The Story Of Kennett by Bayard Taylor (page 3)

ground so lightly!

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

“How kind of you–all–to come!” said Gilbert, feeling that his voice expressed too much, and his words too little.

“The credit of coming is not mine, Gilbert,” she answered. “We overtook Sally, and gave her our company for the sake of hers, afterwards. But I shall like to take a look at your place; how pleasant you are making it!”

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

Mary Potter now advanced, with grave yet friendly welcome, and would have opened her best room to the guests, but the bowery porch, with its swinging scarlet bloom, haunted by humming-birds and hawk-moths, wooed them “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, the seclusion 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 her lips. But she had recovered herself so promptly that the hesitation was not noticed.

“Many people think the house ought to be upon the road,” Mary Potter replied, “but Gilbert and I like it as it is. Yes, I hope it will be a good 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, and so from hand to mouth didn’t trouble me a bit; but now, I ha’n’t been undertaking six months, and it seems that I feel worried if I don’t get all the jobs going!”

Martha smiled, well pleased at this confession of the change, which she knew better how to interpret than Mark himself. But Sally, in her innocence, 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 the whole, for it’s nobody’s nature to be entirely satisfied. Gilbert, will you be satisfied when your farm’s paid for?”

“No!” answered Gilbert with an emphasis, the sound of which, as soon as uttered, smote him to the heart. He had not thought of his mother. She clasped her hands convulsively, and looked at him, but his face was turned away.

“Why, Gilbert!” exclaimed Sally.

“I mean,” he said, striving to collect his thoughts, “that there is something more than property”–but how should he go on? Could he speak of the family relation, then and there? Of honor in the community, the respect of his neighbors, without seeming to refer to the brand upon his and 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–until I can better control my temper, and get the weeds and rocks and stumps out of myself as well as out of my farm.”

“Then you’ve got a job!” Mark laughed. “I think your fields are pretty tolerable clean, what I’ve seen of ’em. Nobody can say they’re not well fenced in. Why, compared with you, I’m an open common, like the Wastelands, down on Whitely Creek, and everybody’s cattle run over me!”

Mark’s thoughtlessness was as good as tact. They all laughed heartily at his 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, or Gilbert so well fenced in. But even if you are, a great many things may be hidden in a clearing, and some people are tall enough to look over a high hedge. Betsy Lavender says some men tell all about themselves without saying a word, while others talk till Doomsday and tell nothing.”

“And tell nothing,” gravely repeated Mark, whereat no one could repress a smile, and Sally laughed outright.

Mary Potter had not mingled much in the society of Kennett, and did not know that this imitation of good Miss Betsy was a very common thing, and had long ceased to mean any harm. It annoyed her, and she felt it her duty 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 talks the best of sense and wisdom, and I don’t know who I’d sooner take for a guide in times of trouble.”

“You could not give Betsy a higher place than she deserves,” Martha answered. “We all esteem her as a dear friend, and as the best helper where help is needed. She has been almost a mother to me.”

Sally felt rebuked, and exclaimed tearfully, with her usual impetuous candor,–“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 in my nature to bear malice,” said Mark, with so serious an air, that poor Sally was more bewildered than ever. Gilbert and Martha, however, could not 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 by Sally 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, sat his mother, Martha Deane, and himself. The two former had turned towards each other, and were talking pleasantly; the hum of the hawk-moths, the mellow plunge of the water, and the stir of the soft summer breeze in the leaves, made a sweet accompaniment to their voices. His brain grew dizzy with yearning to fix that chance companionship, and make it the boundless fortune of his life. Under his habit of repression, his love for her had swelled and gathered to such an intensity, that it seemed he must either speak or die.

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

It was now time for the guests to leave, but Mary Potter must first produce her cakes and currant-wine,–the latter an old and highly superior article, for there had been, alas! too few occasions which called for its use.

“Gilbert,” said Mark, as they moved towards the gate, “why can’t you catch 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–I don’t fancy quality company.”

“Nor I,” said Gilbert, with a gloomy face. “I have never visited Falconer’s, and they might not thank you for introducing me.”

He looked at Martha, as he spoke. She understood him, and gave him her entire sympathy and pity,–yet it was impossible for her to propose giving up the visit, solely for his sake. It was not want of independence, 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 we ride on to Falconer’s. If the girls will promise not to be too long about their patterns and their gossip, and what not, we can be back to the lane-end by the time you get there; then we’ll ride up t’ other branch o’ Redley Creek, to the cross-road, and out by Hallowell’s. I want to have a squint at the houses and barns down that way; nothing like business, you know!”

Mark thought he was very cunning in thus disposing of Martha during the ride, unconscious of the service he was offering to Gilbert. The latter’s eagerness shone from his eyes, but still he looked at Martha, trembling for a sign that should decide his hesitation. Her lids fell before his gaze, and a faint color came into her face, yet she did not turn away. This time it was Sally Fairthorn who spoke.

“Five minutes will be enough for us, Mark,” she said. “I’m not much acquainted with Fanny Falconer. So, Gilbert, hoist Martha into her saddle, and go for Roger.”

He opened the gate for them, and then climbed over the fence into the hill-field above his house. Having reached the crest, he stopped to watch the three riding abreast, on a smart trot, down the glen. Sally looked 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 the movement.

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

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

She looked at him wistfully and questioningly, as if she would fain have asked 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’s ready.”

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

The trouble in Mary Potter’s face increased. Sighing sorely, she followed to the bridge of the barn, and presently descried him, beyond the mill, cantering lightly down the road. Then, lifting her arms, as in a blind appeal for help, she let them fall again, and walked slowly back to 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 far was turned away at last.

For half a mile the road lay through a lovely solitude of shade and tangled bowery thickets, beside the stream. The air was soft and tempered, and filled the glen like the breath of some utterly peaceful and happy creature; yet over Gilbert’s heart there brooded another atmosphere than this. The sultriness that precedes an emotional crisis weighed heavily upon him.

No man, to whom Nature has granted her highest gift,–that of expression,–can understand the pain endured by one of strong feelings, to whom not only this gift has been denied, but who must also wrestle with an inherited reticence. It is well that in such cases a kindly law exists, to aid the helpless heart. The least portion of the love which lights the world has been told in words; it works, attracts, and binds in silence. The eye never knows its own desire, the hand its warmth, the voice its tenderness, nor the heart its unconscious speech through these, and a thousand other vehicles. Every endeavor to hide the special fact 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 and cautious, refused to assist him here; it lay dead or apathetic in an air surcharged with passion. An anxious expectancy enclosed him with stifling pressure; he felt that it must be loosened, but knew not how. His craving for words–words swift, clear, and hot as lightning, through which his heart might discharge itself–haunted him like a furious hunger.

The road, rising out of the glen, passed around the brow of a grassy hill, whence he could look across a lateral valley to the Falconer farm-house. Pausing here, he plainly descried a stately “chair” leaning on its thills, in the shade of the weeping-willow, three horses hitched side by side to the lane-fence, and a faint glimmer of color between the mounds of box which almost hid the porch. It was very evident to his mind that the Falconers had other visitors, and that neither Mark nor Sally, (whatever might be Martha Deane’s inclination,) would be likely to prolong their stay; so he slowly rode on, past the lane-end, and awaited them at the ford beyond.

It was not long–though the wood on the western hill already threw its shadow into the glen–before the sound of voices and hoofs emerged from the lane. Sally’s remark reached him first:

“They may be nice people enough, for aught I know, but their ways are not 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 the clear, swift-flowing water. In Mark’s and Sally’s eyes, Gilbert was as grave and impassive as usual, but Martha Deane was conscious of a strange, warm, subtle power, which seemed to envelop her as she drew near him. Her face glowed with a sweet, unaccustomed flush; his was pale, and the shadow of his brows lay heavier upon his eyes. Fate was already taking up the invisible, floating filaments of these two existences, and weaving them together.

Of course it happened, and of course by the purest accident, that Mark and Sally first reached the opposite bank, and took the narrow wood-road, where the loose, briery sprays of the thickets brushed them on either side. Sally’s hat, and probably her head, would have been carried off by a projecting branch, had not Mark thrown his arm around her neck and forcibly bent her forwards. Then she shrieked and struck at him with her riding-whip, while Mark’s laugh woke all the echoes of the woods.

“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 keep Sally’s on her shoulders.”

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

“The warning is unnecessary,” he said. “You will give me no chance to take care of you, Martha.”

“Is it not better so?” she asked.

He hesitated; he would have said “No,” but finally evaded a direct answer.

“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 made itself evident to his own ears.

“I don’t doubt it, Gilbert,” she answered, so kindly and cordially that he was smitten to the heart. Had she faltered in her reply,–had she blushed and kept silence,–his hope would have seized the evidence and rushed to the trial; but this was the frankness of friendship, not the timidity of love. She could not, then, suspect his passion, and ah, how the risks of its utterance were multiplied!

Meanwhile, the wonderful glamour of her presence–that irresistible influence which at once takes hold of body and spirit–had entered into every cell of his blood. Thought and memory were blurred into nothingness by this one overmastering sensation. Riding through the lonely woods, out of shade into yellow, level sunshine, in the odors of minty meadows and moist spices of the creekside, they twain seemed to him to be alone in the world. If they loved not each other, why should not the leaves shrivel and fall, the hills split asunder, and the sky rain death upon them? Here she moved at his side–he could stretch out his hand and touch her; his heart sprang towards her, his arms ached for very yearning to clasp her,–his double nature demanded her with the will and entreated for her with the affection! Under all, felt though not suspected, glowed the vast primal instinct upon which the strength of manhood and of womanhood is based.

Sally and Mark, a hundred yards in advance, now thrown into sight and now hidden by the windings of the road, were so pleasantly occupied with each other that they took no heed of the pair behind them. Gilbert was silent; speech was mockery, unless it gave the words which he did not dare 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 of his presence; how could he know that she had never before been so vitally conscious of it?

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

To seize it and bring Roger to a stand was the work of an instant. “What is the matter, Martha?” he cried.

“I think the girth is broken,” said she. “The saddle is loose, and I was nigh 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 better dismount, though; see, I will hold the pommel firm with one hand, while I lift you down with the other. Not too fast, I am strong; place your hands on my shoulders–so!”

She bent forward and laid her hands upon his shoulders. Then, as she slid gently down, his right arm crept around her waist, holding her so firmly and securely that she had left the saddle and hung in its support while her feet had not yet touched the earth. Her warm breath was on Gilbert’s forehead; her bosom swept his breast, and the arm that until then had supported, now swiftly, tenderly, irresistibly embraced her. Trembling, thrilling from head to foot, utterly unable to control the mad impulse of the moment, he drew her to his heart and laid his lips to hers. All that he would have said–all, and more than all, that words could have expressed–was now said, without words. His kiss clung as if it were the last this side of death–clung until he felt that Martha feebly strove to be released.

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

He turned and leaned his head against Roger’s neck. Presently a light touch came upon his shoulder.

“Gilbert!”

He faced her then, and saw that her own cheeks were wet. “Martha!” he cried, “unless you love me with a love like mine for you, you can never forgive me!”

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

“Gilbert–Gilbert! I forgive you.”

A pang of wonderful, incredulous joy shot through his heart. Exalted by his emotion above the constraints of his past and present life, he arose and stood free and strong in his full stature as a man. He held her softly and tenderly embraced, and a purer bliss than the physical delight of her warm, caressing presence shone upon his face as he asked,–

“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–tears which came this time without sound or pang–upon her neck. It was infinitely touching to see this strong nature so moved, and the best bliss that a true woman’s heart can feel–the knowledge of the boundless bounty which her love brings with it–opened upon her consciousness. A swift instinct revealed to her the painful struggles of Gilbert’s life,–the stern, reticent strength they had developed,–the anxiety and the torture of his long-suppressed passion, and the power and purity of that devotion with which his heart had sought and claimed her. She now saw him in his true character,–firm as steel, yet gentle as dew, patient and passionate, and purposely cold only to guard the sanctity of his emotions.

The twilight deepened in the wood, and Roger, stretching and shaking himself, called the lovers to themselves. Gilbert lifted his head and looked 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 question its growth?

Martha, however, understood the thought in his mind. “No, Gilbert!” she said, “I cannot truly say that I loved you at the time when I first discovered your feeling towards me. I had always esteemed and trusted you, and you were much in my mind; but when I asked myself if I could look upon you as my husband, my heart hesitated with the answer. I did not deserve your affection then, because I could not repay it in the same measure. But, although the knowledge seemed to disturb me, sometimes, yet it was very grateful, and therefore I could not quite make up my mind to discourage you. Indeed, I knew not what was right to do, but I found myself more and more strongly drawn towards you; a power came from you when we met, that touched and yet strengthened me, and then I thought, ‘Perhaps I _do_ love him.’ To-day, when I first saw your face, I knew that I did. I felt your heart calling to me like one that cries 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 his own horse, and they resumed their ride along the dusky valley. But how otherwise their companionship now!

“Martha,” said Gilbert, leaning towards her and touching her softly as he spoke, as if fearful that some power in his words might drive them apart,–“Martha, have you considered what I am called? That the family name I bear is in itself a disgrace? Have you imagined what it is to love 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,” she answered, “but not in that way. Gilbert, I honored you before I loved you. I will not say that this thing makes no difference, for it does–a difference in the name men give you, a difference in your work through life (for you must deserve more esteem to gain as much as other men)–and a difference in my duty towards you. They call me ‘independent,’ Gilbert, because, though a woman, I dare to think for myself; I know not whether they mean praise by the word, or no; but I think it would frighten away the thought of love from many men. It has not frightened you; and you, however you were born, are the faithfullest and best man I know. I love you with my whole heart, and I will be true to you!”

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

“Martha,” he said, “if I sometimes doubted whether you could share my disgrace, it was because I had bitter cause to feel how heavy it is to bear. God knows I would have come to you with a clean and honorable name, if I could have been patient to wait longer in uncertainty. But I could 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 would be the worst wickedness not to be patient, now! But I have not yet told you”–

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 reached the cross-road from New-Garden, and Mark and Sally, who had been waiting impatiently for a quarter of an hour, rode to meet them. “Did you lose the road?” “Whatever kept you so long?” were the simultaneous questions.

“My girth broke in jumping over the tree,” Martha answered, in her clear, untroubled voice. “I should have been thrown off, but for Gilbert’s help. He had to give me his own girth, and so we have ridden slowly, since he has none.”

“Take my breast-strap,” said Mark.

“No,” said Gilbert, “I can ride Roger bareback, if need be, with the saddle on my shoulder.”

Something in his voice struck Mark and Sally singularly. It was grave and subdued, yet sweet in its tones as never before; he had not yet descended from the solemn exaltation of his recent mood. But the dusk sheltered his face, and its new brightness was visible only to Martha’s eyes.

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

“Well, you two are cheerful company!” exclaimed Sally, as they checked their horses. “Martha, how many words has Gilbert spoken to you this evening?”

“As many as I have spoken to him,” Martha answered; “but I will say three more,–Good-night, Gilbert!”

“Good-night!” was all he dared say, in return, but the pressure of his hand 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 the lonely kitchen, with the New Testament in her lap; she had tried to read, but her thoughts wandered from the consoling text. The table was but half-cleared, and the little old teapot still squatted beside the coals.

Gilbert strove hard to assume his ordinary manner, but he could not hide the 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 enough without.”

“It’s not right to go without your regular meals, Gilbert. Sit up to the table!”

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

When the table had been cleared and everything put away, she resumed her seat, breathing an unconscious sigh as she dropped her hands into her lap. Gilbert felt that he must now speak, and only hesitated while he considered how he could best do so, without touching her secret and mysterious 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 Martha Deane to be my wife!”

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

“I have been drawn towards her for a long time,” Gilbert continued. “It has been a great trouble to me, because she is so pretty, and withal so proud in the way a girl should be,–I liked her pride, even while it made me afraid,–and they say she is rich also. It might seem like looking 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–I mistrusted 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–not twenty-five, and there’s debt on the farm;–couldn’t you ha’ waited a little, Gilbert?”

“I have waited, mother,” he said, slightly turning away his head, that he might not see the tender reproach in her face, which her question seemed to imply. “I _did_ wait–and for that reason. I wanted first to be 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 losing her into my head. It seemed like a matter of life or death. Alfred Barton tried to keep company with her–he didn’t deny it to my face; the people 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 nigh crazy, sometimes. I tried my best and bravest to be patient, but to-day we were riding alone,–Mark and Sally gone ahead,–and–and then it came from my mouth, I don’t know how; I didn’t expect it. But I shouldn’t have doubted Martha; she let me speak; she answered me–I can’t tell you her words, mother, though I’ll never forget one single one of ’em to my dying day. She gave me her hand and said she would be true to me forever.”

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

“Do you understand, mother?” he continued. “She pledged herself to me–she will be my wife. And I asked her–you won’t be hurt, for I felt it to be my duty–whether she knew how disgraced I was in the eyes of the people,–whether my name would not be a shame for her to bear? She couldn’t know what we know: she took me even with the shame,–and she looked prouder than ever when she stood by me in the thought of it! She would despise me, now, if I should offer to give her up on account of it, 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 hung passively at her sides, and her head leaned back and was turned to one side, as if she were utterly exhausted. But in the pale face, the closed eyes, and the blue shade about the parted lips, he saw that she was unconscious of his words. She had fainted.

CHAPTER XIII.

TWO OLD MEN.

Shortly after Martha Deane left home for her eventful ride to Falconer’s, the Doctor also mounted his horse and rode out of the village in the opposite direction. Two days before, he had been summoned to bleed “Old-man Barton,” on account of a troublesome buzzing in the head, and, although not bidden to make a second professional visit, there was sufficient occasion for him to call upon his patient in the capacity of a neighbor.

Dr. Deane never made a step outside the usual routine of his business without a special and carefully considered reason. Various causes combined to inspire his movement in the present instance. The neighborhood was healthy; the village was so nearly deserted that no curious observers lounged upon the tavern-porch, or sat upon the horse-block at the corner-store; and Mr. Alfred Barton had been seen riding towards Avondale. There would have been safety in a much more unusual proceeding; this, therefore, might be undertaken in that secure, easy frame of mind which the Doctor both cultivated and recommended to the 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 the sea. Leaving his horse hitched in the shade of the corn-crib, he first came upon Giles, stretched out under the holly-bush, and fast asleep, with his head upon his jacket. The door and window of the family-room were open, and Dr. Deane, walking softly upon the thick grass, saw that Old-man Barton was in his accustomed seat. His daughter Ann was not visible; she was at that moment occupied in taking out of the drawers of her queer old bureau, in her narrow bedroom up-stairs, various bits of lace and ribbon, done up in lavender, and perchance (for we must not be too curious) a broken sixpence or a lock of dead hair.

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

“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 sat down 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 was very careful not to seem to see that a short quilt, which the old man usually wore over his knees, now lay in a somewhat angular heap upon the table.

“Better, I should say,–yes, decidedly better,” he remarked, nodding his head gravely. “I had nothing to do this afternoon,–the neighborhood is very healthy,–and thought I would ride down and see how thee’s getting on. Only a friendly visit, thee knows.”

The old man had laid one shaking arm and crooked hand upon the edge of the quilt, while with the other he grasped his hickory staff. His face had a strange, ashy color, through which the dark, corded veins on his temples showed with singular distinctness. But his eye was unusually bright and keen, and its cunning, suspicious expression did not escape the 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 a full-blooded breed. At our age, Doctor, a little blood goes a great way.”

“No doubt, no doubt!” the Doctor assented. “Especially in thy case. I often speak of thy wonderful constitution.”

“Neighborly, you say, Doctor–only neighborly?” asked the old man. The Doctor smiled, nodded, and seemed to exhale a more powerful herbaceous odor.

“Mayhap, then, you’ll take a bit of a dram?–a thimble-full won’t come amiss. 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 diminutive wine-glass beside it. Half-filling the latter,–a thimble-full in verity,–he drank it in two or three delicate little sips, puckering his large under-lip to receive them.

“It’s right to have the best, Friend Barton,” he said, “there’s more life in it!” as he filled the glass to the brim and held it to the slit in the old man’s face.

The latter eagerly drew off the top fulness, and then seized the glass in 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 your goin’s-around. It’s little I get, except the bones, after they’ve been gnawed 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, I think. William Byerly died last week in Birmingham; thee’s heard of him,–he had a wonderful gift of preaching. They say Maryland cattle will be cheap, this fall: does Alfred intend to fatten many? I saw him riding 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 a fine farm he has.”

“_Me_, I say!” old Barton exclaimed, bringing down the end of his stick upon the floor. “The farm’s mine!”

“But it’s the same thing, isn’t it?” asked Dr. Deane, in his cheeriest voice and with his pleasantest smile.

The old man looked at him for a moment, gave an incoherent grunt, the meaning of which the Doctor found it impossible to decipher, and presently, 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 should hope 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 do for 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 cannot say, I will do thus and so, and these and such things shall happen, and those 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 his wrinkled eyelids.

“I thought,” the Doctor resumed, “thee was pretty safe against another marriage, at any rate, and thee had perhaps made up thy mind about providing for thy children.

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

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

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

“I’d do the fair thing, Doctor!” he finally exclaimed; “whatever it might be, it’d be fair. Come, isn’t that enough?”

“In a general sense, it is. But we are talking now as neighbors. We are both old men, Friend Barton, and I think we know how to keep our own counsel. Let us suppose a case–just to illustrate the matter, thee understands. Let us say that Friend Paxson–a widower, thee knows–had a daughter Mary, who had–well, a nice little penny in her own right,–and that thy son Alfred desired her in marriage. Friend Paxson, as a prudent father, knowing his daughter’s portion, both what it is and what it will be,–he would naturally wish, in Mary’s interest, to know that Alfred would not be dependent on her means, but that the children they might have would inherit equally from both. Now, it strikes me that Friend Paxson would only be right in asking thee what thee would do for thy son–nay, that, to be safe, he would want to see some evidence that would hold in law. Things are so uncertain, and a wise man guardeth his own household.”

The old man laughed until his watery eyes twinkled. “Friend Paxson is a mighty close and cautious one to deal with,” he said. “Mayhap he’d like to manage to have me bound, and himself go free?”

“Thee’s mistaken, indeed!” Dr. Deane protested. “He’s not that kind of a man. He only means to do what’s right, and to ask the same security from thee, which thee–I’m sure of it, Friend Barton!–would expect _him_ to furnish.”

The old man began to find this illustration uncomfortable; it was altogether one-sided. Dr. Deane could shelter himself behind Friend Paxson and the imaginary daughter, but the applications came personally home to him. His old patience had been weakened by his isolation from the world, and his habits of arbitrary rule. He knew, moreover, the probable amount of Martha’s fortune, and could make a shrewd guess at the Doctor’s circumstances; but if the settlements were to be equal, each must give his share its highest valuation in order to secure more from the other. It was a difficult game, because these men viewed it in the light of a business transaction, and each considered that any advantage over the other would be equivalent to a pecuniary gain on his own part.

“No use beatin’ about the bush, Doctor,” the old man suddenly said. “You don’t care for Paxson’s daughter, that never was; why not put your Martha in her place. She has a good penny, I hear–five thousand, some say.”

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

“For the same reason you talk about Alfred. He hasn’t been about your house 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 mind better than I do?”

“Mayhap I do–know what it will be, if _I_ choose! But I don’t begrudge sayin’ that he likes your girl, and I shouldn’t wonder if he’d showed it.”

“Then thee sees, Friend Barton,” Dr. Deane continued, “that the case is precisely like the one I supposed; and what I would consider right for Friend Paxson, would even be right for myself. I’ve no doubt thee could do more for Alfred than I can do for Martha, and without wrong to thy other children,–Elisha, as I said, being independent, and Ann not requiring a great deal,–and the two properties joined together would be a credit to us, and to the neighborhood. Only, thee knows, there must be some legal assurance beforehand. There is nothing certain,–even thy mind 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. Turning his head on one side, he said, in a quick, sharp voice: “Time enough for that 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?–settle that first!”

Dr. Deane crossed his legs carefully, so as not to crease the cloth too much, 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 only say that she hasn’t set her mind upon anybody else, and that is the main thing. She has followed my will in all, except as to joining the Friends, and there I felt that I couldn’t rightly command, where the Spirit had not spoken. Yes, the money will be hers at twenty-five,–she is twenty-one now,–but I hardly think it necessary to take that into consideration. If thee can answer for Alfred, I think I can answer for her.”

“The boy’s close about _his_ money,” broke in the old man, with a sly, husky chuckle. “What he has, Doctor, you understand, goes toward balancin’ what she has, afore you come onto me, at all. Yes, yes, I know what 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 you can’t expect me to strip myself naked, in my old days. But I’ll do what’s fair–I’ll do what’s fair!”

“There’s only this,” the Doctor added, meditatively, “and I want thee to understand, 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 think of it. Thee can make up thy mind, and let me know _about_ what thee’ll do; and I the same. Thee _has_ a starting-point on my side, knowing the amount of Martha’s fortune–_that_, of course, thee must come up to first, and then we’ll see about the rest!”

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

“Well, well!” said he, “we needn’t hurry. You’re right there, Doctor. I s’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 is necessary that Alfred should speak for himself, though, and after all we’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, not only sweet marjoram, but lavender, cloves, and calamus. His broad-brimmed drab hat had never left his head during the interview. There were steps on the creaking floor overhead, and the Doctor perceived that the private conference must now close. It was nearly a drawn 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, but lively yet. Gad, Doctor! I’ve not felt so brisk for a year.” His eyes twinkled so, under their puffy lids, the flabby folds in which his mouth terminated worked so curiously,–like those of a bellows, where they run together towards the nozzle,–and the two movable fingers on each hand opened and shut with such a menacing, clutching motion, that for one moment 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 for months. You might take a little more, maybe. No? well, you hardly need it. Good brandy’s powerful dear, these times.”

Dr. Deane had too much tact to accept the grudging invitation. After the old man had drunk, he carefully replaced the bottle and glass on their accustomed shelf, and disposed himself to leave. On the whole, he was well satisfied with the afternoon’s work, not doubting but that he had acted the part of a tender and most considerate parent towards his daughter.

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

Miss Ann descended the stairs in time to greet the Doctor before his departure. She would have gladly retained him to tea, as a little relief to the loneliness and weariness of the day; but she never dared to give an invitation except when it seconded her father’s, which, in the present case, was wanting.

CHAPTER XIV.

DOUBTS AND SURMISES.

Gilbert’s voice, sharpened by his sudden and mortal fear, recalled Mary Potter to consciousness. After she had drunk of the cup of water which he brought, she looked slowly and wearily around the kitchen, as if some instinct taught her to fix her thoughts on the signs and appliances of her every-day life, rather than allow them to return to the pang which had overpowered her. Little by little she recovered her calmness and a portion 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. I wasn’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 to think–if I _can_ think. I’m afraid it’s but a sad home I’m making for you, 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 for long,–for I begin to see now that I’ve worked out my fault, and that the 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 this again; I wouldn’t have spoken to-night, if I had mistrusted that it could 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 his lips should henceforth be closed upon the painful theme, until his mother’s release (whatever it was and whenever it might come) should open 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’s heart, it was not so easy to compose his thoughts, as he lay in the dusky, starlit bedroom up-stairs. The events of the day, and their recent consequences, had moved his strong nature to its very foundations. A chaos of joy, wonder, doubt, and dread surged through him. 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’s mysterious secret there lay an element of terror. He could not guess why the revelation of his fortunate love should agitate her so fearfully, unless–and the suspicion gave him a shock–her history were in some way involved with that of Martha Deane.

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

Hand in hand with this dread he went into the world of sleep. He stood upon the summit of the hill behind Falconer’s farm-house, and saw Martha beckoning to him from the hill on the other side of the valley. They stretched and clasped hands through the intervening space; the hills sank away, and they found themselves suddenly below, on the banks of the creek. He threw his arms around her, but she drew back, and then he saw that it was Betsy Lavender, who said: “I am your father–did you never guess it before?” Down the road came Dr. Deane and his mother, walking arm in arm; their eyes were fixed on him, but they did not speak. Then he heard Martha’s voice, saying: “Gilbert, why did you tell Alfred Barton? Nobody must know that I am engaged to both of you.” Betsy Lavender said: “He can only marry with my consent–Mary Potter has nothing 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 a belt!” He took hold of the buckle and drew her nearer; she began to weep, 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 impression upon Gilbert’s mind. He was not superstitious, but in spite of himself the idea became rooted in his thoughts that the truth of his own parentage affected, in some way, some member of the Deane family. He taxed his memory in vain for words or incidents which might help him to solve this doubt. Something told him that his obligation to his mother involved the understanding that he would not even attempt to discover her secret; but he could not prevent his thoughts from wandering around it, and making blind guesses as to the vulnerable point.

Among these guesses came one which caused him to shudder; he called it impossible, incredible, and resolutely barred it from his mind. But with all his resolution, it only seemed to wait at a little distance, as if constantly seeking an opportunity to return. What if Dr. Deane were his own father? In that case Martha would be his half-sister, and the stain of illegitimacy would rest on her, not on him! There was ruin and despair in the supposition; but, on the other hand, he asked himself why should the fact of his love throw his mother into a swoon? Among the healthy, strong-nerved people of Kennett such a thing as a swoon was of the rarest occurrence, and it suggested some terrible cause to Gilbert’s mind. It was sometimes hard for him to preserve his predetermined patient, cheerful demeanor in his mother’s presence, but he tried bravely, and succeeded.

Although the harvest was well over, there was still much work to do on the farm, in order that the month of October might be appropriated to hauling,–the last time, Gilbert hoped, that he should be obliged to resort to this source of profit. Though the price of grain was sure to decline, on account of the extraordinary harvest, the quantity would make up for this deficiency. So far, his estimates had been verified. A good portion of the money was already on hand, and his coveted freedom from debt in the following spring became now tolerably secure. His course, in this respect, was in strict accordance with the cautious, plodding, conscientious habits of the community in which he lived. They were satisfied to advance steadily and slowly, never establishing a new mark until the old one had been reached.

Gilbert was impatient to see Martha again, not so much for the delight of love, as from a sense of the duty which he owed to her. His mother had not answered his question,–possibly not even heard it,–and he did not dare to approach her with it again. But so much as he knew might be revealed to the wife of his heart; of that he was sure. If she could but share his confidence in his mother’s words, and be equally patient to await the solution, it would give their relation a new sweetness, an added sanctity and trust.

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

The Fairthorns were glad to see their “boy,” as the old woman still called him. Joe and Jake threw their brown legs over the barn-yard fence and clamored for a ride upon Roger. “Only along the level, t’other side o’ the big hill, Gilbert!” said Joe, whereupon the two boys punched each other in the sides and nearly smothered with wicked laughter. Gilbert understood them; he shook his head, and said: “You rascals, I think I see you doing that again!” But he turned away his face, to conceal a smile at the recollection.

It was, truly, a wicked trick. The boys had been in the habit of taking the farm-horses out of the field and riding them up and down the Unionville road. It was their habit, as soon as they had climbed “the big hill,” to use stick and voice with great energy, force the animals into a gallop, and so dash along the level. Very soon, the horses knew what was expected of them, and whenever they came abreast of the great chestnut-tree on the top of the hill, they would start off as if possessed. If any business called Farmer Fairthorn to the Street Road, or up Marlborough way, Joe and Jake, dancing with delight, would dart around the barn, gain the wooded hollow, climb the big hill behind the lime-kiln, and hide themselves under the hedge, at the commencement of the level road. Here they could watch their father, as his benign, unsuspecting face came in sight, mounting the hill, either upon the gray mare, Bonnie, or the brown gelding, Peter. As the horse neared the chestnut-tree, they fairly shook with eager expectancy–then came the start, the astonishment of the old man, his frantic “Whoa, there, whoa!” his hat soaring off on the wind, his short, stout body bouncing in the saddle, as, half-unseated, he clung with one hand to the mane and the other to the bridle!–while the wicked boys, after breathlessly watching him out of sight, rolled over and over on the grass, shrieking and yelling in a perfect luxury of fun.

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

Sally Fairthorn met Gilbert in her usual impetuous way. She was glad to see him, but she could not help saying: “Well, have you got your tongue yet, Gilbert? Why, you’re growing to be as queer as Dick’s hat-band! I don’t know any more where to find you, or how to place you; whatever is the 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 an account of Mark’s comings and goings!” But she could not prevent an extra color from rising into her face.

“I wish you did, Sally,” Gilbert gravely remarked. “Mark is a fine fellow, and one of my best friends, and he’d be all the better, if a smart, sensible girl like yourself would care a little for him.”

There was no answer to this, and Sally, with a hasty “I’ll tell mother you’re here!” darted into the house.

Gilbert was careful not to ask many questions during his visit; but Sally’s rattling tongue supplied him with all he would have been likely to learn, in any case. She had found Martha at home the day before, and had talked about him, Gilbert. Martha hadn’t noticed anything “queer” in his manner, whereupon she, Sally, had said that Martha was growing “queer” too; then Martha remarked that–but here Sally found that she had been talking altogether too fast, so she bit her tongue and blushed a little. The most important piece of news, however, was that Miss Lavender was then staying at Dr. Deane’s.

On his way to the village, Gilbert chose the readiest and simplest way of accomplishing his purpose. He would call on Betsy Lavender, and ask her to arrange her time so that she could visit his mother during his approaching absence from home. Leaving his horse at the hitching-post in front 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 the sitting-room, and a keen, sweet throb in his blood responded to the voice that bade him enter.

“Gilbert Potter, I’ll be snaked!” exclaimed Miss Lavender, jumping up with a start that overturned her footstool.

“Well, Gilbert!” and “Well, Martha!” were the only words the lovers exchanged, on meeting, but their hands were quick to clasp and loath to loose. Martha Deane was too clear-headed to be often surprised by an impulse of the heart, but when the latter experience came to her, she never thought of doubting its justness. She had not been fully, vitally aware of her love for Gilbert until the day when he declared it, and now, in memory, the two circumstances seemed to make but one fact. The warmth, the beauty, the spiritual expansion which accompany love had since then dawned upon her nature in their true significance. Proudly and cautiously as she would have guarded her secret from an intrusive eye, just as frank, tender, and brave was she to reveal every emotion of her heart to her lover. She was thoroughly penetrated with the conviction of his truth, of the integral nobility of his manhood; and these, she felt, were the qualities her heart had unconsciously craved. Her mind was made up inflexibly; it rejoiced in his companionship, it trusted in his fidelity, and if she considered conventional difficulties, it was only to estimate how they could most speedily be overthrown. Martha Deane was in advance of her age,–or, at least, of the community in which she lived.

They could only exchange common-places, of course, in Miss Lavender’s presence; and perhaps they were not aware of the gentle, affectionate way in which they spoke of the weather and similar topics. Miss Lavender was; her eyes opened widely, then nearly closed with an expression of superhuman wisdom; she looked out of the window and nodded to the lilac-bush, then exclaiming in desperate awkwardness: “Goodness me, I must have a bit o’ sage!” made for the garden, with long strides.

Gilbert was too innocent to suspect the artifice–not so Martha. But while she would have foiled the inference of any other woman, she accepted Betsy’s without the least embarrassment, and took Gilbert’s hand 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 ever since, and I ask myself, the first thing when I wake, morning after morning, is it really true?”

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

“Martha,” he said, returning to the thought of his duty, “I have something to say. You can hear it now. My mother declares that I am her lawful son, born in wedlock–she gave me her solemn word–but more than that she will not allow me to ask, saying she’s bound for a time, and something, I don’t know what, must happen before she can set herself right in the eyes of the world. I believe her, Martha, and I want that you should believe her, for her sake and for mine. I can’t make things clear to you, now, because they’re not clear to myself; only, what she has declared is and must be true! I am not base-born, and it’ll be made manifest, I’m sure; the Lord will open her mouth in his own good time–and until then, we must wait! Will you wait with me?”

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

“Can you ask it, Gilbert? Whatever your mother declares to you, must be true; 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 her more–she fainted dead away, the last time.”

“Strange things sometimes happen in this world,” said Martha, with a grave tenderness, laying her hand upon his arm, “and this seems to be one of the strangest. I am glad you have told me, Gilbert,–it will make so much difference to you!”

“So it don’t take you from me, Martha,” he groaned, in a return of his terrible 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 big gum-tree’s been cut down. It lays open the sight o’ the road across the creek, and I seen your father ridin’ down the hill, as plain as could be!”

“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 an arrand,–sewin’-thread and pearl buttons,–and so I’ll git my bonnet and 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 her return.

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

“Betsy!” he exclaimed, “you seem to know everything about everybody–at least, you know what I am, perhaps better than I do myself; now suppose I grant you’re right, what do you think of it?”

“Think of it? Go ‘long!–you know what you want me to say, that there never was such a pair o’ lovyers under the firmament! Let my deeds prove what 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 you guess–who was my father?”

“Good Lord!” was her surprised exclamation–“No, I don’t, and that’s the fact.”

“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 put upon her guard. “Not to that extent, I should say. However, it’s neither here nor there. Good lack, boy!” she cried, noticing a deadly paleness on 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’r wanderin’ wits. I don’t deny but what I was holdin’ back somethin’, but it’s another thing as ever was. I’ll speak _you_ clear o’ your misdoubtin’s, if that’s y’r present bother. You don’t feel quite as much like a live corpse, now, I reckon, hey?”

“O, Betsy!” he said, “if you knew how I have been perplexed, you wouldn’t wonder at my fancies!”

“I can fancy all that, my boy,” she gently answered, “and I’ll tell you another thing, Gilbert–your mother has a heavy secret on her mind, and I rather guess it concerns your father. No–don’t look so eager-like–I don’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 spy out other people’s affairs, but many a thing has come to me in a nateral way, or half-unbeknown. You can’t do better than leave all sich wild guesses and misdoubtin’s to me, that’s better able to handle ’em. Not that I’m a-goin’ to preach and declare anything until I know the rights of it, whatever and wherever. Well, as I was sayin’–for there’s Beulah Green 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’ short o’ Death’ll ever make much change in it–but never mind, I’ll go down a few days to your mother, when you’re off, though I don’t promise to do much, except, maybe, cheer her up a bit; but we’ll see, and so remember me to her, and good-bye!”

With these words and a sharp, bony wring of his hand. Bliss Betsy strode rapidly back to the village. It did not escape Gilbert’s eye that, strongly as she had pronounced against his secret fear, the detection of it had agitated her. She had spoken hurriedly, and hastened away as if desiring to avoid further questions. He could not banish the suspicion that she knew something which might affect his fortune; but she had not forbidden his love for Martha–she had promised to help him, and that was 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 continual source of astonishment to his son Alfred and his daughter Ann. The signs of gradual decay which one of them, at least, had watched with the keenest interest, had suddenly disappeared; he was brighter, sharper, more talkative than at any time within the previous five years. The almost worn-out machinery of his life seemed to have been mysteriously repaired, whether by Dr. Deane’s tinkering, or by one of those freaks of Nature which sometimes bring new teeth and hair to an aged head, neither the son nor the daughter could guess. To the former this awakened activity of the old man’s brain was not a little annoying. He had been obliged to renew his note for the money borrowed to replace that which had been transferred to Sandy Flash, and in the mean time was concocting an ingenious device by which the loss should not entirely fall on his own half-share of the farm-profits. He could not have endured his father’s tyranny without the delight of the cautious and wary revenges of this kind which he sometimes allowed himself to take. Another circumstance, which gave him great uneasiness, was this: the old man endeavored in various ways, both direct and indirect, to obtain knowledge 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 at Chester, consolidated into a first-class mortgage; but it was Alfred’s interest to keep his father in ignorance of the other sums, not because of their importance, but because of their insignificance. He knew that the old man’s declaration was true,–“The more you have, the more you’ll get!”

The following Sunday, as he was shaving himself at the back kitchen-window,–Ann being up-stairs, at her threadbare toilet,–Old Barton, 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 into your head?”

“Oh, that!” exclaimed Alfred, with a smirk of well-assumed satisfaction–“that, indeed! Well, I think I may say, Daddy, that all’s right in that quarter.”

“Spoken to her yet?”

“N-no, not right out, that is; but since other folks have found out what I’m after, I guess it’s plain enough to her. And a good sign is, that she plays a little shy.”

“Shouldn’t wonder,” growled the old man. “Seems to me _you_ play a little shy, too. Have to take it in my own hands, if it ever comes to anything.”

“Oh, it isn’t at all necessary; I can do my own courting,” Alfred replied, 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 expect it–and I s’pose it’s the way. But I’d sooner you’d step up to the Doctor, bein’ as I can only take him when he comes here to me loaded and primed. 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 to come.”

“What was it?”

“Set yourself down on that cheer, and keep your head straight a bit, so that 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 the peculiar 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 was the father’s interest to exaggerate the son’s presumed wealth, it was the latter’s interest to underrate it. Thus a third element came into play, making this a triangular game of avarice. If Alfred could have understood his true position, he would have been more courageous; but his father had him at a decided advantage.

“Hark ye, boy!” said he, “I’ve waited e’en about long enough, and it’s time this thing was either a hit or a flash in the pan. The Doctor’s ready 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 out the t’other. The gal’s money’s safe, ten thousand of it, and we’ve agreed that it’ll be share and share; only, your’n bein’ more than her’n, why, of course he must make up the difference.”

The son was far from being as shrewd as the father, or he would have instantly chosen the proper tack; but he was like a vessel caught in stays, and experienced considerable internal pitching and jostling. In one sense it was a relief that the old man supposed him to be worth much more than was actually the case, but long experience hinted that a favorable assumption of this kind often led to a damaging result. So with a wink and grin, the miserable hypocrisy of which was evident to his own mind, he said:

“Of course he must make up the difference, and more too! I know what’s fair and square.”

“Shut your mouth, boy, till I give you leave to open it. Do you hear?–the gal’s ten thousand dollars must be put ag’inst the ten thousand you’ve saved off the profits o’ the farm; then, the rest you’ve made bein’ properly accounted for, he must come down with the same amount. Then, you must find out to a hair what he’s worth of his own–not that it concerns you, but _I_ must know. What you’ve got to do is about as much as you’ve wits for. Now, open your mouth!”

“Ten thousand!” exclaimed Alfred, beginning to comprehend the matter more clearly; “why, it’s hardly quite ten thousand altogether, let alone anything over!”

“No lies, no lies! I’ve got it all in my head, if you haven’t. Twenty years on shares–first year, one hundred and thirty-seven dollars–that was the year the big flood swep’ off half the corn on the bottom; second year, two hundred and fifteen, with interest on the first, say six on a hundred, allowin’ the thirty-seven for your squanderin’s, two hundred and twenty-one; third year, three hundred and five, with interest, seventeen, makes three hundred and twenty-two, and twenty, your half of the bay horse sold to Sam Falconer, forty-two; fourth year”–

“Never mind, Daddy!” Alfred interrupted; “I’ve got it all down in my books; 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 own eyes and your own ears, that you’re now worth thirteen thousand two hundred and forty-nine dollars and fifteen cents! And ten thousand of it balances the gal’s ten thousand, leavin’ three thousand two hundred and 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 put out your money without securin’ it. I don’t mind your goin’ your own road with what you’ve arned, though, for your proper good, you needn’t ha’ been so close; but now you’ve got to show what’s in your hand, if you 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 only suggest, 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! If money can’t stick to your fingers, do you s’pose I’m goin’ to put more into ’em? Fix it any way you like with the Doctor, so you square accounts. Then, afterwards, let him come to me–ay, let him come!”

Here the old man chuckled until he brought on a fit of coughing, which drove the dark purple blood into his head. His son hastened to restore him with a glass of brandy.

“There, that’ll do,” he said, presently; “now you know what’s what. Go up 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 another grandchild or two–eh, boy?”

“Damme, and so you shall, Dad!” the son exclaimed, relapsing into his customary swagger, as the readiest means of flattering the old man’s more amiable mood. It was an easier matter to encounter Dr. Deane–to procrastinate and prolong the settlement of terms, or shift the responsibility of the final result from his own shoulders. Of course the present 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 possible marriage, 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 the creek, in order to examine his position, before venturing on a further step. We will not probe the depths of his meditations; probably they were not very deep, even when most serious; but we may readily conjecture those considerations which were chiefly obvious to his mind. The affair, which he had so long delayed, through a powerful and perhaps a natural dread, was now brought to a crisis. He could not retreat without extreme risk to his prospects of inheritance; since his father and Dr. Deane had come to an actual conference, he was forced to assume the part which was appropriate to him. Sentiment, he was aware, would not be exacted, but a certain amount of masculine anticipation belonged to 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 extent of his vulgarity; but there are few who are not conscious, now and then, of a very uncomfortable difference between themselves and the refined natures with whom they come in contact. Alfred Barton had never been so troubled 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 him in a more painful subjection than that which his father now enforced. He was weary of bondage, and longed to draw a free, unworried breath. With all his swagger, his life had not always been easy or agreeable. A year or two more might see him, in fact and in truth, his own master. He was fifty years old; his habits of life were fixed; he would have shrunk from the semi-servitude of marriage, though with a woman after his own heart, and there was nothing in this (except the money) to attract him.

“I see no way!” he suddenly exclaimed, after a fit of long and unsatisfactory musing.

“Nor I neither, unless you make room for me!” answered a shrill voice at his side.

He started as if shot, becoming aware of Miss Betsy Lavender, who had just emerged from the thicket.

“Skeered ye, have I?” said she. “Why, how you do color up, to be sure! I never was that red, even in my blushin’ days; but never mind, what’s said to nobody is nobody’s business.”

He laughed a forced laugh. “I was thinking, Miss Betsy,” he said, “how to 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 a little thrown back. First slightly nodding to herself, as if assenting to 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 little neighborly call on the Doctor.”

“On the Doctor! Ah-ha! it’s come to that, has it? Well, I won’t be in the way.”

“Confound the witch!” he muttered to himself, as she sprang upon the log and hurried over.

Mr. Alfred Barton was not acquainted with the Greek drama, or he would have had a very real sense of what is meant by Fate. As it was, he submitted to circumstances, climbed the hill, and never halted until he found 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 be discussed; but it was not the custom of the neighborhood to approach an important 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 our place, and the threshers are wanted everywhere at once. What would you do,–hurry off the grain now, or wait to see how it may stand in the spring?”

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 way thee decides, it will make less difference to thee than to them that depend altogether upon their yearly earnings.”

Barton understood this stealthy approach to the important subject, and met it in the same way. “I don’t know,” he said; “it’s slow saving on half-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 I do. If anybody could tell what’s in his mind, it’s Lawyer Stacy, and he’s as close as a steel-trap. I’ve hardly had a fair chance, and it ought to be made up to me.”

“It will be, no doubt.” And then the Doctor, resting his chin upon his cane, relapsed into a grave, silent, expectant mood, which his guest well 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 rather an old boy to be here on such an errand; I’ve been a bit afraid lest you might think me so; and for that reason I haven’t spoken to Martha at all, (though I think she’s smart enough to guess how my mind turns,) and won’t speak, till I first have your leave. I’m not so young as to be light-headed in such matters; and, most likely, I’m not everything that Martha would like; but–but–there’s other things to be considered–not that I mind ’em much, only the old man, you know, is very particular about ’em, and so I’ve come up to see if we can’t agree without much trouble.”

Dr. Deane took a small pinch of Rappee, and then touched his nose lightly with his lavendered handkerchief. He drew up his hanging under-lip until it nearly covered the upper, and lifted his nostrils with an air at once of reticence and wisdom. “I don’t deny,” he said slowly, “that I’ve suspected something of what is in thy mind, and I will further say that thee’s done right in coming first to me. Martha being an only d–child, I have her welfare much at heart, and if I had known anything seriously to thy discredit, I would not have permitted thy attentions. So far as that goes, thee may feel easy. I _did_ hope, however, that thee would have some assurance of what thy father intends to do for thee–and perhaps thee has,–Elisha being established in his own independence, and Ann not requiring a great deal, thee would inherit considerable, 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 would have been: “Curse the old fool–he knows what the old man is, as well as I do!” But he twisted a respectful hypocrisy out of his whisker, and said,–

“Ye-e-es, that seems only fair. How am _I_ to get at it, though? I daren’t touch the subject with a ten-foot pole, and yet it stands both to law and reason that I should come in for a handsome slice o’ the property. You might take it for granted, Doctor?”

“So I might, if _thy_ father would take for granted what _I_ might be able 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 of greedy curiosity shot through his heart; he saw that, with Dr. Deane’s help, he might be able to ascertain the amount of the inheritance which must so soon fall to him. This feeling, fed by the impatience of his long subjection, took complete possession of him, and he resolved to further his father’s desires, without regard to present results.

“Yes, that might be left to me,” the Doctor repeated, “after the other matter is settled. Thee knows what I mean. Martha will have ten thousand dollars in her own right, at twenty-five,–and sooner, if she marries with my approbation. Now, thee or thy father must bring an equal sum; that is understood between us–and I think thy father mentioned that thee 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 close with me, that I’m a little close with him, Doctor, you see! He doesn’t know exactly how much I have got, and as he threatens to leave me according to what I’ve saved, why, I rather let him have his own way about the matter.”

A keen, shrewd smile flitted over the Doctor’s face.

“But if it isn’t quite altogether ten thousand, Doctor,” Barton continued, “I don’t say but what it could be easily made up to that figure. You and I could arrange all that between our two selves, without consulting the old man,–and, indeed, it’s not _his_ business, in any way,–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 should perhaps be working in thy interest, as much as in mine. Then thee can afford to come up fair and square to the mark. Of course, thee has all the 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 little time–must go to Chester–so we needn’t wait for that; ‘t will be all right!”

“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 suggestion came to him very like an attack of cramp. He laughed, however, took out a red silk handkerchief, and tried to wipe a little eagerness into his face.

“No, Doctor!” he exclaimed, “not forgot, only keeping the best for the last. 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 in her name.”

“Then, I’ll–that is, you think I’d better have a talk with her. A little tough, at my time of life, ha! ha!–but faint heart never won fair lady; and I hadn’t thought of going that far to-day, though of course, I’m anxious,–been in my thoughts so long,–and perhaps–perhaps”–

“I’ll tell thee,” said the Doctor, seeming not to notice Barton’s visible embarrassment, which he found very natural; “do thee come up again next First-day afternoon prepared to speak thy mind. I will give Martha a hint of thy purpose beforehand, but only a hint, mind thee; the girl has a smart head of her own, and thee’ll come on faster with her if thee pleads thy own cause with thy own mouth.”

“Yes, I’ll come then!” cried Barton, so relieved at his present escape that his relief took the expression of joy. Dr. Deane was a fair judge of character; he knew all of Alfred Barton’s prominent traits, and imagined that he was now reading him like an open book; but it was like reading one of those Latin sentences which, to the ear, are made up of English words. The signs were all correct, only they belonged to another language.

The heavy wooer shortly took his departure. While on the return path, he caught sight of Miss Betsy Lavender’s beaver, bobbing along behind the pickets of the hill-fence, and, rather than encounter its wearer in his present mood, he stole into the shelter of one of the cross-hedges, and made his way into the timbered bottom below.

CHAPTER XVI.

MARTHA DEANE.

Little did Dr. Deane suspect the nature of the conversation which had that morning been held in his daughter’s room, between herself and Betsy Lavender.

When the latter returned from her interview with Gilbert Potter, the previous evening, she found the Doctor already arrived. Mark came home at supper-time, and the evening was so prolonged by his rattling tongue that no room was left for any confidential talk with Martha, although Miss Betsy felt that something ought to be said, and it properly fell to her lot to broach the delicate subject.

After breakfast on Sunday morning, therefore, she slipped up to Martha’s room, on the transparent pretence of looking again at a new dress, which had been bought some days before. She held the stuff to the light, turned it this way and that, and regarded it with an importance altogether out of proportion to its value.

“It seems as if I couldn’t git the color rightly set in my head,” she remarked; “‘t a’n’t quiet laylock, nor yit vi’let, and there ought, by rights, to be quilled ribbon round the neck, though the Doctor might consider it too gay; but never mind, he’d dress you in drab or slate if he could, and I dunno, after all”–

“Betsy!” exclaimed Martha, with an impetuousness quite unusual to her calm nature, “throw down the dress! Why won’t you speak of what is in your mind; don’t you see I’m waiting for it?”

“You’re right, child!” Miss Betsy cried, flinging the stuff to the farthest corner of the room; “I’m an awkward old fool, with all my exper’ence. Of course I seen it with half a wink; there! don’t be so trembly now. I know how you feel, Martha; you wouldn’t think it, but I do. I can tell the real signs from the passin’ fancies, and if ever I see 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’s embrace in the dusky glen came to her, already for the thousandth time, but warmer, sweeter at each recurrence. She felt that her hand trembled in that of the spinster, as they sat knee to knee, and that a tender dew was creeping into her eyes; leaning forward, she laid her face a moment on 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’s soft, smooth hair, she was occupied in twisting her arm so that the sleeve might catch and conceal two troublesome tears which were at that moment trickling down her nose. Besides, she was not at all sure of her voice, until something like a dry crust of bread in her throat had been forcibly swallowed down.

Martha, however, presently lifted her head with a firm, courageous expression, though the rosy flush still suffused her cheeks. “I’m not as independent as people think,” she said, “for I couldn’t help myself when the time came, and I seem to belong to him, ever since.”

“Ever since. Of course you do!” remarked Miss Betsy, with her head down and her hands busy at her high comb and thin twist of hair; “every woman, savin’ and exceptin’ myself, and no fault o’ mine, must play Jill to somebody’s Jack; it’s man’s way and the Lord’s way, but worked out with a mighty variety, though I say it, but why not, my eyes bein’ as good as anybody else’s! Come now, you’re lookin’ again after your own brave fashion; and so, you’re sure o’ your heart, Martha?”

“Betsy, my heart speaks once and for all,” said Martha, with kindling eyes.

“Once and for all. I knowed it–and so the Lord help us! For here I smell wagon-loads o’ trouble; and if you weren’t a girl to know her own mind and stick to it, come weal, come woe, and he with a bull-dog’s jaw that’ll never let go, and I mean no runnin’ of him down, but on the contrary, quite the reverse, I’d say to both, git over it somehow for it won’t be, and no matter if no use, it’s my dooty,–well, it’s t’other way, and I’ve got to give a lift where I can, and pull this way, and shove that way, and hold back everybody, maybe, and fit things to things, and unfit other things,–Good Lord, child, you’ve made an awful job for _me!”_

Therewith Miss Betsy laughed, with a dry, crisp, cheerfulness which quite covered up and concealed her forebodings. Nothing pleased her better 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 powers to that end stirred her nature to its highest and most joyous activity.

Martha Deane, equally brave, was more sanguine. The joy of her expanding love 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 can wait, 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 other trouble 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 am so 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 eyes from blabbin’. Not a soul suspicions anything now, and if you two’ll only fix it betwixt and between you to keep quiet, and patient, and as forbearin’ in showin’ feelin’ as people that hate each other like snakes, why, who knows but somethin’ may turn up, all unexpected, to make the way as smooth for ye as a pitch-pine plank!”

“Patient!” Martha murmured to herself. A bright smile broke over her face, as she thought how sweet it would be to match, as best a woman might, Gilbert’s incomparable patience and energy of purpose. The tender humility of her love, so beautifully interwoven with the texture of its pride and courage, filled her heart with a balmy softness and peace. She was already prepared to lay her firm, independent spirit at his feet, or exercise it only as her new, eternal duty to him might require. Betsy Lavender’s warning could not ripple the bright surface of her happiness; she knew that no one (hardly even Gilbert, as yet) suspected that in her heart the love of a strong and faithful and noble man outweighed all other gifts or consequences of life–that, to keep it, she would give up home, 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 thinks different, and you must abide by ’em; and what I think of it all I’ll tell you when the end comes, not before, so don’t ask me now; but one thing more, there’s another sort of a gust brewin’, and goin’ to break soon, if ever, and that is, Alf. Barton,–though you won’t believe it,–he’s after you in his stupid way, and your father favors him. And my advice is, hold him off as much as you please, but say nothin’ o’ Gilbert!”

This warning made no particular impression upon Martha. She playfully tapped Miss Betsy’s high comb, and said: “Now, if you are going to be so much 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 fixed upon her with a look of wistful, tender interest, and she knew, though the spinster would not say it, that the latter was alive with sympathy, and happy in the new confidence between them. With each day, her own passion grew and deepened, until it seemed that the true knowledge of love came after its confession. A sweet, warm yearning for Gilbert’s presence took its permanent seat in her heart; not only his sterling manly qualities, but his form, his face–the broad, square brow; the large, sad, deep-set gray eyes; the firm, yet impassioned lips–haunted her fancy. Slowly and almost unconsciously as her affection had been developed, it now took the full stature and wore the radiant form of her maiden dream of love.

If Dr. Deane noticed the physical bloom and grace which those days brought to his daughter, he was utterly innocent of the true cause. Perhaps he imagined that his own eyes were first fairly opened to her beauty by the prospect of soon losing her. Certainly she had never seemed more obedient and attractive. He had not forgotten his promise to Alfred Barton; but no very convenient opportunity for speaking to her on the subject occurred until the following Sunday morning. Mark was not at home, and he rode with her to Old Kennett Meeting.

As they reached the top of the long hill beyond the creek, Martha reined in her horse to enjoy the pleasant westward view over the fair September landscape. The few houses of the village crowned the opposite hill; but on this side the winding, wooded vale meandered away, to lose itself among the swelling slopes of clover and stubble-field; and beyond, over the blue level of Tuffkenamon, the oak-woods of Avondale slept on the horizon. It was a landscape such as one may see, in a more cultured form, on the road from Warwick to Stratford. Every one in Kennett enjoyed the view, but none so much as Martha Deane, upon whom its harmonious, pastoral aspect exercised an indescribable charm.

To the left, on the knoll below, rose the chimneys of the Barton farm-house, over the round tops of the apple-trees, and in the nearest field Mr. Alfred’s Maryland cattle were fattening on the second growth of clover.

“A nice place, Martha!” said Dr. Deane, with a wave of his arm, and a whiff of sweet herbs.

“Here, in this first field, is the true place for the house,” she answered, thinking only of the landscape beauty of the farm.

“Does thee mean so?” the Doctor eagerly asked, deliberating with himself how much of his plan it was safe to reveal. “Thee may be right, and perhaps 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 set a 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 catching Sandy Flash! He looks frightened whenever I speak to him.”

“A little nervous, perhaps. Young men are often so, in the company of young women, I’ve observed.”

Martha laughed so cheerily that her father said to himself: “Well, it doesn’t displease her, at any rate.” On the other hand, is was possible that she might have failed to see Barton in the light of a wooer, and therefore a further hint would be required.

“Now that we happen to speak of him, Martha,” he said, “I might as well tell thee that, in my judgment, he seems to be drawn towards thee in the way of marriage. He may be a little awkward in showing it, but that’s a common case. When he was at our house, last First-day, he spoke of thee frequently, and said that he would like to–well, to see thee soon. I believe he intends coming up this afternoon.”

Martha became grave, as Betsy Lavender’s warning took so suddenly a positive form. However, she had thought of this contingency as a possible thing, and must prepare herself to meet it with firmness.

“What does thee say?” the Doctor asked, after waiting a few minutes for an answer.

“Father, I hope thee’s mistaken. Alfred Barton is not overstocked with wit, I know, but he can hardly be that foolish. He is almost as old as thee.”

She spoke quietly, but with that tone of decision which Dr. Deane so well knew. He set his teeth and drew up his under-lip to a grim pout. If there was to be resistance, he thought, she would not find him so yielding as on other points; but he would first try a middle course.

“Understand me, Martha,” he said; “I do not mean to declare what Alfred Barton’s sentiments really are, but what, in my judgment, they _might_ be. And thee had better wait and learn, before setting thy mind either for or against him: It’s hardly putting much value upon thyself, to call him 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 say one thing, Martha; if he seeks thee, and _does_ speak his mind, do thee treat 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 itself