The Story Of Kennett by Bayard Taylor (page 5)

approaching night, and the wild glen, bleak enough before, was now a scene of utter and hopeless desolation to Gilbert’s eyes. He was almost unmanned, not only by the cruel loss, but also by the stinging sense of outrage which it had left behind. A mixed feeling of wretched despondency and shame filled his heart, as he leaned, chill, weary, and still weak from the shock of his fall, upon Roger’s neck.

The faithful animal turned his head from time to time, as if to question his master’s unusual demeanor. There was a look of almost human sympathy in his large eyes; he was hungry and restless, yet would not move until the word of command had been given.

“Poor fellow!” said Gilbert, patting his cheek, “we’ve both fared ill to-day. But you mustn’t suffer any longer for my sake.”

He then mounted and rode onward through the storm.

CHAPTER XXI.

ROGER REPAYS HIS MASTER.

A mile or more beyond the spot where Gilbert Potter had been waylaid, there was a lonely tavern, called the “Drovers’ Inn.” Here he dismounted, more for his horse’s sake than his own, although he was sore, weary, and sick of heart. After having carefully groomed Roger with his own hands, and commended him to the special attentions of the ostler, he entered the warm public room, wherein three or four storm-bound drovers were gathered around the roaring fire of hickory logs.

The men kindly made way for the pale, dripping, wretched-looking stranger; and the landlord, with a shrewd glance and a suggestion of “Something hot, I reckon?” began mixing a compound proper for the occasion. Laying aside his wet cloak, which was sent to the kitchen to be more speedily dried, Gilbert presently sat in a cloud of his own steaming garments, and felt the warmth of the potent liquor in his chilly blood.

All at once, it occurred to him that the highwayman had not touched his person. There was not only some loose silver in his pockets, but Mark Deane’s money-belt was still around his waist. So much, at least, was rescued, and he began to pluck up a little courage. Should he continue his journey to Chester, explain the misfortune to the holder of his mortgage, and give notice to the County Sheriff of this new act of robbery? Then the thought came into his mind that in that case he might be detained a day or two, in order to make depositions, or comply with some unknown legal form. In the mean time the news would spread over the country, no doubt with many exaggerations, and might possibly reach Kennett–even the ears of his mother. That reflection decided his course. She must first hear the truth from his mouth; he would try to give her cheer and encouragement, though he felt none himself; then, calling his friends together, he would hunt Sandy Flash like a wild beast until they had tracked him to his lair.

“Unlucky weather for ye, it seems?” remarked the curious landlord, who, seated in a corner of the fireplace, had for full ten minutes been watching Gilbert’s knitted brows, gloomy, brooding eyes, and compressed lips.

“Weather?” he exclaimed, bitterly. “It’s not the weather. Landlord, will you have a chance of sending to Chester to-morrow?”

“I’m going, if it clears up,” said one of the drovers.

“Then, my friend,” Gilbert continued, “will you take a letter from me to the Sheriff?”

“If it’s nothing out of the way,” the man replied.

“It’s in the proper course of law–if there is any law to protect us. Not a mile and a half from here, landlord, I have been waylaid and robbed on the public road!”

There was a general exclamation of surprise, and Gilbert’s story, which he had suddenly decided to relate, in order that the people of the neighborhood might be put upon their guard, was listened to with an interest only less than the terror which it inspired. The landlady rushed into the bar-room, followed by the red-faced kitchen wench, and both interrupted the recital with cries of “Dear, dear!” and “Lord save us!” The landlord, meanwhile, had prepared another tumbler of hot and hot, and brought it forward, saying,–

“You need it, the Lord knows, and it shall cost you nothing.”

“What I most need now,” Gilbert said, “is pen, ink, and paper, to write out my account. Then I suppose you can get me up a cold check, [Footnote: A local term, in use at the time, signifying a “lunch.”] for I must start homewards soon.”

“Not ‘a cold check’ after all that drenching and mishandling!” the landlord exclaimed. “We’ll have a hot supper in half an hour, and you shall stay, and welcome. Wife, bring down one of Liddy’s pens, the schoolmaster made for her, and put a little vinegar into th’ ink-bottle; it’s most dried up!”

In a few minutes the necessary materials for a letter, all of the rudest kind, were supplied, and the landlord and drovers hovered around as Gilbert began to write, assisting him with the most extraordinary suggestions.

“I’d threaten,” said a drover, “to write straight to General Washington, unless they promise to catch the scoundrel in no time!”

“And don’t forget the knife and pistol!” cried the landlord.

“And say the Tory farmers’ houses ought to be searched!”

“And give his marks, to a hair!”

Amid all this confusion, Gilbert managed to write a brief, but sufficiently circumstantial account of the robbery, calling upon the County authorities to do their part in effecting the capture of Sandy Flash. He offered his services and those of the Kennett troop, announcing that he should immediately start upon the hunt, and expected to be seconded by the law.

When the letter had been sealed and addressed, the drovers–some of whom carried money with them, and had agreed to travel in company, for better protection–eagerly took charge of it, promising to back the delivery with very energetic demands for assistance.

Night had fallen, and the rain fell with it, in renewed torrents. The dreary, universal hum of the storm rose again, making all accidental sounds of life impertinent, in contrast with its deep, tremendous monotone. The windows shivered, the walls sweat and streamed, and the wild wet blew in under the doors, as if besieging that refuge of warm, red fire-light.

“This beats the Lammas flood o’ ’68,” said the landlord, as he led the way to supper. “I was a young man at the time, and remember it well. Half the dams on Brandywine went that night.”

After a bountiful meal, Gilbert completely dried his garments and prepared to set out on his return, resisting the kindly persuasion of the host and hostess that he should stay all night. A restless, feverish energy filled his frame. He felt that he could not sleep, that to wait idly would be simple misery, and that only in motion towards the set aim of his fierce, excited desires, could he bear his disappointment and shame. But the rain still came down with a volume which threatened soon to exhaust the cisterns of the air, and in that hope he compelled himself to wait a little.

Towards nine o’clock the great deluge seemed to slacken. The wind arose, and there were signs of its shifting, erelong, to the northwest, which would bring clear weather in a few hours. The night was dark, but not pitchy; a dull phosphoric gleam overspread the under surface of the sky. The woods were full of noises, and every gully at the roadside gave token, by its stony rattle, of the rain-born streams.

With his face towards home and his back to the storm, Gilbert rode into the night. The highway was but a streak of less palpable darkness; the hills on either hand scarcely detached themselves from the low, black ceiling of sky behind them. Sometimes the light of a farm-house window sparkled faintly, like a glow-worm, but whether far or near, he could not tell; he only knew how blest must be the owner, sitting with wife and children around his secure hearthstone,–how wretched his own life, cast adrift in the darkness,–wife, home, and future, things of doubt!

He had lost more than money; and his wretchedness will not seem unmanly when we remember the steady strain and struggle of his previous life. As there is nothing more stimulating to human patience, and courage, and energy, than the certain prospect of relief at the end, so there is nothing more depressing than to see that relief suddenly snatched away, and the same round of toil thrust again under one’s feet! This is the fate of Tantalus and Sisyphus in one.

Not alone the money; a year, or two years, of labor would no doubt replace what he had lost. But he had seen, in imagination, his mother’s feverish anxiety at an end; household help procured, to lighten her over-heavy toil; the possibility of her release from some terrible obligation brought nearer, as he hoped and trusted, and with it the strongest barrier broken down which rose between him and Martha Deane. All these things which he had, as it were, held in his hand, had been stolen from him, and the loss was bitter because it struck down to the roots of the sweetest and strongest fibres of his heart. The night veiled his face, but if some hotter drops than those of the storm were shaken from his cheek, they left no stain upon his manhood.

The sense of outrage, of personal indignity, which no man can appreciate who has not himself been violently plundered, added its sting to his miserable mood. He thirsted to avenge the wrong; Barton’s words involuntarily came back to him,–“I’ll know no peace till the villain has been strung up!” Barton! How came Sandy Flash to know that Barton intended to send money by him? Had not Barton himself declared that the matter should be kept secret? Was there some complicity between the latter and Sandy Flash? Yet, on the other hand, it seemed that the highwayman believed that he was robbing Gilbert of Barton’s money. Here was an enigma which he could not solve.

All at once, a hideous solution presented itself. Was it possible that Barton’s money was to be only _apparently_ stolen–in reality returned to him privately, afterwards? Possibly the rest of the plunder divided between the two confederates? Gilbert was not in a charitable mood; the human race was much more depraved, in his view, than twelve hours before; and the inference which he would have rejected as monstrous, that very morning, now assumed a possible existence. One thing, at least, was certain; he would exact an explanation, and if none should be furnished, he would make public the evidence in his hands.

The black, dreary night seemed interminable. He could only guess, here and there, at a landmark, and was forced to rely more upon Roger’s instinct of the road than upon the guidance of his senses. Towards midnight, as he judged, by the solitary crow of a cock, the rain almost entirely ceased. The wind began to blow, sharp and keen, and the hard vault of the sky to lift a little. He fancied that the hills on his right had fallen away, and that the horizon was suddenly depressed towards the north. Roger’s feet began to splash in constantly deepening water, and presently a roar, distinct from that of the wind, filled the air.

It was the Brandywine. The stream had overflowed its broad meadow-bottoms, and was running high and fierce beyond its main channel. The turbid waters made a dim, dusky gleam around him; soon the fences disappeared, and the flood reached to his horse’s belly. But he knew that the ford could be distinguished by the break in the fringe of timber; moreover, that the creek-bank was a little higher than the meadows behind it, and so far, at least, he might venture. The ford was not more than twenty yards across, and he could trust Roger to swim that distance.

The faithful animal pressed bravely on, but Gilbert soon noticed that he seemed at fault. The swift water had forced him out of the road, and he stopped, from time to time, as if anxious and uneasy. The timber could now be discerned, only a short distance in advance, and in a few minutes they would gain the bank.

What was that? A strange rustling, hissing sound, as of cattle trampling through dry reeds,–a sound which quivered and shook, even in the breath of the hurrying wind! Roger snorted, stood still, and trembled in every limb; and a sensation of awe and terror struck a chill through Gilbert’s heart. The sound drew swiftly nearer, and became a wild, seething roar, filling the whole breadth of the valley.

“Great God!” cried Gilbert, “the dam!–the dam has given way!” He turned Roger’s head, gave him the rein, struck, spurred, cheered, and shouted. The brave beast struggled through the impeding flood, but the advance wave of the coming inundation already touched his side. He staggered; a line of churning foam bore down upon them, the terrible roar was all around and over them, and horse and rider were whirled away.

What happened during the first few seconds, Gilbert could never distinctly recall. Now they were whelmed in the water, now riding its careering tide, torn through the tops of brushwood, jostled by floating logs and timbers of the dam-breast, but always, as it seemed, remorselessly held in the heart of the tumult and the ruin.

He saw, at last, that they had fallen behind the furious onset of the flood, but Roger was still swimming with it, desperately throwing up his head from time to time, and snorting the water from his nostrils. All his efforts to gain a foothold failed; his strength was nearly spent, and unless some help should come in a few minutes, it would come in vain. And in the darkness, and the rapidity with which they were borne along, how should help come?

All at once, Roger’s course stopped. He became an obstacle to the flood, which pressed him against some other obstacle below, and rushed over horse and rider. Thrusting out his hand, Gilbert felt the rough bark of a tree. Leaning towards it and clasping the log in his arms, he drew himself from the saddle, while Roger, freed from his burden, struggled into the current and instantly disappeared.

As nearly as Gilbert could ascertain, several timbers, thrown over each other, had lodged, probably upon a rocky islet in the stream, the uppermost one projecting slantingly out of the flood. It required all his strength to resist the current which sucked, and whirled, and tugged at his body, and to climb high enough to escape its force, without overbalancing his support. At last, though still half immerged, he found himself comparatively safe for a time, yet as far as ever from a final rescue.

He must await the dawn, and an eternity of endurance lay in those few hours. Meantime, perhaps, the creek would fall, for the rain had ceased, and there were outlines of moving cloud in the sky. It was the night which made his situation so terrible, by concealing the chances of escape. At first, he thought most of Roger. Was his brave horse drowned, or had he safely gained the bank below? Then, as the desperate moments went by, and the chill of exposure and the fatigue of exertion began to creep over him, his mind reverted, with a bitter sweetness, a mixture of bliss and agony, to the two beloved women to whom his life belonged,–the life which, alas! he could not now call his own, to give.

He tried to fix his thoughts on Death, to commend his soul to Divine Mercy; but every prayer shaped itself into an appeal that he might once more see the dear faces and bear the dear voices. In the great shadow of the fate which hung over him, the loss of his property became as dust in the balance, and his recent despair smote him with shame. He no longer fiercely protested against the injuries of fortune, but entreated pardon and pity for the sake of his love.

The clouds rolled into distincter masses, and the northwest wind still hunted them across the sky, until there came, first a tiny rift for a star, then a gap for a whole constellation, and finally a broad burst of moonlight. Gilbert now saw that the timber to which he clung was lodged nearly in the centre of the channel, as the water swept with equal force on either side of him. Beyond the banks there was a wooded hill on the left; on the right an overflowed meadow. He was too weak and benumbed to trust himself to the flood, but he imagined that it was beginning to subside, and therein lay his only hope.

Yet a new danger now assailed him, from the increasing cold. There was already a sting of frost, a breath of ice, in the wind. In another hour the sky was nearly swept bare of clouds, and he could note the lapse of the night by the sinking of the moon. But he was by this time hardly in a condition to note anything more. He had thrown himself, face downwards, on the top of the log, his arms mechanically clasping it, while his mind sank into a state of torpid, passive suffering, growing nearer to the dreamy indifference which precedes death. His cloak had been torn away in the first rush of the inundation, and the wet coat began to stiffen in the wind, from the ice gathering over it.

The moon was low in the west, and there was a pale glimmer of the coming dawn in the sky, when Gilbert Potter suddenly raised his head. Above the noise of the water and the whistle of the wind, he heard a familiar sound,–the shrill, sharp neigh of a horse. Lifting himself, with great exertion, to a sitting posture, he saw two men, on horseback, in the flooded meadow, a little below him. They stopped, seemed to consult, and presently drew nearer.

Gilbert tried to shout, but the muscles of his throat were stiff, and his lungs refused to act. The horse neighed again. This time there was no mistake; it was Roger that he heard! Voice came to him, and he cried aloud,–a hoarse, strange, unnatural cry.

The horsemen heard it, and rapidly pushed up the bank, until they reached a point directly opposite to him. The prospect of escape brought a thrill of life to his frame; he looked around and saw that the flood had indeed fallen.

“We have no rope,” he heard one of the men say. “How shall we reach him?”

“There is no time to get one, now,” the other answered. “My horse is stronger than yours. I’ll go into the creek just below, where it’s broader and not so deep, and work my way up to him.”

“But one horse can’t carry both.”

“His will follow, be sure, when it sees me.”

As the last speaker moved away, Gilbert saw a led horse plunging through the water, beside the other. It was a difficult and dangerous undertaking. The horseman and the loose horse entered the main stream below, where its divided channel met and broadened, but it was still above the saddle-girths, and very swift. Sometimes the animals plunged, losing their foothold; nevertheless, they gallantly breasted the current, and inch by inch worked their way to a point about six feet below Gilbert. It seemed impossible to approach nearer.

“Can you swim?” asked the man.

Gilbert shook his head. “Throw me the end of Roger’s bridle!” he then cried.

The man unbuckled the bridle and threw it, keeping the end of the rein in his hand. Gilbert tried to grasp it, but his hands were too numb. He managed, however, to get one arm and his head through the opening, and relaxed his hold on the log.

A plunge, and the man had him by the collar. He felt himself lifted by a strong arm and laid across Roger’s saddle. With his failing strength and stiff limbs, it was no slight task to get into place, and the return, though less laborious to the horses, was equally dangerous, because Gilbert was scarcely able to support himself without help.

“You’re safe now,” said the man, when they reached the bank, “but it’s a downright mercy of God that you’re alive!”

The other horseman joined them, and they rode slowly across the flooded meadow. They had both thrown their cloaks around Gilbert, and carefully steadied him in the saddle, one on each side. He was too much exhausted to ask how they had found him, or whither they were taking him,–too numb for curiosity, almost for gratitude.

“Here’s your saviour!” said one of the men, patting Roger’s shoulder. “It was all along of him that we found you. Want to know how? Well–about three o’clock it was, maybe a little earlier, maybe a little later, my wife woke me up. ‘Do you hear that?’ she says. I listened and heard a horse in the lane before the door, neighing,–I can’t tell you exactly how it was,–like as if he’d call up the house. ‘T was rather queer, I thought, so I got up and looked out of window, and it seemed to me he had a saddle on. He stamped, and pawed, and then he gave another yell, and stamped again. Says I to my wife, ‘There’s something wrong here,’ and I dressed and went out. When he saw me, he acted the strangest you ever saw; thinks I, if ever an animal wanted to speak, that animal does. When I tried to catch him, he shot off, run down the lane a bit, and then came back as strangely acting as ever. I went into the house and woke up my brother, here, and we saddled our horses and started. Away went yours ahead, stopping every minute to look round and see if we followed. When we came to the water, I kind o’ hesitated, but ‘t was no use; the horse would have us go on, and on, till we found you. I never heard tell of the like of it, in my born days!”

Gilbert did not speak, but two large tears slowly gathered in his eyes, and rolled down his cheeks. The men saw his emotion, and respected it.

In the light of the cold, keen dawn, they reached a snug farm-house, a mile from the Brandywine. The men lifted Gilbert from the saddle, and would have carried him immediately into the house, but he first leaned upon Roger’s neck, took the faithful creature’s head in his arms, and kissed it.

The good housewife was already up, and anxiously awaiting the return of her husband and his brother. A cheery fire crackled on the hearth, and the coffee-pot was simmering beside it. When Gilbert had been partially revived by the warmth, the men conducted him into an adjoining bed-room, undressed him, and rubbed his limbs with whiskey. Then, a large bowl of coffee having been administered, he was placed in bed, covered with half a dozen blankets, and the curtains were drawn over the windows. In a few minutes he was plunged in a slumber almost as profound as that of the death from which he had been so miraculously delivered.

It was two hours past noon when he awoke, and he no sooner fully comprehended the situation and learned how the time had sped, than he insisted on rising, although still sore, weak, and feverish. The good farmer’s wife had kept a huge portion of dinner hot before the fire, and he knew that without compelling a show of appetite, he would not be considered sufficiently recovered to leave. He had but one desire,–to return home. So recently plucked from the jaws of Death, his life still seemed to be an uncertain possession.

Finally Roger was led forth, quiet and submissive as of old,–having forgotten his good deed as soon as it had been accomplished,–and Gilbert, wrapped in the farmer’s cloak, retraced his way to the main road. As he looked across the meadow, which told of the inundation in its sweep of bent, muddy grass, and saw, between the creekbank trees, the lodged timber to which he had clung, the recollection of the night impressed him like a frightful dream. It was a bright, sharp, wintry day,–the most violent contrast to that which had preceded it. The hills on either side, whose outlines he could barely guess in the darkness, now stood out from the air with a hard, painful distinctness; the sky was an arch of cold, steel-tinted crystal; and the north wind blew with a shrill, endless whistle through the naked woods.

As he climbed the long hill west of Chadd’s Ford, Gilbert noticed how the meadow on his right had been torn by the flood gathered from the fields above. In one place a Hessian skull had been snapped from the buried skeleton, and was rolled to light, among the mud and pebbles. Not far off, something was moving among the bushes, and he involuntarily drew rein.

The form stopped, appeared to crouch down for a moment, then suddenly rose and strode forth upon the grass. It was a woman, wearing a man’s flannel jacket, and carrying a long, pointed staff in her hand. As she approached with rapid strides, he recognized Deb. Smith.

“Deborah!” he cried, “what are you doing here?”

She set her pole to the ground and vaulted over the high picket-fence, like an athlete.

“Well,” she said, “if I’d ha’ been shy o’ you, Mr. Gilbert, you wouldn’t ha’ seen me. I’m not one of them as goes prowlin’ around among dead bodies’ bones at midnight; what I want, I looks for in the daytime.”

“Bones?” he asked. “You’re surely not digging up the Hessians?”

“Not exackly; but, you see, the rain’s turned out a few, and some on ’em, folks says, was buried with lots o’ goold platted up in their pig-tails. I know o’ one man that dug up two or three to git their teeth, (to sell to the tooth-doctors, you know,) and when he took hold o’ the pig-tail to lift the head by, the hair come off in his hand, and out rattled ten good goolden guineas. Now, if any money’s washed out, there’s no harm in a body’s pickin’ of it up, as I see.”

“What luck have you had?” asked Gilbert.

“Nothin’ to speak of; a few buttons, and a thing or two. But I say, Mr. Gilbert, what luck ha’ _you_ had?” She had been keenly and curiously inspecting his face.

“Deborah!” he exclaimed, “you’re a false prophet! You told me that, whatever happened, I was safe from Sandy Flash.”

“Eh?”

There was a shrill tone of surprise and curiosity in this exclamation.

“You ought to know Sandy Flash better, before you prophesy in his name,” Gilbert repeated, in a stern voice.

“Oh, Mr. Gilbert, tell me what you mean?” She grasped his leg with one hand, while she twisted the other in Roger’s mane, as if to hold both horse and rider until the words were explained.

Thereupon he related to her in a brief, fierce way, all that had befallen him. Her face grew red and her eyes flashed; she shook her fist and swore under her breath, from time to time, while he spoke.

“You’ll be righted, Mr. Gilbert!” she then cried, “you’ll be righted, never fear! Leave it to me! Haven’t I always kep’ my word to you? You’re believin’ I lied the last time, and no wonder; but I’ll prove the truth o’ my words yet–may the Devil git my soul, if I don’t!”

“Don’t think that I blame you, Deborah,” he said. “You were too sure of my good luck, because you wished me to have it–that’s all.”

“Thank ye for that! But it isn’t enough for me. When I promise a thing, I have power to keep my promise. Ax me no more questions; bide quiet awhile, and if the money isn’t back in your pocket by New-Year, I give ye leave to curse me, and kick me, and spit upon me!”

Gilbert smiled sadly and incredulously, and rode onward. He made haste to reach home, for a dull pain began to throb in his head, and chill shudders ran over his body. He longed to have the worst over which yet awaited him, and gain a little rest for body, brain, and heart.

CHAPTER XXII.

MARTHA DEANE TAKES A RESOLUTION.

Mary Potter had scarcely slept during the night of her son’s absence. A painful unrest, such as she never remembered to have felt before, took complete possession of her. Whenever the monotony of the drenching rain outside lulled her into slumber for a few minutes, she was sure to start up in bed with a vague, singular impression that some one had called her name. After midnight, when the storm fell, the shrill wailing of the rising wind seemed to forebode disaster. Although she believed Gilbert to be safely housed in Chester, the fact constantly slipped from her memory, and she shuddered at every change in the wild weather as if he were really exposed to it.

The next day, she counted the hours with a feverish impatience. It seemed like tempting Providence, but she determined to surprise her son with a supper of unusual luxury for their simple habits, after so important and so toilsome a journey. Sam had killed a fowl; it was picked and dressed, but she had not courage to put it into the pot, until the fortune of the day had been assured.

Towards sunset she saw, through the back-kitchen-window, a horseman approaching from the direction of Carson’s. It seemed to be Roger, but could that rider, in the faded brown cloak, be Gilbert? His cloak was blue; he always rode with his head erect, not hanging like this man’s, whose features she could not see. Opposite the house, he lifted his head–it _was_ Gilbert, but how old and haggard was his face!

She met him at the gate. His cheeks were suddenly flushed, his eyes bright, and the smile with which he looked at her seemed to be joyous; yet it gave her a sense of pain and terror.

“Oh, Gilbert!” she cried; “what has happened?”

He slid slowly and wearily off the horse, whose neck he fondled a moment before answering her.

“Mother,” he said at last, “you have to thank Roger that I am here tonight. I have come back to you from the gates of death; will you be satisfied with that for a while?”

“I don’t understand you, my boy! You frighten me; haven’t you been at Chester?”

“No,” he answered, “there was no use of going.”

A presentiment of the truth came to her, but before she could question him further, he spoke again.

“Mother, let us go into the house. I’m cold and tired; I want to sit in your old rocking-chair, where I can rest my head. Then I’ll tell you everything; I wish I had an easier task!”

She noticed that his steps were weak and slow, felt that his hands were like ice, and saw his blue lips and chattering teeth. She removed the strange cloak, placed her chair in front of the fire, seated him in it, and then knelt upon the floor to draw off his stiff, sodden top-boots. He was passive as a child in her hands. Her care for him overcame all other dread, and not until she had placed his feet upon a stool, in the full warmth of the blaze, given him a glass of hot wine and lavender, and placed a pillow under his head, did she sit down at his side to hear the story.

“I thought of this, last night,” he said, with a faint smile; “not that I ever expected to see it. The man was right; it’s a mercy of God that I ever got out alive!”

“Then be grateful to God, my boy!” she replied, “and let me be grateful, too. It will balance misfortune,–for that there it misfortune in store for us. I see plainly.”

Gilbert then spoke. The narrative was long and painful, and he told it wearily and brokenly, yet with entire truth, disguising nothing of the evil that had come upon them. His mother sat beside him, pale, stony, stifling the sobs that rose in her throat, until he reached the period of his marvellous rescue, when she bent her head upon his arm and wept aloud.

“That’s all, mother!” he said at the close; “it’s hard to bear, but I’m more troubled on your account than on my own.”

“Oh, I feared we were over-sure!” she cried. “I claimed payment before it was ready. The Lord chooses His own time, and punishes them that can’t wait for His ways to be manifest! It’s terribly hard; and yet, while His left hand smites, His right hand gives mercy! He might ha’ taken you, my boy, but He makes a miracle to save you for me!”

When she had outwept her passionate tumult of feeling, she grew composed and serene. “Haven’t I yet learned to be patient, in all these years?” she said. “Haven’t I sworn to work out with open eyes the work I took in blindness? And after waiting twenty-five years, am I to murmur at another year or two? No, Gilbert! It’s to be done; I _will_ deserve my justice! Keep your courage, my boy; be brave and patient, and the sight of you will hold me from breaking down!”

She arose, felt his hands and feet, set his pillow aright, and then stooped and kissed him. His chills had ceased; a feeling of heavy, helpless languor crept over him.

“Let Sam see to Roger, mother!” he murmured. “Tell him not to spare the oats.”

“I’d feed him with my own hands, Gilbert, if I could leave you. I’d put fine wheat-bread into his manger, and wrap him in blankets off my own bed! To think that Roger,–that I didn’t want you to buy,–Lord forgive me, I was advising your own death!”

It was fortunate for Mary Potter that she saw a mysterious Providence, which, to her mind, warned and yet promised while it chastised, in all that had occurred. This feeling helped her to bear a disappointment, which would otherwise have been very grievous. The idea of an atoning ordeal, which she must endure in order to be crowned with the final justice, and so behold her life redeemed, had become rooted in her nature. To Gilbert much of this feeling was inexplicable, because he was ignorant of the circumstances which had called it into existence. But he saw that his mother was not yet hopeless, that she did not seem to consider her deliverance as materially postponed, and a glimmer of hope was added to the relief of having told his tale.

He was still feverish, dozing and muttering in uneasy dreams, as he lay back in the old rocking-chair, and Mary Potter, with Sam’s help, got him to bed, after administering a potion which she was accustomed to use in all complaints, from mumps to typhus fever.

As for Roger, he stood knee-deep in clean litter, with half a bushel of oats before him.

The next morning Gilbert did not arise, and as he complained of great soreness in every part of his body, Sam was dispatched for Dr. Deane.

It was the first time this gentleman had ever been summoned to the Potter farm-house. Mary Potter felt considerable trepidation at his arrival, both on account of the awe which his imposing presence inspired, and the knowledge of her son’s love for his daughter,–a fact which, she rightly conjectured, he did not suspect. As he brought his ivory-headed cane, his sleek drab broadcloth, and his herbaceous fragrance into the kitchen, she was almost overpowered.

“How is thy son ailing?” he asked. “He always seemed to me to be a very healthy young man.”

She described the symptoms with a conscientious minuteness.

“How was it brought on?” he asked again.

She had not intended to relate the whole story, but only so much of it as was necessary for the Doctor’s purposes; but the commencement excited his curiosity, and he knew so skilfully how to draw one word after another, suggesting further explanations without directly asking them, that Mary Potter was led on and on, until she had communicated all the particulars of her son’s misfortune.

“This is a wonderful tale thee tells me,” said the Doctor–“wonderful! Sandy Flash, no doubt, has reason to remember thy son, who, I’m told, faced him very boldly on Second-day morning. It is really time the country was aroused; we shall hardly be safe in our own houses. And all night in the Brandywine flood–I don’t wonder thy son is unwell. Let me go up to him.”

Dr. Deane’s prescriptions usually conformed to the practice of his day,–bleeding and big doses,–and he would undoubtedly have applied both of these in Gilbert’s case, but for the latter’s great anxiety to be in the saddle and on the hunt of his enemy. He stoutly refused to be bled, and the Doctor had learned, from long observation, that patients of a certain class must be humored rather than coerced. So he administered a double dose of Dover’s Powders, and prohibited the drinking of cold water. His report was, on the whole, reassuring to Mary Potter. Provided his directions were strictly followed, he said, her son would be up in two or three days; but there _might_ be a turn for the worse, as the shock to the system had been very great, and she ought to have assistance.

“There’s no one I can call upon,” said she, “without it’s Betsy Lavender, and I must ask you to tell her for me, if you think she can come.”

“I’ll oblige thee, certainly,” the Doctor answered. “Betsy _is_ with us, just now, and I don’t doubt but she can spare a day or two. She may be a little headstrong in her ways, but thee’ll find her a safe nurse.”

It was really not necessary, as the event proved. Rest and warmth were what Gilbert most needed. But Dr. Deane always exaggerated his patient’s condition a little, in order that the credit of the latter’s recovery might be greater. The present case was a very welcome one, not only because it enabled him to recite a most astonishing narrative at second-hand, but also because it suggested a condition far more dangerous than that which the patient actually suffered. He was the first person to bear the news to Kennett Square, where it threw the village into a state of great excitement, which rapidly spread over the neighborhood.

He related it at his own tea-table that evening, to Martha and Miss Betsy Lavender. The former could with difficulty conceal her agitation; she turned red and pale, until the Doctor finally remarked,–

“Why, child, thee needn’t be so frightened.”

“Never mind!” exclaimed Miss Betsy, promptly coming to the rescue, “it’s enough to frighten anybody. It fairly makes me shiver in my shoes. If Alf. Barton had ha’ done his dooty like a man, this wouldn’t ha’ happened!”

“I’ve no doubt Alfred did the best he could, under the circumstances,” the Doctor sternly remarked.

“Fiddle-de-dee!” was Miss Betsy’s contemptuous answer. “He’s no more gizzard than a rabbit. But that’s neither here nor there; Mary Potter wants me to go down and help, and go I will!”

“Yes, I think thee might as well go down to-morrow morning, though I’m in hopes the young man may be better, if he minds my directions,” said the Doctor.

“To-morrow mornin’? Why not next week? When help’s wanted, give it _right away_; don’t let the grass grow under your feet, say I! Good luck that I gev up Mendenhall’s home-comin’ over t’ the Lion, or I wouldn’t ha’ been here; so another cup o’ tea, Martha, and I’m off!”

Martha left the table at the same time, and followed Miss Betsy up-stairs. Her eyes were full of tears, but she did not tremble, and her voice came firm and clear.

“I am going with you,” she said.

Miss Lavender whirled around and looked at her a minute, without saying a word.

“I see you mean it, child. Don’t think me hard or cruel, for I know your feelin’s as well as if they was mine; but all the same, I’ve got to look ahead, and back’ards, and on this side and that, and so lookin’, and so judgin’, accordin’ to my light, which a’n’t all tied up in a napkin, what I’ve got to say is, and ag’in don’t think me hard, it won’t do!”

“Betsy,” Martha Deane persisted, “a misfortune like this brings my duty with it. Besides, he may be in great danger; he may have got his death,”–

“Don’t begin talkin’ that way,” Miss Lavender interrupted, “or you’ll put me out o’ patience. I’ll say that for your father, he’s always mortal concerned for a bad case, Gilbert Potter or not; and I can mostly tell the heft of a sickness by the way he talks about it,–so that’s settled; and as to dooties, it’s very well and right, I don’t deny it, but never mind, all the same, I said before, the whole thing’s a snarl, and I say it ag’in, and unless you’ve got the end o’ the ravellin’s in your hand, the harder you pull, the wuss you’ll make it!”

There was good sense in these words, and Martha Deane felt it. Her resolution began to waver, in spite of the tender instinct which told her that Gilbert Potter now needed precisely the help and encouragement which she alone could give.

“Oh, Betsy,” she murmured, her tears falling without restraint, “it’s hard for me to seem so strange to him, at such a time!”

“Yes,” answered the spinster, setting her comb tight with a fierce thrust, “it’s hard every one of us can’t have our own ways in this world! But don’t take on now, Martha dear; we only have your father’s word, and not to be called a friend’s, but _I’ll_ see how the land lays, and tomorrow evenin’, or next day at th’ outside, you’ll know everything fair and square. Neither you nor Gilbert is inclined to do things rash, and what you _both_ agree on, after a proper understanding I guess’ll be pretty nigh right. There! where’s my knittin’-basket?”

Miss Lavender trudged off, utterly fearless of the night walk of two miles, down the lonely road. In less than an hour she knocked at the door of the farm-house, and was received with open arms by Mary Potter. Gilbert had slept the greater part of the day, but was now awake, and so restless, from the desire to leave his bed, that his mother could with difficulty restrain him.

“Set down and rest yourself, Mary!” Miss Betsy exclaimed. “I’ll go up and put him to rights.”

She took a lamp and mounted to the bed-room. Gilbert, drenched in perspiration, and tossing uneasily under a huge pile of blankets, sprang up as her gaunt figure entered the door. She placed the lamp on a table, pressed him down on the pillow by main force, and covered him up to the chin.

“Martha?” he whispered, his face full of intense, piteous eagerness.

“Will you promise to lay still and sweat, as you’re told

“Yes, yes!”

“Now let me feel your pulse. That’ll do; now for your tongue! Tut, tut! the boy’s not so bad. I give you my word you may get up and dress yourself to-morrow mornin’, if you’ll only hold out to-night. And as for thorough-stem tea, and what not, I guess you’ve had enough of ’em; but you can’t jump out of a sick-spell into downright peartness, at one jump!”

“Martha, Martha!” Gilbert urged.

“You’re both of a piece, I declare! There was she, this very night, dead set on comin’ down with me, and mortal hard it was to persuade her to be reasonable!”

Miss Lavender had not a great deal to relate, but Gilbert compelled her to make up by repetition what she lacked in quantity. And at every repetition the soreness seemed to decrease in his body, and the weakness in his muscles, and hope and courage to increase in his heart.

“Tell her,” he exclaimed, “it was enough that she wanted to come. That alone has put new life into me!”

“I see it has,” said Miss Lavender, “and now, maybe, you’ve got life enough to tell me all the ups and downs o’ this affair, for I can’t say as I rightly understand it.”

The conference was long and important. Gilbert related every circumstance of his adventure, including the mysterious allusion to Alfred Barton, which he had concealed from his mother. He was determined, as his first course, to call the volunteers together and organize a thorough hunt for the highwayman. Until that had been tried, he would postpone all further plans of action. Miss Lavender did not say much, except to encourage him in this determination. She felt that there was grave matter for reflection in what had happened. The threads of mystery seemed to increase, and she imagined it possible that they might all converge to one unknown point.

“Mary,” she said, when she descended to the kitchen, “I don’t see but what the boy’s goin’ on finely. Go to bed, you, and sleep quietly; I’ll take the settle, here, and I promise you I’ll go up every hour through the night, to see whether he’s kicked his coverin’s off.”

Which promise she faithfully kept, and in the morning Gilbert came down to breakfast, a little haggard, but apparently as sound as ever. Even the Doctor, when he arrived, was slightly surprised at the rapid improvement.

“A fine constitution for medicines to work on,” he remarked. “I wouldn’t wish thee to be sick, but when thee is, it’s a pleasure to see how thy system obeys the treatment.”

Martha Deane, during Miss Lavender’s absence, had again discussed, in her heart, her duty to Gilbert. Her conscience was hardly satisfied with the relinquishment of her first impulse. She felt that there was, there must be, something for her to do in this emergency. She knew that he had toiled, and dared, and suffered for her sake, while she had done nothing. It was not pride,–at least not the haughty quality which bears an obligation uneasily,–but rather the impulse, at once brave and tender, to stand side by side with him in the struggle, and win an equal right to the final blessing.

In the afternoon Miss Lavender returned, and her first business was to give a faithful report of Gilbert’s condition and the true story of his misfortune, which she repeated, almost word for word, as it came from his lips. It did not differ materially from that which Martha had already heard, and the direction which her thoughts had taken, in the mean time, seemed to be confirmed. The gentle, steady strength of purpose that looked from her clear blue eyes, and expressed itself in the firm, sharp curve of her lip, was never more distinct than when she said,–

“Now, Betsy, all is clear to me. You were right before, and I am right now. I must see Gilbert when he calls the men together, and after that I shall know how to act.”

Three days afterwards, there was another assemblage of the Kennett Volunteers at the Unicorn Tavern. This time, however, Mark Deane was on hand, and Alfred Barton did not make his appearance. That Gilbert Potter should take the command was an understood matter. The preliminary consultation was secretly held, and when Dougherty, the Irish ostler, mixed himself, as by accident, among the troop, Gilbert sharply ordered him away. Whatever the plan of the chase was, it was not communicated to the crowd of country idlers; and there was, in consequence, some grumbling at, and a great deal of respect for, the new arrangement.

Miss Betsy Lavender had managed to speak to Gilbert before the others arrived; therefore, after they had left, to meet the next day, equipped for a possible absence of a week, he crossed the road and entered Dr. Deane’s house.

This time the two met, not so much as lovers, but rather as husband and wife might meet after long absence and escape from imminent danger. Martha Deane knew how cruel and bitter Gilbert’s fate must seem to his own heart, and she resolved that all the cheer which lay in her buoyant, courageous nature should be given to him. Never did a woman more sweetly blend the tones of regret and faith, sympathy and encouragement.

“The time has come, Gilbert,” she said at last, “when our love for each other must no longer be kept a secret–at least from the few who, under other circumstances, would have a right to know it. We must still wait, though no longer (remember that!) than we were already agreed to wait; but we should betray ourselves, sooner or later, and then the secret, discovered by others, would seem to hint at a sense of shame. We shall gain respect and sympathy, and perhaps help, if we reveal it ourselves. Even if you do not take the same view, Gilbert, think of this, that it is my place to stand beside you in your hour of difficulty and trial; that other losses, other dangers, may come, and you could not, you must not, hold me apart when my heart tells me we should be together!”

She laid her arms caressingly over his shoulders, and looked in his face. A wonderful softness and tenderness touched his pale, worn countenance. “Martha,” he said, “remember that my disgrace will cover you, yet awhile.”

“Gilbert!”

That one word, proud, passionate, reproachful, yet forgiving, sealed his lips.

“So be it!” he cried. “God knows, I think but of you. If I selfishly considered myself, do you think I would hold back my own honor?”

“A poor honor,” she said, “that I sit comfortably at home and love you, while you are face to face with death!”

Martha Deane’s resolution was inflexibly taken. That same evening she went into the sitting-room, where her father was smoking a pipe before the open stove, and placed her chair opposite to his.

“Father,” she said, “thee has never asked any questions concerning Alfred Barton’s visit.”

The Doctor started, and looked at her keenly, before replying. Her voice had its simple, natural tone, her manner was calm and self-possessed; yet something in her firm, erect posture and steady eye impressed him with the idea that she had determined on a full and final discussion of the question.

“No, child,” he answered, after a pause. “I saw Alfred, and he said thee was rather taken by surprise. He thought, perhaps, thee didn’t rightly know thy own mind, and it would be better to wait a little. That is the chief reason why I haven’t spoken to thee.”

“If Alfred Barton said that, he told thee false,” said she. “I knew my own mind, as well then as now. I said to him that nothing could ever make me his wife.”

“Martha!” the Doctor exclaimed, “don’t be hasty! If Alfred is a little older”–

“Father!” she interrupted, “never mention this thing again! Thee can neither give me away, nor sell me; though I am a woman, I belong to myself. Thee knows I’m not hasty in anything. It was a long time before I rightly knew my own heart; but when I did know it and found that it had chosen truly, I gave it freely, and it is gone from me forever!”

“Martha, Martha!” cried Dr. Deane, starting from his seat, “what does all this mean?”

“It means something which it is thy right to know, and therefore I have made up my mind to tell thee, even at the risk of incurring thy lasting displeasure. It means that I have followed the guidance of my own heart and bestowed it on a man a thousand times better and nobler than Alfred Barton ever was, and, if the Lord spares us to each other, I shall one day be his wife!”

The Doctor glared at his daughter in speechless amazement. But she met his gaze steadily, although her face grew a shade paler, and the expression of the pain she could not entirely suppress, with the knowledge of the struggle before her, trembled a little about the corners of her lips.

“Who is this man?” he asked.

“Gilbert Potter.”

Dr. Deane’s pipe dropped from his hand and smashed upon the iron hearth.

“Martha Deane!” he cried. “Does the d—- _what_ possesses thee? Wasn’t it enough that thee should drive away the man I had picked out for thee, with a single view to thy own interest and happiness; but must thee take up, as a wicked spite to thy father, with almost the only man in the neighborhood who brings thee nothing but poverty and disgrace? It shall not be–it shall never be!”

“It _must_ be, father,” she said gently. “God hath joined our hearts and our lives, and no man–not even thee–shall put them asunder. If there were disgrace, in the eyes of the world,–which I now know there is not,–Gilbert has wiped it out by his courage, his integrity, and his sufferings. If he is poor, I am well to do.”

“Thee forgets,” the Doctor interrupted, in a stern voice, “the time isn’t up!”

“I know that unless thee gives thy consent, we must wait three years; but I hope, father, when thee comes to know Gilbert better, thee will not be so hard. I am thy only child, and my happiness cannot be indifferent to thee. I have tried to obey thee in all things”–

He interrupted her again. “Thee’s adding another cross to them I bear for thee already! Am I not, in a manner, thy keeper, and responsible for thee, before the world and in the sight of the Lord? But thee hardened thy heart against the direction of the Spirit, and what wonder, then, that it’s hardened against me?”

“No, father,” said Martha, rising and laying her hand softly upon his arm, “I _obeyed_ the Spirit in that other matter, as I obey my conscience in this. I took my duty into my own hands, and considered it in a humble, and, I hope, a pious spirit. I saw that there were innocent needs of nature, pleasant enjoyments of life, which did not conflict with sincere devotion, and that I was not called upon to renounce them because others happened to see the world in a different light. In this sense, thee is not my keeper; I must render an account, not to thee, but to Him who gave me my soul. Neither is thee the keeper of my heart and its affections. In the one case and the other my right is equal,–nay, it stands as far above thine as Heaven is above the earth!”

In the midst of his wrath, Dr. Deane could not help admiring his daughter. Foiled and exasperated as he was by the sweet, serene, lofty power of her words, they excited a wondering respect which he found it difficult to hide.

“Ah, Martha!” he said, “thee has a wonderful power, if it were only directed by the true Light! But now, it only makes the cross heavier. Don’t think that I’ll ever consent to see thee carry out thy strange and wicked fancies! Thee must learn to forget this man, Potter, and the sooner thee begins the easier it will be!”

“Father,” she answered, with a sad smile, “I’m sorry thee knows so little of my nature. The wickedness would be in forgetting. It is very painful to me that we must differ. Where my duty was wholly owed to thee, I have never delayed to give it; but here it is owed to Gilbert Potter,–owed, and will be given.”

“Enough, Martha!” cried the Doctor, trembling with anger; “don’t mention his name again!”

“I will not, except when the same duty requires it to be mentioned. But, father, try to think less harshly of the name; it will one day be mine!”

She spoke gently and imploringly, with tears in her eyes. The conflict had been, as she said, very painful; but her course was plain, and she dared not flinch a step at the outset. The difficulties must be met face to face, and resolutely assailed, if they were ever to be overcome.

Dr. Deane strode up and down the room in silence, with his hands behind his back. Martha stood by the fire, waiting his further speech, but he did not look at her, and at the end of half an hour, commanded shortly and sharply, without turning his head,–

“Go to bed!”

“Good-night, father,” she said, in her usual clear sweet voice, and quietly left the room.

CHAPTER XXIII.

A CROSS-EXAMINATION.

The story of Gilbert Potter’s robbery and marvellous escape from death ran rapidly through the neighborhood, and coming, as it did, upon the heels of his former adventure, created a great excitement. He became almost a hero in the minds of the people. It was not their habit to allow any man to _quite_ assume so lofty a character as that, but they granted to Gilbert fully as much interest as, in their estimation, any human being ought properly to receive. Dr. Deane was eagerly questioned, wherever he went; and if his garments could have exhaled the odors of his feelings, his questioners would have smelled aloes and asafoetida instead of sweet-marjoram and bergamot. But–in justice to him be it said–he told and retold the story very correctly; the tide of sympathy ran so high and strong, that he did not venture to stem it on grounds which could not be publicly explained.

The supposed disgrace of Gilbert’s birth seemed to be quite forgotten for the time; and there was no young man of spirit in the four townships who was not willing to serve under his command. More volunteers offered, in fact, than could be profitably employed. Sandy Flash was not the game to be unearthed by a loud, numerous, sweeping hunt; traps, pitfalls, secret and unwearied following of his many trails, were what was needed. So much time had elapsed that the beginning must be a conjectural beating of the bushes, and to this end several small companies were organized, and the country between the Octorara and the Delaware very effectually scoured.

When the various parties reunited, after several days, neither of them brought any positive intelligence, but all the greater store of guesses and rumors. Three or four suspicious individuals had been followed and made to give an account of themselves; certain hiding-places, especially the rocky lairs along the Brandywine and the North Valley-Hill, were carefully examined, and some traces of occupation, though none very recent, were discovered. Such evidence as there was seemed to indicate that part of the eastern branch of the Brandywine, between the forks of the stream and the great Chester Valley, as being the probable retreat of the highwayman, and a second expedition was at once organized. The Sheriff, with a posse of men from the lower part of the county, undertook to watch the avenues of escape towards the river.

This new attempt was not more successful, so far as its main object was concerned, but it actually stumbled upon Sandy Flash’s trail, and only failed by giving tongue too soon and following too impetuously. Gilbert and his men had a tantalizing impression (which later intelligence proved to have been correct) that the robber was somewhere near them,–buried in the depths of the very wood they were approaching, dodging behind the next barn as it came into view, or hidden under dead leaves in some rain-washed gulley. Had they but known, one gloomy afternoon in late December, that they were riding under the cedar-tree in whose close, cloudy foliage he was coiled, just above their heads! Had they but guessed who the deaf old woman was, with her face muffled from the cold, and six cuts of blue yarn in her basket! But detection had not then become a science, and they were far from suspecting the extent of Sandy Flash’s devices and disguises.

Many of the volunteers finally grew tired of the fruitless chase, and returned home; others could only spare a few days from their winter labors; but Gilbert Potter, with three or four faithful and courageous young fellows,–one of whom was Mark Deane,–returned again and again to the search, and not until the end of December did he confess himself baffled. By this time all traces of the highwayman were again lost; he seemed to have disappeared from the country.

“I believe Pratt’s right,” said Mark, as the two issued from the Marlborough woods, on their return to Kennett Square. “Chester County is too hot to hold him.”

“Perhaps so,” Gilbert answered, with a gloomy face. He was more keenly disappointed at the failure than he would then confess, even to Mark. The outrage committed upon him was still unavenged, and thus his loss, to his proud, sensitive nature, carried a certain shame with it. Moreover, the loss itself must speedily be replaced. He had half flattered himself with the hope of capturing not only Sandy Flash, but his plunder; it was hard to forget that, for a day or two, he had been independent,–hard to stoop again to be a borrower and a debtor!

“What are the county authorities good for?” Mark exclaimed. “Between you and me, the Sheriff’s a reg’lar puddin’-head. I wish you was in his place.”

“If Sandy is safe in Jersey, or down on the Eastern Shore, that would do no good. It isn’t enough that he leaves us alone, from this time on; he has a heavy back-score to settle.”

“Come to think on it, Gilbert,” Mark continued, “isn’t it rather queer that you and him should be thrown together in such ways? There was Barton’s fox-chase last spring; then your shootin’ at other, at the Square; and then the robbery on the road. It seems to me as if he picked you out to follow you, and yet I don’t know why.”

Gilbert started. Mark’s words reawakened the dark, incredible suspicion which Martha Deane had removed. Again he declared to himself that he would not entertain the thought, but he could not reject the evidence that there was something more than accident in all these encounters. If any one besides Sandy Flash were responsible for the last meeting, it must be Alfred Barton. The latter, therefore, owed him an explanation, and he would demand it.

When they reached the top of the “big hill” north of the Fairthorn farm-house, whence they looked eastward down the sloping corn-field which had been the scene of the husking-frolic, Mark turned to Gilbert with an honest blush all over his face, and said,–

“I don’t see why you shouldn’t know it, Gilbert. I’m sure Sally wouldn’t care; you’re almost like a brother to her.”

“What?” Gilbert asked, yet with a quick suspicion of the coming intelligence.

“Oh, I guess you know, well enough, old fellow. I asked her that night, and it’s all right between us. What do you say to it, now?”

“Mark, I’m glad of it; I wish you joy, with all my heart!” Gilbert stretched out his hand, and as he turned and looked squarely into Mark’s half-bashful yet wholly happy face, he remembered Martha’s words, at their last interview.

“You are like a brother to me, Mark,” he said, “and you shall have _my_ secret. What would you say if I had done the same thing?”

“No?” Mark exclaimed; “who?”

“Guess!”

“Not–not Martha?”

Gilbert smiled.

“By the Lord! It’s the best day’s work _you_’ve ever done! Gi’ me y’r hand ag’in; we’ll stand by each other faster than ever, now!”

When they stopped at Fairthorn’s, the significant pressure of Gilbert’s hand brought a blush into Sally’s cheek; but when Mark met Martha with his tell-tale face, she answered with a proud and tender smile.

Gilbert’s first business, after his return, was to have a consultation with Miss Betsy Lavender, who alone knew of the suspicions attaching to Alfred Barton. The spinster had, in the mean time, made the matter the subject of profound and somewhat painful cogitation. She had ransacked her richly stored memory of persons and events, until her brain was like a drawer of tumbled clothes; had spent hours in laborious mental research, becoming so absorbed that she sometimes gave crooked answers when spoken to, and was haunted with a terrible dread of having thought aloud; and had questioned the oldest gossips right and left, coming as near the hidden subject as she dared. When they met, she communicated the result to Gilbert in this wise:

“‘T a’n’t agreeable for a body to allow they’re flummuxed, but if _I_ a’n’t, this time, I’m mighty near onto it. It’s like lookin’ for a set o’ buttons that’ll match, in a box full o’ tail-ends o’ things. This’n ‘d do, and that’n ‘d do; but you can’t put this’n and that’n together; and here’s got to be square work, everything fittin’ tight and hangin’ plumb, or it’ll be throwed back onto your hands, and all to be done over ag’in. I dunno when I’ve done so much head-work and to no purpose, follerin’ here and guessin’ there, and nosin’ into everything that’s past and gone; and so my opinion is, whether you like it or not, but never mind, all the same, I can’t do no more than give it, that we’d better drop what’s past and gone, and look a little more into these present times!”

“Well, Betsy,” said Gilbert, with a stern, determined face, “this is what I shall do. I am satisfied that Barton is connected, in some way, with Sandy Flash. What it is, or whether the knowledge will help us, I can’t guess; but I shall force Barton to tell me!”

“To tell me. That might do, as far as it goes,” she remarked, after a moment’s reflection. “It won’t be easy; you’ll have to threaten as well as coax, but I guess you can git it out of him in the long run, and maybe I can help you here, two bein’ better than one, if one is but a sheep’s-head.”

“I don’t see, Betsy, that I need to call on you.”

“This way, Gilbert. It’s a strong p’int o’ law, I’ve heerd tell, not that I know much o’ law, Goodness knows, nor ever want to, but never mind, it’s a strong p’int when there’s two witnesses to a thing,–one to clinch what the t’other drives in; and you must have a show o’ law to work on Alf. Barton, or I’m much mistaken!”

Gilbert reflected a moment. “It can do no harm,” he then said; “can you go with me, now?”

“Now’s the time! If we only git the light of a farden-candle out o’ him, it’ll do me a mortal heap o’ good; for with all this rakin’ and scrapin’ for nothin’, I’m like a heart pantin’ after the water-brooks, though a mouth would be more like it, to my thinkin’, when a body’s so awful dry as that comes to!”

The two thereupon took the foot-path down through the frozen fields and the dreary timber of the creek-side, to the Barton farm-house. As they approached the barn, they saw Alfred Barton sitting on a pile of straw and watching Giles, who was threshing wheat. He seemed a little surprised at their appearance; but as Gilbert and he had not met since their interview in the corn-field before the former’s departure for Chester, he had no special cause for embarrassment.

“Come into the house,” he said, leading the way.

“No,” Gilbert answered, “I came here to speak with you privately. Will you walk down the lane?”

“No objection, of course,” said Barton, looking from Gilbert to Miss Lavender, with a mixture of curiosity and uneasiness. “Good news, I hope; got hold of Sandy’s tracks, at last?”

“One of them.”

“Ah, you don’t say so! Where?”

“Here!”

Gilbert stopped and faced Barton. They were below the barn, and out of Giles’s hearing.

“Barton,” he resumed, “you know what interest I have in the arrest of that man, and you won’t deny my right to demand of you an account of your dealings with him. When did you first make his acquaintance?”

“I’ve told you that, already; the matter has been fully talked over between us,” Barton answered, in a petulant tone.

“It has not been fully talked over. I require to know, first of all, precisely when, and under what circumstances, you and Sandy Flash came together. There is more to come, so let us begin at the beginning.”

“Damme, Gilbert, _you_ were there, and saw as much as I did. How could I know who the cursed black-whiskered fellow was?”

“But you found it out,” Gilbert persisted, “and the manner of your finding it out must be explained.”

Barton assumed a bold, insolent manner. “I don’t see as that follows,” he said. “It has nothing in the world to do with his robbery of you; and as for Sandy Flash, I wish to the Lord you’d get hold of him, yourself, instead of trying to make me accountable for his comings and goings!”

“He’s tryin’ to fly off the handle,” Miss Lavender remarked. “I’d drop that part o’ the business a bit, if I was you, and come to the t’other proof.”

“What the devil have _you_ to do here?” asked Barton.

“Miss Betsy is here because I asked her,” Gilbert said. “Because all that passes between us may have to be repeated in a court of justice, and two witnesses are better than one!”

He took advantage of the shock which these words produced upon Barton, and repeated to him the highwayman’s declarations, with the inference they might bear if not satisfactorily explained. “I kept my promise,” he added, “and said nothing to any living soul of your request that I should carry money for you to Chester. Sandy Flash’s information, therefore, must have come, either directly or indirectly, from you.”

Barton had listened with open mouth and amazed eyes.

“Why, the man is a devil!” he cried. “I, neither, never said a word of the matter to any living soul!”

“Did you really send any money?” Gilbert asked.

“That I did! I got it of Joel Ferris, and it happened he was bound for Chester, the very next day, on his own business; and so, instead of turning it over to me, he just paid it there, according to my directions. You’ll understand, this is between ourselves?”

He darted a sharp, suspicious glance at Miss Betsy Lavender, who gravely nodded her head.

“The difficulty is not yet explained,” said Gilbert, “and perhaps you’ll _now_ not deny my right to know something more of your first acquaintance with Sandy Flash?”

“Have it then!” Barton exclaimed, desperately–“and much good may it do you! I thought his name was Fortune, as much as you did, till nine o’clock that night, when he put a pistol to my breast in the woods! If you think I’m colloguing with him, why did he rob me under threat of murder,–money, watch, and everything?”

“Ah-ha!” said Miss Lavender, “and so that’s the way your watch has been gittin’ mended all this while? Mainspring broke, as I’ve heerd say; well, I don’t wonder! Gilbert, I guess this much is true. Alf. Barton’d never live so long without that watch, and that half-peck o’ seals, if he could help it!”

“This, too, may as well be kept to ourselves,” Barton suggested. “It isn’t agreeable to a man to have it known that he’s been so taken in as I was, and that’s just the reason why I kept it to myself; and, of course, I shouldn’t like it to get around.”

Gilbert could do no less than accept this part of the story, and it rendered his later surmises untenable. But the solution which he sought was as far off as ever.

“Barton,” he said, after a long pause, “will you do your best to help me in finding out how Sandy Flash got the knowledge?”

“Only show me a way! The best would be to catch him and get it from his own mouth.”

He looked so earnest, so eager, and–as far as the traces of cunning in his face would permit–so honest, that Gilbert yielded to a sudden impulse, and said,–

“I believe you, Barton. I’ve done you wrong in my thoughts,–not willingly, for I don’t want to think badly of you or any one else,–but because circumstances seemed to drive me to it. It would have been better if you had told me of your robbery at the start.”

“You’re right there, Gilbert! I believe I was an outspoken fellow enough, when I was young, and all the better for it, but the old man’s driven me into a curst way of keeping dark about everything, and so I go on heaping up trouble for myself.”

“Trouble for myself, Alf. Barton,” said Miss Lavender, “that’s the truest word you’ve said this many a day. Murder will out, you know, and so will robbery, and so will–other things. More o’ your doin’s is known, not that they’re agreeabler, but on the contrary, quite the reverse, and as full need to be explained, though it don’t seem to matter much, yet it may, who can tell? And now look here, Gilbert; my crow is to be picked, and you’ve seen the color of it, but never mind, all the same, since Martha’s told the Doctor, it can’t make much difference to you. And this is all between ourselves, you understand?”

The last words were addressed to Barton, with a comical, unconscious imitation of his own manner. He guessed something of what was coming, though not the whole of it, and again became visibly uneasy; but he stammered out,–“Yes; oh, yes! of course.”

Gilbert could form a tolerably correct idea of the shape and size of Miss Lavender’s crow. He did not feel sure that this was the proper time to have it picked, or even that it should be picked at all; but he imagined that Miss Lavender had either consulted Martha Deane, or that she had wise reasons of her own for speaking. He therefore remained silent.

“First and foremost,” she resumed, “I’ll tell you, Alf. Barton, what we know o’ your doin’s, and then it’s for you to judge whether we’ll know any more. Well, you’ve been tryin’ to git Martha Deane for a wife, without wantin’ her in your heart, but rather the contrary, though it seems queer enough when a body comes to think of it, but never mind; and your father’s druv you to it; and you were of a cold shiver for fear she’d take you, and yet you want to let on it a’n’t settled betwixt and between you–oh, you needn’t chaw your lips and look yaller about the jaws, it’s the Lord’s truth; and now answer me this, _what do you mean?_ and maybe you’ll say what right have I got to ask, but never mind, all the same, if I haven’t, Gilbert Potter has, for it’s him that Martha Deane has promised to take for a husband!”

It was a day of surprises for Barton. In his astonishment at the last announcement, he took refuge from the horror of Miss Lavender’s first revelations. One thing was settled,–all the fruits of his painful and laborious plotting were scattered to the winds. Denial was of no use, but neither could an honest explanation, even if he should force himself to give it, be of any possible service.

“Gilbert,” he asked, “is this true?–about _you_, I mean.”

“Martha Deane and I are engaged, and were already at the time when you addressed her,” Gilbert answered.

“Good heavens! I hadn’t the slightest suspicion of it. Well–I don’t begrudge you your luck, and of course I’ll draw back, and never say another word, now or ever.”

“_You_ wouldn’t ha’ been comfortable with Martha Deane, anyhow,” Miss Lavender grimly remarked. “‘T isn’t good to hitch a colt-horse and an old spavined critter in one team. But that’s neither here nor there; you ha’n’t told us why you made up to her for a purpose, and kep’ on pretendin’ she didn’t know her own mind.”

“I’ve promised Gilbert that I won’t interfere, and that’s enough,” said Barton, doggedly.

Miss Lavender was foiled for a moment, but she presently returned to the attack. “I dunno as it’s enough, after what’s gone before,” she said. “Couldn’t you go a step furder, and lend Gilbert a helpin’ hand, whenever and whatever?”

“Betsy!” Gilbert exclaimed.

“Let me alone, lad! I don’t speak in Gilbert’s name, nor yet in Martha’s; only out o’ my own mind. I don’t ask you to do anything, but I want to know how it stands with your willin’ness.”

“I’ve offered, more than once, to do him a good turn, if I could; but I guess my help wouldn’t be welcome,” Barton answered. The sting of the suspicion rankled in his mind, and Gilbert’s evident aversion sorely wounded his vanity.

“Wouldn’t be welcome. Then I’ll only say this; maybe I’ve got it in my power, and ‘t isn’t sayin’ much, for the mouse gnawed the mashes o’ the lion’s net, to help you to what you’re after, bein’ as it isn’t Martha, and can’t be her money. S’pose I did it o’ my own accord, leavin’ you to feel beholden to me, or not, after all’s said and done?”

But Alfred Barton was proof against even this assault. He was too dejected to enter, at once, into a new plot, the issue of which would probably be as fruitless as the others. He had already accepted a sufficiency of shame, for one day. This last confession, if made, would place his character in a still grosser and meaner light; while, if withheld, the unexplained motive might be presented as a partial justification of his course. He had been surprised into damaging admissions; but here he would take a firm stand.

“You’re right so far, Betsy,” he said, “that I had a reason–a good reason, it seemed to me, but I may be mistaken–for what I did. It concerns no one under Heaven but my own self; and though I don’t doubt your willingness to do me a good turn, it would make no difference–you couldn’t help one bit. I’ve given the thing up, and so let it be!”

There was nothing more to be said, and the two cross-examiners took their departure. As they descended to the creek, Miss Lavender remarked, as if to herself,–

“No use–it can’t be screwed out of him! So there’s one cur’osity the less; not that I’m glad of it, for not knowin’ worries more than knowin’, whatsoever and whosoever. And I dunno as I think any the wuss of him for shuttin’ his teeth so tight onto it.”

Alfred Barton waited until the two had disappeared behind the timber in the bottom. Then he slowly followed, stealing across the fields and around the stables, to the back-door of the Unicorn bar-room. It was noticed that, although he drank a good deal that afternoon, his ill-humor was not, as usual, diminished thereby.

CHAPTER XXIV.

DEB. SMITH TAKES A RESOLUTION.

It was a raw, overcast evening in the early part of January. Away to the west there was a brownish glimmer in the dark-gray sky, denoting sunset, and from that point there came barely sufficient light to disclose the prominent features of a wild, dreary, uneven landscape.

The foreground was a rugged clearing in the forest, just where the crest of a high hill began to slope rapidly down to the Brandywine. The dark meadows, dotted with irregular lakes of ice, and long, dirty drifts of unmelted snow, but not the stream itself, could be seen. Across the narrow valley rose a cape, or foreland, of the hills beyond, timbered nearly to the top, and falling, on either side, into deep lateral glens,–those warm nooks which the first settlers loved to choose, both from their snug aspect of shelter, and from the cold, sparkling springs of water which every one of them held in its lap. Back of the summits of all the hills stretched a rich, rolling upland, cleared and mapped into spacious fields, but showing everywhere an edge of dark, wintry woods against the darkening sky.

In the midst of this clearing stood a rough cabin, or rather half-cabin, of logs; for the back of it was formed by a ledge of slaty rocks, some ten or twelve feet in height, which here cropped out of the hill-side. The raw clay with which the crevices between the logs had been stopped, had fallen out in many places; the roof of long strips of peeled bark was shrivelled by wind and sun, and held in its place by stones and heavy branches of trees, and a square tower of plastered sticks in one corner very imperfectly suggested a chimney. There was no inclosed patch of vegetable-ground near, no stable, improvised of corn-shocks, for the shelter of cow or pig, and the habitation seemed not only to be untenanted, but to have been forsaken years before.

Yet a thin, cautious thread of smoke stole above the rocks, and just as the starless dusk began to deepen into night, a step was heard, slowly climbing upward through the rustling leaves and snapping sticks of the forest. A woman’s figure, wearily scaling the hill under a load which almost concealed the upper part of her body, for it consisted of a huge wallet, a rattling collection of articles tied in a blanket, and two or three bundles slung over her shoulders with a rope. When at last, panting from the strain, she stood beside the cabin, she shook herself, and the articles, with the exception of the wallet, tumbled to the ground. The latter she set down carefully, thrust her arm into one of the ends and drew forth a heavy jug, which she raised to her mouth. The wind was rising, but its voice among the trees was dull and muffled; now and then a flake of snow dropped out of the gloom, as if some cowardly, insulting creature of the air were spitting at the world under cover of the night.

“It’s likely to be a good night,” the woman muttered, “and he’ll be on the way by this time. I must put things to rights.”

She entered the cabin by a narrow door in the southern end. Her first care was to rekindle the smouldering fire from a store of boughs and dry brushwood piled in one corner. When a little flame leaped up from the ashes, it revealed an interior bare and dismal enough, yet very cheery in contrast with the threatening weather outside. The walls were naked logs and rock, the floor of irregular flat stones, and no furniture remained except some part of a cupboard or dresser, near the chimney. Two or three short saw-cuts of logs formed as many seats, and the only sign of a bed was a mass of dry leaves, upon which a blanket had been thrown, in a hollow under the overhanging base of the rock.

Untying the blanket, the woman drew forth three or four rude cooking utensils, some dried beef and smoked sausages, and two huge round loaves of bread, and arranged them upon the one or two remaining shelves of the dresser. Then she seated herself in front of the fire, staring into the crackling blaze, which she mechanically fed from time to time, muttering brokenly to herself in the manner of one accustomed to be much alone.

“It was a mean thing, after what I’d said,–my word used to be wuth somethin’, but times seems to ha’ changed. If they have, why shouldn’t I change with ’em, as well’s anybody else? Well, why need it matter? I’ve got a bad name…. No, that’ll never do! Stick to what you’re about, or you’ll be wuthlesser, even, than they says you are!”

She shook her hard fist, and took another pull at the jug.

“It’s well I laid in a good lot o’ _that_,” she said. “No better company for a lonesome night, and it’ll stop his cussin’, I reckon, anyhow. Eh? What’s that?”

From the wood came a short, quick yelp, as from some stray dog. She rose, slipped out the door, and peered into the darkness, which was full of gathering snow. After listening a moment, she gave a low whistle. It was not answered, but a stealthy step presently approached, and a form, dividing itself from the gloom, stood at her side.

“All right, Deb?”

“Right as I can make it. I’ve got meat and drink, and I come straight from the Turk’s Head, and Jim says the Sheriff’s gone back to Chester, and there’s been nobody out these three days. Come in and take bite and sup, and then tell me everything.”

They entered the cabin. The door was carefully barred, and then Sandy Flash, throwing off a heavy overcoat, such as the drovers were accustomed to wear, sat down by the fire. His face was redder than its wont, from cold and exposure, and all its keen, fierce lines were sharp and hard. As he warmed his feet and hands at the blaze, and watched Deb. Smith while she set the meat upon the coals, and cut the bread with a heavy hunting-knife, the wary, defiant look of a hunted animal gradually relaxed, and he said,–

“Faith, Deb., this is better than hidin’ in the frost. I believe I’d ha’ froze last night, if I hadn’t got down beside an ox for a couple o’ hours. It’s a dog’s life they’ve led me, and I’ve had just about enough of it.”

“Then why not give it up, Sandy, for good and all? I’ll go out with you to the Backwoods, after–after things is settled.”

“And let ’em brag they frightened me away!” he exclaimed, with an oath. “Not by a long shot, Deb. I owe ’em a score for this last chase–I’ll make the rich men o’ Chester County shake in their shoes, and the officers o’ the law, and the Volunteers, damme! before I’ve done with ’em. When I go away for good, I’ll leave somethin’ behind me for them to remember me by!”

“Well, never mind; eat a bit–the meat’s ready, and see here, Sandy! I carried this all the way.”

He seized the jug and took a long draught. “You’re a good ‘un, Deb.,” he said. “A man isn’t half a man when his belly’s cold and empty.”

He fell to, and ate long and ravenously. Warmed at last, both by fire and fare, and still more by his frequent potations, he commenced the story of his disguises and escapes, laughing at times with boisterous self-admiration, swearing brutally and bitterly at others, over the relentless energy with which he had been pursued. Deb. Smith listened with eager interest, slapping him upon the back with a force of approval which would have felled an ordinary man, but which Sandy Flash cheerfully accepted as a caress.

“You see,” he said at the close, “after I sneaked between Potter’s troop and the Sheriff’s, and got down into the lower corner o’ the county, I managed to jump aboard a grain-sloop bound for Newport, but they were froze in at the mouth o’ Christeen; so I went ashore, dodged around Wilmington, (where I’m rather too well known,) and come up Whitely Creek as a drover from Mar’land. But from Grove up to here, I’ve had to look out mighty sharp, takin’ nigh onto two days for what I could go straight through in half a day.”

“Well, I guess you’re safe here, Sandy,” she said; “they’ll never think o’ lookin’ for you twice’t in the same place. Why didn’t you send word for me before? You’ve kep’ me a mortal long time a-waitin’, and down on the Woodrow farm would ha’ done as well as here.”

“It’s a little too near that Potter. He’d smell me out as quick as if I was a skunk to windward of him. Besides, it’s time I was pitchin’ on a few new holes; we must talk it over together, Deb.”

He lifted the jug again to his mouth. Deb. Smith, although she had kept nearly even pace with him, was not so sensible to the potency of the liquor, and was watching for the proper degree of mellowness, in order to broach the subject over which she had been secretly brooding since his arrival.

“First of all, Sandy,” she now said, “I want to talk to you about Gilbert Potter. The man’s my friend, and I thought you cared enough about me to let my friends alone.”

“So I do, Deb., when they let me alone. I had a right to shoot the fellow, but I let him off easy, as much for your sake as because he was carryin’ another man’s money.”

“That’s not true!” she cried. “It was his own money, every cent of it,–hard-earned money, meant to pay off his debts; and I can say it because I helped him earn it, mowin’ and reapin’ beside him in the harvest-field, thrashin’ beside him in the barn, eatin’ at his table, and sleepin’ under his roof. I gev him my word he was safe from you, but you’ve made me out a liar, with no more thought o’ me than if I’d been a stranger or an enemy!”

“Come, Deb., don’t get into your tantrums. Potter may be a decent fellow, as men go, for anything I know, but you’re not beholden to him because he treated you like a Christian as you are. You seem to forgit that he tried to take my life,–that he’s hardly yet giv’ up huntin’ me like a wild beast! Damn him, if the money _was_ his, which I don’t believe, it wouldn’t square accounts between us. You think more o’ his money than o’ my life, you huzzy!”

“No I don’t, Sandy!” she protested, “no I don’t. You know me better’n that. What am I here for, to-night? Have I never helped you, and hid you, and tramped the country for you back and forth, by day and by night,–and for what? Not for money, but because I’m your wife, whether or not priest or ‘squire has said it. I thought you cared for me, I did, indeed; I thought you might do one thing to please me!”

There was a quivering motion in the muscles of her hard face; her lips were drawn convulsively, with an expression which denoted weeping, although no tears came to her eyes.

“Don’t be a fool!” Sandy exclaimed. “S’pose you have served me, isn’t it somethin’ to have a man to serve? What other husband is there for you in the world, than me,–the only man that isn’t afeard o’ your fist? You’ve done your duty by me, I’ll allow, and so have I done mine by you!”

“Then,” she begged, “do this one thing over and above your duty. Do it, Sandy, as a bit o’ kindness to me, and put upon me what work you please, till I’ve made it up to you! You dunno what it is, maybe, to have one person in the world as shows a sort o’ respect for you–that gives you his hand honestly, like a gentleman, and your full Chris’en name. It does good when a body’s been banged about as I’ve been, and more used to curses than kind words, and not a friend to look after me if I was layin’ at Death’s door–and I don’t say you wouldn’t come, Sandy, but you can’t. And there’s no denyin’ that he had the law on his side, and isn’t more an enemy than any other man. Maybe he’d even be a friend in need, as far as he dared, if you’d only do it”–

“Do what? What in the Devil’s name is the woman drivin’ at?” yelled Sandy Flash.

“Give back the money; it’s his’n, not Barton’s,–I know it. Tell me where it is, and I’ll manage the whole thing for you. It’s got to be paid in a month or two, folks says, and they’ll come on him for it, maybe take and sell his farm–sell th’ only house, Sandy, where I git my rights, th’ only house where I git a bit o’ peace an’ comfort! You wouldn’t be that hard on me?”

The highwayman took another deep drink and rose to his feet. His face was stern and threatening. “I’ve had enough o’ this foolery,” he said. “Once and for all, Deb., don’t you poke your nose into my affairs! Give back the money? Tell you where it is? Pay him for huntin’ me down? I could take you by the hair and knock your head ag’in the wall, for them words!”

She arose also and confronted him. The convulsive twitching of her mouth ceased, and her face became as hard and defiant as his. “Sandy Flash, mark my words!” she exclaimed. “You’re a-goin’ the wrong way, when you stop takin’ only from the Collectors and the proud rich men, and sparin’ the poor. Instead o’ doin’ good to balance the bad, it’ll soon be all bad, and you no better ‘n a common thief! You needn’t show your teeth; it’s true, and I say it square to y’r face!”

She saw the cruel intensity of his anger, but did not flinch. They had had many previous quarrels, in which neither could claim any very great advantage over the other; but the highwayman was now in an impatient and exasperated mood, and she dared more than she suspected in defying him.

“You —-!” (the epithet he used cannot be written,) “will you stop your jaw, or shall I stop it for you? I’m your master, and I give you your orders, and the first order is, Not another word, now and never, about Potter or his money!”

He had never before outraged her by such a word, never before so brutally asserted his claim to her obedience. All the hot, indignant force of her fierce, coarse nature rose in resistance. She was thoroughly aroused and fearless. The moment had come, she felt, when the independence which had been her compensation amid all the hardships and wrongs of her life, was threatened,–when she must either preserve it by a desperate effort, or be trampled under foot by this man, whom she both loved and feared, and in that moment, hated.

“I’ll not hold my jaw!” she cried, with flashing eyes. “Not even at your biddin’, Sandy Flash! I’ll not rest till I have the money out o’ you; there’s no law ag’inst stealin’ from a thief!”

The answer was a swift, tremendous blow of the highwayman’s fist, delivered between her eyes. She fell, and lay for a moment stunned, the blood streaming from her face. Then with a rapid movement, she seized the hunting-knife which lay beside the fire, and sprang to her feet.

The knife was raised in her right hand, and her impulse was to plunge it into his heart. But she could not avoid his eyes; they caught and held her own, as if by some diabolical fascination. He stood motionless, apparently awaiting the blow. Nothing in his face or attitude expressed fear; only all the power of the man seemed to be concentrated in his gaze, and to hold her back. The impulse once arrested, he knew, it would not return. The eyes of each were fixed on the other’s, and several minutes of awful silence thus passed.

Finally, Deb. Smith slightly shuddered, as if with cold, her hand slowly fell, and without a word she turned away to wash her bloody face.

Sandy Flash grinned, took another drink of whiskey, resumed his seat before the fire, and then proceeded to fill his pipe. He lit and smoked it to the end, without turning his head, or seeming to pay the least attention to her movements. She, meanwhile, had stopped the flow of blood from her face, bound a rag around her forehead, and lighted her own pipe, without speaking. The highwayman first broke the silence.

“As I was a-sayin’,” he remarked, in his ordinary tone, “we’ve got to look out for new holes, where the scent isn’t so strong as about these. What do you think o’ th’ Octorara?”

“Where?” she asked. Her voice was hoarse and strange, but he took no notice of it, gazing steadily into the fire as he puffed out a huge cloud of smoke.

“Well, pretty well down,” he said. “There’s a big bit o’ woodland, nigh onto two thousand acres, belongin’ to somebody in Baltimore that doesn’t look at it once’t in ten years, and my thinkin’ is, it’d be as safe as the Backwoods. I must go to–it’s no difference where–to-morrow mornin’, but I’ll be back day after to-morrow night, and you needn’t stir from here till I come. You’ve grub enough for that long, eh?”

“It’ll do,” she muttered.

“Then, that’s enough. I must be off an hour before day, and I’m devilish fagged and sleepy, so here goes!”

With these words he rose, knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and stretched himself on the bed of leaves. She continued to smoke her pipe.

“Deb.,” he said, five minutes afterwards, “I’m not sure o’ wakin’. You look out for me,–do you hear?”

“I hear,” she answered, in the same low, hoarse voice, without turning her head. In a short time Sandy Flash’s deep breathing announced that he slept. Then she turned and looked at him with a grim, singular smile, as the wavering fire-light drew clear pictures of his face which the darkness as constantly wiped out again. By-and-by she noiselessly moved her seat nearer to the wall, leaned her head against the rough logs, and seemed to sleep. But, even if it were sleep, she was conscious of his least movement, and started into alert wakefulness, if he turned, muttered in dreams, or crooked a finger among the dead leaves. From time to time she rose, stole out of the cabin and looked at the sky. Thus the night passed away.

There was no sign of approaching dawn in the dull, overcast, snowy air; but a blind, animal instinct of time belonged to her nature, and about two hours before sunrise, she set about preparing a meal. When all was ready, she bent over Sandy Flash, seized him by the shoulder, and shook his eyes open.

“Time!” was all she said.

He sprang up, hastily devoured the bread and meat, and emptied the jug of its last remaining contents.

“Hark ye, Deb.,” he exclaimed, when he had finished, “you may as well trudge over to the Turk’s Head and fill this while I’m gone. We’ll need all of it, and more, tomorrow night. Here’s a dollar, to pay for’t. Now I must be on the tramp, but you may look for me to-morrow, an hour after sun.”

He examined his pistols, stuck them in his belt, threw his drover’s cloak over his shoulders, and strode out of the cabin. She waited until the sound of his footsteps had died away in the cold, dreary gloom, and then threw herself upon the pallet which he had vacated. This time she slept soundly, until hours after the gray winter day had come up the sky.

Her eyes were nearly closed by the swollen flesh, and she laid handfuls of snow upon her face, to cool the inflamation. At first, her movements were uncertain, expressing a fierce conflict, a painful irresolution of feeling; she picked up the hunting-knife, looked at it with a ghastly smile, and then threw it from her. Suddenly, however, her features changed, and every trace of her former hesitation vanished. After hurriedly eating the fragments left from Sandy’s breakfast, she issued from the cabin and took a straight and rapid course eastward, up and over the hill.

During the rest of that day and the greater part of the next, the cabin was deserted.

It was almost sunset, and not more than an hour before Sandy Flash’s promised return, when Deb. Smith again made her appearance. Her face was pale, (except for the dark blotches around the eyes,) worn, and haggard; she seemed to have grown ten years older in the interval.

Her first care was to rekindle the fire and place the replenished jug in its accustomed place. Then she arranged and rearranged the rude blocks which served for seats, the few dishes and the articles of food on the shelf, and, when all had been done, paced back and forth along the narrow floor, as if pushed by some invisible, tormenting power.

Finally a whistle was heard, and in a minute afterwards Sandy Flash entered the door. The bright blaze of the hearth shone upon his bold, daring, triumphant face.

“That’s right, Deb.,” he said. “I’m dry and hungry, and here’s a rabbit you can skin and set to broil in no time. Let’s look at you, old gal! The devil!–I didn’t mean to mark you like that. Well, bygones is bygones, and better times is a-comin’.”

“Sandy!” she cried, with a sudden, appealing energy, “Sandy–once’t more! Won’t you do for me what I want o’ you?”

His face darkened in an instant. “Deb!” was all the word he uttered, but she understood the tone. He took off his pistol-belt and laid it on the shelf. “Lay there, pets!” he said; “I won’t want you to-night. A long tramp it was, and I’m glad it’s over. Deb., I guess I’ve nigh tore off one o’ my knee-buckles, comin’ through the woods.”

Placing his foot upon one of the logs, he bent down to examine the buckle. Quick as lightning, Deb., who was standing behind him, seized each of his arms, just above the elbows, with her powerful hands, and drew them towards each other upon his back. At the same time she uttered a shrill, wild cry,–a scream so strange and unearthly in its character that Sandy Flash’s blood chilled to hear it.

“Curse you, Deb., what are you doing? Are you clean mad?” he ejaculated, struggling violently to free his arms.

“Which is strongest now?” she asked; “my arms, or your’n? I’ve got you, I’ll hold you, and I’ll only let go when I please!”

He swore and struggled, but he was powerless in her iron grip. In another minute the door of the cabin was suddenly burst open, and two armed men sprang upon him. More rapidly than the fact can be related, they snapped a pair of heavy steel handcuffs upon his wrists, pinioned his arms at his sides, and bound his knees together. Then, and not till then, Deb. Smith relaxed her hold.

Sandy Flash made one tremendous muscular effort, to test the strength of his bonds, and then stood motionless. His white teeth flashed between his parted lips, and there was a dull, hard glare in his eyes which told that though struck dumb with astonishment and impotent rage, he was still fearless, still unsubdued. Deb. Smith, behind him, leaned against the wall, pale and panting.

“A good night’s work!” remarked Chaffey, the constable, as he possessed himself of the musket, pistol-belt, and hunting-knife. “I guess this pitcher won’t go to the well any more.”

“We’ll see,” Sandy exclaimed, with a sneer. “You’ve got me, not through any pluck o’ your’n, but through black, underhanded treachery. You’d better double chain and handcuff me, or I may be too much for you yet!”

“I guess you’ll do,” said the constable, examining the cords by the light of a lantern which his assistant had in the mean time fetched from without. “I’ll even untie your knees, for you’ve to walk over the hill to the next farm-house, where we’ll find a wagon to carry you to Chester jail. I promise you more comfortable quarters than these, by daylight.”

The constable then turned to Deb. Smith, who had neither moved nor spoken.

“You needn’t come with us without you want to,” he said. “You can get your share of the money at any time; but you must remember to be ready to appear and testify, when Court meets.”

“Must I do that?” she gasped.

“Why, to be sure! It’s a reg’lar part of the trial, and can’t be left out, though there’s enough to hang the fellow ten times over, without you.”

The two unbound Sandy Flash’s knees and placed themselves on each side of him, the constable holding a cocked pistol in his right hand.

“March is the word, is it?” said the highwayman. “Well, I’m ready. Potter was right, after all; he said there’d be a curse on the money, and there is; but I never guessed the curse’d come upon me through _you_, Deb!”

“Oh, Sandy!” she cried, starting forward, “you druv me to it! The curse was o’ your own makin’–and I gev you a last chance to-night, but you throwed it from you!”

“Very well, Deb,” he answered, “if I’ve got my curse, don’t think you’ll not have your’n! Go down to Chester and git your blood-money, and see what’ll come of it, and what’ll come to you!”

He turned towards her as he spoke, and the expression of his face seemed so frightful that she shuddered and covered her eyes. The next moment, the old cabin door creaked open, fell back with a crash, and she was alone.

She stared around at the dreary walls. The sound of their footsteps had died away, and only the winter night-wind wailed through the crannies of the hut. Accustomed as she was to solitary life and rudest shelter, and to the companionship of her superstitious fancies, she had never before felt such fearful loneliness, such overpowering dread. She heaped sticks upon the fire, sat down before it, and drank from the jug. Its mouth was still wet from his lips, and it seemed that she was already drinking down the commencement of the curse.

Her face worked, and hard, painful groans burst from her lips. She threw herself upon the floor and grovelled there, until the woman’s relief which she had almost unlearned forced its forgotten way, through cramps and agonies, to her eyes. In the violent passion of her weeping and moaning, God saw and pitied, that night, the struggles of a dumb, ignorant, yet not wholly darkened nature.

Two hours afterwards she arose, sad, stern, and determined, packed together the things she had brought with her, quenched the fire (never again to be relighted) upon the hearth, and took her way, through cold and darkness, down the valley.

CHAPTER XXV.

TWO ATTEMPTS.

The news of Sandy Flash’s capture ran like wildfire through the county. As the details became more correctly known, there was great rejoicing but greater surprise, for Deb. Smith’s relation to the robber, though possibly surmised by a few, was unsuspected by the community at large. In spite of the service which she had rendered by betraying her paramour into the hands of justice, a bitter feeling of hostility towards her was developed among the people, and she was generally looked upon as an accomplice to Sandy Flash’s crimes, who had turned upon him only when she had ceased to profit by them.

The public attention was thus suddenly drawn away from Gilbert Potter, and he was left to struggle, as he best might, against the difficulties entailed by his loss. He had corresponded with Mr. Trainer, the conveyancer in Chester, and had learned that the money still due must not only be forthcoming on the first of April, but that it probably could not be obtained there. The excitement for buying lands along the Alleghany, Ohio, and Beaver rivers, in western Pennsylvania, had seized upon the few capitalists of the place, and Gilbert’s creditor had already been subjected to inconvenience and possible loss, as one result of the robbery. Mr. Trainer therefore suggested that he should make a