the line of work. Here he laid the stalksstraight for her, doubled his coat and placed it on the ground for aseat, and then took his place on the other side of the shock. 

Sally husked a few ears in silence, but presently found it moreagreeable to watch her partner, as he bent to the labor, ripping thecovering from each ear with one or two rapid motions, snapping the cob, and flinging the ear over his shoulder into the very centre of the heap, without turning his head. When the shock was finished, there were fivestalks on her side, and fifty on Mark's. 

He laughed at the extent of her help, but, seeing how bright andbeautiful her face looked in the moonlight, how round and supple herform, contrasted with his own rough proportions, he added, in a lowertone, --

"Never mind the work, Sally--I only wanted to have you with me. "

Sally was silent, but happy, and Mark proceeded to overthrow the nextshock. 

When they were again seated face to face, he no longer bent so steadilyover the stalks, but lifted his head now and then to watch the gloss ofthe moon on her black hair, and the mellow gleam that seemed to slidealong her cheek and chin, playing with the shadows, as she moved. 

"Sally!" he said at last, "you must ha' seen, over and over ag'in, thatI like to be with you. Do you care for me, at all?"

She flushed and trembled a little as she answered, --"Yes, Mark, I do. "

He husked half a dozen ears rapidly, then looked up again and asked, --

"Do you care enough for me, Sally, to take me for good and all? I can'tput it into fine speech, but I love you dearly and honestly; will youmarry me?"

Sally bent down her head, so choked with the long-delayed joy that shefound it impossible to speak. Mark finished the few remaining stalks andput them behind him; he sat upon the ground at her feet. 

"There's my hand, Sally; will you take it, and me with it?"

Her hand slowly made its way into his broad, hard palm. Once thesurrender expressed, her confusion vanished; she lifted her head for hiskiss, then leaned it on his shoulder and whispered, --

"Oh, Mark, I've loved you for ever and ever so long a time!"

"Why, Sally, deary, " said he, "that's my case, too; and I seemed to feelit in my bones that we was to be a pair; only, you know, I had to get afoothold first. I couldn't come to you with empty hands--though, faith!there's not much to speak of in 'em!"

"Never mind that, Mark, --I'm _so_ glad you want me!"

And indeed she was; why should she not, therefore, say so?

"There's no need o' broken sixpences, or true-lovers' knots, I guess, "said Mark, giving her another kiss. "I'm a plain-spoken fellow, and whenI say I want you for my wife, Sally, I mean it. But we mustn't besettin' here, with the row unhusked; that'll never do. See if I don'tmake the ears spin! And I guess you can help me a little now, can'tyou?"

With a jolly laugh, Mark picked up the corn-cutter and swung it abovethe next shock. In another instant it would have fallen, but a loudshriek burst out from the bundled stalks, and Joe Fairthorn crept forthon his hands and knees. 

The lovers stood petrified. "Why, you young devil!" exclaimed Mark, while the single word "JOE!" which came from Sally's lips, contained theconcentrated essence of a thousand slaps. 

"Don't--don't!" whimpered Joe. "I'll not tell anybody, indeed I wont!"

"If you do, " threatened Mark, brandishing the corn-cutter, "it isn'tyour legs I shall cut off, but your head, even with the shoulders. Whatwere you doin' in that shock?"

"I wanted to hear what you and Sally were savin' to each other. Folkssaid you two was a-courtin', " Joe answered. 

The comical aspect of the matter suddenly struck Mark, and he burst intoa roar of laughter. 

"Mark, how can you?" said Sally, bridling a little. 

"Well, --it's all in the fam'ly, after all. Joe, tarnation scamp as heis, is long-headed enough to keep his mouth shut, rather than havepeople laugh at his relations--eh, Joe?"

"I said I'd never say a word, " Joe affirmed, "and I won't. You see if Ieven tell Jake. But I say, Mark, when you and Sally get married, willyou be my uncle?"

"It depends on your behavior, " Mark gravely answered, seating himself tohusk. Joe magnanimously left the lovers, and pitched over the thirdshock ahead, upon which he began to husk with might and main, in orderto help them out with their task. 

By the time the outside row was squared, the line had reached the bottomof the slope, where the air was chill, although the shadows of theforest had shifted from the field. Then there was a race among thehuskers for the fence, the girls promising that he whose row was firsthusked out, should sit at the head of the table, and be called King ofthe Corn-field. The stalks rustled, the cobs snapped, the ears fell likea shower of golden cones, and amid much noise and merriment, not onlythe victor's row but all the others were finished, and FarmerFairthorn's field stood husked from end to end. 

Gilbert Potter had done his share of the work steadily, and as silentlyas the curiosity of the girls, still excited by his recent adventure, would allow. It was enough for him that he caught a chance word, now andthen, from Martha. The emulation of the race with which the huskingclosed favored them, and he gladly lost a very fair chance of becomingKing of the Corn-field for the opportunity of asking her to assist himin contriving a brief interview, on the way to the house. 

Where two work together to the same end, there is no doubt about theresult, especially as, in this case, the company preferred returningthrough the wood instead of crossing the open, high-fenced fields. Whenthey found themselves together, out of ear-shot of the others, Gilbertlost no time in relating the particulars of his encounter with SandyFlash, the discovery he had made, and the mysterious assurance of Deb. Smith. 

Martha listened with the keenest interest. "It is very, very strange, "she said, "and the strangest of all is that he should be that man, Fortune. As for his words, I do not find them so singular. He hascertainly the grandest courage, robber as he is, and he admires the samequality in you; no doubt you made a favorable impression upon him on theday of the fox-chase; and so, although you are hunting him down, he willnot injure you, if he can help it. I find all that very natural, in aman of his nature. "

"But Deb. Smith?" Gilbert asked. 

"That, " said Martha, "is rather a curious coincidence, but nothing more, I think. She is said to be a superstitious creature, and if you haveever befriended her, --and you may have done so, Gilbert, without yourgood heart being aware of it, --she thinks that her spells, or charms, orwhat not, will save you from harm. No, I was wrong; it is not so verystrange, except Fortune's intimacy with Alfred Barton, which everybodywas talking about at the time. "

Gilbert drew a deep breath of relief. How the darkness of his new fearvanished, in the light of Martha's calm, sensible words! "Howwonderfully you have guessed the truth!". He cried. "So it is; Deb. Smith thinks she is beholden to me for kind treatment; she blew upon mypalm, in a mysterious way, and said she would stand by me in time ofneed! But that about Fortune puzzles me. I can see that Barton is veryshy of me since he thinks I've made the discovery. "

"We must ask Betsy Lavender's counsel, there, " said Martha. "It isbeyond my depth. "

The supper smoked upon the table when they reached the farm-house. Ithad been well earned, and it was enjoyed, both in a physical and asocial sense, to the very extent of the guests' capacities. The King satat the head of the table, and Gilbert Potter--forced into that positionby Mark--at the foot. Sally Fairthorn insisted on performing her duty ashandmaiden, although, as Betsy Lavender again and again declared, herroom was better than her help. Sally's dark eyes fairly danced andsparkled; her full, soft lips shone with a scarlet bloom; she laughedwith a wild, nervous joyousness, and yet rushed about haunted with afearful dread of suddenly bursting into tears. Her ways were so wellknown, however, that a little extra impulsiveness excited no surprise. Martha Deane was the only person who discovered what had taken place. Asthe girls were putting on their hats and cloaks in the bedroom, Sallydrew her into the passage, kissed her a number of times with passionatevehemence, and then darted off without saying a word. 

Gilbert rode home through the splendid moonlight, in the small hours ofthe morning, with a light heart, and Mark's money-belt buckled aroundhis waist. 

CHAPTER XX. 

GILBERT ON THE ROAD TO CHESTER. 

Being now fully prepared to undertake his journey to Chester, Gilbertremembered his promise to Alfred Barton. As the subject had not againbeen mentioned between them, --probably owing to the excitement producedby Sandy Flash's visit to Kennett Square, and its consequences, --he feltbound to inform Barton of his speedy departure, and to renew his offerof service. 

He found the latter in the field, assisting Giles, who was hauling homethe sheaves of corn-fodder in a harvest-wagon. The first meeting of thetwo men did not seem to be quite agreeable to either. Gilbert'ssuspicions had been aroused, although he could give them no definiteform, and Barton shrank from any reference to what had now become a verysore topic. 

"Giles, " said the latter, after a moment of evident embarrassment, "Iguess you may drive home with that load, and pitch it off; I'll wait foryou here. "

When the rustling wain had reached a convenient distance, Gilbertbegan, --

"I only wanted to say that I'm going to Chester tomorrow. "

"Oh, yes!" Barton exclaimed, "about that money? I suppose you want allo' yours?"

"It's as I expected. But you said you could borrow elsewhere, and sendit by me. "

"The fact is, " said Barton, "that I've both borrowed and sent. I'mobliged to you, all the same, Gilbert; the will's as good as the deed, you know; but I got the money from--well, from a friend, who was aboutgoing down on his own business, and so that stone killed both my birds. I ought to ha' sent you word, by rights. "

"Is your _friend_, " Gilbert asked, "a safe and trusty man?"

"Safe enough, I guess--a little wild, at times, maybe; but he's not sucha fool as to lose what he'd never have a chance of getting again. "

"Then, " said Gilbert, "it's hardly likely that he's the same friend youtook such a fancy to, at the Hammer-and-Trowel, last spring?"

Alfred Barton started as if he had been shot, and a deep color spreadover his face. His lower jaw slackened and his eyes moved uneasily fromside to side. 

"Who--who do you mean?" he stammered. 

The more evident his embarrassment became, the more Gilbert wasconfirmed in his suspicion that there was some secret understandingbetween the two men. The thing seemed incredible, but the same point, heremembered had occurred to Martha Deane's mind, when she so readilyexplained the other circumstances. 

"Barton, " he said, sternly, "you know very well whom I mean. What becameof your friend Fortune? Didn't you see him at the tavern, last Mondaymorning?"

"Y-yes--oh, yes! I know who he is _now_, the damned scoundrel! I'd givea hundred dollars to see him dance upon nothing!"

He clenched his fists, and uttered a number of other oaths, which neednot be repeated. His rage seemed so real that Gilbert was againstaggered. Looking at the heavy, vulgar face before him, --the small, restless eyes, the large sensuous mouth, the forehead whose very extent, in contradiction to ordinary laws, expressed imbecility rather thanintellect, it was impossible to associate great cunning and shrewdnesswith such a physiognomy. Every line, at that moment, expressed pain andexasperation. But Gilbert felt bound to go a step further. 

"Barton, " he said, "didn't you know who Fortune was, on that day?"

"N-no--no! On that _day_--NO! Blast me if I did!"

"Not before you left him?"

"Well, I'll admit that a suspicion of it came to me at the very lastmoment--too late to be of any use. But come, damme! that's all over, andwhat's the good o' talking? _You_ tried your best to catch the fellow, too, but he was too much for you! 'T isn't such an easy job, eh?"

This sort of swagger was Alfred Barton's only refuge, when he was driveninto a corner. Though some color still lingered in his face, he spreadhis shoulders with a bold, almost defiant air, and met Gilbert's eyewith a steady gaze. The latter was not prepared to carry his examinationfurther, although he was still far from being satisfied. 

"Come, come, Gilbert!" Barton presently resumed, "I mean no offence. Youshowed yourself to be true blue, and you led the hunt as well as any mancould ha' done; but the very thought o' the fellow makes me mad, andI'll know no peace till he's strung up. If I was your age, now! A manseems to lose his spirit as he gets on in years, and I'm only sorry youweren't made captain at the start, instead o' me. You _shall_ be, fromthis time on; I won't take it again!"

"One thing I'll promise you, " said Gilbert, with a meaning look, "that Iwon't let him walk into the bar-room of the Unicorn, without hindrance. "

"I'll bet you won't!" Barton exclaimed. "All _I'm_ afraid of is, that hewon't try it again. "

"We'll see; this highway-robbery must have an end. I must now be going. Good-bye!"

"Good-bye, Gilbert; take care o' yourself!" said Barton, in a very goodhumor, now that the uncomfortable interview was over. "And, I say, " headded, "remember that I stand ready to do you a good turn, whenever Ican!"

"Thank you!" responded Gilbert, as he turned Roger's head; but he saidto himself, --"when all other friends fail, I may come to _you_, notsooner. "

The next morning showed signs that the Indian Summer had reached itsclose. All night long the wind had moaned and lamented in the chimneys, and the sense of dread in the outer atmosphere crept into the house andweighed upon the slumbering inmates. There was a sound in the forest asof sobbing Dryads, waiting for the swift death and the frosty tomb. Theblue haze of dreams which had overspread the land changed into an ashy, livid mist, dragging low, and clinging to the features of the landscapelike a shroud to the limbs of a corpse. 

The time, indeed, had come for a change. It was the 2nd of November; andafter a summer and autumn beautiful almost beyond parallel, a sudden andsevere winter was generally anticipated. In this way, even the mostignorant field-hand recognized the eternal balance of Nature. 

Mary Potter, although the day had arrived for which she had so long andfervently prayed, could not shake off the depressing influence of theweather. After breakfast, when Gilbert began to make preparations forthe journey, she found herself so agitated that it was with difficultyshe could give him the usual assistance. The money, which was mostly insilver coin, had been sewed into tight rolls, and was now to becarefully packed in the saddle-bags: the priming of the pistols was tobe renewed, and the old, shrivelled covers of the holsters so greased, hammered out, and padded that they would keep the weapons dry in case ofrain. Although Gilbert would reach Chester that evening, --the distancebeing not more than twenty-four miles, --the preparations, principally onaccount of his errand, were conducted with a grave and solemn sense oftheir importance. 

When, finally, everything was in readiness, --the saddle-bags so packedthat the precious rolls could not rub or jingle; the dinner of slicedbread and pork placed over them, in a folded napkin; the pistols, intended more for show than use, thrust into the antiquated holsters;and all these deposited and secured on Roger's back, --Gilbert took hismother's hand, and said, --

"Good-bye, mother! Don't worry, now, if I shouldn't get back until lateto-morrow evening; I can't tell exactly how long the business willtake. "

He had never looked more strong and cheerful. The tears came to MaryPotter's eyes, but she held them hack by a powerful effort. All shecould say--and her voice trembled in spite of herself--was, --

"Good-bye, my boy! Remember that I've worked, and thought, and prayed, for you alone, --and that I'd do more--I'd do _all_, if I only could!"

His look said, "I do not forget!" He sat already in the saddle, and wasstraightening the folds of his heavy cloak, so that it might protect hisknees. The wind had arisen, and the damp mist was driving down the glen, mixed with scattered drops of a coming rain-storm. As he rode slowlyaway, Mary Potter lifted her eyes to the dense gray of the sky, darkening from moment to moment, listened to the murmur of the wind overthe wooded hills opposite, and clasped her hands with the appealinggesture which had now become habitual to her. 

"Two days more!" she sighed, as she entered the house, --"two days moreof fear and prayer! Lord forgive me that I am so weak of faith--that Imake myself trouble where I ought to be humble and thankful!"

Gilbert rode slowly, because he feared the contents of his saddle-bagswould be disturbed by much jolting. Proof against wind and weather, hewas not troubled by the atmospheric signs, but rather experienced ahealthy glow and exhilaration of the blood as the mist grew thicker andbeat upon his face like the blown spray of a waterfall. By the time hehad reached the Carson farm, the sky contracted to a low, dark arch ofsolid wet, in which there was no positive outline of cloud, and a dull, universal roar, shorn of all windy sharpness, hummed over the land. 

From the hill behind the farm-house, whence he could overlook thebottom-lands of Redley Creek, and easily descry, on a clear day, theyellow front of Dr. Deane's house in Kennett Square, he now beheld a dimtwilight chaos, wherein more and more of the distance was blotted out. Yet still some spell held up the suspended rain, and the drops that fellseemed to be only the leakage of the airy cisterns before they burst. The fields on either hand were deserted. The cattle huddled behind thestacks or crouched disconsolately in fence-corners. Here and there afarmer made haste to cut and split a supply of wood for hiskitchen-fire, or mended the rude roof on which his pigs depended forshelter; but all these signs showed how soon he intended to be snuglyhoused, to bide out the storm. 

It was a day of no uncertain promise. Gilbert confessed to himself, before he reached the Philadelphia road, that he would rather havechosen another day for the journey; yet the thought of returning wasfarthest from his mind. Even when the rain, having created its littlepools and sluices in every hollow of the ground, took courage, andmultiplied its careering drops, and when the wet gusts tore open hiscloak and tugged at his dripping hat, he cheerily shook the moisturefrom his cheeks and eyelashes, patted Roger's streaming neck, andwhistled a bar or two of an old carol. 

There were pleasant hopes enough to occupy his mind, without dwelling onthese slight external annoyances. He still tried to believe that hismother's release would be hastened by the independence which lay foldedin his saddle-bags, and the thud of the wet leather against Roger's hidewas a sound to cheer away any momentary foreboding. Then, Martha--dear, noble girl! She was his; it was but to wait, and waiting must be easywhen the end was certain. He felt, moreover, that in spite of hisunexplained disgrace, he had grown in the respect of his neighbors; thathis persevering integrity was beginning to bring its reward, and hethanked God very gratefully that he had been saved from adding to hisname any stain of his own making. 

In an hour or more the force of the wind somewhat abated, but the skyseemed to dissolve into a massy flood. The rain rushed down, not indrops, but in sheets, and in spite of his cloak, he was wet to the skin. For half an hour he was obliged to halt in the wood between Old Kennettand Chadd's Ford, and here he made the discovery that with all his carethe holsters were nearly full of water. Brown streams careered down thelong, meadowy hollow on his left, wherein many Hessian soldiers layburied. There was money buried with them, the people believed, but noone cared to dig among the dead at midnight, and many a wild tale offrighted treasure-seekers recurred to his mind. 

At the bottom of the long hill flowed the Brandywine, now rolling swiftand turbid, level with its banks. Roger bravely breasted the flood, andafter a little struggle, reached the opposite side. Then across thebattle-meadow, in the teeth of the storm, along the foot of the lowhill, around the brow of which the entrenchments of the American armymade a clayey streak, until the ill-fated field, sown with grape-shotand bullets which the farmers turned up every spring with their furrows, lay behind him. The story of the day was familiar to him, from thenarratives of scores of eye-witnesses, and he thought to himself, as herode onward, wet, lashed by the furious rain, yet still of goodcheer, --"Though the fight was lost, the cause was won. "

After leaving the lovely lateral valley which stretches eastward for twomiles, at right angles to the course of the Brandywine, he entered arougher and wilder region, more thickly wooded and deeply indented withabrupt glens. Thus far he had not met with a living soul. Chester wasnow not more than eight or ten miles distant, and, as nearly as he couldguess, it was about two o'clock in the afternoon. With the best luck, hecould barely reach his destination by nightfall, for the rain showed nosigns of abating, and there were still several streams to be crossed. 

His blood leaped no more so nimbly along his veins; the continuedexposure had at last chilled and benumbed him. Letting the reins fallupon Roger's neck, he folded himself closely in his wet cloak, and borethe weather with a grim, patient endurance. The road dropped into arough glen, crossed a stony brook, and then wound along the side of athickly wooded hill. On his right the bank had been cut away like awall; on the left a steep slope of tangled thicket descended to thestream. 

One moment, Gilbert knew that he was riding along this road, Rogerpressing close to the bank for shelter from the wind and rain; the next, there was a swift and tremendous grip on his collar, Roger slid fromunder him, and he was hurled backwards, with great force, upon theground. Yet even in the act of falling, he seemed to be conscious that afigure sprang down upon the road from the bank above. 

It was some seconds before the shock, which sent a crash through hisbrain and a thousand fiery sparkles into his eyes, passed away. Then avoice, keen, sharp, and determined, which it seemed that he knew, exclaimed, --

"Damn the beast! I'll have to shoot him. "

Lifting his head with some difficulty, for he felt weak and giddy, andpropping himself on his arm, he saw Sandy Flash in the road, three orfour paces off, fronting Roger, who had whirled around, and withlevelled ears and fiery eyes, seemed to be meditating an attack. 

The robber wore a short overcoat, made entirely of musk-rat skins, whichcompletely protected the arms in his belt. He had a large hunting-knifein his left hand, and appeared to be feeling with his right for thestock of a pistol. It seemed to Gilbert that nothing but the singularforce of his eye held back the horse from rushing upon him. 

"Keep as you are, young man!" he cried, without turning his head, "or abullet goes into your horse's brain. I know the beast, and don't want tosee him slaughtered. If _you_ don't, order him to be quiet!"

Gilbert, although he knew every trait of the noble animal's naturebetter than those of many a human acquaintance, was both surprised andtouched at the instinct with which he had recognized an enemy, and thefierce courage with which he stood on the defensive. In that moment ofbewilderment, he thought only of Roger, whose life hung by a thread, which his silence would instantly snap. He might have seen--had therebeen time for reflection--that nothing would have been gained, in anycase, by the animal's death; for, stunned and unarmed as he was, he wasno match for the powerful, wary highwayman. 

Obeying the feeling which entirely possessed him, he cried, --"Roger!Roger, old boy!"

The horse neighed a shrill, glad neigh of recognition, and pricked uphis ears. Sandy Flash stood motionless; he had let go of his pistol, andconcealed the knife in a fold of his coat. 

"Quiet, Roger, quiet!" Gilbert again commanded. 

The animal understood the tone, if not the words. He seemed completelyreassured, and advanced a step or two nearer. With the utmost swiftnessand dexterity, combined with an astonishing gentleness, --making nogesture which might excite Roger's suspicion, --Sandy Flash thrust hishand into the holsters, smiled mockingly, cut the straps of thesaddle-bags with a single movement of his keen-edged knife, tested theweight of the bags, nodded, grinned, and then, stepping aside, heallowed the horse to pass him. But he watched every motion of the headand ears, as he did so. 

Roger, however, seemed to think only of his master. Bending down hishead, he snorted warmly into Gilbert's pale face, and then swelled hissides with a deep breath of satisfaction. Tears of shame, grief, andrage swam in Gilbert's eyes. "Roger, " he said, "I've lost everything butyou!"

He staggered to his feet and leaned against the bank. The extent of hisloss--the hopelessness of its recovery--the impotence of his burningdesire to avenge the outrage--overwhelmed him. The highwayman stillstood, a few paces off, watching him with a grim curiosity. 

With a desperate effort, Gilbert turned towards him. "Sandy Flash, " hecried, "do you know what you are doing?"

"I rather guess so, "--and the highwayman grinned. "I've done it before, but never quite so neatly as this time. "

"I've heard it said, to your credit, " Gilbert continued, "that, thoughyou rob the rich, you sometimes give to the poor. This time you'verobbed a poor man. "

"I've only borrowed a little from one able to spare a good deal morethan I've got, --and the grudge I owe him isn't paid off yet. "

"It is not so!" Gilbert cried. "Every cent has been earned by my own andmy mother's hard work. I was taking it to Chester, to pay off a debtupon the farm; and the loss and the disappointment will well nigh breakmy mother's heart. According to your views of things, you owe me agrudge, but you are outside of the law, and I did my duty as a lawfulman by trying to shoot you!"

"And I, _bein'_ outside o' the law, as you say, have let you off mightyeasy, young man!" exclaimed Sandy Flash, his eyes shining angrily andhis teeth glittering. "I took you for a fellow o' pluck, not for onethat'd lie, even to the robber they call me! What's all this pitifulstory about Barton's money?"

"Barton's money!"

"Oh--ay! You didn't agree to take some o' his money to Chester?" Themocking expression on the highwayman's face was perfectly diabolical. Heslung the saddle-bags over his shoulders, and turned to leave. 

Gilbert was so amazed that for a moment he knew not what to say. SandyFlash took three strides up the road, and then sprang down into thethicket. 

"It is not Barton's money!" Gilbert cried, with a last desperateappeal, --"it is mine, mine and my mother's!"

A short, insulting laugh was the only answer. 

"Sandy Flash!" he cried again, raising his voice almost to a shout, asthe crashing of the robber's steps through the brushwood sounded fartherand farther down the glen, "Sandy Flash! You have plundered a widow'shonest earnings to-day, and a curse goes with such plunder! Hark you!if never before, you are cursed from this hour forth! I call upon God, in my mother's name, to mark you!"

There was no sound in reply, except the dull, dreary hum of the wind andthe steady lashing of the rain. The growing darkness of the sky told ofapproaching night, and the wild glen, bleak enough before, was now ascene of utter and hopeless desolation to Gilbert's eyes. He was almostunmanned, not only by the cruel loss, but also by the stinging sense ofoutrage which it had left behind. A mixed feeling of wretcheddespondency and shame filled his heart, as he leaned, chill, weary, andstill weak from the shock of his fall, upon Roger's neck. 

The faithful animal turned his head from time to time, as if to questionhis master's unusual demeanor. There was a look of almost human sympathyin his large eyes; he was hungry and restless, yet would not move untilthe word of command had been given. 

"Poor fellow!" said Gilbert, patting his cheek, "we've both fared illto-day. But you mustn't suffer any longer for my sake. "

He then mounted and rode onward through the storm. 

CHAPTER XXI. 

ROGER REPAYS HIS MASTER. 

A mile or more beyond the spot where Gilbert Potter had been waylaid, there was a lonely tavern, called the "Drovers' Inn. " Here hedismounted, more for his horse's sake than his own, although he wassore, weary, and sick of heart. After having carefully groomed Rogerwith his own hands, and commended him to the special attentions of theostler, he entered the warm public room, wherein three or fourstorm-bound drovers were gathered around the roaring fire of hickorylogs. 

The men kindly made way for the pale, dripping, wretched-lookingstranger; and the landlord, with a shrewd glance and a suggestion of"Something hot, I reckon?" began mixing a compound proper for theoccasion. Laying aside his wet cloak, which was sent to the kitchen tobe more speedily dried, Gilbert presently sat in a cloud of his ownsteaming garments, and felt the warmth of the potent liquor in hischilly blood. 

All at once, it occurred to him that the highwayman had not touched hisperson. There was not only some loose silver in his pockets, but MarkDeane's money-belt was still around his waist. So much, at least, wasrescued, and he began to pluck up a little courage. Should he continuehis journey to Chester, explain the misfortune to the holder of hismortgage, and give notice to the County Sheriff of this new act ofrobbery? Then the thought came into his mind that in that case he mightbe detained a day or two, in order to make depositions, or comply withsome unknown legal form. In the mean time the news would spread over thecountry, no doubt with many exaggerations, and might possibly reachKennett--even the ears of his mother. That reflection decided hiscourse. She must first hear the truth from his mouth; he would try togive her cheer and encouragement, though he felt none himself; then, calling his friends together, he would hunt Sandy Flash like a wildbeast until they had tracked him to his lair. 

"Unlucky weather for ye, it seems?" remarked the curious landlord, who, seated in a corner of the fireplace, had for full ten minutes beenwatching Gilbert's knitted brows, gloomy, brooding eyes, and compressedlips. 

"Weather?" he exclaimed, bitterly. "It's not the weather. Landlord, willyou have a chance of sending to Chester to-morrow?"

"I'm going, if it clears up, " said one of the drovers. 

"Then, my friend, " Gilbert continued, "will you take a letter from me tothe Sheriff?"

"If it's nothing out of the way, " the man replied. 

"It's in the proper course of law--if there is any law to protect us. Not a mile and a half from here, landlord, I have been waylaid androbbed on the public road!"

There was a general exclamation of surprise, and Gilbert's story, whichhe had suddenly decided to relate, in order that the people of theneighborhood might be put upon their guard, was listened to with aninterest only less than the terror which it inspired. The landladyrushed into the bar-room, followed by the red-faced kitchen wench, andboth interrupted the recital with cries of "Dear, dear!" and "Lord saveus!" The landlord, meanwhile, had prepared another tumbler of hot andhot, and brought it forward, saying, --

"You need it, the Lord knows, and it shall cost you nothing. "

"What I most need now, " Gilbert said, "is pen, ink, and paper, to writeout my account. Then I suppose you can get me up a cold check, [Footnote: A local term, in use at the time, signifying a "lunch. "] forI must start homewards soon. "

"Not 'a cold check' after all that drenching and mishandling!" thelandlord exclaimed. "We'll have a hot supper in half an hour, and youshall stay, and welcome. Wife, bring down one of Liddy's pens, theschoolmaster made for her, and put a little vinegar into th' ink-bottle;it's most dried up!"

In a few minutes the necessary materials for a letter, all of the rudestkind, were supplied, and the landlord and drovers hovered around asGilbert began to write, assisting him with the most extraordinarysuggestions. 

"I'd threaten, " said a drover, "to write straight to General Washington, unless they promise to catch the scoundrel in no time!"

"And don't forget the knife and pistol!" cried the landlord. 

"And say the Tory farmers' houses ought to be searched!"

"And give his marks, to a hair!"

Amid all this confusion, Gilbert managed to write a brief, butsufficiently circumstantial account of the robbery, calling upon theCounty authorities to do their part in effecting the capture of SandyFlash. He offered his services and those of the Kennett troop, announcing that he should immediately start upon the hunt, and expectedto be seconded by the law. 

When the letter had been sealed and addressed, the drovers--some of whomcarried money with them, and had agreed to travel in company, for betterprotection--eagerly took charge of it, promising to back the deliverywith very energetic demands for assistance. 

Night had fallen, and the rain fell with it, in renewed torrents. Thedreary, universal hum of the storm rose again, making all accidentalsounds of life impertinent, in contrast with its deep, tremendousmonotone. The windows shivered, the walls sweat and streamed, and thewild wet blew in under the doors, as if besieging that refuge of warm, red fire-light. 

"This beats the Lammas flood o' '68, " said the landlord, as he led theway to supper. "I was a young man at the time, and remember it well. Half the dams on Brandywine went that night. "

After a bountiful meal, Gilbert completely dried his garments andprepared to set out on his return, resisting the kindly persuasion ofthe host and hostess that he should stay all night. A restless, feverishenergy filled his frame. He felt that he could not sleep, that to waitidly would be simple misery, and that only in motion towards the set aimof his fierce, excited desires, could he bear his disappointment andshame. But the rain still came down with a volume which threatened soonto exhaust the cisterns of the air, and in that hope he compelledhimself to wait a little. 

Towards nine o'clock the great deluge seemed to slacken. The wind arose, and there were signs of its shifting, erelong, to the northwest, whichwould bring clear weather in a few hours. The night was dark, but notpitchy; a dull phosphoric gleam overspread the under surface of the sky. The woods were full of noises, and every gully at the roadside gavetoken, by its stony rattle, of the rain-born streams. 

With his face towards home and his back to the storm, Gilbert rode intothe night. The highway was but a streak of less palpable darkness; thehills on either hand scarcely detached themselves from the low, blackceiling of sky behind them. Sometimes the light of a farm-house windowsparkled faintly, like a glow-worm, but whether far or near, he couldnot tell; he only knew how blest must be the owner, sitting with wifeand children around his secure hearthstone, --how wretched his own life, cast adrift in the darkness, --wife, home, and future, things of doubt!

He had lost more than money; and his wretchedness will not seem unmanlywhen we remember the steady strain and struggle of his previous life. Asthere is nothing more stimulating to human patience, and courage, andenergy, than the certain prospect of relief at the end, so there isnothing more depressing than to see that relief suddenly snatched away, and the same round of toil thrust again under one's feet! This is thefate of Tantalus and Sisyphus in one. 

Not alone the money; a year, or two years, of labor would no doubtreplace what he had lost. But he had seen, in imagination, his mother'sfeverish anxiety at an end; household help procured, to lighten herover-heavy toil; the possibility of her release from some terribleobligation brought nearer, as he hoped and trusted, and with it thestrongest barrier broken down which rose between him and Martha Deane. All these things which he had, as it were, held in his hand, had beenstolen from him, and the loss was bitter because it struck down to theroots of the sweetest and strongest fibres of his heart. The nightveiled his face, but if some hotter drops than those of the storm wereshaken from his cheek, they left no stain upon his manhood. 

The sense of outrage, of personal indignity, which no man can appreciatewho has not himself been violently plundered, added its sting to hismiserable mood. He thirsted to avenge the wrong; Barton's wordsinvoluntarily came back to him, --"I'll know no peace till the villainhas been strung up!" Barton! How came Sandy Flash to know that Bartonintended to send money by him? Had not Barton himself declared that thematter should be kept secret? Was there some complicity between thelatter and Sandy Flash? Yet, on the other hand, it seemed that thehighwayman believed that he was robbing Gilbert of Barton's money. Herewas an enigma which he could not solve. 

All at once, a hideous solution presented itself. Was it possible thatBarton's money was to be only _apparently_ stolen--in reality returnedto him privately, afterwards? Possibly the rest of the plunder dividedbetween the two confederates? Gilbert was not in a charitable mood; thehuman race was much more depraved, in his view, than twelve hoursbefore; and the inference which he would have rejected as monstrous, that very morning, now assumed a possible existence. One thing, atleast, was certain; he would exact an explanation, and if none should befurnished, he would make public the evidence in his hands. 

The black, dreary night seemed interminable. He could only guess, hereand there, at a landmark, and was forced to rely more upon Roger'sinstinct of the road than upon the guidance of his senses. Towardsmidnight, as he judged, by the solitary crow of a cock, the rain almostentirely ceased. The wind began to blow, sharp and keen, and the hardvault of the sky to lift a little. He fancied that the hills on hisright had fallen away, and that the horizon was suddenly depressedtowards the north. Roger's feet began to splash in constantly deepeningwater, and presently a roar, distinct from that of the wind, filled theair. 

It was the Brandywine. The stream had overflowed its broadmeadow-bottoms, and was running high and fierce beyond its main channel. The turbid waters made a dim, dusky gleam around him; soon the fencesdisappeared, and the flood reached to his horse's belly. But he knewthat the ford could be distinguished by the break in the fringe oftimber; moreover, that the creek-bank was a little higher than themeadows behind it, and so far, at least, he might venture. The ford wasnot more than twenty yards across, and he could trust Roger to swim thatdistance. 

The faithful animal pressed bravely on, but Gilbert soon noticed that heseemed at fault. The swift water had forced him out of the road, and hestopped, from time to time, as if anxious and uneasy. The timber couldnow be discerned, only a short distance in advance, and in a few minutesthey would gain the bank. 

What was that? A strange rustling, hissing sound, as of cattle tramplingthrough dry reeds, --a sound which quivered and shook, even in the breathof the hurrying wind! Roger snorted, stood still, and trembled in everylimb; and a sensation of awe and terror struck a chill through Gilbert'sheart. The sound drew swiftly nearer, and became a wild, seething roar, filling the whole breadth of the valley. 

"Great God!" cried Gilbert, "the dam!--the dam has given way!" He turnedRoger's head, gave him the rein, struck, spurred, cheered, and shouted. The brave beast struggled through the impeding flood, but the advancewave of the coming inundation already touched his side. He staggered; aline of churning foam bore down upon them, the terrible roar was allaround and over them, and horse and rider were whirled away. 

What happened during the first few seconds, Gilbert could neverdistinctly recall. Now they were whelmed in the water, now riding itscareering tide, torn through the tops of brushwood, jostled by floatinglogs and timbers of the dam-breast, but always, as it seemed, remorselessly held in the heart of the tumult and the ruin. 

He saw, at last, that they had fallen behind the furious onset of theflood, but Roger was still swimming with it, desperately throwing up hishead from time to time, and snorting the water from his nostrils. Allhis efforts to gain a foothold failed; his strength was nearly spent, and unless some help should come in a few minutes, it would come invain. And in the darkness, and the rapidity with which they were bornealong, how should help come?

All at once, Roger's course stopped. He became an obstacle to the flood, which pressed him against some other obstacle below, and rushed overhorse and rider. Thrusting out his hand, Gilbert felt the rough bark ofa tree. Leaning towards it and clasping the log in his arms, he drewhimself from the saddle, while Roger, freed from his burden, struggledinto the current and instantly disappeared. 

As nearly as Gilbert could ascertain, several timbers, thrown over eachother, had lodged, probably upon a rocky islet in the stream, theuppermost one projecting slantingly out of the flood. It required allhis strength to resist the current which sucked, and whirled, and tuggedat his body, and to climb high enough to escape its force, withoutoverbalancing his support. At last, though still half immerged, he foundhimself comparatively safe for a time, yet as far as ever from a finalrescue. 

He must await the dawn, and an eternity of endurance lay in those fewhours. Meantime, perhaps, the creek would fall, for the rain had ceased, and there were outlines of moving cloud in the sky. It was the nightwhich made his situation so terrible, by concealing the chances ofescape. At first, he thought most of Roger. Was his brave horse drowned, or had he safely gained the bank below? Then, as the desperate momentswent by, and the chill of exposure and the fatigue of exertion began tocreep over him, his mind reverted, with a bitter sweetness, a mixture ofbliss and agony, to the two beloved women to whom his lifebelonged, --the life which, alas! he could not now call his own, to give. 

He tried to fix his thoughts on Death, to commend his soul to DivineMercy; but every prayer shaped itself into an appeal that he might oncemore see the dear faces and bear the dear voices. In the great shadow ofthe fate which hung over him, the loss of his property became as dust inthe balance, and his recent despair smote him with shame. He no longerfiercely protested against the injuries of fortune, but entreated pardonand pity for the sake of his love. 

The clouds rolled into distincter masses, and the northwest wind stillhunted them across the sky, until there came, first a tiny rift for astar, then a gap for a whole constellation, and finally a broad burst ofmoonlight. Gilbert now saw that the timber to which he clung was lodgednearly in the centre of the channel, as the water swept with equal forceon either side of him. Beyond the banks there was a wooded hill on theleft; on the right an overflowed meadow. He was too weak and benumbed totrust himself to the flood, but he imagined that it was beginning tosubside, and therein lay his only hope. 

Yet a new danger now assailed him, from the increasing cold. There wasalready a sting of frost, a breath of ice, in the wind. In another hourthe sky was nearly swept bare of clouds, and he could note the lapse ofthe night by the sinking of the moon. But he was by this time hardly ina condition to note anything more. He had thrown himself, facedownwards, on the top of the log, his arms mechanically clasping it, while his mind sank into a state of torpid, passive suffering, growingnearer to the dreamy indifference which precedes death. His cloak hadbeen torn away in the first rush of the inundation, and the wet coatbegan to stiffen in the wind, from the ice gathering over it. 

The moon was low in the west, and there was a pale glimmer of the comingdawn in the sky, when Gilbert Potter suddenly raised his head. Above thenoise of the water and the whistle of the wind, he heard a familiarsound, --the shrill, sharp neigh of a horse. Lifting himself, with greatexertion, to a sitting posture, he saw two men, on horseback, in theflooded meadow, a little below him. They stopped, seemed to consult, andpresently drew nearer. 

Gilbert tried to shout, but the muscles of his throat were stiff, andhis lungs refused to act. The horse neighed again. This time there wasno mistake; it was Roger that he heard! Voice came to him, and he criedaloud, --a hoarse, strange, unnatural cry. 

The horsemen heard it, and rapidly pushed up the bank, until theyreached a point directly opposite to him. The prospect of escape broughta thrill of life to his frame; he looked around and saw that the floodhad indeed fallen. 

"We have no rope, " he heard one of the men say. "How shall we reachhim?"

"There is no time to get one, now, " the other answered. "My horse isstronger than yours. I'll go into the creek just below, where it'sbroader and not so deep, and work my way up to him. "

"But one horse can't carry both. "

"His will follow, be sure, when it sees me. "

As the last speaker moved away, Gilbert saw a led horse plunging throughthe water, beside the other. It was a difficult and dangerousundertaking. The horseman and the loose horse entered the main streambelow, where its divided channel met and broadened, but it was stillabove the saddle-girths, and very swift. Sometimes the animals plunged, losing their foothold; nevertheless, they gallantly breasted thecurrent, and inch by inch worked their way to a point about six feetbelow Gilbert. It seemed impossible to approach nearer. 

"Can you swim?" asked the man. 

Gilbert shook his head. "Throw me the end of Roger's bridle!" he thencried. 

The man unbuckled the bridle and threw it, keeping the end of the reinin his hand. Gilbert tried to grasp it, but his hands were too numb. Hemanaged, however, to get one arm and his head through the opening, andrelaxed his hold on the log. 

A plunge, and the man had him by the collar. He felt himself lifted by astrong arm and laid across Roger's saddle. With his failing strength andstiff limbs, it was no slight task to get into place, and the return, though less laborious to the horses, was equally dangerous, becauseGilbert was scarcely able to support himself without help. 

"You're safe now, " said the man, when they reached the bank, "but it's adownright mercy of God that you're alive!"

The other horseman joined them, and they rode slowly across the floodedmeadow. They had both thrown their cloaks around Gilbert, and carefullysteadied him in the saddle, one on each side. He was too much exhaustedto ask how they had found him, or whither they were taking him, --toonumb for curiosity, almost for gratitude. 

"Here's your saviour!" said one of the men, patting Roger's shoulder. "It was all along of him that we found you. Want to know how?Well--about three o'clock it was, maybe a little earlier, maybe a littlelater, my wife woke me up. 'Do you hear that?' she says. I listened andheard a horse in the lane before the door, neighing, --I can't tell youexactly how it was, --like as if he'd call up the house. 'T was ratherqueer, I thought, so I got up and looked out of window, and it seemed tome he had a saddle on. He stamped, and pawed, and then he gave anotheryell, and stamped again. Says I to my wife, 'There's something wronghere, ' and I dressed and went out. When he saw me, he acted thestrangest you ever saw; thinks I, if ever an animal wanted to speak, that animal does. When I tried to catch him, he shot off, run down thelane a bit, and then came back as strangely acting as ever. I went intothe house and woke up my brother, here, and we saddled our horses andstarted. Away went yours ahead, stopping every minute to look round andsee if we followed. When we came to the water, I kind o' hesitated, but't was no use; the horse would have us go on, and on, till we found you. I never heard tell of the like of it, in my born days!"

Gilbert did not speak, but two large tears slowly gathered in his eyes, and rolled down his cheeks. The men saw his emotion, and respected it. 

In the light of the cold, keen dawn, they reached a snug farm-house, amile from the Brandywine. The men lifted Gilbert from the saddle, andwould have carried him immediately into the house, but he first leanedupon Roger's neck, took the faithful creature's head in his arms, andkissed it. 

The good housewife was already up, and anxiously awaiting the return ofher husband and his brother. A cheery fire crackled on the hearth, andthe coffee-pot was simmering beside it. When Gilbert had been partiallyrevived by the warmth, the men conducted him into an adjoining bed-room, undressed him, and rubbed his limbs with whiskey. Then, a large bowl ofcoffee having been administered, he was placed in bed, covered with halfa dozen blankets, and the curtains were drawn over the windows. In a fewminutes he was plunged in a slumber almost as profound as that of thedeath from which he had been so miraculously delivered. 

It was two hours past noon when he awoke, and he no sooner fullycomprehended the situation and learned how the time had sped, than heinsisted on rising, although still sore, weak, and feverish. The goodfarmer's wife had kept a huge portion of dinner hot before the fire, andhe knew that without compelling a show of appetite, he would not beconsidered sufficiently recovered to leave. He had but one desire, --toreturn home. So recently plucked from the jaws of Death, his life stillseemed to be an uncertain possession. 

Finally Roger was led forth, quiet and submissive as of old, --havingforgotten his good deed as soon as it had been accomplished, --andGilbert, wrapped in the farmer's cloak, retraced his way to the mainroad. As he looked across the meadow, which told of the inundation inits sweep of bent, muddy grass, and saw, between the creekbank trees, the lodged timber to which he had clung, the recollection of the nightimpressed him like a frightful dream. It was a bright, sharp, wintryday, --the most violent contrast to that which had preceded it. The hillson either side, whose outlines he could barely guess in the darkness, now stood out from the air with a hard, painful distinctness; the skywas an arch of cold, steel-tinted crystal; and the north wind blew witha shrill, endless whistle through the naked woods. 

As he climbed the long hill west of Chadd's Ford, Gilbert noticed howthe meadow on his right had been torn by the flood gathered from thefields above. In one place a Hessian skull had been snapped from theburied skeleton, and was rolled to light, among the mud and pebbles. Notfar off, something was moving among the bushes, and he involuntarilydrew rein. 

The form stopped, appeared to crouch down for a moment, then suddenlyrose and strode forth upon the grass. It was a woman, wearing a man'sflannel jacket, and carrying a long, pointed staff in her hand. As sheapproached with rapid strides, he recognized Deb. Smith. 

"Deborah!" he cried, "what are you doing here?"

She set her pole to the ground and vaulted over the high picket-fence, like an athlete. 

"Well, " she said, "if I'd ha' been shy o' you, Mr. Gilbert, you wouldn'tha' seen me. I'm not one of them as goes prowlin' around among deadbodies' bones at midnight; what I want, I looks for in the daytime. "

"Bones?" he asked. "You're surely not digging up the Hessians?"

"Not exackly; but, you see, the rain's turned out a few, and some on'em, folks says, was buried with lots o' goold platted up in theirpig-tails. I know o' one man that dug up two or three to git theirteeth, (to sell to the tooth-doctors, you know, ) and when he took holdo' the pig-tail to lift the head by, the hair come off in his hand, andout rattled ten good goolden guineas. Now, if any money's washed out, there's no harm in a body's pickin' of it up, as I see. "

"What luck have you had?" asked Gilbert. 

"Nothin' to speak of; a few buttons, and a thing or two. But I say, Mr. Gilbert, what luck ha' _you_ had?" She had been keenly and curiouslyinspecting his face. 

"Deborah!" he exclaimed, "you're a false prophet! You told me that, whatever happened, I was safe from Sandy Flash. "

"Eh?"

There was a shrill tone of surprise and curiosity in this exclamation. 

"You ought to know Sandy Flash better, before you prophesy in his name, "Gilbert repeated, in a stern voice. 

"Oh, Mr. Gilbert, tell me what you mean?" She grasped his leg with onehand, while she twisted the other in Roger's mane, as if to hold bothhorse and rider until the words were explained. 

Thereupon he related to her in a brief, fierce way, all that hadbefallen him. Her face grew red and her eyes flashed; she shook her fistand swore under her breath, from time to time, while he spoke. 

"You'll be righted, Mr. Gilbert!" she then cried, "you'll be righted, never fear! Leave it to me! Haven't I always kep' my word to you? You'rebelievin' I lied the last time, and no wonder; but I'll prove the trutho' my words yet--may the Devil git my soul, if I don't!"

"Don't think that I blame you, Deborah, " he said. "You were too sure ofmy good luck, because you wished me to have it--that's all. "

"Thank ye for that! But it isn't enough for me. When I promise a thing, I have power to keep my promise. Ax me no more questions; bide quietawhile, and if the money isn't back in your pocket by New-Year, I giveye leave to curse me, and kick me, and spit upon me!"

Gilbert smiled sadly and incredulously, and rode onward. He made hasteto reach home, for a dull pain began to throb in his head, and chillshudders ran over his body. He longed to have the worst over which yetawaited him, and gain a little rest for body, brain, and heart. 

CHAPTER XXII. 

MARTHA DEANE TAKES A RESOLUTION. 

Mary Potter had scarcely slept during the night of her son's absence. Apainful unrest, such as she never remembered to have felt before, tookcomplete possession of her. Whenever the monotony of the drenching rainoutside lulled her into slumber for a few minutes, she was sure to startup in bed with a vague, singular impression that some one had called hername. After midnight, when the storm fell, the shrill wailing of therising wind seemed to forebode disaster. Although she believed Gilbertto be safely housed in Chester, the fact constantly slipped from hermemory, and she shuddered at every change in the wild weather as if hewere really exposed to it. 

The next day, she counted the hours with a feverish impatience. Itseemed like tempting Providence, but she determined to surprise her sonwith a supper of unusual luxury for their simple habits, after soimportant and so toilsome a journey. Sam had killed a fowl; it waspicked and dressed, but she had not courage to put it into the pot, until the fortune of the day had been assured. 

Towards sunset she saw, through the back-kitchen-window, a horsemanapproaching from the direction of Carson's. It seemed to be Roger, butcould that rider, in the faded brown cloak, be Gilbert? His cloak wasblue; he always rode with his head erect, not hanging like this man's, whose features she could not see. Opposite the house, he lifted hishead--it _was_ Gilbert, but how old and haggard was his face!

She met him at the gate. His cheeks were suddenly flushed, his eyesbright, and the smile with which he looked at her seemed to be joyous;yet it gave her a sense of pain and terror. 

"Oh, Gilbert!" she cried; "what has happened?"

He slid slowly and wearily off the horse, whose neck he fondled a momentbefore answering her. 

"Mother, " he said at last, "you have to thank Roger that I am heretonight. I have come back to you from the gates of death; will you besatisfied with that for a while?"

"I don't understand you, my boy! You frighten me; haven't you been atChester?"

"No, " he answered, "there was no use of going. "

A presentiment of the truth came to her, but before she could questionhim further, he spoke again. 

"Mother, let us go into the house. I'm cold and tired; I want to sit inyour old rocking-chair, where I can rest my head. Then I'll tell youeverything; I wish I had an easier task!"

She noticed that his steps were weak and slow, felt that his hands werelike ice, and saw his blue lips and chattering teeth. She removed thestrange cloak, placed her chair in front of the fire, seated him in it, and then knelt upon the floor to draw off his stiff, sodden top-boots. He was passive as a child in her hands. Her care for him overcame allother dread, and not until she had placed his feet upon a stool, in thefull warmth of the blaze, given him a glass of hot wine and lavender, and placed a pillow under his head, did she sit down at his side to hearthe story. 

"I thought of this, last night, " he said, with a faint smile; "not thatI ever expected to see it. The man was right; it's a mercy of God that Iever got out alive!"

"Then be grateful to God, my boy!" she replied, "and let me be grateful, too. It will balance misfortune, --for that there it misfortune in storefor us. I see plainly. "

Gilbert then spoke. The narrative was long and painful, and he told itwearily and brokenly, yet with entire truth, disguising nothing of theevil that had come upon them. His mother sat beside him, pale, stony, stifling the sobs that rose in her throat, until he reached the periodof his marvellous rescue, when she bent her head upon his arm and weptaloud. 

"That's all, mother!" he said at the close; "it's hard to bear, but I'mmore troubled on your account than on my own. "

"Oh, I feared we were over-sure!" she cried. "I claimed payment beforeit was ready. The Lord chooses His own time, and punishes them thatcan't wait for His ways to be manifest! It's terribly hard; and yet, while His left hand smites, His right hand gives mercy! He might ha'taken you, my boy, but He makes a miracle to save you for me!"

When she had outwept her passionate tumult of feeling, she grew composedand serene. "Haven't I yet learned to be patient, in all these years?"she said. "Haven't I sworn to work out with open eyes the work I took inblindness? And after waiting twenty-five years, am I to murmur atanother year or two? No, Gilbert! It's to be done; I _will_ deserve myjustice! Keep your courage, my boy; be brave and patient, and the sightof you will hold me from breaking down!"

She arose, felt his hands and feet, set his pillow aright, and thenstooped and kissed him. His chills had ceased; a feeling of heavy, helpless languor crept over him. 

"Let Sam see to Roger, mother!" he murmured. "Tell him not to spare theoats. "

"I'd feed him with my own hands, Gilbert, if I could leave you. I'd putfine wheat-bread into his manger, and wrap him in blankets off my ownbed! To think that Roger, --that I didn't want you to buy, --Lord forgiveme, I was advising your own death!"

It was fortunate for Mary Potter that she saw a mysterious Providence, which, to her mind, warned and yet promised while it chastised, in allthat had occurred. This feeling helped her to bear a disappointment, which would otherwise have been very grievous. The idea of an atoningordeal, which she must endure in order to be crowned with the finaljustice, and so behold her life redeemed, had become rooted in hernature. To Gilbert much of this feeling was inexplicable, because he wasignorant of the circumstances which had called it into existence. But hesaw that his mother was not yet hopeless, that she did not seem toconsider her deliverance as materially postponed, and a glimmer of hopewas added to the relief of having told his tale. 

He was still feverish, dozing and muttering in uneasy dreams, as he layback in the old rocking-chair, and Mary Potter, with Sam's help, got himto bed, after administering a potion which she was accustomed to use inall complaints, from mumps to typhus fever. 

As for Roger, he stood knee-deep in clean litter, with half a bushel ofoats before him. 

The next morning Gilbert did not arise, and as he complained of greatsoreness in every part of his body, Sam was dispatched for Dr. Deane. 

It was the first time this gentleman had ever been summoned to thePotter farm-house. Mary Potter felt considerable trepidation at hisarrival, both on account of the awe which his imposing presenceinspired, and the knowledge of her son's love for his daughter, --a factwhich, she rightly conjectured, he did not suspect. As he brought hisivory-headed cane, his sleek drab broadcloth, and his herbaceousfragrance into the kitchen, she was almost overpowered. 

"How is thy son ailing?" he asked. "He always seemed to me to be a veryhealthy young man. "

She described the symptoms with a conscientious minuteness. 

"How was it brought on?" he asked again. 

She had not intended to relate the whole story, but only so much of itas was necessary for the Doctor's purposes; but the commencement excitedhis curiosity, and he knew so skilfully how to draw one word afteranother, suggesting further explanations without directly asking them, that Mary Potter was led on and on, until she had communicated all theparticulars of her son's misfortune. 

"This is a wonderful tale thee tells me, " said the Doctor--"wonderful!Sandy Flash, no doubt, has reason to remember thy son, who, I'm told, faced him very boldly on Second-day morning. It is really time thecountry was aroused; we shall hardly be safe in our own houses. And allnight in the Brandywine flood--I don't wonder thy son is unwell. Let mego up to him. "

Dr. Deane's prescriptions usually conformed to the practice of hisday, --bleeding and big doses, --and he would undoubtedly have appliedboth of these in Gilbert's case, but for the latter's great anxiety tobe in the saddle and on the hunt of his enemy. He stoutly refused to bebled, and the Doctor had learned, from long observation, that patientsof a certain class must be humored rather than coerced. So headministered a double dose of Dover's Powders, and prohibited thedrinking of cold water. His report was, on the whole, reassuring to MaryPotter. Provided his directions were strictly followed, he said, her sonwould be up in two or three days; but there _might_ be a turn for theworse, as the shock to the system had been very great, and she ought tohave assistance. 

"There's no one I can call upon, " said she, "without it's BetsyLavender, and I must ask you to tell her for me, if you think she cancome. "

"I'll oblige thee, certainly, " the Doctor answered. "Betsy _is_ with us, just now, and I don't doubt but she can spare a day or two. She may be alittle headstrong in her ways, but thee'll find her a safe nurse. "

It was really not necessary, as the event proved. Rest and warmth werewhat Gilbert most needed. But Dr. Deane always exaggerated his patient'scondition a little, in order that the credit of the latter's recoverymight be greater. The present case was a very welcome one, not onlybecause it enabled him to recite a most astonishing narrative atsecond-hand, but also because it suggested a condition far moredangerous than that which the patient actually suffered. He was thefirst person to bear the news to Kennett Square, where it threw thevillage into a state of great excitement, which rapidly spread over theneighborhood. 

He related it at his own tea-table that evening, to Martha and MissBetsy Lavender. The former could with difficulty conceal her agitation;she turned red and pale, until the Doctor finally remarked, --

"Why, child, thee needn't be so frightened. "

"Never mind!" exclaimed Miss Betsy, promptly coming to the rescue, "it'senough to frighten anybody. It fairly makes me shiver in my shoes. IfAlf. Barton had ha' done his dooty like a man, this wouldn't ha'happened!"

"I've no doubt Alfred did the best he could, under the circumstances, "the Doctor sternly remarked. 

"Fiddle-de-dee!" was Miss Betsy's contemptuous answer. "He's no moregizzard than a rabbit. But that's neither here nor there; Mary Potterwants me to go down and help, and go I will!"

"Yes, I think thee might as well go down to-morrow morning, though I'min hopes the young man may be better, if he minds my directions, " saidthe Doctor. 

"To-morrow mornin'? Why not next week? When help's wanted, give it_right away_; don't let the grass grow under your feet, say I! Good luckthat I gev up Mendenhall's home-comin' over t' the Lion, or I wouldn'tha' been here; so another cup o' tea, Martha, and I'm off!"

Martha left the table at the same time, and followed Miss Betsyup-stairs. Her eyes were full of tears, but she did not tremble, and hervoice came firm and clear. 

"I am going with you, " she said. 

Miss Lavender whirled around and looked at her a minute, without sayinga word. 

"I see you mean it, child. Don't think me hard or cruel, for I know yourfeelin's as well as if they was mine; but all the same, I've got to lookahead, and back'ards, and on this side and that, and so lookin', and sojudgin', accordin' to my light, which a'n't all tied up in a napkin, what I've got to say is, and ag'in don't think me hard, it won't do!"

"Betsy, " Martha Deane persisted, "a misfortune like this brings my dutywith it. Besides, he may be in great danger; he may have got hisdeath, "--

"Don't begin talkin' that way, " Miss Lavender interrupted, "or you'llput me out o' patience. I'll say that for your father, he's alwaysmortal concerned for a bad case, Gilbert Potter or not; and I can mostlytell the heft of a sickness by the way he talks about it, --so that'ssettled; and as to dooties, it's very well and right, I don't deny it, but never mind, all the same, I said before, the whole thing's a snarl, and I say it ag'in, and unless you've got the end o' the ravellin's inyour hand, the harder you pull, the wuss you'll make it!"

There was good sense in these words, and Martha Deane felt it. Herresolution began to waver, in spite of the tender instinct which toldher that Gilbert Potter now needed precisely the help and encouragementwhich she alone could give. 

"Oh, Betsy, " she murmured, her tears falling without restraint, "it'shard for me to seem so strange to him, at such a time!"

"Yes, " answered the spinster, setting her comb tight with a fiercethrust, "it's hard every one of us can't have our own ways in thisworld! But don't take on now, Martha dear; we only have your father'sword, and not to be called a friend's, but _I'll_ see how the land lays, and tomorrow evenin', or next day at th' outside, you'll know everythingfair and square. Neither you nor Gilbert is inclined to do things rash, and what you _both_ agree on, after a proper understanding I guess'll bepretty nigh right. There! where's my knittin'-basket?"

Miss Lavender trudged off, utterly fearless of the night walk of twomiles, down the lonely road. In less than an hour she knocked at thedoor of the farm-house, and was received with open arms by Mary Potter. Gilbert had slept the greater part of the day, but was now awake, and sorestless, from the desire to leave his bed, that his mother could withdifficulty restrain him. 

"Set down and rest yourself, Mary!" Miss Betsy exclaimed. "I'll go upand put him to rights. "

She took a lamp and mounted to the bed-room. Gilbert, drenched inperspiration, and tossing uneasily under a huge pile of blankets, sprangup as her gaunt figure entered the door. She placed the lamp on a table, pressed him down on the pillow by main force, and covered him up to thechin. 

"Martha?" he whispered, his face full of intense, piteous eagerness. 

"Will you promise to lay still and sweat, as you're told

"Yes, yes!"

"Now let me feel your pulse. That'll do; now for your tongue! Tut, tut!the boy's not so bad. I give you my word you may get up and dressyourself to-morrow mornin', if you'll only hold out to-night. And as forthorough-stem tea, and what not, I guess you've had enough of 'em; butyou can't jump out of a sick-spell into downright peartness, at onejump!"

"Martha, Martha!" Gilbert urged. 

"You're both of a piece, I declare! There was she, this very night, deadset on comin' down with me, and mortal hard it was to persuade her to bereasonable!"

Miss Lavender had not a great deal to relate, but Gilbert compelled herto make up by repetition what she lacked in quantity. And at everyrepetition the soreness seemed to decrease in his body, and the weaknessin his muscles, and hope and courage to increase in his heart. 

"Tell her, " he exclaimed, "it was enough that she wanted to come. Thatalone has put new life into me!"

"I see it has, " said Miss Lavender, "and now, maybe, you've got lifeenough to tell me all the ups and downs o' this affair, for I can't sayas I rightly understand it. "

The conference was long and important. Gilbert related everycircumstance of his adventure, including the mysterious allusion toAlfred Barton, which he had concealed from his mother. He wasdetermined, as his first course, to call the volunteers together andorganize a thorough hunt for the highwayman. Until that had been tried, he would postpone all further plans of action. Miss Lavender did not saymuch, except to encourage him in this determination. She felt that therewas grave matter for reflection in what had happened. The threads ofmystery seemed to increase, and she imagined it possible that they mightall converge to one unknown point. 

"Mary, " she said, when she descended to the kitchen, "I don't see butwhat the boy's goin' on finely. Go to bed, you, and sleep quietly; I'lltake the settle, here, and I promise you I'll go up every hour throughthe night, to see whether he's kicked his coverin's off. "

Which promise she faithfully kept, and in the morning Gilbert came downto breakfast, a little haggard, but apparently as sound as ever. Eventhe Doctor, when he arrived, was slightly surprised at the rapidimprovement. 

"A fine constitution for medicines to work on, " he remarked. "I wouldn'twish thee to be sick, but when thee is, it's a pleasure to see how thysystem obeys the treatment. "

Martha Deane, during Miss Lavender's absence, had again discussed, inher heart, her duty to Gilbert. Her conscience was hardly satisfied withthe relinquishment of her first impulse. She felt that there was, theremust be, something for her to do in this emergency. She knew that he hadtoiled, and dared, and suffered for her sake, while she had donenothing. It was not pride, --at least not the haughty quality which bearsan obligation uneasily, --but rather the impulse, at once brave andtender, to stand side by side with him in the struggle, and win an equalright to the final blessing. 

In the afternoon Miss Lavender returned, and her first business was togive a faithful report of Gilbert's condition and the true story of hismisfortune, which she repeated, almost word for word, as it came fromhis lips. It did not differ materially from that which Martha hadalready heard, and the direction which her thoughts had taken, in themean time, seemed to be confirmed. The gentle, steady strength ofpurpose that looked from her clear blue eyes, and expressed itself inthe firm, sharp curve of her lip, was never more distinct than when shesaid, --

"Now, Betsy, all is clear to me. You were right before, and I am rightnow. I must see Gilbert when he calls the men together, and after that Ishall know how to act. "

Three days afterwards, there was another assemblage of the KennettVolunteers at the Unicorn Tavern. This time, however, Mark Deane was onhand, and Alfred Barton did not make his appearance. That Gilbert Pottershould take the command was an understood matter. The preliminaryconsultation was secretly held, and when Dougherty, the Irish ostler, mixed himself, as by accident, among the troop, Gilbert sharply orderedhim away. Whatever the plan of the chase was, it was not communicated tothe crowd of country idlers; and there was, in consequence, somegrumbling at, and a great deal of respect for, the new arrangement. 

Miss Betsy Lavender had managed to speak to Gilbert before the othersarrived; therefore, after they had left, to meet the next day, equippedfor a possible absence of a week, he crossed the road and entered Dr. Deane's house. 

This time the two met, not so much as lovers, but rather as husband andwife might meet after long absence and escape from imminent danger. Martha Deane knew how cruel and bitter Gilbert's fate must seem to hisown heart, and she resolved that all the cheer which lay in her buoyant, courageous nature should be given to him. Never did a woman more sweetlyblend the tones of regret and faith, sympathy and encouragement. 

"The time has come, Gilbert, " she said at last, "when our love for eachother must no longer be kept a secret--at least from the few who, underother circumstances, would have a right to know it. We must still wait, though no longer (remember that!) than we were already agreed to wait;but we should betray ourselves, sooner or later, and then the secret, discovered by others, would seem to hint at a sense of shame. We shallgain respect and sympathy, and perhaps help, if we reveal it ourselves. Even if you do not take the same view, Gilbert, think of this, that itis my place to stand beside you in your hour of difficulty and trial;that other losses, other dangers, may come, and you could not, you mustnot, hold me apart when my heart tells me we should be together!"

She laid her arms caressingly over his shoulders, and looked in hisface. A wonderful softness and tenderness touched his pale, worncountenance. "Martha, " he said, "remember that my disgrace will coveryou, yet awhile. "

"Gilbert!"

That one word, proud, passionate, reproachful, yet forgiving, sealed hislips. 

"So be it!" he cried. "God knows, I think but of you. If I selfishlyconsidered myself, do you think I would hold back my own honor?"

"A poor honor, " she said, "that I sit comfortably at home and love you, while you are face to face with death!"

Martha Deane's resolution was inflexibly taken. That same evening shewent into the sitting-room, where her father was smoking a pipe beforethe open stove, and placed her chair opposite to his. 

"Father, " she said, "thee has never asked any questions concerningAlfred Barton's visit. "

The Doctor started, and looked at her keenly, before replying. Her voicehad its simple, natural tone, her manner was calm and self-possessed;yet something in her firm, erect posture and steady eye impressed himwith the idea that she had determined on a full and final discussion ofthe question. 

"No, child, " he answered, after a pause. "I saw Alfred, and he said theewas rather taken by surprise. He thought, perhaps, thee didn't rightlyknow thy own mind, and it would be better to wait a little. That is thechief reason why I haven't spoken to thee. "

"If Alfred Barton said that, he told thee false, " said she. "I knew myown mind, as well then as now. I said to him that nothing could evermake me his wife. "

"Martha!" the Doctor exclaimed, "don't be hasty! If Alfred is a littleolder"--

"Father!" she interrupted, "never mention this thing again! Thee canneither give me away, nor sell me; though I am a woman, I belong tomyself. Thee knows I'm not hasty in anything. It was a long time beforeI rightly knew my own heart; but when I did know it and found that ithad chosen truly, I gave it freely, and it is gone from me forever!"

"Martha, Martha!" cried Dr. Deane, starting from his seat, "what doesall this mean?"

"It means something which it is thy right to know, and therefore I havemade up my mind to tell thee, even at the risk of incurring thy lastingdispleasure. It means that I have followed the guidance of my own heartand bestowed it on a man a thousand times better and nobler than AlfredBarton ever was, and, if the Lord spares us to each other, I shall oneday be his wife!"

The Doctor glared at his daughter in speechless amazement. But she methis gaze steadily, although her face grew a shade paler, and theexpression of the pain she could not entirely suppress, with theknowledge of the struggle before her, trembled a little about thecorners of her lips. 

"Who is this man?" he asked. 

"Gilbert Potter. "

Dr. Deane's pipe dropped from his hand and smashed upon the iron hearth. 

"Martha Deane!" he cried. "Does the d---- _what_ possesses thee? Wasn'tit enough that thee should drive away the man I had picked out for thee, with a single view to thy own interest and happiness; but must thee takeup, as a wicked spite to thy father, with almost the only man in theneighborhood who brings thee nothing but poverty and disgrace? It shallnot be--it shall never be!"

"It _must_ be, father, " she said gently. "God hath joined our hearts andour lives, and no man--not even thee--shall put them asunder. If therewere disgrace, in the eyes of the world, --which I now know there isnot, --Gilbert has wiped it out by his courage, his integrity, and hissufferings. If he is poor, I am well to do. "

"Thee forgets, " the Doctor interrupted, in a stern voice, "the timeisn't up!"

"I know that unless thee gives thy consent, we must wait three years;but I hope, father, when thee comes to know Gilbert better, thee willnot be so hard. I am thy only child, and my happiness cannot beindifferent to thee. I have tried to obey thee in all things"--

He interrupted her again. "Thee's adding another cross to them I bearfor thee already! Am I not, in a manner, thy keeper, and responsible forthee, before the world and in the sight of the Lord? But thee hardenedthy heart against the direction of the Spirit, and what wonder, then, that it's hardened against me?"

"No, father, " said Martha, rising and laying her hand softly upon hisarm, "I _obeyed_ the Spirit in that other matter, as I obey myconscience in this. I took my duty into my own hands, and considered itin a humble, and, I hope, a pious spirit. I saw that there were innocentneeds of nature, pleasant enjoyments of life, which did not conflictwith sincere devotion, and that I was not called upon to renounce thembecause others happened to see the world in a different light. In thissense, thee is not my keeper; I must render an account, not to thee, butto Him who gave me my soul. Neither is thee the keeper of my heart andits affections. In the one case and the other my right is equal, --nay, it stands as far above thine as Heaven is above the earth!"

In the midst of his wrath, Dr. Deane could not help admiring hisdaughter. Foiled and exasperated as he was by the sweet, serene, loftypower of her words, they excited a wondering respect which he found itdifficult to hide. 

"Ah, Martha!" he said, "thee has a wonderful power, if it were onlydirected by the true Light! But now, it only makes the cross heavier. Don't think that I'll ever consent to see thee carry out thy strange andwicked fancies! Thee must learn to forget this man, Potter, and thesooner thee begins the easier it will be!"

"Father, " she answered, with a sad smile, "I'm sorry thee knows solittle of my nature. The wickedness would be in forgetting. It is verypainful to me that we must differ. Where my duty was wholly owed tothee, I have never delayed to give it; but here it is owed to GilbertPotter, --owed, and will be given. "

"Enough, Martha!" cried the Doctor, trembling with anger; "don't mentionhis name again!"

"I will not, except when the same duty requires it to be mentioned. But, father, try to think less harshly of the name; it will one day be mine!"

She spoke gently and imploringly, with tears in her eyes. The conflicthad been, as she said, very painful; but her course was plain, and shedared not flinch a step at the outset. The difficulties must be met faceto face, and resolutely assailed, if they were ever to be overcome. 

Dr. Deane strode up and down the room in silence, with his hands behindhis back. Martha stood by the fire, waiting his further speech, but hedid not look at her, and at the end of half an hour, commanded shortlyand sharply, without turning his head, --

"Go to bed!"

"Good-night, father, " she said, in her usual clear sweet voice, andquietly left the room. 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

A CROSS-EXAMINATION. 

The story of Gilbert Potter's robbery and marvellous escape from deathran rapidly through the neighborhood, and coming, as it did, upon theheels of his former adventure, created a great excitement. He becamealmost a hero in the minds of the people. It was not their habit toallow any man to _quite_ assume so lofty a character as that, but theygranted to Gilbert fully as much interest as, in their estimation, anyhuman being ought properly to receive. Dr. Deane was eagerly questioned, wherever he went; and if his garments could have exhaled the odors ofhis feelings, his questioners would have smelled aloes and asafoetidainstead of sweet-marjoram and bergamot. But--in justice to him be itsaid--he told and retold the story very correctly; the tide of sympathyran so high and strong, that he did not venture to stem it on groundswhich could not be publicly explained. 

The supposed disgrace of Gilbert's birth seemed to be quite forgottenfor the time; and there was no young man of spirit in the four townshipswho was not willing to serve under his command. More volunteers offered, in fact, than could be profitably employed. Sandy Flash was not the gameto be unearthed by a loud, numerous, sweeping hunt; traps, pitfalls, secret and unwearied following of his many trails, were what was needed. So much time had elapsed that the beginning must be a conjecturalbeating of the bushes, and to this end several small companies wereorganized, and the country between the Octorara and the Delaware veryeffectually scoured. 

When the various parties reunited, after several days, neither of thembrought any positive intelligence, but all the greater store of guessesand rumors. Three or four suspicious individuals had been followed andmade to give an account of themselves; certain hiding-places, especiallythe rocky lairs along the Brandywine and the North Valley-Hill, werecarefully examined, and some traces of occupation, though none veryrecent, were discovered. Such evidence as there was seemed to indicatethat part of the eastern branch of the Brandywine, between the forks ofthe stream and the great Chester Valley, as being the probable retreatof the highwayman, and a second expedition was at once organized. TheSheriff, with a posse of men from the lower part of the county, undertook to watch the avenues of escape towards the river. 

This new attempt was not more successful, so far as its main object wasconcerned, but it actually stumbled upon Sandy Flash's trail, and onlyfailed by giving tongue too soon and following too impetuously. Gilbertand his men had a tantalizing impression (which later intelligenceproved to have been correct) that the robber was somewhere nearthem, --buried in the depths of the very wood they were approaching, dodging behind the next barn as it came into view, or hidden under deadleaves in some rain-washed gulley. Had they but known, one gloomyafternoon in late December, that they were riding under the cedar-treein whose close, cloudy foliage he was coiled, just above their heads!Had they but guessed who the deaf old woman was, with her face muffledfrom the cold, and six cuts of blue yarn in her basket! But detectionhad not then become a science, and they were far from suspecting theextent of Sandy Flash's devices and disguises. 

Many of the volunteers finally grew tired of the fruitless chase, andreturned home; others could only spare a few days from their winterlabors; but Gilbert Potter, with three or four faithful and courageousyoung fellows, --one of whom was Mark Deane, --returned again and again tothe search, and not until the end of December did he confess himselfbaffled. By this time all traces of the highwayman were again lost; heseemed to have disappeared from the country. 

"I believe Pratt's right, " said Mark, as the two issued from theMarlborough woods, on their return to Kennett Square. "Chester County istoo hot to hold him. "

"Perhaps so, " Gilbert answered, with a gloomy face. He was more keenlydisappointed at the failure than he would then confess, even to Mark. The outrage committed upon him was still unavenged, and thus his loss, to his proud, sensitive nature, carried a certain shame with it. Moreover, the loss itself must speedily be replaced. He had halfflattered himself with the hope of capturing not only Sandy Flash, buthis plunder; it was hard to forget that, for a day or two, he had beenindependent, --hard to stoop again to be a borrower and a debtor!

"What are the county authorities good for?" Mark exclaimed. "Between youand me, the Sheriff's a reg'lar puddin'-head. I wish you was in hisplace. "

"If Sandy is safe in Jersey, or down on the Eastern Shore, that would dono good. It isn't enough that he leaves us alone, from this time on; hehas a heavy back-score to settle. "

"Come to think on it, Gilbert, " Mark continued, "isn't it rather queerthat you and him should be thrown together in such ways? There wasBarton's fox-chase last spring; then your shootin' at other, at theSquare; and then the robbery on the road. It seems to me as if he pickedyou out to follow you, and yet I don't know why. "

Gilbert started. Mark's words reawakened the dark, incredible suspicionwhich Martha Deane had removed. Again he declared to himself that hewould not entertain the thought, but he could not reject the evidencethat there was something more than accident in all these encounters. Ifany one besides Sandy Flash were responsible for the last meeting, itmust be Alfred Barton. The latter, therefore, owed him an explanation, and he would demand it. 

When they reached the top of the "big hill" north of the Fairthornfarm-house, whence they looked eastward down the sloping corn-fieldwhich had been the scene of the husking-frolic, Mark turned to Gilbertwith an honest blush all over his face, and said, --

"I don't see why you shouldn't know it, Gilbert. I'm sure Sally wouldn'tcare; you're almost like a brother to her. "

"What?" Gilbert asked, yet with a quick suspicion of the comingintelligence. 

"Oh, I guess you know, well enough, old fellow. I asked her that night, and it's all right between us. What do you say to it, now?"

"Mark, I'm glad of it; I wish you joy, with all my heart!" Gilbertstretched out his hand, and as he turned and looked squarely into Mark'shalf-bashful yet wholly happy face, he remembered Martha's words, attheir last interview. 

"You are like a brother to me, Mark, " he said, "and you shall have _my_secret. What would you say if I had done the same thing?"

"No?" Mark exclaimed; "who?"

"Guess!"

"Not--not Martha?"

Gilbert smiled. 

"By the Lord! It's the best day's work _you_'ve ever done! Gi' me y'rhand ag'in; we'll stand by each other faster than ever, now!"

When they stopped at Fairthorn's, the significant pressure of Gilbert'shand brought a blush into Sally's cheek; but when Mark met Martha withhis tell-tale face, she answered with a proud and tender smile. 

Gilbert's first business, after his return, was to have a consultationwith Miss Betsy Lavender, who alone knew of the suspicions attaching toAlfred Barton. The spinster had, in the mean time, made the matter thesubject of profound and somewhat painful cogitation. She had ransackedher richly stored memory of persons and events, until her brain was likea drawer of tumbled clothes; had spent hours in laborious mentalresearch, becoming so absorbed that she sometimes gave crooked answerswhen spoken to, and was haunted with a terrible dread of having thoughtaloud; and had questioned the oldest gossips right and left, coming asnear the hidden subject as she dared. When they met, she communicatedthe result to Gilbert in this wise:

"'T a'n't agreeable for a body to allow they're flummuxed, but if _I_a'n't, this time, I'm mighty near onto it. It's like lookin' for a seto' buttons that'll match, in a box full o' tail-ends o' things. This'n'd do, and that'n 'd do; but you can't put this'n and that'n together;and here's got to be square work, everything fittin' tight and hangin'plumb, or it'll be throwed back onto your hands, and all to be done overag'in. I dunno when I've done so much head-work and to no purpose, follerin' here and guessin' there, and nosin' into everything that'spast and gone; and so my opinion is, whether you like it or not, butnever mind, all the same, I can't do no more than give it, that we'dbetter drop what's past and gone, and look a little more into thesepresent times!"

"Well, Betsy, " said Gilbert, with a stern, determined face, "this iswhat I shall do. I am satisfied that Barton is connected, in some way, with Sandy Flash. What it is, or whether the knowledge will help us, Ican't guess; but I shall force Barton to tell me!"

"To tell me. That might do, as far as it goes, " she remarked, after amoment's reflection. "It won't be easy; you'll have to threaten as wellas coax, but I guess you can git it out of him in the long run, andmaybe I can help you here, two bein' better than one, if one is but asheep's-head. "

"I don't see, Betsy, that I need to call on you. "

"This way, Gilbert. It's a strong p'int o' law, I've heerd tell, notthat I know much o' law, Goodness knows, nor ever want to, but nevermind, it's a strong p'int when there's two witnesses to a thing, --one toclinch what the t'other drives in; and you must have a show o' law towork on Alf. Barton, or I'm much mistaken!"

Gilbert reflected a moment. "It can do no harm, " he then said; "can yougo with me, now?"

"Now's the time! If we only git the light of a farden-candle out o' him, it'll do me a mortal heap o' good; for with all this rakin' and scrapin'for nothin', I'm like a heart pantin' after the water-brooks, though amouth would be more like it, to my thinkin', when a body's so awful dryas that comes to!"

The two thereupon took the foot-path down through the frozen fields andthe dreary timber of the creek-side, to the Barton farm-house. As theyapproached the barn, they saw Alfred Barton sitting on a pile of strawand watching Giles, who was threshing wheat. He seemed a littlesurprised at their appearance; but as Gilbert and he had not met sincetheir interview in the corn-field before the former's departure forChester, he had no special cause for embarrassment. 

"Come into the house, " he said, leading the way. 

"No, " Gilbert answered, "I came here to speak with you privately. Willyou walk down the lane?"

"No objection, of course, " said Barton, looking from Gilbert to MissLavender, with a mixture of curiosity and uneasiness. "Good news, Ihope; got hold of Sandy's tracks, at last?"

"One of them. "

"Ah, you don't say so! Where?"

"Here!"

Gilbert stopped and faced Barton. They were below the barn, and out ofGiles's hearing. 

"Barton, " he resumed, "you know what interest I have in the arrest ofthat man, and you won't deny my right to demand of you an account ofyour dealings with him. When did you first make his acquaintance?"

"I've told you that, already; the matter has been fully talked overbetween us, " Barton answered, in a petulant tone. 

"It has not been fully talked over. I require to know, first of all, precisely when, and under what circumstances, you and Sandy Flash cametogether. There is more to come, so let us begin at the beginning. "

"Damme, Gilbert, _you_ were there, and saw as much as I did. How could Iknow who the cursed black-whiskered fellow was?"

"But you found it out, " Gilbert persisted, "and the manner of yourfinding it out must be explained. "

Barton assumed a bold, insolent manner. "I don't see as that follows, "he said. "It has nothing in the world to do with his robbery of you; andas for Sandy Flash, I wish to the Lord you'd get hold of him, yourself, instead of trying to make me accountable for his comings and goings!"

"He's tryin' to fly off the handle, " Miss Lavender remarked. "I'd dropthat part o' the business a bit, if I was you, and come to the t'otherproof. "

"What the devil have _you_ to do here?" asked Barton. 

"Miss Betsy is here because I asked her, " Gilbert said. "Because allthat passes between us may have to be repeated in a court of justice, and two witnesses are better than one!"

He took advantage of the shock which these words produced upon Barton, and repeated to him the highwayman's declarations, with the inferencethey might bear if not satisfactorily explained. "I kept my promise, " headded, "and said nothing to any living soul of your request that Ishould carry money for you to Chester. Sandy Flash's information, therefore, must have come, either directly or indirectly, from you. "

Barton had listened with open mouth and amazed eyes. 

"Why, the man is a devil!" he cried. "I, neither, never said a word ofthe matter to any living soul!"

"Did you really send any money?" Gilbert asked. 

"That I did! I got it of Joel Ferris, and it happened he was bound forChester, the very next day, on his own business; and so, instead ofturning it over to me, he just paid it there, according to mydirections. You'll understand, this is between ourselves?"

He darted a sharp, suspicious glance at Miss Betsy Lavender, who gravelynodded her head. 

"The difficulty is not yet explained, " said Gilbert, "and perhaps you'll_now_ not deny my right to know something more of your firstacquaintance with Sandy Flash?"

"Have it then!" Barton exclaimed, desperately--"and much good may it doyou! I thought his name was Fortune, as much as you did, till nineo'clock that night, when he put a pistol to my breast in the woods! Ifyou think I'm colloguing with him, why did he rob me under threat ofmurder, --money, watch, and everything?"

"Ah-ha!" said Miss Lavender, "and so that's the way your watch has beengittin' mended all this while? Mainspring broke, as I've heerd say;well, I don't wonder! Gilbert, I guess this much is true. Alf. Barton'dnever live so long without that watch, and that half-peck o' seals, ifhe could help it!"

"This, too, may as well be kept to ourselves, " Barton suggested. "Itisn't agreeable to a man to have it known that he's been so taken in asI was, and that's just the reason why I kept it to myself; and, ofcourse, I shouldn't like it to get around. "

Gilbert could do no less than accept this part of the story, and itrendered his later surmises untenable. But the solution which he soughtwas as far off as ever. 

"Barton, " he said, after a long pause, "will you do your best to help mein finding out how Sandy Flash got the knowledge?"

"Only show me a way! The best would be to catch him and get it from hisown mouth. "

He looked so earnest, so eager, and--as far as the traces of cunning inhis face would permit--so honest, that Gilbert yielded to a suddenimpulse, and said, --

"I believe you, Barton. I've done you wrong in my thoughts, --notwillingly, for I don't want to think badly of you or any one else, --butbecause circumstances seemed to drive me to it. It would have beenbetter if you had told me of your robbery at the start. "

"You're right there, Gilbert! I believe I was an outspoken fellowenough, when I was young, and all the better for it, but the old man'sdriven me into a curst way of keeping dark about everything, and so I goon heaping up trouble for myself. "

"Trouble for myself, Alf. Barton, " said Miss Lavender, "that's thetruest word you've said this many a day. Murder will out, you know, andso will robbery, and so will--other things. More o' your doin's isknown, not that they're agreeabler, but on the contrary, quite thereverse, and as full need to be explained, though it don't seem tomatter much, yet it may, who can tell? And now look here, Gilbert; mycrow is to be picked, and you've seen the color of it, but never mind, all the same, since Martha's told the Doctor, it can't make muchdifference to you. And this is all between ourselves, you understand?"

The last words were addressed to Barton, with a comical, unconsciousimitation of his own manner. He guessed something of what was coming, though not the whole of it, and again became visibly uneasy; but hestammered out, --"Yes; oh, yes! of course. "

Gilbert could form a tolerably correct idea of the shape and size ofMiss Lavender's crow. He did not feel sure that this was the proper timeto have it picked, or even that it should be picked at all; but heimagined that Miss Lavender had either consulted Martha Deane, or thatshe had wise reasons of her own for speaking. He therefore remainedsilent. 

"First and foremost, " she resumed, "I'll tell you, Alf. Barton, what weknow o' your doin's, and then it's for you to judge whether we'll knowany more. Well, you've been tryin' to git Martha Deane for a wife, without wantin' her in your heart, but rather the contrary, though itseems queer enough when a body comes to think of it, but never mind; andyour father's druv you to it; and you were of a cold shiver for fearshe'd take you, and yet you want to let on it a'n't settled betwixt andbetween you--oh, you needn't chaw your lips and look yaller about thejaws, it's the Lord's truth; and now answer me this, _what do you mean?_and maybe you'll say what right have I got to ask, but never mind, allthe same, if I haven't, Gilbert Potter has, for it's him that MarthaDeane has promised to take for a husband!"

It was a day of surprises for Barton. In his astonishment at the lastannouncement, he took refuge from the horror of Miss Lavender's firstrevelations. One thing was settled, --all the fruits of his painful andlaborious plotting were scattered to the winds. Denial was of no use, but neither could an honest explanation, even if he should force himselfto give it, be of any possible service. 

"Gilbert, " he asked, "is this true?--about _you_, I mean. "

"Martha Deane and I are engaged, and were already at the time when youaddressed her, " Gilbert answered. 

"Good heavens! I hadn't the slightest suspicion of it. Well--I don'tbegrudge you your luck, and of course I'll draw back, and never sayanother word, now or ever. "

"_You_ wouldn't ha' been comfortable with Martha Deane, anyhow, " MissLavender grimly remarked. "'T isn't good to hitch a colt-horse and anold spavined critter in one team. But that's neither here nor there; youha'n't told us why you made up to her for a purpose, and kep' onpretendin' she didn't know her own mind. "

"I've promised Gilbert that I won't interfere, and that's enough, " saidBarton, doggedly. 

Miss Lavender was foiled for a moment, but she presently returned to theattack. "I dunno as it's enough, after what's gone before, " she said. "Couldn't you go a step furder, and lend Gilbert a helpin' hand, whenever and whatever?"

"Betsy!" Gilbert exclaimed. 

"Let me alone, lad! I don't speak in Gilbert's name, nor yet inMartha's; only out o' my own mind. I don't ask you to do anything, but Iwant to know how it stands with your willin'ness. "

"I've offered, more than once, to do him a good turn, if I could; but Iguess my help wouldn't be welcome, " Barton answered. The sting of thesuspicion rankled in his mind, and Gilbert's evident aversion sorelywounded his vanity. 

"Wouldn't be welcome. Then I'll only say this; maybe I've got it in mypower, and 't isn't sayin' much, for the mouse gnawed the mashes o' thelion's net, to help you to what you're after, bein' as it isn't Martha, and can't be her money. S'pose I did it o' my own accord, leavin' you tofeel beholden to me, or not, after all's said and done?"

But Alfred Barton was proof against even this assault. He was toodejected to enter, at once, into a new plot, the issue of which wouldprobably be as fruitless as the others. He had already accepted asufficiency of shame, for one day. This last confession, if made, wouldplace his character in a still grosser and meaner light; while, ifwithheld, the unexplained motive might be presented as a partialjustification of his course. He had been surprised into damagingadmissions; but here he would take a firm stand. 

"You're right so far, Betsy, " he said, "that I had a reason--a goodreason, it seemed to me, but I may be mistaken--for what I did. Itconcerns no one under Heaven but my own self; and though I don't doubtyour willingness to do me a good turn, it would make no difference--youcouldn't help one bit. I've given the thing up, and so let it be!"

There was nothing more to be said, and the two cross-examiners tooktheir departure. As they descended to the creek, Miss Lavender remarked, as if to herself, --

"No use--it can't be screwed out of him! So there's one cur'osity theless; not that I'm glad of it, for not knowin' worries more thanknowin', whatsoever and whosoever. And I dunno as I think any the wussof him for shuttin' his teeth so tight onto it. "

Alfred Barton waited until the two had disappeared behind the timber inthe bottom. Then he slowly followed, stealing across the fields andaround the stables, to the back-door of the Unicorn bar-room. It wasnoticed that, although he drank a good deal that afternoon, hisill-humor was not, as usual, diminished thereby. 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

DEB. SMITH TAKES A RESOLUTION. 

It was a raw, overcast evening in the early part of January. Away to thewest there was a brownish glimmer in the dark-gray sky, denoting sunset, and from that point there came barely sufficient light to disclose theprominent features of a wild, dreary, uneven landscape. 

The foreground was a rugged clearing in the forest, just where the crestof a high hill began to slope rapidly down to the Brandywine. The darkmeadows, dotted with irregular lakes of ice, and long, dirty drifts ofunmelted snow, but not the stream itself, could be seen. Across thenarrow valley rose a cape, or foreland, of the hills beyond, timberednearly to the top, and falling, on either side, into deep lateralglens, --those warm nooks which the first settlers loved to choose, bothfrom their snug aspect of shelter, and from the cold, sparkling springsof water which every one of them held in its lap. Back of the summits ofall the hills stretched a rich, rolling upland, cleared and mapped intospacious fields, but showing everywhere an edge of dark, wintry woodsagainst the darkening sky. 

In the midst of this clearing stood a rough cabin, or rather half-cabin, of logs; for the back of it was formed by a ledge of slaty rocks, someten or twelve feet in height, which here cropped out of the hill-side. The raw clay with which the crevices between the logs had been stopped, had fallen out in many places; the roof of long strips of peeled barkwas shrivelled by wind and sun, and held in its place by stones andheavy branches of trees, and a square tower of plastered sticks in onecorner very imperfectly suggested a chimney. There was no inclosed patchof vegetable-ground near, no stable, improvised of corn-shocks, for theshelter of cow or pig, and the habitation seemed not only to beuntenanted, but to have been forsaken years before. 

Yet a thin, cautious thread of smoke stole above the rocks, and just asthe starless dusk began to deepen into night, a step was heard, slowlyclimbing upward through the rustling leaves and snapping sticks of theforest. A woman's figure, wearily scaling the hill under a load whichalmost concealed the upper part of her body, for it consisted of a hugewallet, a rattling collection of articles tied in a blanket, and two orthree bundles slung over her shoulders with a rope. When at last, panting from the strain, she stood beside the cabin, she shook herself, and the articles, with the exception of the wallet, tumbled to theground. The latter she set down carefully, thrust her arm into one ofthe ends and drew forth a heavy jug, which she raised to her mouth. Thewind was rising, but its voice among the trees was dull and muffled; nowand then a flake of snow dropped out of the gloom, as if some cowardly, insulting creature of the air were spitting at the world under cover ofthe night. 

"It's likely to be a good night, " the woman muttered, "and he'll be onthe way by this time. I must put things to rights. "

She entered the cabin by a narrow door in the southern end. Her firstcare was to rekindle the smouldering fire from a store of boughs and drybrushwood piled in one corner. When a little flame leaped up from theashes, it revealed an interior bare and dismal enough, yet very cheeryin contrast with the threatening weather outside. The walls were nakedlogs and rock, the floor of irregular flat stones, and no furnitureremained except some part of a cupboard or dresser, near the chimney. Two or three short saw-cuts of logs formed as many seats, and the onlysign of a bed was a mass of dry leaves, upon which a blanket had beenthrown, in a hollow under the overhanging base of the rock. 

Untying the blanket, the woman drew forth three or four rude cookingutensils, some dried beef and smoked sausages, and two huge round loavesof bread, and arranged them upon the one or two remaining shelves of thedresser. Then she seated herself in front of the fire, staring into thecrackling blaze, which she mechanically fed from time to time, mutteringbrokenly to herself in the manner of one accustomed to be much alone. 

"It was a mean thing, after what I'd said, --my word used to be wuthsomethin', but times seems to ha' changed. If they have, why shouldn't Ichange with 'em, as well's anybody else? Well, why need it matter? I'vegot a bad name. .. . No, that'll never do! Stick to what you're about, oryou'll be wuthlesser, even, than they says you are!"

She shook her hard fist, and took another pull at the jug. 

"It's well I laid in a good lot o' _that_, " she said. "No better companyfor a lonesome night, and it'll stop his cussin', I reckon, anyhow. Eh?What's that?"

From the wood came a short, quick yelp, as from some stray dog. Sherose, slipped out the door, and peered into the darkness, which was fullof gathering snow. After listening a moment, she gave a low whistle. Itwas not answered, but a stealthy step presently approached, and a form, dividing itself from the gloom, stood at her side. 

"All right, Deb?"

"Right as I can make it. I've got meat and drink, and I come straightfrom the Turk's Head, and Jim says the Sheriff's gone back to Chester, and there's been nobody out these three days. Come in and take bite andsup, and then tell me everything. "

They entered the cabin. The door was carefully barred, and then SandyFlash, throwing off a heavy overcoat, such as the drovers wereaccustomed to wear, sat down by the fire. His face was redder than itswont, from cold and exposure, and all its keen, fierce lines were sharpand hard. As he warmed his feet and hands at the blaze, and watched Deb. Smith while she set the meat upon the coals, and cut the bread with aheavy hunting-knife, the wary, defiant look of a hunted animal graduallyrelaxed, and he said, --

"Faith, Deb. , this is better than hidin' in the frost. I believe I'd ha'froze last night, if I hadn't got down beside an ox for a couple o'hours. It's a dog's life they've led me, and I've had just about enoughof it. "

"Then why not give it up, Sandy, for good and all? I'll go out with youto the Backwoods, after--after things is settled. "

"And let 'em brag they frightened me away!" he exclaimed, with an oath. "Not by a long shot, Deb. I owe 'em a score for this last chase--I'llmake the rich men o' Chester County shake in their shoes, and theofficers o' the law, and the Volunteers, damme! before I've done with'em. When I go away for good, I'll leave somethin' behind me for them toremember me by!"

"Well, never mind; eat a bit--the meat's ready, and see here, Sandy! Icarried this all the way. "

He seized the jug and took a long draught. "You're a good 'un, Deb. , " hesaid. "A man isn't half a man when his belly's cold and empty. "

He fell to, and ate long and ravenously. Warmed at last, both by fireand fare, and still more by his frequent potations, he commenced thestory of his disguises and escapes, laughing at times with boisterousself-admiration, swearing brutally and bitterly at others, over therelentless energy with which he had been pursued. Deb. Smith listenedwith eager interest, slapping him upon the back with a force of approvalwhich would have felled an ordinary man, but which Sandy Flashcheerfully accepted as a caress. 

"You see, " he said at the close, "after I sneaked between Potter's troopand the Sheriff's, and got down into the lower corner o' the county, Imanaged to jump aboard a grain-sloop bound for Newport, but they werefroze in at the mouth o' Christeen; so I went ashore, dodged aroundWilmington, (where I'm rather too well known, ) and come up Whitely Creekas a drover from Mar'land. But from Grove up to here, I've had to lookout mighty sharp, takin' nigh onto two days for what I could go straightthrough in half a day. "

"Well, I guess you're safe here, Sandy, " she said; "they'll never thinko' lookin' for you twice't in the same place. Why didn't you send wordfor me before? You've kep' me a mortal long time a-waitin', and down onthe Woodrow farm would ha' done as well as here. "

"It's a little too near that Potter. He'd smell me out as quick as if Iwas a skunk to windward of him. Besides, it's time I was pitchin' on afew new holes; we must talk it over together, Deb. "

He lifted the jug again to his mouth. Deb. Smith, although she had keptnearly even pace with him, was not so sensible to the potency of theliquor, and was watching for the proper degree of mellowness, in orderto broach the subject over which she had been secretly brooding sincehis arrival. 

"First of all, Sandy, " she now said, "I want to talk to you aboutGilbert Potter. The man's my friend, and I thought you cared enoughabout me to let my friends alone. "

"So I do, Deb. , when they let me alone. I had a right to shoot thefellow, but I let him off easy, as much for your sake as because he wascarryin' another man's money. "

"That's not true!" she cried. "It was his own money, every cent ofit, --hard-earned money, meant to pay off his debts; and I can say itbecause I helped him earn it, mowin' and reapin' beside him in theharvest-field, thrashin' beside him in the barn, eatin' at his table, and sleepin' under his roof. I gev him my word he was safe from you, butyou've made me out a liar, with no more thought o' me than if I'd been astranger or an enemy!"

"Come, Deb. , don't get into your tantrums. Potter may be a decentfellow, as men go, for anything I know, but you're not beholden to himbecause he treated you like a Christian as you are. You seem to forgitthat he tried to take my life, --that he's hardly yet giv' up huntin' melike a wild beast! Damn him, if the money _was_ his, which I don'tbelieve, it wouldn't square accounts between us. You think more o' hismoney than o' my life, you huzzy!"

"No I don't, Sandy!" she protested, "no I don't. You know me better'nthat. What am I here for, to-night? Have I never helped you, and hidyou, and tramped the country for you back and forth, by day and bynight, --and for what? Not for money, but because I'm your wife, whetheror not priest or 'squire has said it. I thought you cared for me, I did, indeed; I thought you might do one thing to please me!"

There was a quivering motion in the muscles of her hard face; her lipswere drawn convulsively, with an expression which denoted weeping, although no tears came to her eyes. 

"Don't be a fool!" Sandy exclaimed. "S'pose you have served me, isn't itsomethin' to have a man to serve? What other husband is there for you inthe world, than me, --the only man that isn't afeard o' your fist? You'vedone your duty by me, I'll allow, and so have I done mine by you!"

"Then, " she begged, "do this one thing over and above your duty. Do it, Sandy, as a bit o' kindness to me, and put upon me what work you please, till I've made it up to you! You dunno what it is, maybe, to have oneperson in the world as shows a sort o' respect for you--that gives youhis hand honestly, like a gentleman, and your full Chris'en name. Itdoes good when a body's been banged about as I've been, and more used tocurses than kind words, and not a friend to look after me if I waslayin' at Death's door--and I don't say you wouldn't come, Sandy, butyou can't. And there's no denyin' that he had the law on his side, andisn't more an enemy than any other man. Maybe he'd even be a friend inneed, as far as he dared, if you'd only do it"--

"Do what? What in the Devil's name is the woman drivin' at?" yelledSandy Flash. 

"Give back the money; it's his'n, not Barton's, --I know it. Tell mewhere it is, and I'll manage the whole thing for you. It's got to bepaid in a month or two, folks says, and they'll come on him for it, maybe take and sell his farm--sell th' only house, Sandy, where I git myrights, th' only house where I git a bit o' peace an' comfort! Youwouldn't be that hard on me?"

The highwayman took another deep drink and rose to his feet. His facewas stern and threatening. "I've had enough o' this foolery, " he said. "Once and for all, Deb. , don't you poke your nose into my affairs! Giveback the money? Tell you where it is? Pay him for huntin' me down? Icould take you by the hair and knock your head ag'in the wall, for themwords!"

She arose also and confronted him. The convulsive twitching of her mouthceased, and her face became as hard and defiant as his. "Sandy Flash, mark my words!" she exclaimed. "You're a-goin' the wrong way, when youstop takin' only from the Collectors and the proud rich men, and sparin'the poor. Instead o' doin' good to balance the bad, it'll soon be allbad, and you no better 'n a common thief! You needn't show your teeth;it's true, and I say it square to y'r face!"

She saw the cruel intensity of his anger, but did not flinch. They hadhad many previous quarrels, in which neither could claim any very greatadvantage over the other; but the highwayman was now in an impatient andexasperated mood, and she dared more than she suspected in defying him. 

"You ----!" (the epithet he used cannot be written, ) "will you stop yourjaw, or shall I stop it for you? I'm your master, and I give you yourorders, and the first order is, Not another word, now and never, aboutPotter or his money!"

He had never before outraged her by such a word, never before sobrutally asserted his claim to her obedience. All the hot, indignantforce of her fierce, coarse nature rose in resistance. She wasthoroughly aroused and fearless. The moment had come, she felt, when theindependence which had been her compensation amid all the hardships andwrongs of her life, was threatened, --when she must either preserve it bya desperate effort, or be trampled under foot by this man, whom she bothloved and feared, and in that moment, hated. 

"I'll not hold my jaw!" she cried, with flashing eyes. "Not even at yourbiddin', Sandy Flash! I'll not rest till I have the money out o' you;there's no law ag'inst stealin' from a thief!"

The answer was a swift, tremendous blow of the highwayman's fist, delivered between her eyes. She fell, and lay for a moment stunned, theblood streaming from her face. Then with a rapid movement, she seizedthe hunting-knife which lay beside the fire, and sprang to her feet. 

The knife was raised in her right hand, and her impulse was to plunge itinto his heart. But she could not avoid his eyes; they caught and heldher own, as if by some diabolical fascination. He stood motionless, apparently awaiting the blow. Nothing in his face or attitude expressedfear; only all the power of the man seemed to be concentrated in hisgaze, and to hold her back. The impulse once arrested, he knew, it wouldnot return. The eyes of each were fixed on the other's, and severalminutes of awful silence thus passed. 

Finally, Deb. Smith slightly shuddered, as if with cold, her hand slowlyfell, and without a word she turned away to wash her bloody face. 

Sandy Flash grinned, took another drink of whiskey, resumed his seatbefore the fire, and then proceeded to fill his pipe. He lit and smokedit to the end, without turning his head, or seeming to pay the leastattention to her movements. She, meanwhile, had stopped the flow ofblood from her face, bound a rag around her forehead, and lighted herown pipe, without speaking. The highwayman first broke the silence. 

"As I was a-sayin', " he remarked, in his ordinary tone, "we've got tolook out for new holes, where the scent isn't so strong as about these. What do you think o' th' Octorara?"

"Where?" she asked. Her voice was hoarse and strange, but he took nonotice of it, gazing steadily into the fire as he puffed out a hugecloud of smoke. 

"Well, pretty well down, " he said. "There's a big bit o' woodland, nighonto two thousand acres, belongin' to somebody in Baltimore that doesn'tlook at it once't in ten years, and my thinkin' is, it'd be as safe asthe Backwoods. I must go to--it's no difference where--to-morrowmornin', but I'll be back day after to-morrow night, and you needn'tstir from here till I come. You've grub enough for that long, eh?"

"It'll do, " she muttered. 

"Then, that's enough. I must be off an hour before day, and I'm devilishfagged and sleepy, so here goes!"

With these words he rose, knocked the ashes out of his pipe, andstretched himself on the bed of leaves. She continued to smoke her pipe. 

"Deb. , " he said, five minutes afterwards, "I'm not sure o' wakin'. Youlook out for me, --do you hear?"

"I hear, " she answered, in the same low, hoarse voice, without turningher head. In a short time Sandy Flash's deep breathing announced that heslept. Then she turned and looked at him with a grim, singular smile, asthe wavering fire-light drew clear pictures of his face which thedarkness as constantly wiped out again. By-and-by she noiselessly movedher seat nearer to the wall, leaned her head against the rough logs, andseemed to sleep. But, even if it were sleep, she was conscious of hisleast movement, and started into alert wakefulness, if he turned, muttered in dreams, or crooked a finger among the dead leaves. From timeto time she rose, stole out of the cabin and looked at the sky. Thus thenight passed away. 

There was no sign of approaching dawn in the dull, overcast, snowy air;but a blind, animal instinct of time belonged to her nature, and abouttwo hours before sunrise, she set about preparing a meal. When all wasready, she bent over Sandy Flash, seized him by the shoulder, and shookhis eyes open. 

"Time!" was all she said. 

He sprang up, hastily devoured the bread and meat, and emptied the jugof its last remaining contents. 

"Hark ye, Deb. , " he exclaimed, when he had finished, "you may as welltrudge over to the Turk's Head and fill this while I'm gone. We'll needall of it, and more, tomorrow night. Here's a dollar, to pay for't. NowI must be on the tramp, but you may look for me to-morrow, an hour aftersun. "

He examined his pistols, stuck them in his belt, threw his drover'scloak over his shoulders, and strode out of the cabin. She waited untilthe sound of his footsteps had died away in the cold, dreary gloom, andthen threw herself upon the pallet which he had vacated. This time sheslept soundly, until hours after the gray winter day had come up thesky. 

Her eyes were nearly closed by the swollen flesh, and she laid handfulsof snow upon her face, to cool the inflamation. At first, her movementswere uncertain, expressing a fierce conflict, a painful irresolution offeeling; she picked up the hunting-knife, looked at it with a ghastlysmile, and then threw it from her. Suddenly, however, her featureschanged, and every trace of her former hesitation vanished. Afterhurriedly eating the fragments left from Sandy's breakfast, she issuedfrom the cabin and took a straight and rapid course eastward, up andover the hill. 

During the rest of that day and the greater part of the next, the cabinwas deserted. 

It was almost sunset, and not more than an hour before Sandy Flash'spromised return, when Deb. Smith again made her appearance. Her face waspale, (except for the dark blotches around the eyes, ) worn, and haggard;she seemed to have grown ten years older in the interval. 

Her first care was to rekindle the fire and place the replenished jug inits accustomed place. Then she arranged and rearranged the rude blockswhich served for seats, the few dishes and the articles of food on theshelf, and, when all had been done, paced back and forth along thenarrow floor, as if pushed by some invisible, tormenting power. 

Finally a whistle was heard, and in a minute afterwards Sandy Flashentered the door. The bright blaze of the hearth shone upon his bold, daring, triumphant face. 

"That's right, Deb. , " he said. "I'm dry and hungry, and here's a rabbityou can skin and set to broil in no time. Let's look at you, old gal!The devil!--I didn't mean to mark you like that. Well, bygones isbygones, and better times is a-comin'. "

"Sandy!" she cried, with a sudden, appealing energy, "Sandy--once'tmore! Won't you do for me what I want o' you?"

His face darkened in an instant. "Deb!" was all the word he uttered, butshe understood the tone. He took off his pistol-belt and laid it on theshelf. "Lay there, pets!" he said; "I won't want you to-night. A longtramp it was, and I'm glad it's over. Deb. , I guess I've nigh tore offone o' my knee-buckles, comin' through the woods. "

Placing his foot upon one of the logs, he bent down to examine thebuckle. Quick as lightning, Deb. , who was standing behind him, seizedeach of his arms, just above the elbows, with her powerful hands, anddrew them towards each other upon his back. At the same time she uttereda shrill, wild cry, --a scream so strange and unearthly in its characterthat Sandy Flash's blood chilled to hear it. 

"Curse you, Deb. , what are you doing? Are you clean mad?" he ejaculated, struggling violently to free his arms. 

"Which is strongest now?" she asked; "my arms, or your'n? I've got you, I'll hold you, and I'll only let go when I please!"

He swore and struggled, but he was powerless in her iron grip. Inanother minute the door of the cabin was suddenly burst open, and twoarmed men sprang upon him. More rapidly than the fact can be related, they snapped a pair of heavy steel handcuffs upon his wrists, pinionedhis arms at his sides, and bound his knees together. Then, and not tillthen, Deb. Smith relaxed her hold. 

Sandy Flash made one tremendous muscular effort, to test the strength ofhis bonds, and then stood motionless. His white teeth flashed betweenhis parted lips, and there was a dull, hard glare in his eyes which toldthat though struck dumb with astonishment and impotent rage, he wasstill fearless, still unsubdued. Deb. Smith, behind him, leaned againstthe wall, pale and panting. 

"A good night's work!" remarked Chaffey, the constable, as he possessedhimself of the musket, pistol-belt, and hunting-knife. "I guess thispitcher won't go to the well any more. "

"We'll see, " Sandy exclaimed, with a sneer. "You've got me, not throughany pluck o' your'n, but through black, underhanded treachery. You'dbetter double chain and handcuff me, or I may be too much for you yet!"

"I guess you'll do, " said the constable, examining the cords by thelight of a lantern which his assistant had in the mean time fetched fromwithout. "I'll even untie your knees, for you've to walk over the hillto the next farm-house, where we'll find a wagon to carry you to Chesterjail. I promise you more comfortable quarters than these, by daylight. "

The constable then turned to Deb. Smith, who had neither moved norspoken. 

"You needn't come with us without you want to, " he said. "You can getyour share of the money at any time; but you must remember to be readyto appear and testify, when Court meets. "

"Must I do that?" she gasped. 

"Why, to be sure! It's a reg'lar part of the trial, and can't be leftout, though there's enough to hang the fellow ten times over, withoutyou. "

The two unbound Sandy Flash's knees and placed themselves on each sideof him, the constable holding a cocked pistol in his right hand. 

"March is the word, is it?" said the highwayman. "Well, I'm ready. Potter was right, after all; he said there'd be a curse on the money, and there is; but I never guessed the curse'd come upon me through_you_, Deb!"

"Oh, Sandy!" she cried, starting forward, "you druv me to it! The cursewas o' your own makin'--and I gev you a last chance to-night, but youthrowed it from you!"

"Very well, Deb, " he answered, "if I've got my curse, don't think you'llnot have your'n! Go down to Chester and git your blood-money, and seewhat'll come of it, and what'll come to you!"

He turned towards her as he spoke, and the expression of his face seemedso frightful that she shuddered and covered her eyes. The next moment, the old cabin door creaked open, fell back with a crash, and she wasalone. 

She stared around at the dreary walls. The sound of their footsteps haddied away, and only the winter night-wind wailed through the crannies ofthe hut. Accustomed as she was to solitary life and rudest shelter, andto the companionship of her superstitious fancies, she had never beforefelt such fearful loneliness, such overpowering dread. She heaped sticksupon the fire, sat down before it, and drank from the jug. Its mouth wasstill wet from his lips, and it seemed that she was already drinkingdown the commencement of the curse. 

Her face worked, and hard, painful groans burst from her lips. She threwherself upon the floor and grovelled there, until the woman's reliefwhich she had almost unlearned forced its forgotten way, through crampsand agonies, to her eyes. In the violent passion of her weeping andmoaning, God saw and pitied, that night, the struggles of a dumb, ignorant, yet not wholly darkened nature. 

Two hours afterwards she arose, sad, stern, and determined, packedtogether the things she had brought with her, quenched the fire (neveragain to be relighted) upon the hearth, and took her way, through coldand darkness, down the valley. 

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 rejoicingbut greater surprise, for Deb. Smith's relation to the robber, thoughpossibly surmised by a few, was unsuspected by the community at large. In spite of the service which she had rendered by betraying her paramourinto the hands of justice, a bitter feeling of hostility towards her wasdeveloped among the people, and she was generally looked upon as anaccomplice to Sandy Flash's crimes, who had turned upon him only whenshe 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 difficultiesentailed by his loss. He had corresponded with Mr. Trainer, theconveyancer in Chester, and had learned that the money still due mustnot only be forthcoming on the first of April, but that it probablycould not be obtained there. The excitement for buying lands along theAlleghany, Ohio, and Beaver rivers, in western Pennsylvania, had seizedupon the few capitalists of the place, and Gilbert's creditor hadalready been subjected to inconvenience and possible loss, as one resultof the robbery. Mr. Trainer therefore suggested that he should make anew loan in his own neighborhood, where the spirit of speculation hadnot yet reached. 

The advice was prudent and not unfriendly, although of a kind more easyto give than to carry into execution. Mark's money-belt had beenrestored, greatly against the will of the good-hearted fellow (who wouldhave cheerfully lent Gilbert the whole amount had he possessed it), andthere was enough grain yet to be threshed and sold, to yield somethingmore than a hundred dollars; but this was all which Gilbert could countupon from his own resources. He might sell the wagon and one span ofhorses, reducing by their value the sum which he would be obliged toborrow; yet his hope of recovering the money in another year could onlybe realized by retaining them, to continue, from time to time, hisoccupation of hauling flour. 

Although the sympathy felt for him was general and very hearty, it nevertook the practical form of an offer of assistance, and he was far tooproud to accept that plan of relief which a farmer, whose barn had beenstruck by lightning and consumed, had adopted, the previous year, --goingabout the neighborhood with a subscription-list, and solicitingcontributions. His nearest friends were as poor as, or poorer than, himself, and those able to aid him felt no call to tender theirservices. 

Martha Deane knew of this approaching trouble, not from Gilbert's ownlips, for she had seen him but once and very briefly since his returnfrom the chase of Sandy Flash. It was her cousin Mark, who, havingentered into an alliance, offensive and defensive, with her lover, betrayed (considering that the end sanctioned the means) the confidencereposed in him. 

The thought that her own coming fortune lay idle, while Gilbert might besaved 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 lessservice when it should be legally her own to give, than the fragmentwhich now would lift him above anxiety and humiliation. The money hadbeen bequeathed to her by a maternal aunt, whose name she bore, and theprovisions by which the bequest was accompanied, so light and reasonablebe fore, now seemed harsh and unkind. The payment of the whole sum, orany part of it, she saw, could not be anticipated. But she imaginedthere must be a way to obtain a loan of the necessary amount, with thebequest as security. With her ignorance of business matters, she feltthe 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. NotGilbert, for she fancied he might reject the assistance she designed, and therefore she meant to pay the debt before it became due, withouthis knowledge; nor Mark, nor Farmer Fairthorn. Betsy Lavender, whenappealed to, shook her head, and remarked, --

"Lord bless you, child! a wuss snarl than ever. I'm gittin' a bitskeary, when you talk o' law and money matters, and that's the fact. Notthat I find fault with your wishin' to do it, but the contrary, andthere 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 alternativewhich she would gladly have avoided, and from which, indeed, she hopednothing, --an appeal to her father. Gilbert Potter's name had not againbeen mentioned between them. She, for her part, had striven to maintainher usual gentle, cheerful demeanor, and it is probable that Dr. Deanemade a similar attempt; but he could not conceal a certain coldness andstiffness, which made an uncomfortable atmosphere in their littlehousehold. 

"Well, Betsy, " Martha said (they were in her room, upstairs), "Fatherhas just come in from the stable, I see. Since there is no other way, Iwill 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, "and which o'the two is stubbornest, I couldn't undertake to say. If he's dead-set onthe wrong side, why, she's jist as dead-set on the right side, and thatmakes 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 thelion's mouth; but so it is! Isn't about time for _you_ to be doin'somethin', Betsy Lavender!"

Martha Deane entered the front sitting-room with a grave, deliberatestep. The Doctor sat at his desk, with a pair of heavy silver-rimmedspectacles on his nose, looking over an antiquated "Materia Medica. " Hisupper lip seemed to have become harder and thinner, at the expense ofthe under one, which pouted in a way that expressed vexation andill-temper. He was, in fact, more annoyed than he would have confessedto any human being. Alfred Barton's visits had discontinued, and hecould easily guess the reason. Moreover, a suspicion of Gilbert Potter'srelation to his daughter was slowly beginning to permeate theneighborhood; and more than once, within the last few days, all hispeculiar diplomacy had been required to parry a direct question. Heforesaw that the subject would soon come to the notice of his elderbrethren among the Friends, who felt self-privileged to rebuke andremonstrate, even in family matters of so delicate a nature. 

It was useless, the Doctor knew, to attempt coercion with Martha. If anymeasure could succeed in averting the threatened shame, it must bekindly persuasion, coupled with a calm, dispassionate appeal to herunderstanding. The quiet, gentle way in which she had met his anger, henow saw, had left the advantage of the first encounter on her side. Hismale nature and long habit of rule made an equal self-control verydifficult, on his part, and he resolved to postpone a recurrence to thesubject until he should feel able to meet his daughter with her ownweapons. Probably some reflection of the kind then occupied his mind, inspite 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 andsettled, until thee's twenty-five, unless--unless"--

Here the Doctor hesitated. He did not wish to introduce the sore subjectof his daughter's marriage. 

"I know what thee means, father. Unless I should sooner marry, with thyconsent. But I do not expect to marry now, and therefore do not ask thypermission. What I want to know is, whether I could not obtain a loan ofa small sum of money, on the security of the legacy?"

"That depends on circumstances, " said the Doctor, slowly, and after along pause, during which he endeavored to guess his daughter's design. "It might be, --yes, it might be; but, Martha, surely thee doesn't wantfor money? Why should thee borrow?"

"Couldn'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 Iever squandered it foolishly or thoughtlessly. This is a case where Iwish to make an investment, --a permanent investment. "

"Ah, indeed? I always fancied thee cared less for money than a prudentwoman 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, alarge sum! Since thee can only raise it with my help, thee'll certainlyadmit my right, as thy legal guardian, if not as thy father, to askwhere, how, and on what security the money will be invested?"

Martha hesitated only long enough to reflect that her father's assertionwas 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 itsrepayment in three years from this time. The security _I_ ask, I have inadvance; it is the happiness of my life!"

"Martha! thee doesn'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, Irepeat that I would, and will, lift the mortgage on Gilbert Potter'sfarm. He has been very unfortunate, and there is a call for help whichnobody heeds as he deserves. If I give it now, I simply give a part inadvance. 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 steadyvoice, --

"Thee still sets up thy right (as thee calls it) against mine, but mineis older built and will stand. To help thee to this money would only beto encourage thy wicked fancy for the man. Of course, I can't do it; Iwonder thee should expect it of me. I wonder, indeed, thee should thinkof taking as a husband one who borrows money of thee almost as soon ashe has spoken his mind!"

For an instant Martha Deane's eyes flashed. "Father!" she cried, "it isnot so! Gilbert doesn't even know my desire to help him. I must ask thisof thee, to speak no evil of him in my hearing. It would only give meunnecessary pain, not shake my faith in his honesty and goodness. I seethee will not assist me, and so I must endeavor to find whether thething cannot be done without thy assistance. In three years more thelegacy will be mine, I shall go to Chester, and consult a lawyer, whether my own note for that time could not be accepted!"

"I can spare thee the trouble, " the Doctor said. "In case of thy deathbefore the three years are out, who is to pay the note? Half the moneyfalls to me, and half to thy uncle Richard. Thy aunt Martha was wise. Ittruly seems as if she had foreseen just what has happened, and meant tobaulk thy present rashness. Thee may go to Chester, and welcome, if theedoubts my word; but unless thee can give positive assurance that theewill be alive in three years' time, I don't know of any one foolishenough to advance thee money. "

The Doctor's words were cruel enough; he might have spared histriumphant, mocking smile. Martha's heart sank within her, as sherecognized her utter helplessness. Not yet, however, would she give upthe sweet hope of bringing aid; for Gilbert's sake she would makeanother appeal. 

"I won't charge thee, father, with being intentionally unkind. It wouldalmost seem, from thy words, that thee is rather glad than otherwise, because my life is uncertain. If I _should_ die, would thee not careenough for my memory to pay a debt, the incurring of which brought mepeace and happiness during life? _Then_, surely, thee would forgive; thyheart is not so hard as thee would have me believe; thee wishes mehappiness, I cannot doubt, but thinks it will come in _thy_ way, not inmine. Is it not possible to grant me this--only this--and leaveeverything else to time?"

Dr. Deane was touched and softened by his daughter's words. Perhaps hemight even have yielded to her entreaty at once, had not a harsh andselfish condition presented itself in a very tempting form to his mind. 

"Martha, " he said, "I fancy that thee looks upon this matter of the loanin the light of a duty, and will allow that thy motives may be weightyto thy own mind. I ask thee to calm thyself, and consider thingsclearly. If I grant thy request, I do so against my own judgment, yea, --since it concerns thy interests, --against my own conscience. Thisis not a thing to be lightly done, and if I should yield, I mightreasonably expect some little sacrifice of present inclination--yet allfor thy future good--on thy part. I would cheerfully borrow the sixhundred 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 nodisgrace, I am aware, and pity that it is so; but if thy feeling for theyoung man is entirely pure and unselfish, it should be enough to knowthat thee had saved him from ruin, without considering thyself bound tohim for life. "

The Doctor sharply watched his daughter's face while he spoke. Shelooked up, at first, with an eager, wondering light of hope in hereyes, --a light that soon died away, and gave place to a cloudy, troubledexpression. Then the blood rose to her cheeks, and her lips assumed theclear, firm curve which always reflected the decisions of her mind. 

"Father, " she said, "I see thee has learned how to tempt, as well asthreaten. For the sake of doing a present good, thee would have me bindmyself to do a life-long injustice. Thee would have me take an externalduty 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 GilbertPotter's happiness, but also that he is necessary to mine. Perhaps it isthe will of Heaven that so great a bounty should not come to me tooeasily, and I must bear, without murmuring, that my own father is setagainst me. Thee may try me, if thee desires, for the coming threeyears, but I can tell thee as well, now, what the end will be. Why notrather tempt me by offering the money Gilbert needs, on the condition ofmy giving up the rest of the legacy to thee? That would be a temptation, I confess. "

"No!" he exclaimed, with rising exasperation, "if thee has hardened thyheart against all my counsels for thy good, I will at least keep my ownconscience free. I will not help thee by so much as the moving of afinger. All I can do is, to pray that thy stubborn mind may be bent, andgradually led back to the Light!"

He put away the book, took his cane and broad-brimmed hat, and turned toleave the room. Martha rose, with a sad but resolute face, and wentup-stairs to her chamber. 

Miss Betsy Lavender, when she learned all that had been said, on bothsides, was thrown into a state of great agitation and perplexity ofmind. She stared at Martha Deane, without seeming to see her, andmuttered from time to time such fragmentary phrases as, --"If I wasright-down sure, " or, "It'd only be another weepon tried and throwedaway, 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' knowledgethat come in my way, once't upon a time, never meanin' to make use of itin all my born days, and I wouldn't now, only for your two sakes; notthat it concerns you a mite; but never mind, there's ten thousand wayso' 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 encounterat once, had not Martha wisely entreated her to wait a day or two, untilthe irritation arising from her own interview had had time to subside inher father's mind. 

"It's puttin' me on nettles, now that I mean fast and firm to do it; butyou'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 thebush, plainness o' speech bein' one o' my ways; not that folks alwaysthinks it a virtue, but oftentimes the contrary, and so may you, maybe;but when there's a worry in a house, it's better, whatsoever andwhosoever, to have it come to a head than go on achin' and achin', likea blind bile!"

"H'm, " snorted the Doctor, "I see what thee's driving at, and I may aswell tell thee at once, that if thee comes to me from Martha, I've heardenough from her, and more than enough. "

"More 'n enough, " repeated Miss Lavender. "But you're wrong. I comeneither 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 direcklyconcerned, might talk the thing over betwixt and between us, and maybecome 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 rightlyconjectured, by her plainness of speech, he had great respect for hershrewdness and her practical wisdom. If he could but even partially winher 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' thathe 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 forlettin' on, I don't know 'em. Maybe you can guess 'em, as you seem toha' had everything cut and dried betwixt and between you; but that'sneither here nor there--Alf. Barton bein' out o' the way, why, thecoast's clear, and so Gilbert's case is to be considered by itself; andlet'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, withoutposition or influence in the neighborhood, --in no way a husband forMartha Deane! If her head's turned because he has been robbed, andmarvellously saved, and talked about, I suppose I must wait till shecomes to her right senses. "

"I rather expect, " Miss Lavender gravely remarked, "that they werebespoke 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'ttalk o' that now, but come back to Gilbert Potter, and I dunno as you'requite 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 shouldn't wonder, though I can'tgive no proofs, but never mind, wait awhile and you'll see, that he'snot 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'ssettled, and we'll take the t' other two; and I s'pose you mean his farmisn't enough?"

"Thee's right, " Dr. Deane said. "As Martha's guardian, I am bound towatch over her interests, and every prudent man will agree with me thather 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 Blakedidn't think as you do, when she married you. What's sass for the gooseought to be sass for the gander (meanin' you and Gilbert), and everyprudent man will agree with me. "

This was a home-thrust, which Dr. Deane was not able to parry. MissLavender had full knowledge whereof she affirmed, and the Doctor knewit. 

"I admit that there might be other advantages, " he said, ratherpompously, covering his annoyance with a pinch of snuff, --"advantageswhich partly balance the want of property. Perhaps Naomi Blake thoughtso too. But here, I think, it would be hard for thee to find such. Ordoes 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 otherrespects, here is cause enough for me. I put it to thee, as a sensiblewoman, whether I would not cover both myself and Martha with shame, byallowing her marriage with Gilbert Potter?"

Miss Lavender sat silently in her chair and appeared to meditate. 

"Thee doesn't answer, " the Doctor remarked, after a pause. 

"I dunno how it come about, " she said, lifting her head and fixing herdull 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. Deanecould not repress a violent start of surprise. He darted a keen, fierceglance 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 presentlysaid, collecting himself with an effort. 

"Nor I, neither, " Miss Lavender absently replied, "only it happened thatI knowed Eliza Little, --her that used to live at the Gap, you know, --andjust 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 yourbrother's boy, and I must say few men would ha' acted as Henry done, andthere's more 'n one mighty beholden to him. "

Dr. Deane stretched out his hand as if he would close her mouth. Hisface was like fire, and a wild expression of fear and pain shot from hiseyes. 

"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 upknowledge that should be hidden forever. What can all this avail thee?Why does thee threaten me with appearances, that cannot now beexplained, 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 nolivin' soul that knows, except you and me, and if I seem hard, I'm noharder than the knowledge in your own heart. What's the difference, inthe sight o' the Lord, between the one that has a bad name and the onethat has a good name? Come, you set yourself up for a Chris'en, and so Iask 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 nateralbad man, Doctor, but rather the contrary--oughtn't to be showed indeeds, to be wuth much! You're set ag'in Martha, and your pride'stouched, which I can't say as I wonder at, all folks havin' pride, meamong the rest, not that I've much to be proud of, Goodness knows; butnever mind, don't you talk about Gilbert Potter in that style, leastwaysbefore me!"

During this speech, Dr. Deane had time to reflect. Although aghast atthe unexpected revelation, he had not wholly lost his cunning. It waseasy to perceive what Miss Lavender intended to do with the weapon inher hands, and his aim was to render it powerless. 

"Betsy, " he said, "there's one thing thee won't deny, --that, if therewas a fault, (which I don't allow), it has been expiated. To make knownthy suspicions would bring sorrow and trouble upon two persons for whomthee professes to feel some attachment; if thee could prove what theethinks, 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 burdenswhich we must bear alone, and thee mustn't forget that the sameconsideration for the opinion of men which keeps thee silent, keeps mefrom consenting to Martha's marriage with Gilbert Potter. We are boundalike. "

"We're not!" she cried, rising from her seat. "But I see it's no use totalk 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 inbetter order. Whether I'll act accordin' to my knowledge or not, dependson how things turns out, and so sufficient unto the day is the evilthereof, or however it goes!"

With these words she left the room, though foiled, not entirelyhopeless. 

"It's like buttin' over an old stone-wall, " she said to Martha. "Thefirst hit with a rammer seems to come back onto you, and jars y'r ownbones, and may be the next, and the next; and then little stones git outo' place, and then the wall shakes, and comes down, --and so we've beena-doin'. I guess I made a crack to-day, but we'll see. "

CHAPTER XXVI. 

THE LAST OF SANDY FLASH. 

The winter crept on, February was drawing to a close, and still GilbertPotter had not ascertained whence the money was to be drawn which wouldrelieve him from embarrassment. The few applications he had made werefailures; some of the persons really had no money to invest, and otherswere too cautious to trust a man who, as everybody knew, had beenunfortunate. In five weeks more the sum must be made up, or the mortgagewould be foreclosed. 

Both Mary Potter and her son, in this emergency, seemed to have adopted, by accident or sympathy, the same policy towards each other, --to cheerand encourage, in every possible way. Gilbert carefully concealed hishumiliation, on returning home from an unsuccessful appeal for a loan, and his mother veiled her renewed sinking of the heart, as she heard ofhis failure, under a cheerful hope of final success, which she did notfeel. Both had, in fact, one great consolation to fall back upon, --shethat he had been mercifully saved to her, he that he was beloved by anoble woman. 

All the grain that could be spared and sold placed but little more thana hundred dollars in Gilbert's hands, and he began seriously to considerwhether he should not be obliged to sell his wagon and team. He had beenoffered a hundred and fifty dollars, (a very large sum, in those days, )for Roger, but he would as soon have sold his own right arm. Not even tosave the farm would he have parted with the faithful animal. Mark Deanepersisted in increasing his seventy-five dollars to a hundred, andforcing the loan upon his friend; so one third of the amount was secure, and there was still hope for the rest. 

It is not precisely true that there had been no offer of assistance. There was _one_, which Gilbert half-suspected had been instigated byBetsy Lavender. On a Saturday afternoon, as he visited Kennett Square tohave Roger's fore-feet shod, he encountered Alfred Barton at theblacksmith's shop, on the same errand. 

"The man I wanted to see!" cried the latter, as Gilbert dismounted. "Ferris was in Chester last week, and he saw Chaffey, the constable, youknow, that helped catch Sandy; and Chaffey told him he was sure, fromsomething Sandy let fall, that Deb. Smith had betrayed him out ofrevenge, because he robbed you. I want to know how it all hangstogether. "

Gilbert suddenly recalled Deb. Smith's words, on the day after hisescape from the inundation, and a suspicion of the truth entered hismind for the first time. 

"It must have been so!" he exclaimed. "She has been a better friend tome than many people of better name. "

Barton noticed the bitterness of the remark, and possibly drew his owninference from it. He looked annoyed for a moment, but presentlybeckoned Gilbert to one side, and said, --

"I don't know whether you've given up your foolish suspicions about meand Sandy; but the trial comes off next week, and you'll have to bethere as a witness, of course, and can satisfy yourself, if you please, that my explanation was nothing but the truth. I've not felt so jolly intwenty years, as when I heard that the fellow was really in the jug!"

"I told you I believed your words, " Gilbert answered, "and that settlesthe matter. Perhaps I shall find out how Sandy learned what you said tome that evening, on the back-porch of the Unicorn, and if so, I am boundto let you know it. "

"See here, Gilbert!" Barton resumed. "Folks say you must borrow themoney you lost, or the mortgage on your farm will be foreclosed. Is thatso? and how much money might it be, altogether, if you don't mindtelling?"

"Not so much, if those who have it to lend, had a little faith inme, --some four or five hundred dollars. "

"That ought to be got, without trouble, " said Barton. "If I had it byme, I'd lend it to you in a minute; but you know I borrowed from Ferrismyself, and all o' my own is so tied up that I couldn't move it withoutthe old man getting on my track. I'll tell you what I'll do, though;I'll indorse your note for a year, if it can be kept a matter betweenourselves and the lender. On account of the old man, you understand. "

The offer was evidently made in good faith, and Gilbert hesitated, reluctant to accept it, and yet unwilling to reject it in a manner thatmight seem unfriendly. 

"Barton, " he said at last, "I've never yet failed to meet a moneyobligation. All my debts, except this last, have been paid on the day Ipromised, and it seems a little hard that my own name, alone, shouldn'tbe good for as much as I need. Old Fairthorn would give me hisindorsement, but I won't ask for it; and I mean no offence when I saythat I'd rather get along without yours, if I can. It's kind in you tomake the offer, and to show that I'm not ungrateful, I'll beg you tolook round among your rich friends and help me to find the loan. "

"You're a mighty independent, fellow, Gilbert, but I can't say as Iblame you for it. Yes, I'll look round in a few days, and maybe I'llstumble on the right man by the time I see you again. "

When Gilbert returned home, he communicated this slight prospect ofrelief to his mother. "Perhaps I am a little too proud, " he said; "butyou've always taught me, mother, to be beholden to no man, if I couldhelp it; and I should feel more uneasy under an obligation to Bartonthan to most other men. You know I must go to Chester in a few days, andmust wait till I'm called to testify. There will then be time to lookaround, and perhaps Mr. Trainer may help me yet. "

"You're right, boy!" Mary Potter cried, with flashing eyes. "Keep yourpride; it's not of the mean kind! Don't ask for or take any man'sindorsement!"

Two days before the time when Gilbert was summoned to Chester, Deb. Smith made her appearance at the farm. She entered the barn early onemorning, with a bundle in her hand, and dispatched Sam, whom she foundin the stables, to summon his master. She looked old, weather-beaten, and haggard, and her defiant show of strength was gone. 

In betraying Sandy Flash into the hands of justice, she had acted from afierce impulse, without reflecting upon the inevitable consequences ofthe step. Perhaps she did not suspect that she was also betrayingherself, and more than confirming all the worst rumors in regard to hercharacter. In the universal execration which followed the knowledge ofher lawless connection with Sandy Flash, and her presumed complicity inhis crimes, the merit of her service to the county was lost. The popularmind, knowing nothing of her temptations, struggles, and sufferings, washarsh, cold, and cruel, and she felt the weight of its verdict as neverbefore. A few persons of her own ignorant class, who admired herstrength and courage in their coarse way, advised her to hide until thefirst fury of the storm should be blown over. Thus she exaggerated thedanger, and even felt uncertain of her reception by the very man forwhose sake she had done the deed and accepted the curse. 

Gilbert, however, when he saw her worn, anxious face, the eyes, likethose of a dumb animal, lifted to his with an appeal which she knew nothow to speak, felt a pang of compassionate sympathy. 

"Deborah!" he said, "you don't look well; come into the house and warmyourself!"

"No!" she cried, "I won't darken your door till you've heerd what I'vegot to say. Go 'way, Sam; I want to speak to Mr. Gilbert, alone. "

Gilbert made a sign, and Sam sprang down the ladder, to the stablesunder the threshing-floor. 

"Mayhap you've heerd already, " she said. "A blotch on a body's namespreads fast and far. Mine was black enough before, God knows, butthey've blackened it more. "

"If all I hear is true, " Gilbert exclaimed, "you've blackened it for mysake, Deborah. I'm afraid you thought I blamed you, in some way, for notpreventing my loss; but I'm sure you did what you could to save me fromit!"

"Ay, lad, that I did! But the devil seemed to ha' got into him. Awfulwords passed between us, and then--the devil got into _me_, and--youknow what follered. He wouldn't believe the money was your'n, or I don'tthink he'd ha' took it; he wasn't a bad man at heart, Sandy wasn't, onlystubborn at the wrong times, and brung it onto himself by that. But youknow what folks says about me?"

"I don't care what they say, Deborah!" Gilbert cried. "I know that youare a true and faithful friend to me, and I've not had so many such inmy life that I'm likely to forget what you've tried to do!"

Her hard, melancholy face became at once eager and tender. She steppedforward, put her hand on Gilbert's arm, and said, in a hoarse, earnest, excited whisper, --

"Then maybe you'll take it? I was almost afeard to ax you, --I thoughtyou might push me away, like the rest of 'em; but you'll take it, andthat'll seem like a liftin' of the curse! You won't mind how it was got, will you? I had to git it in that way, because no other was left to me!"

"What do you mean, Deborah?"

"The money, Mr. Gilbert! They allowed me half, though the constables wasfor thirds, but the Judge said I'd arned the full half, --God knows, tenthousand times wouldn't pay me!--and I've got it here, tied up safe. It's your'n, you know, and maybe there a'n't quite enough, but as fur asit goes; and I'll work out the amount o' the rest, from time to time, ifyou'll let me come onto your place!"

Gilbert was powerfully and yet painfully moved. He forgot hisdetestation of the relation in which Deb. Smith had stood to thehighwayman, in his gratitude for her devotion to himself. He felt aninvincible repugnance towards accepting her share of the reward, even asa loan; it was "blood-money, " and to touch it in any way was to bestained with its color; yet how should he put aside her kindness withoutinflicting pain upon her rude nature, made sensitive at last by abuse, persecution, and remorse?

His face spoke in advance of his lips, and she read its language withwonderful quickness. 

"Ah!" she cried, "I mistrusted how it'd be; you don't want to say itright out, but I'll say it for you! You think the money'd bring you noluck, --maybe a downright curse, --and how can I say it won't? Ha'n't itcursed me? Sandy said it would, even as your'n follered him. What's itgood for, then? It burns my hands, and them that's clean, won't touchit. There, you damned devil's-bait, --my arm's sore, and my heart's sore, wi' the weight o' you!"

With these words she flung the cloth, with its bunch of hard silvercoins, upon the threshing-floor. It clashed like the sound of chains. Gilbert saw that she was sorely hurt. Tears of disappointment, which shevainly strove to hold back, rose to her eyes, as she grimly folded herarms, and facing him, said, --

"Now, what am I to do?"

"Stay here for the present, Deborah, " he answered. 

"Eh? A'n't I summonsed? The job I undertook isn't done yet; the wustpart's to come! Maybe they'll let me off from puttin' the rope round hisneck, but I a'n't sure o' that!"

"Then come to me afterwards, " he said, gently, striving to allay herfierce, self-accusing mood. "Remember that you always have a home and ashelter with me, whenever you need them. And I'll take your money, " headded, picking it up from the floor, --"take it in trust for you, untilthe time shall come when you will be willing to use it. Now go in to mymother. "

The woman was softened and consoled by his words. But she stillhesitated. 

"Maybe she won't--she won't"--

"She will!" Gilbert exclaimed. "But if you doubt, wait here until I comeback. "

Mary Potter earnestly approved of his decision, to take charge of themoney, without making use of it. A strong, semi-superstitious influencehad so entwined itself with her fate, that she even shrank from help, unless it came in an obviously pure and honorable form. She measured thefulness of her coming justification by the strict integrity of the meanswhereby she sought to deserve it. Deb. Smith, in her new light, was nowelcome guest, and with all her coarse male strength, she was stillwoman enough to guess the fact; but Mary Potter resolved to think onlythat her son had been served and befriended. Keeping that servicesteadily before her eyes, she was able to take the outcast's hand, togive her shelter and food, and, better still, to soothe her with thatsweet, unobtrusive consolation which only a woman can bestow, --whichsteals by avenues of benevolent cunning into a nature that would repel adirect expression of sympathy. 

The next morning, however, Deb. Smith left the house, saying toGilbert, --"You won't see me ag'in, without it may be in Court, tillafter all's over; and then I may have to ask you to hide me for awhile. Don't mind what I've said; I've no larnin', and can't always make outthe rights o' things, --and sometimes it seems there's two Sandys, a good'un and a bad 'un, and meanin' to punish one, I've ruined 'em both!"

When Gilbert reached Chester, the trial was just about to commence. Thelittle old town on the Delaware was crowded with curious strangers, notonly from all parts of the county, but even from Philadelphia and theopposite New-Jersey shore. Every one who had been summoned to testifywas beset by an inquisitive circle, and none more so than himself. TheCourt-house was packed to suffocation; and the Sheriff, heavily armed, could with difficulty force a way through the mass. When the clanking ofthe prisoner's irons was heard, all the pushing, struggling, murmuringsounds ceased until the redoubtable highwayman stood in the dock. 

He looked around the Court-room with his usual defiant air, and no oneobserved any change of expression, as his eyes passed rapidly over Deb. Smith's face, or Gilbert Potter's. His hard red complexion was alreadybeginning to fade in confinement, and his thick hair, formerlyclose-cropped for the convenience of disguises, had grown out in notungraceful locks. He was decidedly a handsome man, and his bearingseemed to show that he was conscious of the fact. 

The trial commenced. To the astonishment of all, and, as it wasafterwards reported, against the advice of his counsel, the prisonerplead guilty to some of the specifications of the indictment, while hedenied others. The Collectors whom he had plundered were then called tothe witness-stand, but the public seemed to manifest less interest inthe loss of its own money, than in the few cases where privateindividuals had suffered, and waited impatiently for the latter. 

Deb. Smith had so long borne the curious gaze of hundreds of eyes, whenever she lifted her head, that when her turn came, she was able torise and walk forward without betraying any emotion. Only when she wasconfronted with Sandy Flash, and he met her with a wonderfully strange, serious smile, did she shudder for a moment and hastily turn away. Shegave her testimony in a hard, firm voice, making her statements as briefas possible, and volunteering nothing beyond what was demanded. 

On being dismissed from the stand, she appeared to hesitate. Her eyeswandered over the faces of the lawyers, the judges, and the jurymen, asif with a dumb appeal, but she did not speak. Then she turned towardsthe prisoner, and some words passed between them, which, in the generalmovement of curiosity, were only heard by the two or three persons whostood nearest. 

"Sandy!" she was reported to have said, "I couldn't help myself; takethe curse off o' me!"

"Deb. , it's too late, " he answered. "It's begun to work, and it'll workitself out!"

Gilbert noticed the feeling of hostility with which Deb. Smith wasregarded by the spectators, --a feeling that threatened to manifestitself in some violent way, when the restraints of the place should beremoved. He therefore took advantage of the great interest with whichhis own testimony was heard, to present her character in the light whichher services to him shed upon it. This was a new phase of the story, andproduced a general movement of surprise. Sandy Flash, it was noticed, sitting with his fettered hands upon the rail before him, leaned forwardand listened intently, while an unusual flush deepened upon his cheeks. 

The statements, though not strictly in evidence, were permitted by theCourt, and they produced the effect which Gilbert intended. Theexcitement reached its height when Deb. Smith, ignorant of rule, suddenly rose and cried out, --

"It's true as Gospel, every word of it! Sandy, do you hear?"

She was removed by the constable, but the people, as they made way, uttered no word of threat or insult. On the contrary, many eyes restedon her hard, violent, wretched face with an expression of very genuinecompassion. 

The trial took its course, and terminated with the result whicheverybody--even the prisoner himself--knew to be inevitable. He waspronounced guilty, and duly sentenced to be hanged by the neck until hewas dead. 

Gilbert employed the time which he could spare from his attendance atthe Court, in endeavoring to make a new loan, but with no positivesuccess. The most he accomplished was an agreement, on the part of hiscreditor, that the foreclosure might be delayed two or three weeks, provided there was a good prospect of the money being obtained. Inordinary times he would have had no difficulty; but, as Mr. Trainer hadwritten, the speculation in western lands had seized upon capitalists, and the amount of money for permanent investment was already greatlydiminished. 

He was preparing to return home, when Chaffey, the constable, came tohim with a message from Sandy Flash. The latter begged for an interview, and both Judge and Sheriff were anxious that Gilbert should comply withhis wishes, in the hope that a full and complete confession might beobtained. It was evident that the highwayman had accomplices, but hesteadfastly refused to name them, even with the prospect of having hissentence commuted to imprisonment for life. 

Gilbert did not hesitate a moment. There were doubts of his own to besolved, --questions to be asked, which Sandy Flash could alone answer. He followed the constable to the gloomy, high-walled jail-building, andwas promptly admitted by the Sheriff into the low, dark, heavily barredcell, wherein the prisoner sat upon a wooden stool, the links of hisleg-fetters passed through a ring in the floor. 

Sandy Flash lifted his face to the light, and grinned, but not with hisold, mocking expression. He stretched out his hand which Gilberttook, --hard and cold as the rattling chain at his wrist. Then, seatinghimself with a clash upon the floor, he pushed the stool towards hisvisitor, and said, --

"Set down, Potter. Limited accommodations, you see. Sheriff, you needn'twait; it's private business. "

The Sheriff locked the iron door behind him, and they were alone. 

"Potter, " the highwayman began, "you see I'm trapped and done for, andall, it seems, on account o' that little affair o' your'n. You won'tthink it means much, now, when I say I was in the wrong there; but Iswear I was! I had no particular spite ag'in Barton, but he's a swell, and I like to take such fellows down; and I was dead sure you werecarryin' his money, as you promised to. "

"Tell me one thing, " Gilbert interrupted; "how did you know I promisedto take money for him?"

"I knowed it, that's enough; I can give you, word for word, what both o'you said, if you doubt me. "

"Then, as I thought, it was Barton himself!" Gilbert cried. 

Sandy Flash burst into a roaring laugh. "_Him!_ Ah-ha! you think we gosnacks, eh? Do I look like a fool? Barton'd give his eye-teeth to putthe halter round my neck with his own hands! No, no, young man; I haveways and ways o' learnin' things that you nor him'll never guess. "

His manner, even more than his words, convinced Gilbert Barton wasabsolved, but the mystery remained. "You won't deny that you havefriends?" he said. 

"Maybe, " Sandy replied, in a short, rough tone. "That's nothin' to you, "he continued; "but what I've got to say is, whether or no you're afriend to Deb. , she thinks you are. Do you mean to look after her, once't in a while, or are you one o' them that forgits a good turn?"

"I have told her, " said Gilbert, "that she shall always have a home anda shelter in my house. If it's any satisfaction to you, here's my handon it!"

"I believe you, Potter. Deb. 's done ill by me; she shouldn't ha' bulliedme when I was sore and tetchy, and fagged out with _your_ curst huntin'of me up and down! But I'll do that much for her and for you. Here; bendyour head down; I've got to whisper. "

Gilbert leaned his ear to the highwayman's mouth. 

"You'll only tell _her, _ you understand?"

Gilbert assented. 

"Say to her these words, --don't forgit a single one of 'em!--Thirtysteps from the place she knowed about, behind the two bigchestnut-trees, goin' towards the first cedar, and a forked sassyfrackgrowin' right over it. What she finds, is your'n. "

"Sandy!" Gilbert exclaimed, starting from his listening posture. 

"Hush, I say! You know what I mean her to do, --give you your money back. I took a curse with it, as you said. Maybe that's off o' me, now!"

"It is!" said Gilbert, in a low tone, "and forgiveness--mine and mymother's--in the place of it. Have you any"--he hesitated to say thewords--"any last messages, to her or anybody else, or anything you wouldlike to have done?"

"Thank ye, no!--unless Deb. Can find my black hair and whiskers. Thenyou may give 'em to Barton, with my dutiful service. "

He laughed at the idea, until his chains rattled. 

Gilbert's mind was haunted with the other and darker doubt, and heresolved, in this last interview, to secure himself against itsrecurrence. In such an hour he could trust the prisoner's words. 

"Sandy, " he asked, "have you any children?"

"Not to my knowledge; and I'm glad of it. "

"You must know, " Gilbert continued, "what the people say about my birth. My mother is bound from telling me who my father was, and I dare not askher any questions. Did you ever happen to know her, in your youngerdays, or can you remember anything that will help me to discover hisname?"

The highwayman sat silent, meditating, and Gilbert felt that his heartwas beginning to beat painfully fast, as he waited for the answer. 

"Yes, " said Sandy, at last, "I did know Mary Potter when I was a boy, and she knowed me, under another name. I may say I liked her, too, in aboy's way, but she was older by three or four years, and never thoughto' lookin' at me. But I can't remember anything more; if I was out o'this, I'd soon find out for you!"

He looked up with an eager, questioning glance, which Gilbert totallymisunderstood. 

"What was your other name?" he asked, in a barely audible voice. 

"I dunno as I need tell it, " Sandy answered; "what'd be the good?There's some yet livin', o' the same name, and they wouldn't thank me. "

"Sandy!" Gilbert cried desperately, "answer this one question, --don't goout of the world with a false word in your mouth!--You are not myfather?"

The highwayman looked at him a moment, in blank amazement. "No, so helpme God!" he then said. 

Gilbert's face brightened so suddenly and vividly that Sandy muttered tohimself, --"I never thought I was that bad. "

"I hear the Sheriff at the outside gate, " he whispered again. "Don'tforgit--thirty steps from the place she knowed about--behind the twobig chestnut-trees, goin' towards the first cedar--and a forkedsassyfrack growin' right over it! Good-bye, and good-luck to the wholeo' your life!"

The two clasped hands with a warmth and earnestness which surprised theSheriff. Then Gilbert went out from his old antagonist. 

That night Sandy Flash made an attempt to escape from the jail, and verynearly succeeded. It appeared, from some mysterious words which heafterwards let fall, and which Gilbert alone could have understood, thathe had a superstitious belief that something he had done would bring hima new turn of fortune. The only result of the attempt was to hasten hisexecution. Within ten days from that time he was transformed from aliving terror into a romantic name. 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

GILBERT INDEPENDENT. 

Gilbert Potter felt such an implicit trust in Sandy Flash's promise ofrestitution, that, before leaving Chester, he announced the forthcomingpayment of the mortgage to its holder. His homeward ride was like atriumphal march, to which his heart beat the music. The chill Marchwinds turned into May-breezes as they touched him; the brown meadowswere quick with ambushed bloom. Within three or four months his life hadtouched such extremes of experience, that the fate yet to come seemed toevolve 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 withstrength and courage. 

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

It was nearly a week before Deb. Smith made her appearance. Gilbert, inthe mean time, had visited her cabin on the Woodrow farm, to find itdeserted, and he was burning with impatience to secure, through her, therestoration of his independence. He would not announce his changedprospects, even to Martha Deane, until they were put beyond furtherrisk. The money once in his hands, he determined to carry it to Chesterwithout loss of time. 

When Deb. Arrived, she had a weary, hunted look, but she was unusuallygrave and silent, and avoided further reference to the late tragicalepisode in her life. Nevertheless, Gilbert led her aside and narrated toher the particulars of his interview with Sandy Flash. Perhaps hesoftened, with pardonable equivocation, the latter's words in regard toher; perhaps he conveyed a sense of forgiveness which had not beenexpressed; for Deb. More than once drew the corners of her hard palmsacross her eyes. When he gave the marks by which she was to recognize acertain 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 notso 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 sonwere too excited to sleep. They sat by the kitchen-fire, with oneabsorbing thought in their minds, and speech presently became easierthan silence. 

"Mother, " said Gilbert, "when--I mean _if_--she brings the money, allthat has happened will have been for good. It has proved to us that wehave true friends (and I count my Roger among them), and I think thatour independence will be worth all the more, since we came so nighlosing 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 totake the Lord's work into my own hands. I'm fearsome still, but it seemsthere's a light coming from somewhere, --I don't know where. "

"Do you feel that way, mother?" he exclaimed. "Do you think--let memention it this once!--that the day is near when you will be free tospeak? Will there be anything more you can tell me, when we stand freeupon 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 wouldunderstand it, if I dared say one thing, but that might lead you toguess what mustn't be told; and I will be faithful to the spirit as wellas the letter. It must come soon, but nothing you or I can do wouldhasten it a minute. "

"One word more, mother, " he persisted, "will our independence be no helpto you?"

"A great help, " she answered, "or, maybe, a great comfort would be thetrue word. Without it, I might be tempted to--but see, Gilbert, how canI talk? Everything you say pulls at the one thing that cuts my mouthlike a knife, because it's shut tight on it! And the more because I oweit 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 strongerand surer, and that helps me to bear it. "

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

"That's all we can do now, my child. I wasn't reproaching you forspeaking, for you've held your peace a long while, when I know you'vebeen fretting; but this isn't one of the troubles that's lightened byspeech, because all talking must go around the outside, and never touchthe 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. Shemarked the growing decision of the features, the forward, fearlessglance of the large, deep-set eye, the fuller firmness and sweetness ofthe mouth, and the general expression, not only of self-reliance, but ofauthority, which was spread over the entire countenance. Both her pridein her son, and her respect for him, increased as she gazed. Heretofore, she had rather considered her secret as her own property, her right towhich he should not question; but now it seemed as if she were forced towithhold something that of right belonged to him. Yet no thought thatthe mysterious obligation might be broken ever entered her mind. 

Gilbert was thinking of Martha Deane. He had passed that first timidityof love which shrinks from the knowledge of others, and longed to tellhis mother what noble fidelity and courage Martha had exhibited. Onlythe recollection of the fearful swoon into which she had fallen boundhis tongue; he felt that the first return to the subject must come fromher. She lay back in her chair and seemed to sleep; he rose from time totime, went out into the lane and listened, --and so the hours passedaway. 

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 thekitchen. With one hand she grasped the ends of her strong tow-linenapron, with the other she still shouldered the spade. She knelt upon thefloor between the two, set the apron in the light of the fire, unrolledthe 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 theentire 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 ascreech-owl hootin' in the cedar; and I dunno how't is, but there alwaysseems to be things around, where money's buried. You can't see 'em, butyou hear 'em. I thought I'd ha' dropped when I turned up the sassyfrackbush, and got hold on it; and all the way back I feared a big arm'd comeout o' every fence-corner, and snatch it from me!" [Footnote: It doesnot seem to have been generally known in the neighborhood that the moneywas unearthed. A tradition of that and other treasure buried by SandyFlash, is still kept alive; and during the past ten years two midnightattempts have been made to find it, within a hundred yards of the spotindicated in the narrative. ]

Mary Potter set the kettle on the fire, and Deb. Smith was soonrefreshed with a glass of hot grog. Then she lighted her pipe andwatched the two as they made preparations for the journey to Chester onthe morrow, now and then nodding her head with an expression whichchased 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 anindependent man, with the redeemed mortgage in his pocket. His firstcare was to assure his mother of the joyous fact; his next to seekMartha Deane, and consult with her about their brightening future. 

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

"I tell you what it is, Gilbert, " said he; "don't you think I might aswell speak to Daddy Fairthorn about Sally? I'm gettin' into goodbusiness 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-suitat 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 betyou're not married before I am? It's got all over the country that youand Martha are engaged, and that the Doctor's full o' gall and wormwoodabout it; I hear it wherever I go, and there's more for you than thereis against you, I tell you that!"

The fact was as Mark had stated. No one was positively known to havespread the rumor, but it was afloat and generally believed. The resultwas to invest Gilbert with a fresh interest. His courage in confrontingSandy Flash, his robbery, his wonderful preservation from death, and hissingular connection, through Deb. Smith, with Sandy Flash's capture, hadthrown a romantic halo around his name, which was now softly brightenedby the report of his love. The stain of his birth and the uncertainty ofhis parentage did not lessen this interest, but rather increased it; andas any man who is much talked about in a country community will speedilyfind two parties created, one enthusiastically admiring, the othercontemptuously depreciating him, so now it happened in this case. 

The admirers, however, were in a large majority, and they possessed agreat advantage over the detractors, being supported by a multitude offacts, while the latter were unable to point to any act of GilbertPotter's life that was not upright and honorable. Even his love ofMartha Deane was shorn of its presumption by her reciprocal affection. The rumor that she had openly defied her father's will created greatsympathy, for herself and for Gilbert, among the young people of bothsexes, --a sympathy which frequently was made manifest to Dr. Deane, andannoyed him not a little. His stubborn opposition to his daughter'sattachment increased, in proportion as his power to prevent itdiminished. 

We may therefore conceive his sensations when Gilbert Potter himselfboldly entered his presence. The latter, after Mark's description, veryimperfect though it was, of Martha's courageous assertion of the rightsof her heart, had swiftly made up his mind to stand beside her in thestruggle, with equal firmness and equal pride. He would openly seek aninterview with her, and if he should find her father at home, as wasprobable at that hour, would frankly and respectfully acknowledge hislove, and defend it against any attack. 

On entering the room, he quietly stepped forward with extended hand, andsaluted the Doctor, who was so taken by surprise that he mechanicallyanswered the greeting before he could reflect what manner to adopttowards the unwelcome visitor. 

"What might be thy business with me?" he asked, stiffly, recovering fromthe first shock. 

"I called to see Martha, " Gilbert answered. "I have some news which shewill be glad to hear. "

"Young man, " said the Doctor, with his sternest face and voice, "I mayas well come to the point with thee, at once. If thee had had decencyenough to apply to me before speaking thy mind to Martha, it would havesaved us all a great deal of trouble. I could have told thee then, as Itell thee now, that I will never consent to her marriage with thee. Theemust give up all thought of such a thing. " "I will do so, " Gilbertreplied, "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 tocircumstances. I wish, indeed, I were more worthy of Martha; but I amtrying to deserve her, and I know no better way than to be faithful asshe is faithful. I mean no disrespect to you, Dr. Deane. You are herfather; you have every right to care for her happiness, and I will admitthat you honestly think I am not the man who could make her happy. All Iask is, that you should wait a little and know me better. Martha and Ihave both decided that we must wait, and there is time enough for you towatch my conduct, examine my character, and perhaps come to a morefavorable judgment of me. "

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

"I see, " he said, with a tone slightly less arrogant, "that thee issensible, in some respects, and therefore I put the case to thyunderstanding. It's too plain to be argued. Martha is a rich bait for apoor man, and perhaps I oughtn't to wonder--knowing the heart of man asI do--that thee was tempted to turn her head to favor thee; but themoney is not yet hers, and I, as her father, can never allow that thypoverty shall stand for three years between her and some honorable manto whom her money would be no temptation! Why, if all I hear be true, thee hasn't even any certain roof to shelter a wife; thy property, suchas it is, may be taken out of thy hands!"

Gilbert could not calmly hear these insinuations. All his independentpride of character was aroused; a dark flush came into his face, theblood was pulsing hotly through his veins, and indignant speech wasrising to his lips, when the inner door unexpectedly opened, and Marthaentered the room. 

She instantly guessed what was taking place, and summoned up all herself-possession, to stand by Gilbert, without increasing her father'sexasperation. To the former, her apparition was like oil on troubledwaters. His quick blood struck into warm channels of joy, as he met herglowing eyes, and felt the throb of her soft, elastic palm against hisown. Dr. Deane set his teeth, drew up his under lip, and handled hiscane with restless fingers. 

"Father, " said Martha, "if you are talking of me, it is better that Ishould be present. I am sure there is nothing that either thee orGilbert would wish to conceal from me. "

"No, Martha!" Gilbert exclaimed; "I came to bring you good news. Themortgage 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, hecontinued, --

"Sandy Flash, after his sentence, sent for me and told me where themoney he took from me was to be found. I carried it to Chester, and havepaid off all my remaining debt. Martha, your father has just charged mewith being tempted by your property. I say to you, in his presence, putit beyond my reach, --give it away, forfeit the conditions of thelegacy, --let me show truly whether I ever thought of money in seekingyou!"

"Gilbert, " she said, gently, "father doesn't yet know you as I do. Others will no doubt say the same thing, and we must both make up ourminds to have it said; yet I cannot, for that, relinquish what is mineof right. We are not called upon to sacrifice to the mistaken opinionsof 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 meto show thee how impossible the thing is, even if this man were of therichest. Admitting that he is able to support a family, admitting thatthee waits three years, comes into thy property, and is still of a mindto marry him against my will, can thee forget--or has he so littleconsideration for thee as to forget--that he bears his mother's name?"

"Father!"

"Let me speak, Martha, " said Gilbert, lifting his head, which haddrooped for a moment. His voice was earnest and sorrowful, yet firm. "Itis true that I bear my mother's name. It is the name of a good, anhonest, an honorable, and a God-fearing woman. I wish I could becertain that the name which legally belongs to me will be as honorableand as welcome. But Martha knows, and you, her father, have a right toknow, that I shall have another. I have not been inconsiderate. Itrampled down my love for her, as long as I believed it would bringdisgrace. I will not say that now, knowing her as I do, I could evergive 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 hedarted a piercing, suspicious glance at Gilbert. The latter, however, stood quietly before him, too possessed by what he had said to noticethe Doctor's peculiar expression; but it returned to his memoryafterwards. 

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

"No, " Gilbert answered, "and I must ask of you not to mention itfurther, at present. I must beg you to be patient until my mother isable 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 likelystory! If Potter isn't thy name, what is?"

"I don't know, " Gilbert repeated. 

"No; nor no one else! How dare thee address my daughter, --talk ofmarriage with her, --when thee don't know thy real name? What name wouldthee offer to her in exchange for her own? Young man, I don't believethee!"

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

"Martha, go to thy room!" the Doctor cried. "And as for thee, GilbertPotter, or Gilbert Anything, I tell thee, once and for all, never speakof this thing again, --at least, until thee can show a legal name and anhonorable birth! Thee has not prejudiced me in thy favor by thy devices, and it stands to reason that I should forbid thee to see mydaughter, --to enter my doors!"

"Dr. Deane, " said Gilbert, with sad yet inflexible dignity, "it isimpossible, after what you have said, that I should seek to enter yourdoor, 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 Itell you, honestly and above-board, that while I shall not ask Martha toshare my life until I can offer her my true name, I must see her fromtime 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 hisside, "it is as necessary to my happiness as to yours. I will not askyou to come here again; you cannot, and must not, even for my sake; butwhen I need your counsel and your sympathy, and there is no other wayleft, I will go to you. "

"Martha!" Dr. Deane exclaimed; but the word conveys no idea of his wrathand 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; Iwill receive no guest whom thee forbids, and will even respect thy viewsin regard to my intercourse with our friends; but unless thee wants todeprive me of all liberty, and set aside every right of mine as anaccountable being, thee must allow me sometimes to do what both my heartand 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 heartsin 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 facesuch an expression of lofty spiritual authority. While her determinationreally outraged his conventional nature, he felt that it came from ahigher source than his prohibition. He knew that nothing which he couldurge at that moment would have the slightest weight in her mind, andmoreover, that the liberal, independent customs of the neighborhood, aswell as the respect of his sect for professed spiritual guidance, withheld him from any harsh attempt at coercion. He was powerless, butstill inflexible. 

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

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

"We wait together, Gilbert!"

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

MISS LAVENDER MAKES A GUESS. 

There were signs of spring all over the land, and Gilbert resumed hisfarm-work with the fresh zest which the sense of complete ownershipgave. He found a purchaser for his wagon, sold one span of horses, andthus had money in hand for all the coming expenses of the year. His daysof hauling, of anxiety, of painful economy, were over; he rejoiced inhis fully developed and recognized manhood, and was cheered by therespect and kindly sympathy of his neighbors. 

Meanwhile, the gossip, not only of Kennett, but of Marlborough, Pennsbury, and New-Garden, was as busy as ever. No subject of countrytalk equalled in interest the loves of Gilbert Potter and Martha Deane. Mark, too open-hearted to be intrusted with any secret, was drawn uponwherever he went, and he revealed more (although he was by no meansMartha's confidant) than the public had any right to know. The idlers atthe Unicorn had seen Gilbert enter Dr. Deane's house, watched his returntherefrom, made shrewd notes of the Doctor's manner when he came forththat evening, and guessed the result of the interview almost as well asif they had been present. 

The restoration of Gilbert's plundered money, and his hardly acquiredindependence as a landholder, greatly strengthened the hands of hisfriends. There is no logic so convincing as that of good luck; inproportion as a man is fortunate (so seems to run the law of the world), he attracts fortune to him. A good deed would not have helped Gilbert somuch in popular estimation, as this sudden and unexpected release fromhis threatened difficulties. The blot upon his name was already growingfainter, and a careful moral arithmetician might have calculated thepoint of prosperity at which it would cease to be seen. 

Nowhere was the subject discussed with greater interest and excitementthan in the Fairthorn household. Sally, when she first heard the news, loudly protested her unbelief; why, the two would scarcely speak to eachother, she said; she had seen Gilbert turn his back on Martha, as if hecouldn't bear the sight of her; it ought to be, and she would be glad ifit was, but it wasn't!

When, therefore, Mark confirmed the report, and was led on, by degrees, to repeat Gilbert's own words, Sally rushed out into the kitchen with avehemence which left half her apron hanging on the door-handle, torn offfrom top to bottom in her whirling flight, and announced the fact to hermother. 

Joe, who was present, immediately cried out, --

"O, Sally! now I may tell about Mark, mayn't I?"

Sally seized him by the collar, and pitched him out the kitchen-door. Her face was the color of fire. 

"My gracious, Sally!" exclaimed Mother Fairthorn, in amazement; "what'sthat for?"

But Sally had already disappeared, and was relating her trouble to Mark, who roared with wicked laughter, whereupon she nearly cried withvexation. 

"Never mind, " said he; "the boy's right. I told Gilbert this veryafternoon that it was about time to speak to the old man; and he allowedit was. Come out with me and don't be afeard--I'll do the talkin'. "

Hand in hand they went into the kitchen, Sally blushing and hanging backa little. Farmer Fairthorn had just come in from the barn, and waswarming his hands at the fire. Mother Fairthorn might have had hersuspicions, but it was her nature to wait cheerfully, and say nothing. 

"See here, Daddy and Mammy!" said Mark, "have either o' you anyobjections to Sally and me bein' a pair?"

Farmer Fairthorn smiled, rubbed his hands together, and turning to hiswife, asked, --"What has Mammy to say to it?"

She looked up at Mark with her kindly eyes, in which twinkled somethinglike a tear, and said, --"I was guessin' it might turn out so between youtwo, and if I'd had anything against you, Mark, I wouldn't ha' let itrun on. Be a steady boy, and you'll make Sally a steady woman. She's hadpretty much her own way. "

Thereupon Farmer Fairthorn, still rubbing his hands, ventured toremark, --"The girl might ha' done worse. " This was equivalent to ahearty commendation of the match, and Mark so understood it. Sallykissed her mother, cried a little, caught her gown on a corner of thekitchen-table, and thus the betrothal was accepted as a family fact. Joeand Jake somewhat disturbed the bliss of the evening, it is true, bybursting into the room from time to time, staring significantly at thelovers, and then rushing out again with loud whoops and laughter. 

Sally could scarcely await the coming of the next day, to visit MarthaDeane. At first she felt a little piqued that she had not received thenews from Martha's own lips, but this feeling speedily vanished in thesympathy with her friend's trials. She was therefore all the moreastonished at the quiet, composed bearing of the latter. The tears shehad expected to shed were not once drawn upon. 

"O, Martha!" she cried, after the first impetuous outburst offeeling, --"to think that it has all turned out just as I wanted! No, Idon't quite mean that; you know I couldn't wish you to have crosses; butabout Gilbert! And it's too bad--Mark has told me dreadful things, but Ihope they're not all true; you don't look like it; and I'm so glad, youcan't think!"

Martha smiled, readily untangling Sally's thoughts, and said, --"Imustn't complain, Sally. Nothing has come to pass that I had notprepared my mind to meet. We will only have to wait a little longer thanyou and Mark. "

"No you won't!" Sally exclaimed. "I'll make Mark wait, too! Andeverything must be set right--somebody must do something! Where's BetsyLavender?"

"Here!" answered the veritable voice of the spinster, through the opendoor of the small adjoining room. 

"Gracious, how you frightened me!" cried Sally. "But, Betsy, you seem tobe able to help everybody; why can't you do something for Martha andGilbert?"

"Martha and Gilbert. That's what I ask myself, nigh onto a hundred timesa day, child. But there's things that takes the finest kind o' wit tosee through, and you can't make a bead-purse out of a sow's-ear, neitherjerk Time by the forelock, when there a'n't a hair, as you can see, tohang on to. I dunno as you'll rightly take my meanin'; but never mind, all the same, I'm flummuxed, and it's the longest and hardest flummux o'my life!"

Miss Betsy Lavender, it must here be explained, was more profoundlyworried than she was willing to admit. Towards Martha she concealed thereal trouble of her mind under the garb of her quaint, jocular speech, which meant much or little, as one might take it. She had just returnedfrom one of her social pilgrimages, during which she had heard nothingbut the absorbing subject of gossip. She had been questioned andcross-questioned, entreated by many, as Sally had done, to do something(for all had great faith in her powers), and warned by a few not tomeddle with what did not concern her. Thus she had come back thatmorning, annoyed, discomposed, and more dissatisfied with herself thanever before, to hear Martha's recital of what had taken place during herabsence. 

In spite of Martha's steady patience and cheerfulness, Miss Lavenderknew that the painful relation in which she stood to her father wouldnot be assuaged by the lapse of time. She understood Dr. Deane's naturequite as well as his daughter, and was convinced that, for the present, neither threats nor persuasions would move his stubborn resistance. According to the judgment of the world (the older part of it, at least), he had still right on his side. Facts were wanted; or, rather, the _one_fact upon which resistance was based must be removed. 

With all this trouble, Miss Lavender had a presentiment that there waswork for her to do, if she could only discover what it was. Her faith inher own powers of assistance was somewhat shaken, and she thereforeresolved to say nothing, promise nothing, until she had both hit upon aplan and carried it into execution. 

Two or three days after Sally's visit, on a mild, sunny morning in thebeginning of April, she suddenly announced her intention of visiting thePotter farm-house. 

"I ha'n't seen Mary since last fall, you know, Martha, " she said; "andI've a mortal longin' to wish Gilbert joy o' his good luck, and maybesay a word to keep him in good heart about you. Have you got no messageto send by me?"

"Only my love, " Martha answered; "and tell him how you left me. He knowsI will keep my word; when I need his counsel, I will go to him. "

"If more girls talked and thought that way, us women'd have fairershakes, " Miss Lavender remarked, as she put on her cloak and pattens. 

When she reached the top of the hill overlooking the glen, she noticedfresh furrows in the field on her left. Clambering through the fence, she waited until the heads of a pair of horses made their appearance, rising over the verge of the hill. As she conjectured, Gilbert Potterwas behind them, guiding the plough-handle. He was heartily glad to seeher, and halted his team at the corner of the "land. "

"I didn't know as you'd speak to me, " said she, with assumed grimness. "Maybe you wouldn't, if I didn't come direct from _her. _ Ah, you needn'tlook wild; it's only her love, and what's the use, for you had italready; but never mind, lovyers is never satisfied; and she's chipperand peart enough, seein' what she has to bear for your sake, but shedon't mind that, on the contrary, quite the reverse, and I'm sure youdon't deserve it!"

"Did she tell you what passed between us, the last time?" Gilbert asked. 

"The last time. Yes. And jokin' aside, which often means the contrary inmy crooked ways o' talkin', a'n't it about time somethin' was done?"

"What can be done?"

"I dunno, " said Miss Lavender, gravely. "You know as well as I do what'sin the way, or rather none of us knows _what_ it is, only _where_ it is;and a thing unbeknown may be big or little; who can tell? And latterlyI've thought, Gilbert, that maybe your mother is in the fix of a manI've heerd tell on, that fell into a pit, and ketched by the last bush, and hung on, and hung on, till he could hold on no longer; so he gevhimself up to death, shet his eyes and let go, and lo and behold! thebottom was a matter o' six inches under his feet! Leastways, everythingp'ints to a sort o' skeary fancy bein' mixed up with it, not a thing tolaugh at, I can tell you, but as earnest as sin, for I've seen thelikes, and maybe easy to make straight if you could only look into ityourself; but you think there's no chance o' that?"

"No, " said Gilbert. "I've tried once too often, already; I shall not tryagain. "

"Try again, " Miss Lavender repeated. "Then why not?"--but here shepaused, and seemed to meditate. The fact was, she had been tempted toask Gilbert's advice in regard to the plan she was revolving in herbrain. The tone of his voice, however, was discouraging; she saw that hehad taken a firm and gloomy resolution to be silent, --his uneasy airhinted that he desired to avoid further talk on this point. So, with amental reprimand of the indiscretion into which her sympathy with himhad nearly betrayed her, she shut her teeth and slightly bit her tongue. 

"Well, well, " she said; "I hope it'll come out before you're both oldand sour with waitin', that's all! I don't want such true-love as your'nto be like firkin-butter at th' end; for as fresh, and firm, andwell-kep' as you please, it ha'n't got the taste o' the clover and thesweet-grass; but who knows? I may dance at your weddin', after all, sooner'n I mistrust; and so I'm goin' down to spend the day with y'rmother!"

She strode over the furrow and across the weedy sod, and Gilbert resumedhis ploughing. As she approached the house, Miss Lavender noticed thatthe secured ownership of the property was beginning to express itself invarious slight improvements and adornments. The space in front of theporch was enlarged, and new flower-borders set along the garden-paling;the barn had received a fresh coat of whitewash, as well as the trunksof the apple-trees, which shone like white pillars; and there was abench with bright straw bee-hives under the lilac-bush. Mary Potter wasat work in the garden, sowing her early seeds. 

"Well, I do declare!" exclaimed Miss Lavender, after the first cordialgreetings were over. "Seems almost like a different place, things is sosnugged up and put to rights. "

"Yes, " said Mary Potter; "I had hardly the heart, before, to make iteverything that we wanted; and you can't think what a satisfaction Ihave in it now. "

"Yes, I can! Give me the redishes, while you stick in them beets. I'vegot a good forefinger for plantin' 'em, --long and stiff; and I can'tstand by and see you workin' alone, without fidgets. "

Miss Lavender threw off her cloak and worked with a will. When thegardening was finished, she continued her assistance in the house, andfully earned her dinner before she sat down to it. Then she insisted onMary Potter bringing out her sewing, and giving her something more todo; it was one of her working-days, she said; she had spent rather anidle winter; and moreover, she was in such spirits at Gilbert's goodfortune, that she couldn't be satisfied without doing something for him, and to sew up the seams of his new breeches was the very thing! Neverhad she been so kind, so cheerful, and so helpful, and Mary Potter'snature warmed into happy content in her society. 

No one should rashly accuse Miss Lavender if there was a little designin this. The task she had set herself to attempt was both difficult anddelicate. She had divided it into two portions, requiring very differenttactics, and was shrewd enough to mask, in every possible way, the onefrom which she had most hopes of obtaining a result. She made noreference, at first, to Gilbert's attachment to Martha Deane, but seemedto be wholly absorbed in the subject of the farm; then, taking widesweeps through all varieties of random gossip, preserving a careless, thoughtless, rattling manner, she stealthily laid her pitfalls for theunsuspecting prey. 

"I was over't Warren's t' other day, " she said, biting off a thread, "and Becky had jist come home from Phildelphy. There's new-fashionedbonnets comin' up, she says. She stayed with Allen's, but who they are Idon't know. Laws! now I think on it, Mary, you stayed at Allen's, too, when you were there!"

"No, " said Mary Potter, "it was at--Treadwell's. "

"Treadwell's? I thought you told me Allen's. All the same to me, Allenor Treadwell; I don't know either of 'em. It's a long while since I'vebeen in Phildelphy, and never likely to go ag'in. I don't fancy trampin'over them hard bricks, though, to be sure, a body sees the fashions; butwhat with boxes tumbled in and out o' the stores, and bar'ls rollin', and carts always goin' by, you're never sure o' y'r neck; and I wassewin' for Clarissa Lee, Jackson that was, that married a dry goods man, the noisiest place that ever was; you could hardly hear yourself talk;but a body gets used to it, in Second Street, close't to Market, andwere you anywheres near there?"

"I was in Fourth Street, " Mary Potter answered, with a littlehesitation. Miss Lavender secretly noticed her uneasiness, which, shealso remarked, arose not from suspicion, but from memory. 

"What kind o' buttons are you goin' to have, Mary?" she asked. "Hornsplits, and brass cuts the stuff, and mother o' pearl wears to eternity, but they're so awful dear. Fourth Street, you said? One street's likeanother to me, after you get past the corners. I'd always know Second, though, by the tobacco-shop, with the wild Injun at the door, liftin'his tommyhawk to skulp you--ugh!--but never mind, all the same, skulpaway for what I care, for I a'n't likely ever to lay eyes on you ag'in!"

Having thus, with perhaps more volubility than was required, covered upthe traces of her design, Miss Lavender cast about how to commence thesecond and more hopeless attack. It was but scant intelligence which shehad gained, but in that direction she dared not venture further. Whatshe now proposed to do required more courage and less cunning. 

Her manner gradually changed; she allowed lapses of silence to occur, and restricted her gossip to a much narrower sweep. She dwelt, finally, upon the singular circumstances of Sandy Flash's robbery of Gilbert, andthe restoration of the money. 

"Talkin' o' Deb. Smith, " she then said, "Mary, do you mind when I washere last harvest, and the talk we had about Gilbert? I've often thoughton it since, and how I guessed right for once't, for I know the ways o'men, if I am an old maid, and so it's come out as I said, and a finercouple than they'll make can't be found in the county!"

Mary Potter looked up, with a shadow of the old trouble on her face. "You know all about it, Betsy, then?" she asked. 

"Bless your soul, Mary, everybody knows about it! There's been nothin'else talked about in the neighborhood for the last three weeks; why, ha'n't Gilbert told you o' what passed between him and Dr. Deane, andhow Martha stood by him as no woman ever stood by a man?"

An expression of painful curiosity, such as shrinks from the knowledgeit craves, came into Mary Potter's eyes. "Gilbert has told me nothing, "she said, "since--since that time. "

"That time. I won't ask you _what_ time; it's neither here nor there;but you ought to know the run o' things, when it's common talk. " Andtherewith Miss Lavender began at the beginning, and never ceased untilshe had brought the history, in all its particulars, down to that veryday. She did not fail to enlarge on the lively and universal Interest inthe fortunes of the lovers which was manifested by the whole community. Mary Potter's face grew paler and paler as she spoke, but the tearswhich some parts of the recital called forth were quenched again, as itseemed, by flashes of aroused pride. 

"Now, " Miss Lavender concluded, "you see just how the matter stands. I'mnot hard on you, savin' and exceptin' that facts is hard, which theysometimes are I don't deny; but here we're all alone with our twoselves, and you'll grant I'm a friend, though I may have queer ways o'showin' it; and why shouldn't I say that all the trouble comes o'Gilbert bearin' your name?"

"Don't I know it!" Mary Potter cried. "Isn't my load heaped up heavieras it comes towards the end? What can I do but wait till the day when Ican give Gilbert his father's name?"

"His father's name! Then you can do it, some day? I suspicioned as much. And you've been bound up from doin' it, all this while, --and that'swhat's been layin' so heavy on your mind, wasn't it?"

"Betsy, " said Mary Potter, with sudden energy, "I'll say as much as Idare, so that I may keep my senses. I fear, sometimes, I'll breaktogether for want of a friend like you, to steady me while I walk thelast steps of my hard road. Gilbert was born in wedlock; I'm not boundto deny that; but I committed a sin, --not the sin people charge mewith, --and the one that persuaded me to it has to answer for more than Ihave. I bound myself not to tell the name of Gilbert's father, --not tosay where or when I was married, not to do or say anything to put othersOn the track, until--but there's the sin and the trouble and thepunishment all in one. If I told that, you might guess the rest. Youknow what a name I've had to bear, but I've taken my cross and fought myway, and put up with all things, that I might deserve the fullestjustification the Lord has in His hands. If I had known all beforehand, Betsy, --but I expected the release in a month or two, and it hasn't comein twenty-five years!"

"Twenty-five years!" repeated Miss Lavender, heedless of the dropsrunning down her thin face. "If there was a sin, Mary, even as big as ayearlin' calf, you've worked off the cost of it, years ago! If you breakyour word now, you'll stand justified in the sight o' the Lord, and ofall men, and even if you think a scrimption of it's left, remember yourdooty to Gilbert, and take a less justification for his sake!"

"I've been tempted that way, Betsy, but the end I wanted has been set inmy mind so long I can't get it out. I've seen the Lord's hand somanifest in these past days, that I'm fearsome to hurry His judgments. And then, though I try not to, I'm waiting from day to day, --almost fromhour to hour, --and it seems that if I was to give up and break my vow, He would break it for me the next minute afterwards, to punish myimpatience!"

"Why, " Miss Lavender exclaimed, "it must be your husband's death you'rewaitin' for!"

Mary Potter started up with a wild look of alarm. "No--no--not hisdeath!" she cried. "I should want him to--be living! Ask me no morequestions; forget what I've said, if it don't incline you to encourageme! That's why I've told you so much!"

Miss Lavender instantly desisted from further appeal. She rose, put herarm around Mary Potter's waist, and said, --"I didn't mean to frighten orto worry you, deary. I may think your conscience has worked on itself, like, till it's ground a bit too sharp; but I see just how you're fixed, and won't say another word, without it's to give comfort. An openconfession's good for the soul, they say, and half a loaf's better thanno bread, and you haven't violated your word a bit, and so let it do yougood!"

In fact, when Mary Potter grew calm, she was conscious of a relief themore welcome because it was so rare in her experience. Miss Lavender, moreover, hastened to place Gilbert's position in a more cheerful light, and the same story, repeated for a different purpose, now assumed quiteanother aspect. She succeeded so well, that she left behind her onlygratitude for the visit. 

Late in the afternoon she came forth from the farmhouse, and commencedslowly ascending the hill. She stopped frequently and looked about her;her narrow forehead was wrinkled, and the base of her long nose was setbetween two deep furrows. Her lips were twisted in a pucker of greatperplexity, and her eyes were nearly closed in a desperate endeavor tosolve some haunting, puzzling question. 

"It's queer, " she muttered to herself, when she had nearly reached thetop of the hill, --"it's mortal queer! Like a whip-poor-will on amoonlight night: you hear it whistlin' on the next fence-rail, itdoesn't seem a yard off; you step up to ketch it, and there's nothin'there; then you step back ag'in, and 'whip-poor-will! whip-poor-will!'whistles louder 'n ever, --and so on, the whole night, and some folkssays they can throw their voices outside o' their bodies, but that'sneither here nor there. 

"Now why can't I ketch hold o' this thing? It isn't a yard off me, I'llbe snaked! And I dunno what ever she said that makes me think so, but Ifeel it in my bones, and no use o' callin' up words; it's one o' themthings that comes without callin', when they come at all, and I'm sonear guessin' I'll have no peace day or night. "

With many similar observations she resumed her walk, and presentlyreached the border of the ploughed land. Gilbert's back was towards her;he was on the descending furrow. She looked at him, started, suddenlylost her breath, and stood with open mouth and wide, fixed eyes. 

"HA-HA-A! HA-HA-A-A!"

Loud and shrill her cry rang across the valley. It was like the yell ofa war-horse, scenting the battle afar off. All the force of her lungsand muscles expended itself in the sound. 

The next instant she dropped upon the moist, ploughed earth, and satthere, regardless of gown and petticoat. "Good Lord!" she repeated toherself, over and over again. Then, seeing Gilbert approaching, startledby the cry, she slowly arose to her feet. 

"A good guess, " she said to herself, "and what's more, there's ways o'provin' it. He's comin', and he mustn't know; you're a fool, BetsyLavender, not to keep your wits better about you, and go rousin' up thewhole neighborhood; good look that your face is crooked and don't showmuch o' what's goin' on inside!"

"What's the matter, Betsy?" asked Gilbert. 

"Nothin'--one o' my crazy notions, " she said. "I used to holler like akildeer when I was a girl and got out on the Brandywine hills alone, andI s'pose I must ha' thought about it, and the yell sort o' come ofitself, for it just jerked me off o' my feet; but you needn't tellanybody that I cut such capers in my old days, not that folks'd muchwonder, but the contrary, for they're used to me. "

Gilbert laughed heartily, but he hardly seemed satisfied with theexplanation. "You're all of a tremble, " he said. 

"Am I? Well, it's likely, --and my gownd all over mud; but there's onefavor I want to ask o' you, and no common one, neither, namely, the loanof a horse for a week or so. "

"A horse?" Gilbert repeated. 

"A horse. Not Roger, by no means; I couldn't ask that, and he don't knowme, anyhow; but the least rough-pacin' o' them two, for I've gotconsiderable ridin' over the country to do, and I wouldn't ask you, butit's a busy time o' year, and all folks isn't so friendly. "

"You shall have whatever you want, Betsy, " he said. "But you've heardnothing?"--

"Nothin' o' one sort or t'other. Make yourself easy, lad. "

Gilbert, however, had been haunted by new surmises in regard to Dr. Deane. Certain trifles had returned to his memory since the interview, and rather than be longer annoyed with them, he now opened his heart toMiss Lavender. 

A curious expression came over her face. "You've got sharp eyes and earsGilbert, " she said. "Now supposin' I wanted your horse o' purpose toclear up your doubts in a way to satisfy you, would you mind lettin' mehave it?"

"Take even Roger!" he exclaimed. 

"No, that bay'll do. Keep thinkin' _that's_ what I'm after, and ask meno more questions. "

She crossed the ploughed land, crept through the fence, and trudged upthe road. When a clump of bushes on the bank had hid Gilbert from hersight, she stopped, took breath, and chuckled with luxurioussatisfaction. 

"Betsy Lavender, " she said, with marked approval, "you're a cuter oldthing than I took you to be!"

CHAPTER XXIX. 

MYSTERIOUS MOVEMENTS. 

The next morning Sam took Gilbert's bay horse to Kennett Square, andhitched him in front of Dr. Deane's door. Miss Lavender, who was on thelook-out, summoned the boy into the house, to bring her own side-saddledown from the garret, and then proceeded to pack a small valise, withstraps corresponding to certain buckles behind the saddle. Martha Deanelooked on with some surprise at this proceeding, but as Miss Lavendercontinued silent, she asked no questions. 

"There!" exclaimed the spinster, when everything was ready, "now I'mgood for a week's travel, if need be! You want to know where I'm goin', child, I see, and you might as well out with the words, though not muchuse, for I hardly know myself. "

"Betsy, " said Martha, "you seem so strange, so unlike yourself, eversince you came home last evening. What is it?"

"I remembered somethin', on the way up; my head's been so bothered thatI forgot things, never mind what, for I must have some business o' myown or I wouldn't seem to belong to myself; and so I've got to trapesround considerable, --money matters and the likes, --and folks a'n'talways ready for you to the minute; therefore count on more time thanwhat's needful, say I. "

"And you can't guess when you will be back?" Martha asked. 

"Hardly under a week. I want to finish up everything and come home for agood long spell. "

With these words she descended to the road, valise in hand, buckled itto the saddle, and mounted the horse. Then she said good-bye to Martha, and rode briskly away, down the Philadelphia road. 

Several days passed and nothing was heard of her. Gilbert Potterremained on his farm, busy with the labor of the opening spring; MarkDeane was absent, taking measurements and making estimates for the newhouse, and Sally Fairthorn spent all her spare time in spinning flax fora store of sheets and table-cloths, to be marked "S. A. F. " in red silk, when duly woven, hemmed, and bleached. 

One afternoon, during Miss Lavender's absence, Dr. Deane was againcalled upon to attend Old-man Barton. It was not an agreeable duty, forthe Doctor suspected that something more than medical advice was inquestion. He had not visited the farm-house since his discovery ofMartha's attachment to Gilbert Potter, --had even avoided intercoursewith Alfred Barton, towards whom his manner became cold and constrained. It was a sore subject in his thoughts, and both the Bartons seemed tobe, in some manner, accessory to his disappointment. 

The old man complained of an attack of "buzzing in the head, " whichmolested him at times, and for which bleeding was the Doctor's usualremedy. His face had a flushed, congested, purple hue, and there was anunnatural glare in his eyes; but the blood flowed thickly and sluggishlyfrom his skinny arm, and a much longer time than usual elapsed before hefelt relieved. 

"Gad, Doctor!" he said, when the vein had been closed, "the springweather brings me as much fulness as a young buck o' twenty. I'd befrisky yet, if't wasn't for them legs. Set down, there; you've news totell me!"

"I think, Friend Barton, " Dr. Deane answered, "thee'd better be quiet aspell. Talking isn't exactly good for thee. "

"Eh?" the old man growled; "maybe you'd like to think so, Doctor. If Iam house-bound, I pick up some things as they go around. And I know whyyou let our little matter drop so suddent. "

He broke off with a short, malicious laugh, which excited the Doctor'sire. The latter seated himself, smoothed his garments and his face, became odorous of bergamot and wintergreen, and secretly determined torepay the old man for this thrust. 

"I don't know what thee may have heard, Friend Barton, " he remarked, inhis blandest voice. "There is always plenty of gossip in thisneighborhood, and some persons, no doubt, have been too free with myname, --mine and my daughter's, I may say. But I want thee to know thatthat has nothing to do with the relinquishment of my visits to thee. Ifthee's curious to learn the reason, perhaps thy son Alfred may be ableto give it more circumstantially than I can. "

"What, what, what!" exclaimed the old man. "The boy told you not tocome, eh?"

"Not in so many words, mind thee; but he made it unnecessary, --quiteunnecessary. In the first place, he gave me no legal evidence of anyproperty, and until that was done, my hands were tied. Further, heseemed very loath to address Martha at all, which was not so singular, considering that he never took any steps, from the first, to gain herfavor; and then he deceived me into imagining that she wanted time, after she had positively refused his addresses. He is mistaken, and theetoo, if you think that I am very anxious to have a man of no spirit andlittle property for my son-in-law!"

The Doctor's words expressed more than he intended. They not only stung, but betrayed his own sting. Old-man Barton crooked his claws around hishickory staff, and shook with senile anger; while his small, keen eyesglared on his antagonist's face. Yet he had force enough to wait untilthe first heat of his feeling subsided. 

"Doctor, " he then said, "mayhap my boy's better than a man o' no nameand no property. He's worth, anyways, what I choose to make him worth. Have you made up y'r mind to take the t'other, that you've begun to runhim down, eh?"

They were equally matched, this time. The color came into Dr. Deane'sface, and then faded, leaving him slightly livid about the mouth. Hepreserved his external calmness, by a strong effort, but there was abarely perceptible tremor in his voice, as he replied, --

"It is not pleasant to a man of my years to be made a fool of, as I haveevery reason to believe thy son has attempted. If I had yielded to hispersuasions, I should have spent much time--all to no purpose, I doubtnot--in endeavoring to ascertain what thee means to do for him in thywill. It was, indeed, the only thing he seemed to think or care muchabout. If he has so much money of his own, as thee says, it is certainlynot creditable that he should be so anxious for thy decease. "

The Doctor had been watching the old man as he spoke, and the increasingeffect of his words was so perceptible that he succeeded in closing withan agreeable smile and a most luxurious pinch of snuff. He had notintended to say so much, at the commencement of the conversation, but hehad been sorely provoked, and the temptation was irresistible. 

The effect was greater than he had imagined. Old Barton's face was soconvulsed, that, for a few minutes, the Doctor feared an attack ofcomplete paralysis. He became the physician again, undid his work asmuch as possible, and called Miss Ann into the room, to prevent anyrenewal of the discussion. He produced his stores of entertaininggossip, and prolonged his stay until all threatening symptoms of theexcitement seemed to be allayed. The old man returned to his ordinarymood, and listened, and made his gruff comments, but with temporary fitsof abstraction. After the Doctor's departure, he scarcely spoke at all, for the remainder of the evening. 

A day or two afterwards, when Alfred Barton returned in the evening froma sale in the neighborhood, he was aware of a peculiar change in hisfather's manner. His first impression was that the old man, contrary toDr. Deane's orders, had resumed his rations of brandy, and exceeded theusual allowance. There was a vivid color on his flabby cheeks; he wasalert, talkative, and frequently chuckled to himself, shifting thehickory staff from hand to hand, or rubbing his gums backward andforward on its rounded end. 

He suddenly asked, as Alfred was smoking his pipe before the fire, --

"Know what I've been thinkin' of, to-day, boy?"

"No, daddy; anything about the crops?"

"Ha! ha! a pretty good crop for somebody it'll be! Nearly time for me tomake my will, eh? I'm so old and weak--no life left in me--can't lastmany days!"

He laughed with a hideous irony, as he pronounced these words. His sonstared at him, and the fire died out in the pipe between his teeth. Wasthe old man getting childish? he asked himself. But no; he had neverlooked more diabolically cunning and watchful. 

"Why, daddy, " Alfred said at last, "I thought--I fancied, at least, you'd done that, long ago. "

"Maybe I have, boy; but maybe I want to change it. I had a talk with theDoctor when he came down to bleed me, and since there's to be no matchbetween you and the girl"--

He paused, keeping his eyes on his son's face, which lengthened and grewvacant with a vague alarm. 

"Why, then, " he presently resumed, "_you_'re so much poorer by theamount o' her money. Would it be fair, do you think, if I was to putthat much to what I might ha' meant for you before? Don't you allow youought to have a little more, on account o' your disapp'intment?

"If you think so, dad, it's all right, " said the son, relighting hispipe. "I don't know, though what Elisha'd say to it; but then, he's noright to complain, for he married full as much as I'd ha' got. "

"That he did, boy; and when all's said and done, the money's my own todo with it what I please. There's no law o' the oldest takin' all. Yes, yes, I'll have to make a new will!"

A serene joy diffused itself through Alfred Barton's breast. He becamefrank, affectionate, and confidential. 

"To tell you the truth, dad, " he said, "I was mighty afraid you'd playthe deuce with me, because all's over between me and Martha Deane. Youseemed so set on it. "

"So I was--so I was, " croaked the old man, "but I've got over it since Isaw the Doctor. After all I've heerd, she's not the wife for you; it'sbetter as it is. You'd rayther have the money without her, tell thetruth now, you dog, ha! ha!"

"Damme, dad, you've guessed it!" Alfred cried, joining in the laugh. "She's too high-flown for me. I never fancied a woman that's ready totake you down, every other word you say; and I'll tell you now, that Ihadn't much stomach for the match, at any time; but you wanted it, youknow, and I've done what I could, to please you. "

"You're a good boy, Alfred, --a mighty good boy. "

There was nothing very amusing in this opinion, but the old man laughedover it, by fits and starts, for a long time. 

"Take a drop o' brandy, boy!" he said. "You may as well have my share, till I'm ready to begin ag'in. "

This was the very climax of favor. Alfred arose with a broad beam oftriumph on his face, filled the glass, and saying, --"Here's long life toyou, dad!" turned it into his mouth. 

"Long life?" the old man muttered. "It's pretty long as itis, --eighty-six and over; but it may be ninety-six, or a hundred andsix; who knows? Anyhow, boy, long or short, I'll make a new will. "

Giles was now summoned, to wheel him into the adjoining room and put himto bed. Alfred Barton took a second glass of brandy (after the door wasclosed), lighted a fresh pipe, and seated himself again before theembers to enjoy the surprise and exultation of his fortune. To thinkthat he had worried himself so long for that which finally came ofitself! Half his fear of the old man, he reflected, had been needless;in many things he had acted like the veriest fool! Well, it was aconsolation to know that all his anxieties were over. The day thatshould make him a rich and important man might be delayed (his father'sstrength and vitality were marvellous), but it was certain to come. 

Another day or two passed by, and the old man's quick, garrulous, cheerful mood continued, although he made no further reference to thesubject of the will. Alfred Barton deliberated whether he should suggestsending for Lawyer Stacy, but finally decided not to hazard hisprospects by a show of impatience. He was therefore not a littlesurprised when his sister Ann suddenly made her appearance in the barn, where he and Giles were mending some dilapidated plough-harness, andannounced that the lawyer was even then closeted with their father. Moreover, for the first time in his knowledge, Ann herself had beenbanished from the house. She clambered into the hay-mow, sat down in acomfortable spot, and deliberately plied her knitting-needles. 

Ann seemed to take the matter as coolly as if it were an every-dayoccurrence, but Alfred could not easily recover from his astonishment. There was more than accident here, he surmised. Mr. Stacy had made hisusual visit, not a fortnight before; his father's determination hadevidently been the result of his conversation with Dr. Deane; and in themean time no messenger had been sent to Chester, neither was there timefor a letter to reach there. Unless Dr. Deane himself were concerned insecretly bringing about the visit, --a most unlikely circumstance, --Alfred Barton could not understand how it happened. 

"How did th' old man seem, when you left the house?" he asked. 

"'Pears to me I ha'n't seen him so chipper these twenty years, " saidAnn. 

"And how long are they to be left alone?"

"No tellin', " she answered, rattling her needles. "Mr. Stacy'll come, when all's done; and not a soul is to go any nearder the house till hegives the word. "

Two hours, three hours, four hours passed away, before the summons came. Alfred Barton found himself so curiously excited that he was fain toleave the harness to Giles, and quiet himself with a pipe or two in themeadow. He would have gone up to the Unicorn for a little strongerrefreshment, but did not dare to venture out of sight of the house. MissAnn was the perfect image of Patience in a hay-mow, smiling at hisanxiety. The motion of her needles never ceased, except when she countedthe stitches in narrowing. 

Towards sunset, Mr. Stacy made his appearance at the barn-door, but hisface was a sealed book. 

On the morning of that very day, another mysterious incident occurred. Jake Fairthorn had been sent to Carson's on the old gray mare, on somefarm-errand, --perhaps to borrow a pick-axe or a post-spade. He hadreturned as far as the Philadelphia road, and was entering the thickwood on the level before descending to Redley Creek, when he perceivedBetsy Lavender leading Gilbert Potter's bay horse through a gap in thefence, after which she commenced putting up the rails behind her. 

"Why, Miss Betsy! what are you doin'?" cried Jake, spurring up to thespot. 

"Boys should speak when they're spoken to, and not come where they'renot wanted, " she answered, in a savage tone. "Maybe I'm goin' to huntbears. "

"Oh, please, let me go along!" eagerly cried Jake, who believed inbears. 

"Go along! Yes, and be eat up. " Miss Lavender looked very much annoyed. Presently, however, her face became amiable; she took a buckskin purseout of her pocket, selected a small silver coin, and leaning over thefence, held it out to Jake. 

"Here!" she said, "here's a 'levenpenny-bit for you, if you'll be a goodboy, and do exackly as I bid you. Can you keep from gabblin', for twodays? Can you hold your tongue and not tell anybody till day afterto-morrow that you seen me here, goin' into the woods?"

"Why, that's easy as nothin'!" cried Jake, pocketing the coin. MissLavender, leading the horse, disappeared among the trees. 

But it was not quite so easy as Jake supposed. He had not been at hometen minutes, before the precious piece of silver, transferred back andforth between his pocket and his hand in the restless ecstasy ofpossession, was perceived by Joe. Then, as Jake stoutly refused to tellwhere it came from, Joe rushed into the kitchen, exclaiming, --

"Mammy, Jake's stole a levy!"

This brought out Mother Fairthorn and Sally, and the unfortunate Jake, pressed and threatened on all sides, began to cry lamentably. 

"She'll take it from me ag'in, if I tell, " he whimpered. 

"She? Who?" cried both at once, their curiosity now fully excited; andthe end of it was that Jake told the whole story, and was made wretched. 

"Well!" Sally exclaimed, "this beats all! Gilbert Potter's bay horse, too! Whatever could she be after? I'll have no peace till I tell Martha, and so I may as well go up at once, for there's something in the wind, and if she don't know already, she ought to!"

Thereupon Sally put on her bonnet, leaving her pewters half scoured, andran rather than walked to the village. Martha Deane could give noexplanation of the circumstance, but endeavored, for Miss Lavender'ssake, to conceal her extreme surprise. 

"We shall know what it means, " she said, "when Betsy comes home, and ifit's anything that concerns me, I promise, Sally, to tell you. It may, however, relate to some business of her own, and so, I think, we hadbetter quietly wait and say nothing about it. "

Nevertheless, after Sally's departure, Martha meditated long anduneasily upon what she had heard. The fact that Miss Lavender had comeback from the Potter farmhouse in so unusual a frame of mind, borrowedGilbert's horse, and set forth on some mysterious errand, had alreadydisquieted her. More than the predicted week of absence had passed, andnow Miss Lavender, instead of returning home, appeared to be hiding inthe woods, anxious that her presence in the neighborhood should not bemade known. Moreover she had been seen by the landlord of the Unicorn, three days before, near Logtown, riding towards Kennett Square. 

These mysterious movements filled Martha Deane with a sense of anxiousforeboding. She felt sure that they were connected, in some way, withGilbert's interests, and Miss Lavender's reticence now seemed toindicate a coming misfortune which she was endeavoring to avert. Ifthese fears were correct, Gilbert needed her help also. He could notcome to her; was she not called upon to go to him?

Her resolution was soon taken, and she only waited until her father hadleft on a visit to two or three patients along the Street Road. Hisquestions, she knew, would bring on another painful conflict of will, and she would save her strength for Gilbert's necessities. To avoid theinferences of the tavern loungers, she chose the longer way, eastwardout of the village to the cross-road running past the Carson place. 

All the sweet, faint tokens of Spring cheered her eyes and calmed theunrest of her heart, as she rode. Among the dead leaves of the woods, the snowy blossoms of the blood-root had already burst forth in starryclusters; the anemones trembled between the sheltering knees of the oldoaks, and here and there a single buttercup dropped its gold on themeadows. These things were so many presentiments of brighter days inNature, and they awoke a corresponding faith in her own heart. 

As she approached the Potter farm she slackened her horse's pace, anddeliberated whether she should ride directly to the house or seek forGilbert in the fields. She had not seen Mary Potter since that eventfulSunday, the previous summer, and felt that Gilbert ought to be consultedbefore a visit which might possibly give pain. Her doubts were suddenlyterminated by his appearance, with Sam and an ox-cart, in the roadbefore her. 

Gilbert could with difficulty wait until the slow oxen had removed Samout of hearing. 

"Martha! were you coming to me?" he asked. 

"As I promised, Gilbert, " she said. "But do not look so anxious. Ifthere really is any trouble, I must learn it of you. "

She then related to him what she had noticed in Miss Lavender's manner, and learned of her movements. He stood before her, listening, with hishand on the mane of her horse, and his eyes intently fixed on her face. She saw the agitation her words produced, and her own vague fearsreturned. 

"Can you guess her business, Gilbert?" she asked. 

"Martha, " he answered, "I only know that there is something in her mind, and I believe it concerns me. I am afraid to guess anything more, because I have only my own wild fancies to go upon, and it won't do togive 'em play!"

"What are those fancies, Gilbert? May I not know?"

"Can you trust me a little, Martha?" he implored. "Whatever I know, youshall know; but if I sometimes seek useless trouble for myself, whyshould I seek it for you? I'll tell you now one fear I've kept from you, and you'll see what I mean. "

He related to her his dread that Sandy Flash might prove to be hisfather, and the solution of it in the highwayman's cell. "Have I notdone right?" he asked. 

"I am not sure, Gilbert, " she replied, with a brave smile; "you mighthave tested my truth, once more, if you had spoken your fears. "

"I need no test, Martha; and you won't press me for another, now. I'llonly say, and you'll be satisfied with it, that Betsy seemed to guesswhat was in my mind, and promised, or rather expected, to come back withgood news. "

"Then, " said Martha, "I must wait until she makes her appearance. "

She had hardly spoken the words, before a figure became visible betweenthe shock-headed willows, where the road crosses the stream. A bayhorse--and then Betsy Lavender herself!

Martha turned her horse's head, and Gilbert hastened forward with her, both silent and keenly excited. 

"Well!" exclaimed Miss Betsy, "what are you two a-doin' here?"

There was news in her face, both saw; yet they also remarked that themeeting did not seem to be entirely welcome to her. 

"I came, " said Martha, "to see whether Gilbert could tell me why youwere hiding in the woods, instead of coming home. "

"It's that--that good-for-nothin' serpent, Jake Fairthorn!" cried MissLavender. "I see it all now. Much Gilbert could tell you, howsever, oryou him, o' _my_ business, and haven't I a right to it, as well as otherfolks; but never mind, fine as it's spun it'll come to the sun, as theysay o' flax and sinful doin's; not that such is mine, but you may thinkso if you like, and you'll know in a day or two, anyhow!"

Martha saw that Miss Lavender's lean hands were trembling, and guessedthat her news must be of vital importance. "Betsy, " she said, "I see youdon't mean to tell us; but one word you can't refuse--is it good orbad?"

"Good or bad?" Miss Lavender repeated, growing more and more nervous, asshe looked at the two anxious faces. "Well, it isn't bad, so peartyourselves up, and ask me no more questions, this day, nor yetto-morrow, maybe; because if you do, I'll just screech with all mymight; I'll holler, Gilbert, wuss 'n you heerd, and much good that'll doyou, givin' me a crazy name all over the country. I'm in dead earnest;if you try to worm anything more out o' me, I'll screech; and so I wasgoin' to bring your horse home, Gilbert, and have a talk with yourmother, but you've made me mortal weak betwixt and between you; and I'llride back with Martha, by your leave, and you may send Sam right awayfor the horse. No; let Sam come now, and walk alongside, to save me fromMartha's cur'osity. "

Miss Lavender would not rest until this arrangement was made. The twoladies then rode away through the pale, hazy sunset, leaving GilbertPotter in a fever of impatience, dread, and hope. 

CHAPTER XXX. 

THE FUNERAL. 

The next morning, at daybreak, Dr. Deane was summoned in haste to theBarton farm-house. Miss Betsy Lavender, whose secrets, whatever theywere, had interfered with her sleep, heard Giles's first knock, andthrust her night-cap out the window before he could repeat it. The oldman, so Giles announced, had a bad spell, --a 'plectic fit, Lawyer Stacycalled it, and they didn't know as he'd live from one hour to another. 

Miss Lavender aroused the Doctor, then dressed herself in haste, andprepared to accompany him. Martha, awakened by the noise, came into thespinster's room in her night-dress. 

"Must you go, Betsy?" she asked. 

"Child, it's a matter o' life and death, more likely death; and Ann's adooless critter at best, hardly ever off the place, and need o' Chris'enhelp, if there ever was such; so don't ask me to stay, for I won't, andall the better for me, for I daresn't open my lips to livin' soul tillI've spoke with Mary Potter!"

Miss Lavender took the foot-path across the fields, accompanied byGiles, who gave up his saddled horse to Dr. Deane. The dawn wasbrightening in the sky as they reached the farm-house, where they foundAlfred Barton restlessly walking backwards and forwards in the kitchen, while Ann and Mr. Stacy were endeavoring to apply such scantyrestoratives--consisting principally of lavender and hot bricks--as theplace afforded. 

An examination of the eyes and the pulse, and a last abortive attempt atphlebotomy, convinced Dr. Deane that his services were no longer needed. Death, which so many years before had lamed half the body, now assertedhis claim to the whole. A wonderfully persistent principle of vitalitystruggled against the clogged functions, for two or three hours, thenyielded, and the small fragment of soul in the old man was cast adrift, with little chance of finding a comfortable lodging in any other world. 

Ann wandered about the kitchen in a dazed state, dropping tearseverywhere, and now and then moaning, --"O Betsy, how'll I ever get upthe funeral dinner?" while Alfred, after emptying the square bottle ofbrandy, threw himself upon the settle and went to sleep. Mr. Stacy andMiss Lavender, who seemed to know each other thoroughly at the firstsight, took charge of all the necessary arrangements; and as Alfred hadsaid, --"_I_ can't look after anything; do as you two like, and don'tspare expense!" they ordered the coffin, dispatched messengers to therelatives and neighbors, and soothed Ann's unquiet soul by selecting thematerial for the dinner, and engaging the Unicorn's cook. 

When all was done, late in the day, Miss Lavender called Giles andsaid, --"Saddle me a horse, and if no side-saddle, a man's'll do, for goI must; it's business o' my own, Mr. Stacy, and won't wait for me; notthat I want to do more this day than what I've done. Goodness knows; butI'll have a fit, myself, if I don't!"

She reached the Potter farm-house at dark, and both mother and son werestruck with her flushed, excited, and yet weary air. Their supper wasover, but she refused to take anything more than a cup of tea; herspeech was forced, and more rambling and disconnected than ever. WhenMary Potter left the kitchen to bring some fresh cream from thespring-house, Miss Lavender hastily approached Gilbert, laid her hand onhis shoulder, and said, --

"Lad, be good this once't, and do what I tell you. Make a reason forgoin' to bed as soon as you can; for I've been workin' in your interestall this while, only I've got that to tell your mother, first of all, which you mustn't hear; and you may hope as much as you please, for thenews isn't bad, as'll soon be made manifest!"

Gilbert was strangely impressed by her solemn, earnest manner, andpromised to obey. He guessed, and yet feared to believe, that the longrelease of which his mother had spoken bad come at last; how else, heasked himself, should Miss Lavender become possessed of knowledge whichseemed so important? As early as possible he went up to his bedroom, leaving the two women alone. The sound of voices, now high and hurried, now, apparently, low and broken, came to his ears. He resisted thetemptation to listen, smothered his head in the pillow to further mufflethe sounds, and after a long, restless struggle with his own mind, fellasleep. Deep in the night he was awakened by the noise of a shuttingdoor, and then all was still. 

It was very evident, in the morning, that he had not miscalculated theimportance of Miss Lavender's communication. Was this woman, whose faceshone with such a mingled light of awe and triumph, his mother? Werethese features, where the deep lines of patience were softened intocurves of rejoicing, the dark, smouldering gleam of sorrow kindled intoa flashing light of pride, those he had known from childhood? As helooked at her, in wonder renewed with every one of her movements andglances, she took him by the hand and said, --

"Gilbert, wait a little!"

Miss Lavender insisted on having breakfast by sunrise, and as soon asthe meal was over demanded her horse. Then first she announced the factof Old-man Barton's death, and that the funeral was to be on thefollowing day. 

"Mary, you must be sure and come, " she said, as she took leave; "I knowAnn expects it of you. Ten o'clock, remember!"

Gilbert noticed that his mother laid aside her sewing, and when theordinary household labor had been performed, seated herself near thewindow with a small old Bible, which he had never before seen in herhands. There was a strange fixedness in her gaze, as if only her eyes, not her thoughts, were directed upon its pages. The new expression ofher face remained; it seemed already to have acquired as permanent astamp as the old. Against his will he was infected by its power, andmoved about in barn and field all day with a sense of the unreality ofthings, which was very painful to his strong, practical nature. 

The day of the old man's funeral came. Sam led up the horses, and waitedat the gate with them to receive his master's parting instructions. Gilbert remarked with surprise that his mother placed a folded paperbetween the leaves of the Bible, tied the book carefully in a linenhandkerchief, and carried it with her. She was ready, but stillhesitated, looking around the kitchen with the manner of one who hadforgotten something. Then she returned to her own room, and after someminutes, came forth, paler than before, but proud, composed, and firm. 

"Gilbert, " she said, almost in a whisper, "I have tried you sorely, andyou have been wonderfully kind and patient. I have no right to askanything more; I _could_ tell you everything now, but this is not theplace nor the time I had thought of, for so many years past. Will youlet me finish the work in the way pointed out to me?"

"Mother, " he answered, "I cannot judge in this matter, knowing nothing. I must be led by you; but, pray, do not let it be long?"

"It will not be long, my boy, or I wouldn't ask it. I have one more dutyto perform, to myself, to you, and to the Lord, and it must be done inthe sight of men. Will you stand by me, not question my words, notinterfere with my actions, however strange they may seem, but simplybelieve and obey?"

"I will, mother, " he said, "because you make me feel that I must. "

They mounted, and side by side rode up the glen. Mary Potter was silent;now and then her lips moved, not, as once, in some desperate appeal ofthe heart for pity and help, but as with a thanksgiving so profound thatit must needs be constantly renewed, to be credited. 

After passing Carson's, they took the shorter way across the fields, andapproached the Barton farm-house from below. A large concourse of peoplewas already assembled; and the rude black hearse, awaiting its burden inthe lane, spread the awe and the gloom of death over the scene. Thevisitors were grouped around the doors, silent or speaking cautiously insubdued tones; and all new-comers passed into the house to take theirlast look at the face, of the dead. 

The best room, in which the corpse lay, was scarcely used once in ayear, and many of the neighbors had never before had occasion to enterit. The shabby, antiquated furniture looked cold and dreary from disuse, and the smell of camphor in the air hardly kept down the musty, mouldyodors which exhaled from the walls. The head and foot of the coffinrested on two chairs placed in the centre of the room; and severalwomen, one of whom was Miss Betsy Lavender, conducted the visitors backand forth, as they came. The members of the bereaved family were stifflyranged around the walls, the chief mourners consisting of the old man'seldest son, Elisha, with his wife and three married sons, Alfred, andAnn. 

Mary Potter took her son's arm, and they passed through the throng atthe door, and entered the house. Gilbert silently returned the nods ofgreeting; his mother neither met nor avoided the eyes of others. Herstep was firm, her head erect, her bearing full of pride and decision. Miss Lavender, who met her with a questioning glance at the door, walkedbeside her to the room of death, and then--what was remarkable inher--became very pale. 

They stood by the coffin. It was not a peaceful, solemn sight, thatyellow face, with its wrinkles and creases and dark blotches ofcongealed blood, made more pronounced and ugly by the white shroud andcravat, yet a tear rolled down Mary Potter's cheek as she gazed upon it. Other visitors came, and Gilbert gently drew her away, to leave theroom; but with a quick pressure upon his arm, as if to remind him of hispromise, she quietly took her seat near the mourners, and by a slightmotion indicated that he should seat himself at her side. 

It was an unexpected and painful position; but her face, firm and calm, shamed his own embarrassment. He saw, nevertheless, that the grief ofthe mourners was not so profound as to suppress the surprise, if notindignation, which the act called forth. The women had theirhandkerchiefs to their eyes, and were weeping in a slow, silent, mechanical way; the men had handkerchiefs in their hands, but theirfaces were hard, apathetic, and constrained. 

By-and-by the visitors ceased; the attending women exchanged glanceswith each other and with the mourners, and one of the former stepped upto Mary Potter and said gently, --

"It is only the family, now. "

This was according to custom, which required that just before the coffinwas closed, the members of the family of the deceased should be leftalone with him for a few minutes, and take their farewell of his face, undisturbed by other eyes. Gilbert would have risen, but his mother, with her hand on his arm, quietly replied, --

"We belong to the family. "

The woman withdrew, though with apparent doubt and hesitation, and theywere left alone with the mourners. 

Gilbert could scarcely trust his senses. A swift suspicion of hismother's insanity crossed his mind; but when he looked around the roomand beheld Alfred Barton gazing upon her with a face more livid thanthat of the dead man, this suspicion was followed by another, no lessoverwhelming. For a few minutes everything seemed to whirl and spinbefore his eyes; a light broke upon him, but so unexpected, soincredible, that it came with the force of a blow. 

The undertaker entered the room and screwed down the lid of the coffin;the pall-bearers followed and carried it to the hearse. Then themourners rose and prepared to set forth, in the order of their relationto the deceased. Elisha Barton led the way, with his wife; then Ann, clad in her Sunday black, stepped forward to take Alfred's arm. 

"Ann, " said Mary Potter, in a low voice, which yet was heard by everyperson in the room, "that is my place. "

She left Gilbert and moved to Alfred Barton's side. Then, slightlyturning, she said, --"Gilbert, give your arm to your aunt. "

For a full minute no other word was said. Alfred Barton stoodmotionless, with Mary Potter's hand on his arm. A fiery flush succeededto his pallor; his jaw fell, and his eyes were fixed upon the floor. Anntook Gilbert's arm in a helpless, bewildered way. 

"Alfred, what does all this mean?" Elisha finally asked. 

He said nothing; Mary Potter answered for him, --"It is right that heshould walk with his wife rather than his sister. "

The horses and chairs were waiting in the lane, and helping neighborswere at the door; but the solemn occasion was forgotten, in the shockproduced by this announcement. Gilbert started and almost reeled; Annclung to him with helpless terror; and only Elisha, whose face grew darkand threatening, answered. 

"Woman, " he said, "you are out of your senses! Leave us; you have nobusiness here!"

She met him with a proud, a serene and steady countenance. "Elisha, " sheanswered, "we are here to bury your father and my father-in-law. Let beuntil the grave has closed over him; then ask Alfred whether I coulddare to take my rightful place before to-day. "

The solemn decision of her face and voice struck him dumb. His wifewhispered a few words in his ear, and he turned away with her, to takehis place in the funeral procession. 

It was Alfred Barton's duty to follow, and if it was not grief whichimpelled him to bury his face in his handkerchief as they issued fromthe door, it was a torture keener than was ever mingled with grief, --thetorture of a mean nature, pilloried in its meanest aspect for the publicgaze. Mary, (we must not call her Potter, and cannot yet call herBarton, ) rather led him than was led by him, and lifted her face to theeyes of men. The shame which she might have felt, as his wife, was lostin the one overpowering sense of the justification for which she had solong waited and suffered. 

When the pair appeared in the yard, and Gilbert followed with Miss AnnBarton on his arm, most of the funeral guests looked on in stupidwonder, unable to conceive the reason of the two thus appearing amongthe mourners. But when they had mounted and were moving off, a rumor ofthe startling truth ran from lip to lip. The proper order of theprocession was forgotten; some untied their horses in haste and pushedforward to convince themselves of the astonishing fact; others gatheredinto groups and discussed it earnestly. Some had suspected a relation ofthe kind, all along, so they said; others scouted at the story, and wereready with explanations of their own. But not a soul had another thoughtto spare for Old-man Barton that day. 

Dr. Deane and Martha heard what had happened as they were mounting theirhorses. When they took their places in the line, the singularcompanionship, behind the hearse, was plainly visible. Neither spoke aword, but Martha felt that her heart was beating fast, and that herthoughts were unsteady. 

Presently Miss Lavender rode up and took her place at her side. Tearswere streaming from her eyes, and she was using her handkerchief freely. It was sometime before she could command her feelings enough to say, ina husky whisper, --

"I never thought to ha' had a hand in such wonderful doin's, and how Iheld up through it, I can't tell. Glory to the Lord, the end has come;but, no--not yet--not quite; only enough for one day, Martha; isn'tit?"

"Betsy, " said Martha, "please ride a little closer, and explain to mehow it came about. Give me one or two points for my mind to rest on, forI don't seem to believe even what I see. "

"What I see. No wonder, who could? Well, it's enough that Mary wasmarried to Alf. Barton a matter o' twenty-six year ago, and that heswore her to keep it secret till th' old man died, and he's been herhusband all this while, and knowed it!"

"Father!" Martha exclaimed in a low, solemn voice, turning to Dr. Deane, "think, now, what it was thee would have had me do!"

The Doctor was already aware of his terrible mistake. "Thee was led, child, " he answered, "thee was led! It was a merciful Providence. "

"Then might thee not also admit that I have been led in that otherrespect, which has been so great a trial to thee?"

He made no reply. 

The road to Old Kennett never seemed so long; never was a corpse soimpatiently followed. A sense of decency restrained those who were notrelatives from pushing in advance of those who were; yet it was, verytantalizing to look upon the backs of Alfred Barton and Mary, Gilbertand Ann, when their faces must be such a sight to see!

These four, however, rode in silence. Each, it may be guessed, wassufficiently occupied with his or her own sensations, --except, perhaps, Ann Barton, who had been thrown so violently out of her quiet, passiveround of life by her father's death, that she was incapable of any greatsurprise. Her thoughts were more occupied with the funeral-dinner, yetto come, than with the relationship of the young man at her side. 

Gilbert slowly admitted the fact into his mind, but he was so unpreparedfor it by anything in his mother's life or his own intercourse withAlfred Barton, that he was lost in a maze of baffled conjectures. Whilethis confusion lasted, he scarcely thought of his restoration to honor, or the breaking down of that fatal barrier between him and Martha Deane. His first sensation was one of humiliation and disappointment. How oftenhad he been disgusted with Alfred Barton's meanness and swagger! Howmuch superior, in many of the qualities of manhood, was even thehighwayman, whose paternity he had so feared! As he looked at the broad, heavy form before him, in which even the lines of the back expressedcowardice and abject shame, he almost doubted whether his formerdisgrace was not preferable to his present claim to respect. 

Then his eyes turned to his mother's figure, and a sweet, proud joyswept away the previous emotion. Whatever the acknowledged relationshipmight be to him, to her it was honor--yea, more than honor; for by somuch and so cruelly as she had fallen below the rights of her pure nameas a woman, the higher would she now be set, not only in respect, but inthe reverence earned by her saintly patience and self-denial. Thewonderful transformation of her face showed him what this day was to herlife, and he resolved that no disappointment of his own should comebetween her and her triumph. 

To Gilbert the way was not too long, nor the progress too slow. It gavehim time to grow familiar, not only with the fact, but with his duty. Heforcibly postponed his wandering conjectures, and compelled his mind todwell upon that which lay immediately before him. 

It was nearly noon before the hearse reached Old Kennett meeting-house. The people of the neighborhood, who had collected to await its arrival, came forward and assisted the mourners to alight. Alfred Bartonmechanically took his place beside his wife, but again buried his facein his handkerchief. As the wondering, impatient crowd gathered around, Gilbert felt that all was known, and that all eyes were fixed uponhimself and his mother, and his face reflected her own firmness andstrength. From neither could the spectators guess what might be passingin their hearts. They were both paler than usual, and their resemblanceto each other became very striking. Gilbert, in fact, seemed to havenothing of his father except the peculiar turn of his shoulders and thestrong build of his chest. 

They walked over the grassy, briery, unmarked mounds of old graves tothe spot where a pile of yellow earth denoted Old Barton'sresting-place. When the coffin had been lowered, his children, inaccordance with custom, drew near, one after the other, to bend over andlook into the narrow pit. Gilbert led up his trembling aunt, who mighthave fallen in, had he not carefully supported her. As he waswithdrawing, his eyes suddenly encountered those of Martha Deane, whowas standing opposite, in the circle of hushed spectators. In spite ofhimself a light color shot into his face, and his lips trembled. Theeager gossips, who had not missed even the wink of an eyelid, saw thisfleeting touch of emotion, and whence it came. Thenceforth Martha sharedtheir inspection; but from the sweet gravity of her face, the untroubledcalm of her eyes, they learned nothing more. 

When the grave had been filled, and the yellow mound ridged and pattedwith the spade, the family returned to the grassy space in front of themeeting-house, and now their more familiar acquaintances, and many whowere not, gathered around to greet them and offer words of condolence. An overpowering feeling of curiosity was visible upon every face; thosewho did not venture to use their tongues, used their eyes the more. 

Alfred Barton was forced to remove the handkerchief from his face, andits haggard wretchedness (which no one attributed to grief for hisfather's death), could no longer be hidden. He appeared to have suddenlybecome an old man, with deeper wrinkles, slacker muscles, and ahelpless, tottering air of weakness. The corners of his mouth drooped, hollowing his cheeks, and his eyes seemed unable to bear up the weightof the lids; they darted rapidly from side to side, or sought theground, not daring to encounter, for more than an instant, those ofothers. 

There was no very delicate sense of propriety among the people, and verysoon an inquisitive old Quaker remarked, --

"Why, Mary, is this true that I hear? Are you two man and wife?"

"We are, " she said. 

"Bless us! how did it happen?"

The bystanders became still as death, and all ears were stretched tocatch the answer. But she, with proud, impenetrable calmness, replied, --

"It will be made known. "

And with these words the people were forced, that day to be satisfied. 

CHAPTER XXXI. 

THE WILL. 

During the homeward journey from the grave, Gilbert and his mother werestill the central figures of interest. That the members of the Bartonfamily were annoyed and humiliated, was evident to all eyes; but it wasa pitiful, undignified position, which drew no sympathy towards them, while the proud, composed gravity of the former commanded respect. Theyoung men and women, especially, were unanimously of the opinion thatGilbert had conducted himself like a man. They were disappointed, it wastrue, that he and Martha Deane had not met, in the sight of all. It wasimpossible to guess whether she had been already aware of the secret, orhow the knowledge of it would affect their romantic relation to eachother. 

Could the hearts of the lovers have been laid bare, the people wouldhave seen that never had each felt such need of the other, --never hadthey been possessed with such restless yearning. To the very last, Gilbert's eyes wandered from time to time towards the slender figure inthe cavalcade before him, hoping for the chance of a word or look; butMartha's finer instinct told her that she must yet hold herself aloof. She appreciated the solemnity of the revelation, saw that much was yetunexplained, and could have guessed, even without Miss Lavender'smysterious hints, that the day would bring forth other and moreimportant disclosures. 

As the procession drew nearer Kennett Square, the curiosity of thefuneral guests, baulked and yet constantly stimulated, began to growdisorderly. Sally Fairthorn was in such a flutter that she scarcely knewwhat she said or did; Mark's authority alone prevented her from dashingup to Gilbert, regardless of appearances. The old men, especially thosein plain coats and broad-brimmed hats, took every opportunity to pressnear the mourners; and but for Miss Betsy Lavender, who hovered aroundthe latter like a watchful dragon, both Gilbert and his mother wouldhave been seriously annoyed. Finally the gate at the lane-end closedupon them, and the discomfited public rode on to the village, tormentedby 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 havetold 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 firstsymptom of agitation she had exhibited. He took her aside, and begantalking 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 thefam'ly; so we've agreed to have it done afore all together, in thelawful 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 yournephew, Gilbert Barton, Mr. Alfred's son. "

They looked at each other for a moment. There was that in Gilbert's facewhich enforced respect. Contrasted with his father, who stood on oneside, darting stealthy glances at the group from the corners of hiseyes, his bearing was doubly brave and noble. He offered his hand insilence, and both Elisha Barton and his wife felt themselves compelledto take it. Then the three sons, who knew the name of Gilbert Potter, and were more astonished than shocked at the new relationship, came upand greeted their cousin in a grave but not unfriendly way. 

"That's right!" exclaimed Miss Lavender. "And now come in to dinner, allo' ye! I gev orders to have the meats dished as soon as the first horsewas seen over the rise o' the hill, and it'll all be smokin' on thetable. "

Though the meal was such as no one had ever before seen in the Bartonfarm-house, it was enjoyed by very few of the company. The sense ofsomething 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 generalfeeling of relief when the pies, marmalade, and cheese had beenconsumed, and the knives and forks laid crosswise over the plates. 

When they arose from the table, Mr. Stacy led the way into the parlor. Afire, in the mean time, had been made in the chill, open fireplace, butit scarcely relieved the dreary, frosty aspect of the apartment. Thepresence of the corpse seemed to linger there, attaching itself withghastly distinctness to the chair and hickory staff in a corner. 

The few dinner-guests who were not relatives understood that thismeeting excluded them, and Elisha Barton was therefore surprised tonotice, after they had taken their seats, that Miss Lavender was one ofthe company. 

"I thought, " he said, with a significant look, "that it was to be thefamily only. "

"Miss Lavender is one of the witnesses to the will, " Mr. Stacy answered, "and her presence is necessary, moreover, as an important testimony inregard to some of its provisions. "

Alfred Barton and Gilbert both started at these words, but from verydifferent feelings. The former, released from public scrutiny, alreadyexperienced a comparative degree of comfort, and held up his head withan air of courage; yet now the lawyer's announcement threw him into anagitation which it was not possible to conceal. Miss Lavender lookedaround the circle, coolly nodded her head to Elisha Barton, and saidnothing. 

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 thedocuments relating to his property. This he placed upon a small tablebeside his chair, opened it, and took out the topmost paper. He wascompletely master of the situation, and the deliberation with which hesurveyed the circle of excited faces around him seemed to indicate thathe enjoyed the fact. 

"The last will and testament of Abiah Barton, made the day before hisdeath, " he said, "revokes all former wills, which were destroyed by hisorder, in the presence of myself and Miss Elizabeth Lavender. "

All eyes were turned upon the spinster, who again nodded, with a face ofpreternatural solemnity. 

"In order that you, his children and grandchildren, " Mr. Stacycontinued, "may rightly understand the deceased's intention in makingthis last will, when the time comes for me to read it, I must firstinform you that he was acquainted with the fact of his son Alfred'smarriage with Mary Potter. "

Alfred Barton half sprang from his seat, and then fell back with thesame startled, livid face, which Gilbert already knew. The others heldtheir breath in suspense, --except Mary, who sat near the lawyer, firm, cold, and unmoved. 

"The marriage of Alfred Barton and Mary Potter must therefore beestablished, to _your_ satisfaction, " Mr. Stacy resumed, turning towardsElisha. "Alfred Barton, I ask you to declare whether this woman is yourlawfully wedded wife?"

A sound almost like a groan came from his throat, but it formed thesyllable, --"Yes. "

"Further, I ask you to declare whether Gilbert Barton, who has untilthis day borne his mother's name of Potter, is your lawfully begottenson?"

"Yes. "

"To complete the evidence, " said the lawyer, "Mary Barton, give me thepaper in your hands. "

She untied the handkerchief, opened the Bible, and handed Mr. Stacy theslip of paper which Gilbert had seen her place between the leaves thatmorning. The lawyer gave it to Elisha Barton, with the request that hewould read it aloud. 

It was the certificate of a magistrate at Burlington, in the Colony ofNew Jersey, setting forth that he had united in wedlock Alfred Bartonand Mary Potter. The date was in the month of June, 1771. 

"This paper, " said Elisha, when he had finished reading, "appears to begenuine. The evidence must have been satisfactory to you, Mr. Stacy, andto my father, since it appears to have been the cause of his making anew will; but as this new will probably concerns me and my children, Idemand to know why; if the marriage was legal, it has been kept secretso long? The fact of the marriage does not explain what has happenedto-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, inyours?"

"There's but one story, " he answered, "and I guess it falls to yourplace to tell it. " "It does!" she exclaimed. "You, Elisha and Ann, andyou, Gilbert, my child, take notice that every word of what I shall sayis the plain God's truth. Twenty-seven years ago, when I was a youngwoman 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, andthe people called me good-looking. You were vexed with me, Ann, becausethe young men came now and then, of a Sunday afternoon; but I put upwith your hard words. You did not know that I understood what Alfred'seyes meant when he looked at me; I put up with you because I believed Icould be mistress of the house, in your place. You have had your revengeof 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 intomy 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, andthere were merry times just before the war, and he used to dressbravely, and was talked about as likely to marry this girl or that. Myhead was full of him, and I believed my heart was. I let him see fromthe first that it must be honest love between us, or not at all; and themore 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 manhad threatened to cut him out of his will if he should marry me, and Isaw that I must leave the farm; but I gave out that I was tired of thecountry, and wanted to find service in Philadelphia. I believed thatAlfred would follow me in a week or two, and he did. He brought news Ididn't expect, and it turned my head upside down. His father had had aparalytic stroke, and nobody believed he'd live more than a few weeks. It was in the beginning of June, and the doctors said he couldn't getover the hot weather. Alfred said to me, Why wait?--you'll be taking upwith some city fellow, and I want you to be my wife at once. On my sideI thought, Let him be made rich and free by his father's death, andwives will be thrown in his way; he'll lose his liking for me, by littleand 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 andeasier to be kept secret; but just before we came to the Squire's, heseemed to grow fearsome all at once, lest it should be found out, and hebought a Bible and swore me by my soul's salvation never to say I wasmarried to him until after his father died. Here's the Bible, Alfred! Doyou remember it? Here, here's the place where I kissed it when I tookthe oath!"

She rose from her seat, and held it towards him. No one could doubt thesolemn truth of her words. He nodded his head mechanically, unable tospeak. Still standing, she turned towards Elisha Barton, andexclaimed, --

"_He_ took the same oath, but what did it mean to him! What does it meanto a man? I was young and vain; I thought only of holding fast to mygood luck! I never thought of--of"--(here her faced flushed, and hervoice began to tremble)--"of _you_, Gilbert! I fed my pride by hopingfor a man's death, and never dreamed I was bringing a curse on a lifethat was yet to come! Perhaps he didn't then, either; the Lord pardon meif I judge him too hard. What I charge him with, is that he held me tomy oath, when--when the fall went by and the winter, and his fatherlived, and his son was to be born! It was always the same, --Wait alittle, a month or so, maybe; the old man couldn't live, and it was thedifference between riches and poverty for us. Then I begged for povertyand my good name, and after that he kept away from me. Before Gilbertwas born, I hoped I might die in giving him life; then I felt that Imust live for his sake. I saw my sin, and what punishment the Lord hadmeasured out to me, and that I must earn His forgiveness; and Hemercifully hid from my sight the long path that leads to this day; forif the release hadn't seemed so near, I never could have borne to wait!"

All the past agony of her life seemed to discharge itself in thesewords. They saw what the woman had suffered, what wonderful virtues ofpatience and faith had been developed from the vice of her pride, andthere 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 ofreverence; he neither knew nor heeded that there were tears on hischeeks. The women wept in genuine emotion, and even the old lawyer wasobliged to wipe his dimmed spectacles. 

Elisha rose, and approaching Alfred, asked, in a voice which he stroveto 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, andacknowledge your place in our family. "

Elisha's wife followed, and embraced her with many tears, and lastlyAnn, 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 butone 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'veacted meanly towards you--meaner, I'm afraid, than any man before everacted towards his wife. Not only to you, but to Gilbert; but I alwaysmeant to do my duty in the end. I waited from month to month, and yearto year, as you did; and then things got set in their way, and it washarder and harder to let out the truth. I comforted myself--that wasn'tright, either, I know, --but I comforted myself with the thought that youwere doing well; I never lost sight of you, and I've been proud ofGilbert, though I didn't dare show it, and always wanted to lend him ahelping 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 lendGilbert a helping hand? Was it by trying to take a second wife during mylifetime, and that wife the girl whom Gilbert loves?"

Her questions cut to the quick, and the shallow protestations he wouldhave set up were stripped off in a moment, leaving bare every cowardlyshift of his life. Nothing was left but the amplest confession. 

"You won't believe me, Mary, " he stammered, feebly weeping with pity ofhis own miserable plight, "and I can't ask to--but it's the truth! Giveme your Bible! I'll kiss the place you kissed, and swear before God thatI never meant to marry Martha Deane! I let the old man think so, becausehe hinted it'd make a difference in his will, and he drove me--he andDr. Deane together--to speak to her. I was a coward and a fool that Ilet myself be driven that far, but I couldn't and wouldn't have marriedher!"

"The whole snarl's comin' undone, " interrupted Miss Lavender. "I see theend on't. Do you mind that day, Alf. Barton, when I come upon yousuddent, settin' on the log and sayin' 'I can't see the way, '--the veryday, I'll be snaked, that you spoke to the Doctor about MarthaDeane!--and then _you_ so mortal glad that she wouldn'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 wantMiss Lavender to relate how it was that Abiah Barton and myself becameacquainted with the fact of the marriage. "

The reading of the will had been almost forgotten in the powerfulinterest excited by Mary Barton's narrative. The curiosity to know itscontents instantly revived, but was still subordinate to that which thelawyer's statement occasioned. The whole story was so singular, that itseemed 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 asfoolish as I'm old, but never mind, I'll allow that; and I saw thatnothin' could be done till Gilbert got his lawful name, and how to getit was the trouble, bein' as Mary was swore to keep secret. The long andthe short of it is, I tried to worm it out o' her, but no use; she sether teeth as tight as sin, and all I did learn was, that when she was inPhildelphy--I knowed Gilbert was born there, but didn't let on--shelived at Treadwells, in Fourth Street Then turnin' over everything in mymind, I suspicioned that she must be waitin' for somebody to die, andthat's what held her bound; it seemed to me I must guess right away, butI couldn't and couldn't, and so goin' up the hill, nigh puzzled todeath, Gilbert ploughin' away from me, bendin' his head for'ard alittle--there! turn round, Gilbert! turn round, Alf. Barton I Look atthem two sets o' shoulders!"

Miss Lavender's words were scarcely comprehensible, but all saw theresemblance between father and son, in the outline of the shoulders, andmanaged 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 thesaddle and the ground, as the sayin' is, it come to me--not mercy, butknowledge, 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 palsythe year afore Gilbert was born, and I dunno how many other things cometo me all of a heap; and now you know, Gilbert, what made me holler. Iborrowed the loan o' his bay horse and put off for Phildelphy the verynext day, and a mortal job it was; what with bar'ls and boxes pitchedhither 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 Treadwelldead when I did find him, and the daughter married to Greenfield in thebrass 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 Greenfieldwoman that the man who used to come to see Mary Potter was the perfectpictur' o' young Alf. Barton; then to where she went next, away down tothe t'other end o' Third Street, boardin', he payin' the board till justafore 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 totell Mary Potter, and why not go right to Old-man Barton, and let himknow 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, andI wasn't a bit afeard of him, not lookin' for legacies, and wouldn'thave 'em at any such price; but never mind. I hid my horse in the woodsand sneaked into the house across the fields, the back way, and goodluck that nobody was at home but Ann, here; and so I up and told the oldman the whole story. "

"The devil!" Alfred Barton could not help exclaiming, as he recalled hisfather's singular manner on the evening of the day in question. 

"Devil!" Miss Lavender repeated. "More like an angel put it into myhead. But I see Mr. Elisha's fidgetty, so I'll make short work o' therest. He curst and swore awful, callin' Mr. Alfred a mean pup, and Idunno what all, but he hadn't so much to say ag'in Mary Potter; heallowed she was a smart lass, and he'd heerd o' Gilbert's doin's, andthe lad had grit in him. 'Then, ' says I, 'here's a mighty wrong beendone, and it's for you to set it right afore you die, and if you manageas I tell you, you can be even with Mr. Alfred;' and he perks up hishead and asks how, and says I 'This way'--but what I said'll be mademanifest by Mr. Stacy, without my jumpin' ahead o' the proper time. Theend 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 hadn'tha' seen me"--

"That will do, Miss Lavender, " said Mr. Stacy, interrupting her. "I haveonly to add that Abiah Barton was so well convinced of the truth of themarriage, that his new will only requires the proof which has to-daybeen furnished, in order to express his intentions fully and completely. It was his wish that I should visit Mary Barton on the very morningafterwards; but his sudden death prevented it, and Miss Lavenderascertained, the same evening, that Mary, in view of the neglect anddisgrace which she had suffered, demanded to take her justification intoher own hands. My opinion coincided with that of Miss Lavender, that shealone had the right to decide in the matter, and that we must give noexplanation until she had asserted, in her own way, her release from amost shameful and cruel bond. "

It was a proud moment of Miss Lavender's life, when, in addition to herservices, the full extent of which would presently be known, a lawyer ofMr. Stacy's reputation so respectfully acknowledged the wisdom of herjudgment. 

"If further information upon any point is required, " observed thelawyer, "it may be asked for now; otherwise, I will proceed to thereading of the will. "

"Was--was my father of sound mind, --that is, competent to dispose of hisproperty?" asked Elisha Barton, with a little hesitation. 

"I hope the question will not be raised, " said Mr. Stacy, gravely; "butif it is I must testify that he was in as full possession of hisfaculties as at any time since his first attack, twenty-six years ago. "

He then read the will, amid the breathless silence of the company. Theold man first devised to his elder son, Elisha Barton, the sum of twentythousand dollars, investments secured by mortgages on real estate; anequal amount to his daughter-in-law, Mary, provided she was able tofurnish legal proof of her marriage to his son, Alfred Barton; fivethousand dollars each to his four grand-children, the three sons ofElisha, 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 theestate were to be divided equally among all the heirs. The witnesses tothe will were James Stacy and Elizabeth Lavender. 

Gilbert and his mother now recognized, for the first time, what theyowed to the latter. A sense of propriety kept them silent; the fortunewhich had thus unexpectedly fallen into their hands was the least andpoorest part of their justification. Miss Lavender, also, was held tosilence, but it went hard with her. The reading of the will gave hersuch an exquisite sense of enjoyment that she felt quite choked in thehush 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. "Twentythousand dollars will not pay me for twenty-five years of shame; nomoney could; but it was the only payment he had to offer. I accept thisas I accepted my trials. The Lord sees fit to make my worldly pathsmooth to my feet, and I have learned neither to reject mercy norwrath. "

She was not elated; she would not, on that solemn day, even expressgratification in the legacy, for her son's sake. Though her exalted moodwas but dimly understood by the others, they felt its influence. If anythought of disputing the will, on the ground of his father'sincompetency, 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, wholived in the adjoining township of Pennsbury, made preparations toleave. They promised soon to visit Gilbert and his mother. MissLavender, taking Gilbert aside, announced that she was going to returnto Dr. Deane's. 

"I s'pose I may tell her, " she said, trying to hide her feelings under aveil of clumsy irony, "that it's all up betwixt and between you, nowyou're a rich man; and of course as she wouldn't have the father, shecan't think o' takin' the son. "

"Betsy, " he whispered, "tell her that I never yet needed her love somuch as now, and that I shall come to her tomorrow. "

"Well, you know the door stands open, even accordin' to the Doctor'swords. "

As Gilbert went forth to look after the horses, Alfred Barton followedhim. 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, "youknow, now, why it always cut me, to have you think ill of me. I deserveit, 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 achance--if you could"--

Here his voice seemed to fail. Gilbert quietly withdrew his shoulderfrom the hand, hesitated a moment, and then said, --"Don't ask meanything 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, andhis head upon them. He was still leaning there, when mother and son rodeby in the twilight, on their way home. 

CHAPTER XXXII. 

THE LOVERS. 

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

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

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

"Mother, " he answered, "whatever may happen in my life, I can never feelso proud of myself, as I felt to-day, to be your son. I do rejoice foryour sake, as I shall for my own, no doubt, when I get better used tothe truth. You could not expect me, at once, to be satisfied with afather who has not only acted so cruelly towards you, but whom I havesuspected of being my own rival and enemy. I don't think I shall everlike the new name as well as the old, but it is enough for me that thename brings honor and independence to you!"

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

"You were right, mother!" he exclaimed. "What trial had I, compared withyours? What tale had I to tell--what pain to feel, except that if I hadnot been born, you would have been saved twenty-five years ofsuffering!"

"No, Gilbert!--never say, never think that! I see already the sufferingand the sorrow dying away as if they'd never been, and you left to mefor the rest of life the Lord grants; to me a son has been more than ahusband!"

"Then, " he asked in an anxious, hesitating tone, "would you considerthat I was not quite so much a son--that any part of my duty to you waslost--if I wished to bring you a daughter, also?". 

"I know what you mean, Gilbert Betsy Lavender has told me all. I am gladyou spoke of it, this day; it will put the right feeling of thanksgivinginto my heart and yours. Martha Deane never stood between us, my boy; itwas 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 faintwhen 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 youthought 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 thehardest of all, but don't you see it was only the bit of darkness thatcomes before the daylight?"

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

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

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

"And there's one thing I mustn't forgit, Martha, " she declared, at theclose of her narrative. "Gilbert sends word to you that he needs yourtrue-love more 'n ever, and he's comin' up to see you to-morrow; andsays 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 mano' 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 beguessed by either of the women. He rose, went to the window, looked intothe night for a long time without saying a word, and finally betookhimself 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 theevening. Martha knew what this meant, and also what Miss Lavender meantin hurrying down to Fairthorn's, soon after the Doctor's departure. Shebecame restless with tender expectation; her cheeks burned, and herfingers trembled so that she was forced to lay aside her needle-work. Itseemed very long since she had even seen Gilbert; it was a long time (inthe calendar of lovers) since the two had spoken to each other. Shetried to compare the man he had been with the man he now was, --Gilbertpoor, disgraced and in trouble, with Gilbert rich and honorably born;and it almost seemed as if the latter had impoverished her heart bytaking from it the need of that faithful, passionate sympathy which shehad bestowed upon the former. 

The long hour of waiting came to an end. Roger was once more tethered atthe 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 ofsecurity; yet both were deeply and powerfully agitated. Martha was thefirst 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 myturn to try you, Gilbert!"

Even her arch, happy smile did not enlighten him. "How, Martha?" heasked. 

"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? DidBetsy 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 namebetter or worse in your ears, than my old one?"

"To me you are only Gilbert, " she answered, "as I am Martha to you. Whatdoes it matter whether we write Potter or Barton? Either is good initself, and so would any other name be; but Barton means something, asthe world goes, and therefore we will take it. Gilbert, I have putmyself in your place, since I learned the whole truth. I guessed youwould come to me with a strange, uncertain feeling, --not a doubt, butrather a wonder; and I endeavored to make your new circumstances clearto my mind. Our duty to your mother is plain; she is a woman beside whomall other women we know seem weak and insignificant. It is not thatwhich 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 beguided entirely by your wishes. "

"Martha, " he said, "that _is_ my trouble, --or, rather, mydisappointment, --that with my true name I must bring to you and fastenupon you the whole mean and shameful story! One parent must always behonored at the expense of the other, and my name still belongs to theone that is disgraced. "

"I foresaw your feeling, Gilbert. You were on the point of makinganother test for me; that is not fair. The truth has come toosuddenly, --the waters of your life have been stirred too deeply; youmust 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 nowunderstand the pains which his addresses to me must have cost him. If Iever saw fear on a man's face, it was on his when he thought I mighttake him at his word. But, to a man like you, a mean nature is no betterthan 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'ssake, Gilbert; you must not let the value of her justification belessened in her eyes. She deserves all the happiness you and I can giveher, and if she is willing to receive me, some day, as a daughter"--

Gilbert interrupted her words by clasping her in his arms. "Martha!" heexclaimed, "your heart points out the true way because it is true to thecore! In these things a woman sees clearer than a man; when I am withyou only, I seem to have proper courage and independence--I am twicemyself! 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 standbetween us?"

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

"It is at least beyond his power, " Gilbert replied, "to accuse me ofsordid motives. As I said before, Martha, give up your legacy, if needbe, but come to me!"

"As _I_ said before, Gilbert, the legacy is honestly mine, and I willcome to you with it in my hands. "

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

There was a sudden noise in the back part of the house. A shrill voicewas heard, exclaiming, --"I will--I will! don't hold me!"--the door burstopen, and Sally Fairthorn whirled into the room, with the skirt of hergown torn loose, on one side, from the body. Behind her followed MissLavender, in a state of mingled amusement and anger. 

Sally kissed Martha, then Gilbert, then threw an arm around the neck ofeach, crying and laughing hysterically: "O Martha! O Gilbert! you'll bemarried first, --I said it, --but Mark and I must be your bridesmaids;don't laugh, you know what I mean; and Betsy wouldn't have me break inupon you; but I waited half an hour, and then off, up here, she afterme, and we're both out o' breath! Did ever, ever such a thing happen!"

"You crazy thing!" cried Miss Lavender. "No, such a thing neverhappened, and wouldn't ha' happened this time, if I'd ha' been a littlequicker on my legs; but never mind, it serves me right; you two are toblame, 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 itfor yourselves next time, and welcome; and there's one bit o' wisdomI'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? Thegood work you've done for us isn't finished. "

"Isn't finished. Well, you'll gi' me time to make my will, first. Howlong d' ye expect me to last, at this rate? Is my bones brass and myflesh locus'-wood? Am I like a tortle, that goes around the fields ahundred years?"

"No, " Gilbert answered, "but you shall be like an angel, dressed all inwhite, with roses in your hair. Sally and Mark, you know, want to be thefirst bridesmaids"--

Sally interrupted him with a slap, but it was not very violent, and hedid 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 upher 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 withDr. Deane. He did not anticipate that the task had been made easy forhim; 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 firstsurprise of the news had been exhausted, and the Doctor had correctedvarious monstrous rumors from his own sources of positive knowledge, oneinference was sure to follow, --that now there could be no objection tohis daughter becoming Gilbert Barton's wife. He was sounded, urged, almost threatened, and finally returned home with the conviction thatany further opposition must result in an immense sacrifice ofpopularity. 

Still, he was not ready to act upon that conviction, at once. He metGilbert with a bland condescension, and when the latter, after the firstgreeting, 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 Idid 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 theday of thy grandfather's funeral. In all that has happened heretofore, Ihave endeavored to act cautiously and prudently; and thee will grant, Idoubt 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 strongestevidence. Of course, all that I brought forward against thee now fallsto the ground. "

"I trust, then, " Gilbert said, "that you have no further cause to forbidmy engagement with Martha. My mother has given her consent, and we bothhope for yours. "

Dr. Deane appeared to reflect, leaning back in his chair, with his caneacross his knees. "It is a very serious thing, " he said, at last, --"veryserious, indeed. Not a subject for hasty decision. Thee offered, if Iremember rightly, to give me time to know thee better; therefore theecannot complain if I were now disposed to accept thy offer. "

Gilbert fortunately remembered Martha's words, and restrained hisimpatience. 

"I will readily give you time, Dr. Deane, " he replied, "provided youwill give me opportunities. You are free to question all who know me, ofcourse, and I suppose you have done so. I will not ask you to take thetrouble 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 yourinterest in Martha's happiness, or your right to advise her. It may betoo soon to expect your consent, but at least you'll hold back yourrefusal?"

"Thee's a reasonable young man, Gilbert, " the Doctor remarked, after apause which was quite unnecessary. "I like that in thee. We are bothagreed, then, that while I shall be glad to see thee in my house, and amwilling to allow to Martha and thee the intercourse proper to a youngman and woman, it is not yet to be taken for granted that I sanctionyour desired marriage. Remember me kindly to thy mother, and say, ifthee pleases, that I shall soon call to see her. "

Gilbert had scarcely reached home that evening, before Deb. Smith, whohad left the farm-house on the day following the recovery of the money, suddenly made her appearance. She slipped into the kitchen withoutknocking, and crouched down in a corner of the wide chimney-place, before she spoke. Both mother and son were struck by the singularmixture of shyness and fear in her manner. 

"I heerd all about it, to-day, " she presently said, "and I wouldn't ha'come here, if I'd ha' knowed where else to go to. They're after me, thistime, Sandy's friends, in dead earnest; they'll have my blood, if theycan 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 asthe best of 'em, and Mary's lawful-married and got her lawful name; andyou both seem to be set among the folks that can't feel for a body likeme; 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. "IfGilbert or I should refuse to protect you, your blood would be upon ourheads. I won't blame you for doubting us; I know how easy it is to losefaith in others; but if you think I was a friend to you while my namewas disgraced, you must also remember that I knew the truth then as wellas the world knows it now. "

"Bless you for sayin' that, Mary! There wasn't much o' my name at anytime; but what little I might ha' had is clean gone--nothin' o' me leftbut the strong arm! I'm not a coward, as you know, Mr. Gilbert; I'llmeet any man, face to face, in a fair and open fight. Let 'em come inbroad day, and on the high road!--not lay in wait in bushes and behindfences, 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 hermorbid fear of an ambushed enemy. Gilbert suspected that it might be atemporary insanity, growing out of her remorse for having betrayed SandyFlash. When she had been fed, and had smoked a pipe or two, she seemedquite to forget it, and was almost her own self when she went up to herbed in the western room. 

The moon, three quarters full, was hanging over the barn, and made apeaceful, snowy light about the house. She went to the window, openedit, and breathed the cool air of the April night. The "herring-frogs"were keeping up an incessant, birdlike chirp down the glen, and nearerat hand the plunging water of the mill-race made a soothing noise. Itreally 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 nextmoment there was a flash, the crack of a musket rang sharp and loudthrough the dell, followed by a whiz and thud at her very ear. A thindrift of smoke rose above the bushes, and she saw a man's figurespringing 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, theIrish ostler disappeared that night from the Unicorn tavern, and wasnever again seen in the neighborhood. 

The bullet had buried itself in the window-frame, after having passedwithin an inch or two of Deb. Smith's head. [Footnote: The hole made bythe bullet still remains in the window-frame of the old farm-house. ] ToGilbert's surprise, all her fear was gone; she was again fierce anddefiant, and boldly came and went, from that night forth, saying that nobullet was or would be cast, to take her life. 

Therein she was right; but it was a dreary life and a miserable deathwhich awaited her. For twenty-five years she wandered about theneighborhood, achieving wonders in spinning, reaping and threshing, bythe undiminished force of her arm, though her face grew haggard and herhair gray; sometimes plunging into wild drinking-bouts with the roughmale 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 cursehanging over her life. Whether it was ever made manifest, no man couldtell; but when she was found lying dead on the floor of her lonely cabinon the Woodrow farm, with staring, stony eyes, and the lines ofunspeakable horror on her white face, there were those who recalled herown superstitious forebodings, and believed them. 

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

HUSBAND AND WIFE. 

It may readily be guessed that such extraordinary developments as thoserevealed in the preceding chapters produced more than a superficialimpression upon a quiet community like that of Kennett and the adjoiningtownships. People secluded from the active movements of the world aredrawn to take the greater interest in their own little familyhistories, --a feeling which by-and-by amounts to a partial sense ofownership, justifying not only any degree of advice or comment, butsometimes even actual interference. 

The Quakers, who formed a majority of the population, and generallycontrolled public sentiment in domestic matters, through the purity oftheir own domestic life, at once pronounced in favor of Mary Barton. Thefact of her having taken an oath was a slight stumbling-block to some;but her patience, her fortitude, her submission to what she felt to bethe Divine Will, and the solemn strength which had upborne her on thelast trying day, were qualities which none could better appreciate. Thefresh, warm sympathies of the younger people, already given to Gilbertand Martha, now also embraced her; far and wide went the wonderfulstory, carrying with it a wave of pity and respect for her, of contemptand denunciation for her husband. 

The old Friends and their wives came to visit her, in their statelychairs; almost daily, for a week or two, the quiet of the farm wasinvaded, either by them, or by the few friends who had not forsaken herin her long disgrace, and were doubly welcome now. She received them allwith the same grave, simple dignity of manner, gratefully acceptingtheir expressions of sympathy, and quietly turning aside theinconsiderate questions that would have probed too deeply and painfully. 

To an aged Friend, --a preacher of the sect, --who plumply asked her whatcourse she intended to pursue towards her husband, she replied, --

"I will not trouble my season of thanksgiving. What is right for me todo will be made manifest when the occasion comes. "

This reply was so entirely in the Quaker spirit that the old man wassilenced. Dr. Deane, who was present, looked upon her with admiration. 

Whatever conjectures Alfred Barton might have made in advance, of theconsequences which would follow the disclosure of his secret marriage, they could have borne no resemblance to the reality. It was not in hisnature to imagine the changes which the years had produced in his wife. He looked forward to wealth, to importance in the community, andprobably supposed that she would only be too glad to share the proudposition with him. There would be a little embarrassment at first, ofcourse; but his money would soon make everything smooth. 

Now, he was utterly defeated, crushed, overwhelmed. The public judgment, so much the more terrible where there is no escape from it, rolled downupon him. Avoided or coldly ignored by the staid, respectable farmers, openly insulted by his swaggering comrades of the fox-hunt and thebar-room, jeered at and tortured by the poor and idle hangers-on of thecommunity, who took a malicious pleasure in thus repaying him for hisformer haughtiness and their own humility, he found himself a moraloutcast. His situation became intolerable. He no longer dared to showhimself in the village, or upon the highways, but slunk about the houseand farm, cursing himself, his father and the miserable luck of hislife. 

When, finally, Giles begged to know how soon his legacy would be paid, and hinted that he couldn't stay any longer than to get possession ofthe money, for, hard as it might be to leave an old home, he must stopgoing to the mill, or getting the horses shod, or sitting in the Unicornbar-room of a Saturday night, and a man might as well be in jail atonce, and be done with it--when Alfred Barton heard all this, hedeliberated, for a few minutes, whether it would not be a good thing tocut his own throat. 

Either that, or beg for mercy; no other course was left. 

That evening he stole up to the village, fearful, at every step, ofbeing seen and recognized, and knocked timidly at Dr. Deane's door. Martha and her father were sitting together, when he came into the room, and they were equally startled at his appearance. His large frame seemedto have fallen in, his head was bent, and his bushy whiskers had becomequite gray; deep wrinkles seamed his face; his eyes were hollow, and thecorners of his mouth drooped with an expression of intolerable misery. 

"I wanted to say a word to Miss Martha, if she'll let me, " he said, looking from one to the other. 

"I allowed thee to speak to my daughter once too often, " Dr. Deanesternly replied. "What thee has to say now, must be said in mypresence. "

He hesitated a moment, then took a chair and sat down, turning towardsMartha. "It's come to this, " he said, "that I must have a little mercy, or lay hands on my own life. I haven't a word to say for myself; Ideserve it all. I'll do anything that's wanted of me--whatever Marysays, or people think is her right that she hasn't yet got, if it's mineto give. You said you wished me well, Miss Martha, even at the time Iacted so shamefully; I remember that, and so I ask you to help me. "

She saw that he spoke truth, at last, and all her contempt and disgustcould not keep down the quick sensation of pity which his wretchednessinspired. But she was unprepared for his appeal, and uncertain how toanswer it. 

"What would you have me do?" she asked. 

"Go to Mary on my behalf! Ask her to pardon me, if she can, or say whatI can do to earn her pardon--that the people may know it. They won't beso hard on me, if they know she's done that. Everything depends on her, and if it's true, as they say, that she's going to sue for a divorce andtake back her own name for herself and Gilbert, and cut loose from meforever, why, it'll just"--

He paused, and buried his face in his hands. 

"I have not heard of that, " said Martha. 

"Haven't you?" he asked. "But it's too likely to be true. "

"Why not go directly to Mary, yourself?"

"I will, Miss Martha, if you'll go with me, and maybe say a kind wordnow and then, --that is, if you think it isn't too soon for mercy!"

"It is never too soon to _ask_ for mercy, " she said, coming to a suddendecision. "I will go with you; let it be tomorrow. "

"Martha, " warned Dr. Deane, "isn't thee a little hasty?"

"Father, I decide nothing. It is in Mary's hands. He thinks my presencewill give him courage, and that I cannot refuse. "

The next morning, the people of Kennett Square were again startled outof their proprieties by the sight of Alfred Barton, pale, agitated, andavoiding the gaze of every one, waiting at Dr. Deane's gate, and thenriding side by side with Martha down the Wilmington road. An hourbefore, she had dispatched Joe Fairthorn with a note to Gilbert, informing him of the impending visit. Once on the way, she feared lestshe had ventured too far; it might be, as her father had said, toohasty; and the coming meeting with Gilbert and his mother disquieted hernot a little. It was a silent, anxious ride for both. 

When they readied the gate, Gilbert was on hand to receive them. Hisface always brightened at the sight of Martha, and his hands lifted heras tenderly as ever from the saddle. "Have I done right?" she anxiouslywhispered. 

"It is for mother to say, " he whispered back. 

Alfred Barton advanced, offering his hand. Gilbert looked upon hisfather's haggard, imploring face, a moment; a recollection of his owndisgrace shot into his heart, to soften, not to exasperate; and heaccepted the hand. Then he led the way into the house. 

Mary Barton had simply said to her son, --"I felt that he would come, sooner or later, and that I must give him a hearing--better now, perhaps, since you and Martha will be with me. "

They found her awaiting them, pale and resolute. 

Gilbert and Martha moved a little to one side, leaving the husband andwife facing each other. Alfred Barton was too desperately moved toshrink from Mary's eyes; he strove to read something in her face, whichmight spare him the pain of words; but it was a strange face he lookedupon. Not that of the black-eyed, bright-cheeked girl, with the proudcarriage of her head and the charming scorn of her red lip, who hadmocked, fascinated, and bewildered him. The eyes were there, but theyhad sunk into the shade of the brows, and looked upon him with animpenetrable expression; the cheeks were pale, the mouth firm and rigid, and out of the beauty which seduced had grown a power to resist andcommand. 

"Will you shake hands with me, Mary?" he faltered. 

She said nothing, but moved her right hand slightly towards him. It layin his own a moment, cold and passive. 

"Mary!" he cried, falling on his knees at her feet, "I'm a ruined, wretched man! No one speaks to me but to curse; I've no friend left inthe world; the very farmhand leaves me! I don't know what'll become ofme, unless you feel a little pity--not that I deserve any, but I ask itof you, in the name of God!"

Martha clung to Gilbert's arm, trembling, and more deeply moved than shewas willing to show. Mary Barton's face was convulsed by some passingstruggle, and when she spoke, her voice was hoarse and broken. 

"You know what it is, then, " she said, "to be disgraced in the eyes ofthe world. If you have suffered so much in these two weeks, you mayguess what I have borne for twenty-five years!"

"I see it now, Mary!" he cried, "as I never saw it before. Try me! Tellme what to do!"

"The Lord has done it, already; there is nothing left. "

He groaned; his head dropped hopelessly upon his breast. 

Gilbert felt that Martha's agitation ceased. She quietly released herhold of his arm, lifted her head, and spoke, --

"Mother, forgive me if I speak when I should hold my peace; I would onlyremind you that there is yet one thing left. It is true, as you say; theLord has justified you in His own way, and at His own time, and hasrevenged the wrong done to you by branding the sin committed towardsHimself. Now He leaves the rest to your own heart. Think that He holdsback and waits for the words that shall declare whether you understandthe spirit in which He deals towards His children!"

"Martha, my dear child!" Mary Barton exclaimed, --what can I do?"

"It is not for me to advise you, mother. You, who put my impatient prideto shame, and make my love for Gilbert seem selfish by contrast withyour long self-sacrifice! What right have I, who have done nothing, tospeak to you, who have done so much that we never can reckon it? But, remember that in the Lord's government of the world pardon followsrepentance, and it is not for us to exact like for like, to theuttermost farthing!"

Mary Barton sank into a chair, covered her face with her hands, and weptaloud. 

There were tears in Martha's eyes; her voice trembled, and her wordscame with a softness and tenderness that soothed while they pierced:

"Mother, I am a woman like yourself; and, as a woman, I feel theterrible wrong that has been done to you. It may be as hard for you nowto forget, as then to bear; but it is certainly greater and nobler toforgive than to await justice! Because I reverence you as a strong andpure and great-hearted woman--because I want to see the last and bestand sweetest grace of our sex added to your name--and lastly, forGilbert's sake, who can feel nothing but pain in seeing his fatherexecrated and shunned--I ask your forgiveness for your husband!"

"Mary!" Alfred Barton cried, lifting up his head in a last appeal, "Mary, this much, at least! Don't go to the courts for a divorce! Don'tget back your own name for yourself and Gilbert! Keep mine, and make itmore respectable for me! And I won't ask you to pardon me, for I see youcan't!"

"It is all clear to me, at last!" said Mary Barton. "I thank you, Martha, my child, for putting me in the right path. Alfred, don't kneelto me; if the Lord can pardon, who am I that I should be unforgiving? Ifear me I was nigh to forfeit His mercy. Gilbert, yours was half theshame; yours is half the wrong; can you join me in pardoning your fatherand my husband?"

Gilbert was powerfully moved by the conflict of equally balancedemotions, and but for the indication which Martha had given, he mightnot at once have been able to decide. But it seemed now that his coursewas also clear. He said, --

"Mother, since you have asked the question, I know how it should beanswered. If you forgive your husband, I forgive my--my father. "

He stepped forward, seized Alfred Barton gently by the shoulder, andraised him to his feet Mary Barton then took her husband's hand in hers, and said, in a solemn voice, --

"I forgive you, Alfred, and will try to forget I know not what you mayhave heard said, but I never meant to go before the court for a divorce. Your name is a part of my right, a part of Gilbert's--our son's--right;it is true that you have debased the name, but we will keep it and makeit honorable! We will not do that to the name of Barton which you havedone to the name of Potter!"

It was very evident that though she had forgiven, she had not yetforgotten. The settled endurance of years could not be unlearned in amoment. Alfred Barton felt that her forgiveness implied no returningtenderness, not even an increase of respect; but it was more than he haddared to hope, and he felt humbly grateful. He saw that a considerationfor Gilbert's position had been the chief element to which he owed hiswife's relenting mood, and this knowledge was perhaps his greatestencouragement. 

"Mary, " he said, "you are kinder than I deserve. I wish I could make youand Gilbert understand all that I have felt. Don't think my place waseasy; it wasn't. It was a hell of another kind. I have been punished inmy way, and will be now to the end o' my life, while you two will belooked up to, and respected beyond any in the neighborhood; and if I'mnot treated like a dog, it'll only be for your sakes! Will you let mesay to the people that you have pardoned me? Will you say ityourselves?"

Martha, and perhaps Gilbert also, felt that it was the reflected imageof Alfred Barton's meanness, as it came back to him in the treatment hehad experienced, rather than his own internal consciousness of it, whichoccasioned his misery. But his words were true thus far; his life wasbranded by it, and the pardon of those he had wronged could not makethat life more than tolerable. 

"Why not?" said Gilbert, replying to him. "There has been enough ofsecrets. I am not ashamed of forgiveness--my shame is, that forgivenessis necessary. "

Alfred Barton looked from mother to son with a singular, wistfulexpression. He seemed uncertain whether to speak or how to select hiswords. His vain, arrogant spirit was completely broken, but no finermoral instinct came in its place to guide him; his impulses were stillcoarse, and took, from habit, the selfish color of his nature. There aresome persons whom even humiliation clothes with a certain dignity; buthe was not one of them. There are others whose tact, in suchemergencies, assumes the features of principle, and sets up a feebleclaim to respect; but this quality is a result of culture, which he didnot possess. He simply saw what would relieve him from the insupportableload of obloquy under which he groaned, and awkwardly hazarded the pityhe had excited, in asking for it. 

"Mary, " he stammered, "I--I hardly know how to say the words, but you'llunderstand me; I want to make good to you all the wrong I did, and thereseems no way but this, --if you'll let me care for you, slave for you, anything you please; you shall have your own say in house and farm;Ann'll give up everything to you. She always liked you, she says, andshe's lonely since th' old man died and nobody comes near us--not justat once, I mean, but after awhile, when you've had time to think of it, and Gilbert's married. You're independent in your own right, I know, andneedn't do it; but, see! it'd give me a chance, and maybe Gilbertwouldn't feel quite so hard towards me, and"--

He stopped, chilled by the increasing coldness of his wife's face. Shedid not immediately reply; to Martha's eye she seemed to be battlingwith some proud, vindictive instinct. But she spoke at last, and calmly:

"Alfred, you should not have gone so far. I have pardoned you, and thatmeans more than the words. It means that I must try to overcome thebitterness of my recollections, that I must curb the tongues of otherswhen they are raised against you, must greet you when we meet, and inall proper ways show the truth of my forgiveness to the world. Anger andreproach may be taken from the heart, and yet love be as far off asever. If anything ever could lead me back to you it would not be love, but duty to my son, and his desire; but I cannot see the duty now. I maynever see it. Do not propose this thing again. I will only say, if it beany comfort to you, that if you try to show your repentance as I mypardon, try to clean your name from the stain you have cast upon it, myrespect shall keep pace with that of your neighbors, and I shall in thisway, and in no other, be drawn nearer to you!"

"Gilbert, " said Alfred Barton, "I never knew your mother before to-day. What she says gives me some hope, and yet it makes me afraid. I'll tryto bring her nearer, I will, indeed; but I've been governed so long byth' old man that I don't seem to have any right strength o' my own. Imust have some help, and you're the only one I can ask it of; will youcome and see me sometimes? I've been so proud of you, all to myself, myboy! and if I thought you could once call me 'father' before I die"--

Gilbert was not proof against these words and the honest tears by whichthey were accompanied. Many shy hesitating tokens of affection in hisformer intercourse with Alfred Barton, suddenly recurred to his mind, with their true interpretation. His load had been light, compared to hismother's; he had only learned the true wrong in the hour of reparation;and moreover, in assuming his father's name he became sensitive to theprominence of its shame. 

"Father, " he answered, "if you have forfeited a son's obedience, youhave still a man's claim to be helped. Mother is right; it is in yourpower to come nearer to us. She must stand aside and wait; but I cancross the line which separates you, and from this time on I shall nevercross it to remind you of what is past and pardoned, but to help you, and all of us, to forget it!"

Martha laid her hand upon Gilbert's shoulder, leaned up and kissed himupon the cheek. 

"Rest here!" she said. "Let a good word close the subject! Gilbert, takeyour father out and show him your farm. Mother, it is near dinner-time;I will help you set the table. After dinner, Mr. Barton, you and I willride home together. "

Her words were obeyed; each one felt that no more should be said at thattime. Gilbert showed the barn, the stables, the cattle in the meadow, and the fields rejoicing in the soft May weather; Martha busied herselfin kitchen and cellar, filling up the pauses of her labor with cheerfultalk; and when the four met at the table, so much of the constraint intheir relation to each other had been conquered, that a stranger wouldnever have dreamed of the gulf which had separated them a few hoursbefore. Martha shrewdly judged that when Alfred Barton had eaten at hiswife's table, they would both meet more easily in the future. She didnot expect that the breach could ever be quite filled; but she wished, for Gilbert's sake, to make it as narrow as possible. 

After dinner, while the horses were being saddled, the lovers walkeddown the garden-path, between the borders of blue iris andmountain-pink. 

"Gilbert, " said Martha, "are you satisfied with what has happened?"

"Yes, " he answered, "but it has shown to me that something more must bedone. "

"What?"

"Martha, are these the only two who should be brought nearer?"

She looked at him with a puzzled face. There was a laughing light in hiseyes, which brought a new lustre to here, and a delicate blush to herfair cheeks. 

"Is it not too soon for me to come?" she whispered. 

"You have come, " he answered; "you were in your place; and it will beempty--the house will be lonely, the farm without its mistress--untilyou return to us!"

CHAPTER XXXIV. 

THE WEDDING. 

The neighborhood had decreed it There was but one just, proper, andsatisfactory conclusion to all these events. The decision of Kennett wasunanimous that its story should be speedily completed. New-Garden, Marlborough, and Pennsbury, so far as heard from, gave their heartyconsent; and the people would have been seriously disappointed--the tideof sympathy might even have been checked--had not Gilbert Barton andMartha Deane prepared to fulfil the parts assigned to them. 

Dr. Deane, of course, floated with the current. He was too shrewd tostand forth as a conspicuous obstacle to the consummation of the popularsense of justice. He gave, at once, his full consent to the nuptials, and took the necessary steps, in advance, for the transfer of hisdaughter's fortune into her own hands. In short, as Miss Lavenderobserved, there was an end of snarls. The lives of the lovers were takenup, as by a skilful hand, and evenly reeled together. 

Gilbert now might have satisfied his ambition (and the people, under thepeculiar circumstances of the case, would have sanctioned it) by buyingthe finest farm in the neighborhood; but Martha had said, --

"No other farm can be so much _yours_, and none so welcome a home to me. Let us be satisfied with it, at least for the first years. "

And therein she spoke wisely. 

It was now the middle of May, and the land was clothed in tender green, and filled with the sweet breath of sap and bud and blossom. The vividemerald of the willow-trees, the blush of orchards, and the cones ofsnowy bloom along the wood-sides, shone through and illumined even thedays of rain. The Month of Marriage wooed them in every sunny morning, in every twilight fading under the torch of the lovers' star. 

In spite of Miss Lavender's outcries, and Martha's grave doubts, afortnight's delay was all that Gilbert would allow. He would havedispensed with bridal costumes and merrymakings, --so little do menunderstand of these matters; but he was hooted down, overruled, ignored, and made to feel his proper insignificance. Martha almost disappearedfrom his sight during the interval. She was sitting upstairs in aconfusion of lutestring, whalebone, silk, and cambric; and when she camedown to him for a moment, the kiss had scarcely left her lips before shebegan to speak of the make of his new coat, and the fashion of thearticles he was still expected to furnish. 

If he visited Fairthorn's, it was even worse. The sight of him threwSally into such a flutter that she sewed the right side of one breadthto the wrong side of another, attempted to clear-starch a woollenstocking, or even, on one occasion, put a fowl into the pot, unpickedand undressed. It was known all over the country that Sally and MarkDeane were to be bridesmaid and groomsman, and they both determined tomake a brave appearance. 

But there was another feature of the coming nuptials which the peopledid not know. Gilbert and Martha had determined that Miss Betsy Lavendershould be second bridesmaid, and Martha had sent to Wilmington for apurple silk, and a stomacher of the finest cambric, in which to arrayher. A groomsman of her age was not so easy to find; but young Pratt, who had stood so faithfully by Gilbert during the chase of Sandy Flash, merrily avowed his willingness to play the part; and so it was settledwithout Miss Lavender's knowledge. 

The appointed morning came, bringing a fair sky, mottled with gentle, lingering clouds, and a light wind from the west. The wedding companywere to meet at Kennett Square, and then ride to Squire Sinclair's, where the ceremony would be performed by that magistrate; and before teno'clock, the hour appointed for starting, all the surroundingneighborhood poured into the village. The hitching-bar in front of theUnicorn, and every post of fence or garden-paling, was occupied by thetethered horses. The wedding-guests, comprising some ten or fifteenpersons, assembled at Dr. Deane's, and each couple, as they arrived, produced an increasing excitement among the spectators. 

The fact that Alfred Barton had been formally pardoned by his wife andson, did not lessen the feeling with which he was regarded, but itproduced a certain amount of forbearance. The people were curious toknow whether he had been bidden to the wedding, and the conviction wasgeneral that he had no business to be there. The truth is, it had beenleft free to him whether to come or not, and he had very prudentlychosen to be absent. 

Dr. Deane had set up a "chair, " which was to be used for the first timeon this occasion. It was a ponderous machine, with drab body and wheels, and curtains of drab camlet looped up under its stately canopy. When itappeared at the gate, the Doctor came forth, spotless in attire, bland, smiling, a figure of sober gloss and agreeable odors. He led Mary Bartonby the hand; and her steel-colored silk and white crape shawl so wellharmonized with his appearance, that the two might have been taken forman and wife. Her face was calm, serene, and full of quiet gratitude. They took their places in the chair, the lines were handed to theDoctor, and he drove away, nodding right and left to the crowd. 

Now the horses were brought up in pairs, and the younger guests began tomount. The people gathered closer and closer; and when Sam appeared, leading the well-known and beloved Roger, there was a murmur which, ina more demonstrative community, would have been a cheer. Somebody hadarranged a wreath of lilac and snowy viburnum, and fastened it aroundRoger's forehead; and he seemed to wear it consciously and proudly. Manya hand was stretched forth to pat and stroke the noble animal, andeverybody smiled when he laid his head caressingly over the neck ofMartha's gray. 

Finally, only six horses remained unmounted; then there seemed to be alittle delay in-doors. It was explained when young Pratt appeared, boldand bright, leading the reluctant Miss Lavender, rustling in purplesplendor, and blushing--actually blushing--as she encountered the eyesof the crowd. The latter were delighted. There was no irony in the voicethat cried, --"Hurrah for Betsy Lavender!" and the cheer that followedwas the expression of a downright, hearty good will. She looked aroundfrom her saddle, blushing, smiling, and on the point of bursting intotears; and it was a godsend, as she afterwards remarked, that Mark Deaneand Sally Fairthorn appeared at that moment. 

Mark, in sky-blue coat and breeches, suggested, with his rosy face andyellow locks, a son of the morning; while Sally's white muslin andcherry-colored scarf heightened the rich beauty of her dark hair andeyes, and her full, pouting lips. They were a buxom pair, and both weretoo happy in each other and in the occasion, to conceal the leastexpression of it. 

There now only remained our hero and heroine, who immediately followed. No cheer greeted them, for the wonderful chain of circumstances whichhad finally brought them together, made the joy of the day solemn, andthe sympathy of the people reverential. Mark and Sally represented thedelight of betrothal; these two the earnest sanctity of wedlock. 

Gilbert was plainly yet richly dressed in a bottle-green coat, withwhite waistcoat and breeches; his ruffles, gloves, hat, and boots wereirreproachable. So manly looking a bridegroom had not been seen inKennett for many a day. Martha's dress of heavy pearl-gray satin waslooped up over a petticoat of white dimity, and she wore a short cloakof white crape. Her hat, of the latest style, was adorned with a bunchof roses and a white, drooping feather. In the saddle, she was charming;and as the bridal pair slowly rode forward, followed by their attendantsin the proper order, a murmur of admiration, in which there was no envyand no ill-natured qualification, went after them. 

A soft glitter of sunshine, crossed by the shadows of slow-movingclouds, lay upon the landscape. Westward, the valley opened in quietbeauty, the wooded hills on either side sheltering, like protectingarms, the white farmhouses, the gardens, and rosy orchards scatteredalong its floor. On their left, the tall grove rang with the music ofbirds, and was gay, through all its light-green depths, with the pinkblossoms of the wild azalea. The hedges, on either side, were purplewith young sprays, and a bright, breathing mass of sweet-brier and wildgrape crowned the overhanging banks, between which the road ascended thehill beyond. 

At first the company were silent; but the enlivening motion of thehorses, the joy of the coming summer, the affectionate sympathy ofNature, soon disposed them to a lighter mood. At Hallowell's, the menleft their hoes in the corn-field, and the women their householdduties, to greet them by the roadside. Mark looked up at the new barn, and exclaimed, --

"Not quite a year ago! Do you mind it, Gilbert?"

Martha pointed to the green turf in front of the house, and said with anarch voice, --

"Gilbert, do you remember the question you put to me, that evening?"

And finally Sally burst out, in mock indignation, --

"Gilbert, there's where you snapped me up, because I wanted you to dancewith Martha; what do you think of yourself now?"

"You all forget, " he answered, "that you are speaking of somebody else. "

"How? somebody else?" asked Sally. 

"Yes; I mean Gilbert Potter. "

"Not a bad turn-off, " remarked Miss Lavender. "He's too much for you. But I'm glad, anyhow, you've got your tongues, for it was too much likea buryin' before, and me fixed up like King Solomon, what for, I'd liketo know? and the day made o' purpose for a weddin', and true-love allright for once't--I'd like just to holler and sing and make merry to myheart's content, with a nice young man alongside o' me, too, a thingthat don't often happen!"

They were heartily, but not boisterously, merry after this; but as theyreached the New-Garden road, there came a wild yell from the rear, andthe noise of galloping hoofs. Before the first shock of surprise hadsubsided, the Fairthorn gray mare thundered up, with Joe and Jake uponher back, the scarlet lining of their blue cloaks flying to the wind, their breeches covered with white hair from the mare's hide, and theirfaces wild with delight. They yelled again as they drew rein at the headof the procession. 

"Why, what upon earth"--began Sally; but Joe saved her the necessity ofa question. 

"Daddy said we shouldn't go!" he cried. "But we _would_, --we got Bonnieout o' the field, and put off! Cousin Martha, you'll let us go along andsee you get married; won't you, now? Maybe we'll never have anotherchance!"

This incident produced great amusement. The boys received the permissionthey coveted, but were ordered to the rear Mark reminding them that ashe was soon to be their uncle, they must learn, betimes, to give heed tohis authority. 

"Be quiet, Mark!" exclaimed Sally, with a gentle slap. 

"Well, I don't begrudge it to 'em, " said Miss Lavender. "It's somethin'for 'em to remember when they're men-grown; and they belong to thefam'ly, which I don't; but never mind, all the same, no more do you, Mr. Pratt; and I wish I was younger, to do credit to you!"

Merrily trotted the horses along the bit of level upland; and then, asthe land began to fall towards the western branch of Redley Creek, theysaw the Squire's house on a green knoll to the north, and Dr. Deane'snew chair already resting in the shade of the gigantic sycamore at thedoor. The lane-gates were open, the Squire's parlor was arranged fortheir reception; and after the ladies had put themselves to rights, inthe upper rooms, the company gathered together for the ceremony. 

Sunshine, and hum of bees, and murmur of winds, and scent of flowers, came in through the open windows, and the bridal pair seemed to stand inthe heart of the perfect spring-time. Yet tears were shed by all thewomen except the bride; and Sally Fairthorn was so absorbed by the rushof her emotions, that she came within an ace of saying "I will!" whenthe Squire put the question to Martha. The ceremony was brief and plain, but the previous history of the parties made it very impressive. Whenthey had been pronounced man and wife, and the certificate of marriagehad been duly signed and witnessed by all present, Mary Barton steppedforward and kissed her son and daughter with a solemn tenderness. Thenthe pent-up feelings of all the others broke loose, and the amount ofembracing which followed was something quite unusual for Kennett. BetsyLavender was not cheated out of her due share; on the contrary, it wasever afterwards reported that she received more salutes than even thebride. She was kissed by Gilbert, by Mark, by her young partner, by Dr. Deane, and lastly by the jolly Squire himself, --to say nothing of thefeminine kisses, which, indeed, being very imperfect gifts, hardlydeserve to be recorded. 

"Well!" she exclaimed, pushing her ruffled hair behind her ears, andsmoothing down her purple skirt, "to think o' my bein' kissed by so manymen, in my old days!--but why not?--it may be my last chance, as JoeFairthorn says, and laugh if you please, I've got the best of it; and Idon't belie my natur', for twistin' your head away and screechin' isonly make-believe, and the more some screeches the more they want to bekissed; but fair and square, say I, --if you want it take it, and that'sjust what I've done!"

There was a fresh rush for Miss Lavender after this, and she stood herground with commendable patience, until Mark ventured to fold her in agood-natured hug, when she pushed him away, saying, --

"For the Lord's sake, don't spile my new things! There--go 'way, now!I've had enough to last me ten year!"

Dr. Deane soon set out with Mary Barton, in the chair, and the rest ofthe company mounted their horses, to ride back to Kennett Square by theother road, past the quarries and across Tuffkenamon. 

As they halted in the broad, shallow bed of the creek, letting theirhorses drink from the sparkling water, while the wind rollicked amongthe meadow bloom of golden saxifrage and scarlet painted-cup and bluespiderwort before them, the only accident of the day occurred; but itwas not of a character to disturb their joyous mood. 

The old Fairthorn mare stretched her neck to its utmost length beforeshe bent it to drink, obliging Joe to lean forwards over her shoulder, to retain his hold of the short rein. Jake, holding on to Joe, leanedwith him, and they waited in this painful posture till the mare slowlyfilled herself from the stream. Finally she seemed to be satisfied; shepaused, snorted, and then, with wide nostrils, drank an equal amount ofair. Her old sides swelled; the saddle-girth, broken in two places longbefore, and mended with tow-strings, suddenly parted, and Joe, Jake, saddle and all, tumbled down her neck into the water. They scrambled outin a lamentable plight, soused and dripping, amid the endless laughterof the company, and were glad to keep to the rear for the remainder ofthe ride. 

In Dr. Deane's house, meanwhile, there were great preparations for thewedding-dinner. A cook had been brought from Wilmington, at anunheard-of expense, and the village was filled with rumors of themarvellous dishes she was to produce. There were pippins encased inorange-peel and baked; a roasted peacock, with tail spread; a stuffedrock-fish; a whole ham enveloped in dough, like a loaf of bread, and setin the oven; and a wilderness of the richest and rarest pies, tarts, andcustards. 

Whether all these rumors were justified by the dinner, we will notundertake to say; it is certain that the meal, which was spread in thelarge sitting-room, was most bountiful. No one was then shocked by thedecanters of Port and Canary wine upon the sideboard, or refused topartake of the glasses of foamy egg-nog offered to them from time totime, through the afternoon. The bride-cake was considered a miracle ofart, and the fact that Martha divided it with a steady hand, making theneatest and cleanest of cuts, was considered a good omen for her marriedlife. Bits of the cake were afterwards in great demand throughout theneighborhood, not so much to eat, as to dream upon. 

The afternoon passed away rapidly, with mirth and noise, in theadjoining parlor. Sally Fairthorn found a peculiar pleasure in callingher friend "Martha Barton!" whereupon Mark said, --

"Wait a bit, Martha, and you can pay her back. Daddy Fairthorn promisedthis morning to give me a buildin' lot off the field back o' the corner, and just as soon as Rudd's house is up, I'm goin' to work at mine. "

"Mark, do hush!" Sally exclaimed, reddening, "and before everybody!"

Miss Lavender sat in the midst, stately, purple, and so transformed thatshe professed she no longer knew her own self. She was, nevertheless, the life of the company; the sense of what she had done to bring on themarriage was a continual source of inspiration. Therefore, when songswere proposed and sung, and Mark finally called upon her, uproariouslyseconded by all the rest, she was moved, for the last time in her life, to comply. 

"I dunno what you mean, expectin' such a thing o' me, " she said. "Tearsto me I'm fool enough already, settin' here in purple and fine linen, like the Queen o' Rome, --not that I don't like singin', but thecontrary, quite the reverse; but with me it'd be a squawk and nothin'else; and fine feathers may make fine birds for what I care, more like apoll-parrot than a nightingale, and they say you must stick thorns into'em to make 'em sing; but I guess it'll be t' other way, and mysingin'll stick thorns into you!"

They would take no denial; she could and must sing them a song. She heldout until Martha said, "for my wedding-day, Betsy!" and Gilbert added, "and mine, too. " Then she declared, "Well, if I must, I s'pose I mustBut as for weddin'-songs, such as I've heerd in my younger days, Idunno one of 'em, and my head's pretty much cleared o' such things, savin' and exceptin' one that might be a sort o' warnin' for Mark Deane, who knows?--not that there's sea-farin' men about these parts; but nevermind, all the same; if you don't like it, Mark, you've brung it ontoyourself!"

Thereupon, after shaking herself, gravely composing her face, andclearing her throat, she began, in a high, shrill, piercing voice, rocking her head to the peculiar lilt of the words, and interpolatingshort explanatory remarks, to sing--

 THE BALLAD OF THE HOUSE-CARPENTER. 

 "'Well-met, well-met, my own true-love!'

"_She_ says, --

 "'Well-met, well-met, cried _he_; For't is I have returned from the salt, salt sea, And it's all for the love of thee!'

 "'It's I might ha' married a king's daughter fair, '

"_He_ goes on sayin', --

 "'And fain would she ha' married me, But it's I have refused those crowns of gold, And it's all for the love of thee!'

"Then _she_, --

 "'If you might ha' married a king's daughter fair, ' I think you are for to blame; For it's I have married a house-carpentèr, And I think he's a fine young man!'

"So look out, Mark! and remember, all o' you, that they'retalkin' turn about; and he begins--

 "'If you'll forsake your house-carpentèr And go along with me, I'll take you to where the grass grows green On the banks of the sweet Wil-lee!'

 "'If I forsake my house-carpentèr. And go along with thee, It's what have you got for to maintain me upon, And to keep me from slave-ree?'

 "'It's I have sixteen ships at sea, All sailing for dry land, And four-and-twenty sailors all on board Shall be at your command!'

 "She then took up her lovely little babe, And she gave it kisses three; 'Lie still, lie still, my lovely little babe, And keep thy father compa-nee!'

 "She dressed herself in rich array, And she walked in high degree, And the four-and-twenty sailors took 'em on board. And they sailed for the open sea!

 "They had not been at sea two weeks, And I'm sure it was not three, Before this maid she began for to weep, And she wept most bitter-lee. 

 "'It's do you weep for your gold?' cries he; 'Or do you weep for your store, Or do you weep for your house-carpenter You never shall see any more?'

 "'I do not weep for my gold, ' cries she, 'Nor I do not weep for my store, But it's I do weep for my lovely little babe, I never shall see any more!'

 "They had not been at sea three weeks, And I'm sure it was not four, When the vessel it did spring a leak, And it sank to rise no more!"

"Now, Mark, here comes the Moral:

 "Oh, cruel be ye, sea-farin' men, Oh, cruel be your lives, -- A-robbing of the house-carpenters, And a-taking of their wives!"

The shouts and laughter which greeted the conclusion of Miss Lavender'ssong brought Dr. Deane into the room. He was a little alarmed lest hisstanding in the Society might be damaged by so much and suchunrestrained merriment under his roof. Still he had scarcely the courageto reprimand the bright, joyous faces before him; he only smiled, shookhis head, and turned to leave. 

"I'm a-goin', too, " said Miss Lavender, rising. "The sun's not an hourhigh, and the Doctor, or somebody, must take Mary Barton home; and it'sabout time the rest o' you was makin' ready; though they've gone on withthe supper, there's enough to do when you get there!"

The chair rolled away again, and the bridal party remounted their horsesin the warm, level light of the sinking sun. They were all in theirsaddles except Gilbert and Martha. 

"Go on!" he cried, in answer to their calls; "we will follow. "

"It won't be half a home-comin', without you're along, " said Mark; "butI see you want it so. Come on, boys and girls!"

Gilbert returned to the house and met Martha, descending the stairs inher plain riding-dress. She descended into his open arms, and restedthere, silent, peaceful, filled with happy rest. 

"My wife at last, and forever!" he whispered. 

They mounted and rode out of the village. The fields were alreadybeginning to grow gray under the rosy amber of the western sky. Thebreeze had died away, but the odors it had winnowed from orchard andmeadow still hung in the air. Faint cheeps and chirps of nestling lifecame from the hedges and grassy nooks of bank and thicket, but theydeepened, not disturbed, the delicious repose settling upon the land. Husband and wife rode slowly, and their friendly horses pressed nearerto each other, and there was none to see how their eyes grew deeper anddarker with perfect tenderness, their lips more sweetly soft and warm, with the unspoken, because unspeakable, fortune of love. In the breathof that happy twilight all the pangs of the Past melted away; disgrace, danger, poverty, trial, were behind them; and before them, nestling yetunseen in the green dell which divided the glimmering landscape, lay thepeace, the shelter, the life-long blessing of Home.