The Story Of Kennett by Bayard Taylor (page 6)

new loan in his own neighborhood, where the spirit of speculation had not yet reached.

The advice was prudent and not unfriendly, although of a kind more easy to give than to carry into execution. Mark’s money-belt had been restored, greatly against the will of the good-hearted fellow (who would have cheerfully lent Gilbert the whole amount had he possessed it), and there was enough grain yet to be threshed and sold, to yield something more than a hundred dollars; but this was all which Gilbert could count upon from his own resources. He might sell the wagon and one span of horses, reducing by their value the sum which he would be obliged to borrow; yet his hope of recovering the money in another year could only be realized by retaining them, to continue, from time to time, his occupation of hauling flour.

Although the sympathy felt for him was general and very hearty, it never took the practical form of an offer of assistance, and he was far too proud to accept that plan of relief which a farmer, whose barn had been struck by lightning and consumed, had adopted, the previous year,–going about the neighborhood with a subscription-list, and soliciting contributions. His nearest friends were as poor as, or poorer than, himself, and those able to aid him felt no call to tender their services.

Martha Deane knew of this approaching trouble, not from Gilbert’s own lips, for she had seen him but once and very briefly since his return from the chase of Sandy Flash. It was her cousin Mark, who, having entered into an alliance, offensive and defensive, with her lover, betrayed (considering that the end sanctioned the means) the confidence reposed in him.

The thought that her own coming fortune lay idle, while Gilbert might be saved by the use of a twentieth part of it, gave Martha Deane no peace. The whole belonged to him prospectively, yet would probably be of less service when it should be legally her own to give, than the fragment which now would lift him above anxiety and humiliation. The money had been bequeathed to her by a maternal aunt, whose name she bore, and the provisions by which the bequest was accompanied, so light and reasonable be fore, now seemed harsh and unkind. The payment of the whole sum, or any part of it, she saw, could not be anticipated. But she imagined there must be a way to obtain a loan of the necessary amount, with the bequest as security. With her ignorance of business matters, she felt the need of counsel in this emergency; yet her father was her guardian, and there seemed to be no one else to whom she could properly apply. Not Gilbert, for she fancied he might reject the assistance she designed, and therefore she meant to pay the debt before it became due, without his knowledge; nor Mark, nor Farmer Fairthorn. Betsy Lavender, when appealed to, shook her head, and remarked,–

“Lord bless you, child! a wuss snarl than ever. I’m gittin’ a bit skeary, when you talk o’ law and money matters, and that’s the fact. Not that I find fault with your wishin’ to do it, but the contrary, and there might be ways, as you say, only I’m not lawyer enough to find ’em, and as to advisin’ where I don’t see my way clear, Defend me from it!”

Thus thrown back upon herself, Martha was forced to take the alternative which she would gladly have avoided, and from which, indeed, she hoped nothing,–an appeal to her father. Gilbert Potter’s name had not again been mentioned between them. She, for her part, had striven to maintain her usual gentle, cheerful demeanor, and it is probable that Dr. Deane made a similar attempt; but he could not conceal a certain coldness and stiffness, which made an uncomfortable atmosphere in their little household.

“Well, Betsy,” Martha said (they were in her room, upstairs), “Father has just come in from the stable, I see. Since there is no other way, I will go down and ask his advice.”

“You don’t mean it, child!” cried the spinster.

Martha left the room, without answer.

“She’s got _that_ from him, anyhow,” Miss Betsy remarked, “and which o’ the two is stubbornest, I couldn’t undertake to say. If he’s dead-set on the wrong side, why, she’s jist as dead-set on the right side, and that makes a mortal difference. I don’t see why I should be all of a trimble, that only sets here and waits, while she’s stickin’ her head into the lion’s mouth; but so it is! Isn’t about time for _you_ to be doin’ somethin’, Betsy Lavender!”

Martha Deane entered the front sitting-room with a grave, deliberate step. The Doctor sat at his desk, with a pair of heavy silver-rimmed spectacles on his nose, looking over an antiquated “Materia Medica.” His upper lip seemed to have become harder and thinner, at the expense of the under one, which pouted in a way that expressed vexation and ill-temper. He was, in fact, more annoyed than he would have confessed to any human being. Alfred Barton’s visits had discontinued, and he could easily guess the reason. Moreover, a suspicion of Gilbert Potter’s relation to his daughter was slowly beginning to permeate the neighborhood; and more than once, within the last few days, all his peculiar diplomacy had been required to parry a direct question. He foresaw that the subject would soon come to the notice of his elder brethren among the Friends, who felt self-privileged to rebuke and remonstrate, even in family matters of so delicate a nature.

It was useless, the Doctor knew, to attempt coercion with Martha. If any measure could succeed in averting the threatened shame, it must be kindly persuasion, coupled with a calm, dispassionate appeal to her understanding. The quiet, gentle way in which she had met his anger, he now saw, had left the advantage of the first encounter on her side. His male nature and long habit of rule made an equal self-control very difficult, on his part, and he resolved to postpone a recurrence to the subject until he should feel able to meet his daughter with her own weapons. Probably some reflection of the kind then occupied his mind, in spite of the “Materia Medica” before him.

“Father,” said Martha, seating herself with a bit of sewing in her hand, “I want to ask thee a few questions about business matters.”

The Doctor looked at her. “Well, thee’s taking a new turn,” he remarked. “Is it anything very important?”

“Very important,” she answered; “it’s about my own fortune.”

“I thought thee understood, Martha, that that matter was all fixed and settled, until thee’s twenty-five, unless–unless”–

Here the Doctor hesitated. He did not wish to introduce the sore subject of his daughter’s marriage.

“I know what thee means, father. Unless I should sooner marry, with thy consent. But I do not expect to marry now, and therefore do not ask thy permission. What I want to know is, whether I could not obtain a loan of a small sum of money, on the security of the legacy?”

“That depends on circumstances,” said the Doctor, slowly, and after a long pause, during which he endeavored to guess his daughter’s design. “It might be,–yes, it might be; but, Martha, surely thee doesn’t want for money? Why should thee borrow?”

“Couldn’t thee suppose, father, that I need it for some good purpose? I’ve always had plenty, it is true; but I don’t think thee can say I ever squandered it foolishly or thoughtlessly. This is a case where I wish to make an investment,–a permanent investment.”

“Ah, indeed? I always fancied thee cared less for money than a prudent woman ought. How much might this investment be?”

“About six hundred dollars,” she answered.

“Six hundred!” exclaimed the Doctor; “that’s a large sum to venture, a large sum! Since thee can only raise it with my help, thee’ll certainly admit my right, as thy legal guardian, if not as thy father, to ask where, how, and on what security the money will be invested?”

Martha hesitated only long enough to reflect that her father’s assertion was probably true, and without his aid she could do nothing. “Father,” she then said, “_I_ am the security.”

“I don’t understand thee, child.”

“I mean that my whole legacy will be responsible to the lender for its repayment in three years from this time. The security _I_ ask, I have in advance; it is the happiness of my life!”

“Martha! thee doesn’t mean to say that thee would”–

Dr. Deane could get no further. Martha, with a sorrowful half-smile, took up his word.

“Yes, father, I would. Lest thee should not have understood me right, I repeat that I would, and will, lift the mortgage on Gilbert Potter’s farm. He has been very unfortunate, and there is a call for help which nobody heeds as he deserves. If I give it now, I simply give a part in advance. The whole will be given afterwards.”

Dr. Deane’s face grew white, and his lip trembled, in spite of himself. It was a minute or two before he ventured to say, in a tolerably steady voice,–

“Thee still sets up thy right (as thee calls it) against mine, but mine is older built and will stand. To help thee to this money would only be to encourage thy wicked fancy for the man. Of course, I can’t do it; I wonder thee should expect it of me. I wonder, indeed, thee should think of taking as a husband one who borrows money of thee almost as soon as he has spoken his mind!”

For an instant Martha Deane’s eyes flashed. “Father!” she cried, “it is not so! Gilbert doesn’t even know my desire to help him. I must ask this of thee, to speak no evil of him in my hearing. It would only give me unnecessary pain, not shake my faith in his honesty and goodness. I see thee will not assist me, and so I must endeavor to find whether the thing cannot be done without thy assistance. In three years more the legacy will be mine, I shall go to Chester, and consult a lawyer, whether my own note for that time could not be accepted!”

“I can spare thee the trouble,” the Doctor said. “In case of thy death before the three years are out, who is to pay the note? Half the money falls to me, and half to thy uncle Richard. Thy aunt Martha was wise. It truly seems as if she had foreseen just what has happened, and meant to baulk thy present rashness. Thee may go to Chester, and welcome, if thee doubts my word; but unless thee can give positive assurance that thee will be alive in three years’ time, I don’t know of any one foolish enough to advance thee money.”

The Doctor’s words were cruel enough; he might have spared his triumphant, mocking smile. Martha’s heart sank within her, as she recognized her utter helplessness. Not yet, however, would she give up the sweet hope of bringing aid; for Gilbert’s sake she would make another appeal.

“I won’t charge thee, father, with being intentionally unkind. It would almost seem, from thy words, that thee is rather glad than otherwise, because my life is uncertain. If I _should_ die, would thee not care enough for my memory to pay a debt, the incurring of which brought me peace and happiness during life? _Then_, surely, thee would forgive; thy heart is not so hard as thee would have me believe; thee wishes me happiness, I cannot doubt, but thinks it will come in _thy_ way, not in mine. Is it not possible to grant me this–only this–and leave everything else to time?”

Dr. Deane was touched and softened by his daughter’s words. Perhaps he might even have yielded to her entreaty at once, had not a harsh and selfish condition presented itself in a very tempting form to his mind.

“Martha,” he said, “I fancy that thee looks upon this matter of the loan in the light of a duty, and will allow that thy motives may be weighty to thy own mind. I ask thee to calm thyself, and consider things clearly. If I grant thy request, I do so against my own judgment, yea,–since it concerns thy interests,–against my own conscience. This is not a thing to be lightly done, and if I should yield, I might reasonably expect some little sacrifice of present inclination–yet all for thy future good–on thy part. I would cheerfully borrow the six hundred dollars for thee, or make it up from my own means, if need be, to know that the prospect of thy disgrace was averted. Thee sees no disgrace, I am aware, and pity that it is so; but if thy feeling for the young man is entirely pure and unselfish, it should be enough to know that thee had saved him from ruin, without considering thyself bound to him for life.”

The Doctor sharply watched his daughter’s face while he spoke. She looked up, at first, with an eager, wondering light of hope in her eyes,–a light that soon died away, and gave place to a cloudy, troubled expression. Then the blood rose to her cheeks, and her lips assumed the clear, firm curve which always reflected the decisions of her mind.

“Father,” she said, “I see thee has learned how to tempt, as well as threaten. For the sake of doing a present good, thee would have me bind myself to do a life-long injustice. Thee would have me take an external duty to balance a violation of the most sacred conscience of my heart. How little thee knows me! It is not alone that I am necessary to Gilbert Potter’s happiness, but also that he is necessary to mine. Perhaps it is the will of Heaven that so great a bounty should not come to me too easily, and I must bear, without murmuring, that my own father is set against me. Thee may try me, if thee desires, for the coming three years, but I can tell thee as well, now, what the end will be. Why not rather tempt me by offering the money Gilbert needs, on the condition of my giving up the rest of the legacy to thee? That would be a temptation, I confess.”

“No!” he exclaimed, with rising exasperation, “if thee has hardened thy heart against all my counsels for thy good, I will at least keep my own conscience free. I will not help thee by so much as the moving of a finger. All I can do is, to pray that thy stubborn mind may be bent, and gradually led back to the Light!”

He put away the book, took his cane and broad-brimmed hat, and turned to leave the room. Martha rose, with a sad but resolute face, and went up-stairs to her chamber.

Miss Betsy Lavender, when she learned all that had been said, on both sides, was thrown into a state of great agitation and perplexity of mind. She stared at Martha Deane, without seeming to see her, and muttered from time to time such fragmentary phrases as,–“If I was right-down sure,” or, “It’d only be another weepon tried and throwed away, at the wust.”

“What are you thinking of, Betsy?” Martha finally asked.

“Thinkin’ of? Well, I can’t rightly tell you. It’s a bit o’ knowledge that come in my way, once’t upon a time, never meanin’ to make use of it in all my born days, and I wouldn’t now, only for your two sakes; not that it concerns you a mite; but never mind, there’s ten thousand ways o’ workin’ on men’s minds, and I can’t do no more than try my way.”

Thereupon Miss Lavender arose, and would have descended to the encounter at once, had not Martha wisely entreated her to wait a day or two, until the irritation arising from her own interview had had time to subside in her father’s mind.

“It’s puttin’ me on nettles, now that I mean fast and firm to do it; but you’re quite right, Martha,” the spinster said.

Three or four days afterwards she judged the proper time had arrived, and boldly entered the Doctor’s awful presence. “Doctor,” she began, “I’ve come to have a little talk, and it’s no use beatin’ about the bush, plainness o’ speech bein’ one o’ my ways; not that folks always thinks it a virtue, but oftentimes the contrary, and so may you, maybe; but when there’s a worry in a house, it’s better, whatsoever and whosoever, to have it come to a head than go on achin’ and achin’, like a blind bile!”

“H’m,” snorted the Doctor, “I see what thee’s driving at, and I may as well tell thee at once, that if thee comes to me from Martha, I’ve heard enough from her, and more than enough.”

“More ‘n enough,” repeated Miss Lavender. “But you’re wrong. I come neither from Martha, nor yet from Gilbert Potter; but I’ve been thinkin’ that you and me, bein’ old,–in a measure, that is,–and not so direckly concerned, might talk the thing over betwixt and between us, and maybe come to a better understandin’ for both sides.”

Dr. Deane was not altogether disinclined to accept this proposition. Although Miss Lavender sometimes annoyed him, as she rightly conjectured, by her plainness of speech, he had great respect for her shrewdness and her practical wisdom. If he could but even partially win her to his views, she would be a most valuable ally.

“Then say thy say, Betsy,” he assented.

“Thy say, Betsy. Well, first and foremost, I guess we may look upon Alf. Barton’s courtin’ o’ Martha as broke off for good, the fact bein’ that he never wanted to have her, as he’s told me since with his own mouth.”

“What?” Dr. Deane exclaimed.

“With his own mouth.” Miss Lavender repeated. “And as to his reasons for lettin’ on, I don’t know ’em. Maybe you can guess ’em, as you seem to ha’ had everything cut and dried betwixt and between you; but that’s neither here nor there–Alf. Barton bein’ out o’ the way, why, the coast’s clear, and so Gilbert’s case is to be considered by itself; and let’s come to the p’int, namely, what you’ve got ag’in him?”

“I wonder thee can ask, Betsy! He’s poor, he’s base-born, without position or influence in the neighborhood,–in no way a husband for Martha Deane! If her head’s turned because he has been robbed, and marvellously saved, and talked about, I suppose I must wait till she comes to her right senses.”

“I rather expect,” Miss Lavender gravely remarked, “that they were bespoke before all that happened, and it’s not a case o’ suddent fancy, but somethin’ bred in the bone and not to be cured by plasters. We won’t talk o’ that now, but come back to Gilbert Potter, and I dunno as you’re quite right in any way about his bein’s and doin’s. With that farm o’ his’n, he can’t be called poor, and I shouldn’t wonder, though I can’t give no proofs, but never mind, wait awhile and you’ll see, that he’s not base-born, after all; and as for respect in the neighborhood, there’s not a man more respected nor looked up to,–so the last p’int’s settled, and we’ll take the t’ other two; and I s’pose you mean his farm isn’t enough?”

“Thee’s right,” Dr. Deane said. “As Martha’s guardian, I am bound to watch over her interests, and every prudent man will agree with me that her husband ought at least to be as well off as herself.”

“Well, all I’ve got to say, is, it’s lucky for you that Naomi Blake didn’t think as you do, when she married you. What’s sass for the goose ought to be sass for the gander (meanin’ you and Gilbert), and every prudent man will agree with me.”

This was a home-thrust, which Dr. Deane was not able to parry. Miss Lavender had full knowledge whereof she affirmed, and the Doctor knew it.

“I admit that there might be other advantages,” he said, rather pompously, covering his annoyance with a pinch of snuff,–“advantages which partly balance the want of property. Perhaps Naomi Blake thought so too. But here, I think, it would be hard for thee to find such. Or does thee mean that the man’s disgraceful birth is a recommendation?”

“Recommendation? No!” Miss Lavender curtly replied.

“We need go no further, then. Admitting thee’s right in all other respects, here is cause enough for me. I put it to thee, as a sensible woman, whether I would not cover both myself and Martha with shame, by allowing her marriage with Gilbert Potter?”

Miss Lavender sat silently in her chair and appeared to meditate.

“Thee doesn’t answer,” the Doctor remarked, after a pause.

“I dunno how it come about,” she said, lifting her head and fixing her dull eyes on vacancy; “I was thinkin’ o’ the time I was up at Strasburg, while your brother was livin’, more ‘n twenty year ago.”

With all his habitual self-control and gravity of deportment, Dr. Deane could not repress a violent start of surprise. He darted a keen, fierce glance at Miss Betsy’s face, but she was staring at the opposite wall, apparently unconscious of the effect of her words.

“I don’t see what that has to do with Gilbert Potter,” he presently said, collecting himself with an effort.

“Nor I, neither,” Miss Lavender absently replied, “only it happened that I knowed Eliza Little,–her that used to live at the Gap, you know,–and just afore she died, that fall the fever was so bad, and I nussin’ her, and not another soul awake in the house, she told me a secret about your brother’s boy, and I must say few men would ha’ acted as Henry done, and there’s more ‘n one mighty beholden to him.”

Dr. Deane stretched out his hand as if he would close her mouth. His face was like fire, and a wild expression of fear and pain shot from his eyes.

“Betsy Lavender,” he said, in a hollow voice, “thee is a terrible woman. Thee forces even the secrets of the dying from them, and brings up knowledge that should be hidden forever. What can all this avail thee? Why does thee threaten me with appearances, that cannot now be explained, all the witnesses being dead?”

“Witnesses bein’ dead,” she repeated. “Are you sorry for that?”

He stared at her in silent consternation.

“Doctor,” she said, turning towards him for the first time, “there’s no livin’ soul that knows, except you and me, and if I seem hard, I’m no harder than the knowledge in your own heart. What’s the difference, in the sight o’ the Lord, between the one that has a bad name and the one that has a good name? Come, you set yourself up for a Chris’en, and so I ask you whether you’re the one that ought to fling the first stone; whether repentance–and there’s that, of course, for you a’n’t a nateral bad man, Doctor, but rather the contrary–oughtn’t to be showed in deeds, to be wuth much! You’re set ag’in Martha, and your pride’s touched, which I can’t say as I wonder at, all folks havin’ pride, me among the rest, not that I’ve much to be proud of, Goodness knows; but never mind, don’t you talk about Gilbert Potter in that style, leastways before me!”

During this speech, Dr. Deane had time to reflect. Although aghast at the unexpected revelation, he had not wholly lost his cunning. It was easy to perceive what Miss Lavender intended to do with the weapon in her hands, and his aim was to render it powerless.

“Betsy,” he said, “there’s one thing thee won’t deny,–that, if there was a fault, (which I don’t allow), it has been expiated. To make known thy suspicions would bring sorrow and trouble upon two persons for whom thee professes to feel some attachment; if thee could prove what thee thinks, it would be a still greater misfortune for them than for me. They are young, and my time is nearly spent. We all have serious burdens which we must bear alone, and thee mustn’t forget that the same consideration for the opinion of men which keeps thee silent, keeps me from consenting to Martha’s marriage with Gilbert Potter. We are bound alike.”

“We’re not!” she cried, rising from her seat. “But I see it’s no use to talk any more, now. Perhaps since you know that there’s a window in you, and me lookin’ in, you’ll try and keep th’ inside o’ your house in better order. Whether I’ll act accordin’ to my knowledge or not, depends on how things turns out, and so sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof, or however it goes!”

With these words she left the room, though foiled, not entirely hopeless.

“It’s like buttin’ over an old stone-wall,” she said to Martha. “The first hit with a rammer seems to come back onto you, and jars y’r own bones, and may be the next, and the next; and then little stones git out o’ place, and then the wall shakes, and comes down,–and so we’ve been a-doin’. I guess I made a crack to-day, but we’ll see.”

CHAPTER XXVI.

THE LAST OF SANDY FLASH.

The winter crept on, February was drawing to a close, and still Gilbert Potter had not ascertained whence the money was to be drawn which would relieve him from embarrassment. The few applications he had made were failures; some of the persons really had no money to invest, and others were too cautious to trust a man who, as everybody knew, had been unfortunate. In five weeks more the sum must be made up, or the mortgage would be foreclosed.

Both Mary Potter and her son, in this emergency, seemed to have adopted, by accident or sympathy, the same policy towards each other,–to cheer and encourage, in every possible way. Gilbert carefully concealed his humiliation, on returning home from an unsuccessful appeal for a loan, and his mother veiled her renewed sinking of the heart, as she heard of his failure, under a cheerful hope of final success, which she did not feel. Both had, in fact, one great consolation to fall back upon,–she that he had been mercifully saved to her, he that he was beloved by a noble woman.

All the grain that could be spared and sold placed but little more than a hundred dollars in Gilbert’s hands, and he began seriously to consider whether he should not be obliged to sell his wagon and team. He had been offered a hundred and fifty dollars, (a very large sum, in those days,) for Roger, but he would as soon have sold his own right arm. Not even to save the farm would he have parted with the faithful animal. Mark Deane persisted in increasing his seventy-five dollars to a hundred, and forcing the loan upon his friend; so one third of the amount was secure, and there was still hope for the rest.

It is not precisely true that there had been no offer of assistance. There was _one_, which Gilbert half-suspected had been instigated by Betsy Lavender. On a Saturday afternoon, as he visited Kennett Square to have Roger’s fore-feet shod, he encountered Alfred Barton at the blacksmith’s shop, on the same errand.

“The man I wanted to see!” cried the latter, as Gilbert dismounted. “Ferris was in Chester last week, and he saw Chaffey, the constable, you know, that helped catch Sandy; and Chaffey told him he was sure, from something Sandy let fall, that Deb. Smith had betrayed him out of revenge, because he robbed you. I want to know how it all hangs together.”

Gilbert suddenly recalled Deb. Smith’s words, on the day after his escape from the inundation, and a suspicion of the truth entered his mind for the first time.

“It must have been so!” he exclaimed. “She has been a better friend to me than many people of better name.”

Barton noticed the bitterness of the remark, and possibly drew his own inference from it. He looked annoyed for a moment, but presently beckoned Gilbert to one side, and said,–

“I don’t know whether you’ve given up your foolish suspicions about me and Sandy; but the trial comes off next week, and you’ll have to be there as a witness, of course, and can satisfy yourself, if you please, that my explanation was nothing but the truth. I’ve not felt so jolly in twenty years, as when I heard that the fellow was really in the jug!”

“I told you I believed your words,” Gilbert answered, “and that settles the matter. Perhaps I shall find out how Sandy learned what you said to me that evening, on the back-porch of the Unicorn, and if so, I am bound to let you know it.”

“See here, Gilbert!” Barton resumed. “Folks say you must borrow the money you lost, or the mortgage on your farm will be foreclosed. Is that so? and how much money might it be, altogether, if you don’t mind telling?”

“Not so much, if those who have it to lend, had a little faith in me,–some four or five hundred dollars.”

“That ought to be got, without trouble,” said Barton. “If I had it by me, I’d lend it to you in a minute; but you know I borrowed from Ferris myself, and all o’ my own is so tied up that I couldn’t move it without the old man getting on my track. I’ll tell you what I’ll do, though; I’ll indorse your note for a year, if it can be kept a matter between ourselves and the lender. On account of the old man, you understand.”

The offer was evidently made in good faith, and Gilbert hesitated, reluctant to accept it, and yet unwilling to reject it in a manner that might seem unfriendly.

“Barton,” he said at last, “I’ve never yet failed to meet a money obligation. All my debts, except this last, have been paid on the day I promised, and it seems a little hard that my own name, alone, shouldn’t be good for as much as I need. Old Fairthorn would give me his indorsement, but I won’t ask for it; and I mean no offence when I say that I’d rather get along without yours, if I can. It’s kind in you to make the offer, and to show that I’m not ungrateful, I’ll beg you to look round among your rich friends and help me to find the loan.”

“You’re a mighty independent, fellow, Gilbert, but I can’t say as I blame you for it. Yes, I’ll look round in a few days, and maybe I’ll stumble on the right man by the time I see you again.”

When Gilbert returned home, he communicated this slight prospect of relief to his mother. “Perhaps I am a little too proud,” he said; “but you’ve always taught me, mother, to be beholden to no man, if I could help it; and I should feel more uneasy under an obligation to Barton than to most other men. You know I must go to Chester in a few days, and must wait till I’m called to testify. There will then be time to look around, and perhaps Mr. Trainer may help me yet.”

“You’re right, boy!” Mary Potter cried, with flashing eyes. “Keep your pride; it’s not of the mean kind! Don’t ask for or take any man’s indorsement!”

Two days before the time when Gilbert was summoned to Chester, Deb. Smith made her appearance at the farm. She entered the barn early one morning, with a bundle in her hand, and dispatched Sam, whom she found in the stables, to summon his master. She looked old, weather-beaten, and haggard, and her defiant show of strength was gone.

In betraying Sandy Flash into the hands of justice, she had acted from a fierce impulse, without reflecting upon the inevitable consequences of the step. Perhaps she did not suspect that she was also betraying herself, and more than confirming all the worst rumors in regard to her character. In the universal execration which followed the knowledge of her lawless connection with Sandy Flash, and her presumed complicity in his crimes, the merit of her service to the county was lost. The popular mind, knowing nothing of her temptations, struggles, and sufferings, was harsh, cold, and cruel, and she felt the weight of its verdict as never before. A few persons of her own ignorant class, who admired her strength and courage in their coarse way, advised her to hide until the first fury of the storm should be blown over. Thus she exaggerated the danger, and even felt uncertain of her reception by the very man for whose sake she had done the deed and accepted the curse.

Gilbert, however, when he saw her worn, anxious face, the eyes, like those of a dumb animal, lifted to his with an appeal which she knew not how to speak, felt a pang of compassionate sympathy.

“Deborah!” he said, “you don’t look well; come into the house and warm yourself!”

“No!” she cried, “I won’t darken your door till you’ve heerd what I’ve got to say. Go ‘way, Sam; I want to speak to Mr. Gilbert, alone.”

Gilbert made a sign, and Sam sprang down the ladder, to the stables under the threshing-floor.

“Mayhap you’ve heerd already,” she said. “A blotch on a body’s name spreads fast and far. Mine was black enough before, God knows, but they’ve blackened it more.”

“If all I hear is true,” Gilbert exclaimed, “you’ve blackened it for my sake, Deborah. I’m afraid you thought I blamed you, in some way, for not preventing my loss; but I’m sure you did what you could to save me from it!”

“Ay, lad, that I did! But the devil seemed to ha’ got into him. Awful words passed between us, and then–the devil got into _me_, and–you know what follered. He wouldn’t believe the money was your’n, or I don’t think he’d ha’ took it; he wasn’t a bad man at heart, Sandy wasn’t, only stubborn at the wrong times, and brung it onto himself by that. But you know what folks says about me?”

“I don’t care what they say, Deborah!” Gilbert cried. “I know that you are a true and faithful friend to me, and I’ve not had so many such in my life that I’m likely to forget what you’ve tried to do!”

Her hard, melancholy face became at once eager and tender. She stepped forward, put her hand on Gilbert’s arm, and said, in a hoarse, earnest, excited whisper,–

“Then maybe you’ll take it? I was almost afeard to ax you,–I thought you might push me away, like the rest of ’em; but you’ll take it, and that’ll seem like a liftin’ of the curse! You won’t mind how it was got, will you? I had to git it in that way, because no other was left to me!”

“What do you mean, Deborah?”

“The money, Mr. Gilbert! They allowed me half, though the constables was for thirds, but the Judge said I’d arned the full half,–God knows, ten thousand times wouldn’t pay me!–and I’ve got it here, tied up safe. It’s your’n, you know, and maybe there a’n’t quite enough, but as fur as it goes; and I’ll work out the amount o’ the rest, from time to time, if you’ll let me come onto your place!”

Gilbert was powerfully and yet painfully moved. He forgot his detestation of the relation in which Deb. Smith had stood to the highwayman, in his gratitude for her devotion to himself. He felt an invincible repugnance towards accepting her share of the reward, even as a loan; it was “blood-money,” and to touch it in any way was to be stained with its color; yet how should he put aside her kindness without inflicting pain upon her rude nature, made sensitive at last by abuse, persecution, and remorse?

His face spoke in advance of his lips, and she read its language with wonderful quickness.

“Ah!” she cried, “I mistrusted how it’d be; you don’t want to say it right out, but I’ll say it for you! You think the money’d bring you no luck,–maybe a downright curse,–and how can I say it won’t? Ha’n’t it cursed me? Sandy said it would, even as your’n follered him. What’s it good for, then? It burns my hands, and them that’s clean, won’t touch it. There, you damned devil’s-bait,–my arm’s sore, and my heart’s sore, wi’ the weight o’ you!”

With these words she flung the cloth, with its bunch of hard silver coins, upon the threshing-floor. It clashed like the sound of chains. Gilbert saw that she was sorely hurt. Tears of disappointment, which she vainly strove to hold back, rose to her eyes, as she grimly folded her arms, and facing him, said,–

“Now, what am I to do?”

“Stay here for the present, Deborah,” he answered.

“Eh? A’n’t I summonsed? The job I undertook isn’t done yet; the wust part’s to come! Maybe they’ll let me off from puttin’ the rope round his neck, but I a’n’t sure o’ that!”

“Then come to me afterwards,” he said, gently, striving to allay her fierce, self-accusing mood. “Remember that you always have a home and a shelter with me, whenever you need them. And I’ll take your money,” he added, picking it up from the floor,–“take it in trust for you, until the time shall come when you will be willing to use it. Now go in to my mother.”

The woman was softened and consoled by his words. But she still hesitated.

“Maybe she won’t–she won’t”–

“She will!” Gilbert exclaimed. “But if you doubt, wait here until I come back.”

Mary Potter earnestly approved of his decision, to take charge of the money, without making use of it. A strong, semi-superstitious influence had so entwined itself with her fate, that she even shrank from help, unless it came in an obviously pure and honorable form. She measured the fulness of her coming justification by the strict integrity of the means whereby she sought to deserve it. Deb. Smith, in her new light, was no welcome guest, and with all her coarse male strength, she was still woman enough to guess the fact; but Mary Potter resolved to think only that her son had been served and befriended. Keeping that service steadily before her eyes, she was able to take the outcast’s hand, to give her shelter and food, and, better still, to soothe her with that sweet, unobtrusive consolation which only a woman can bestow,–which steals by avenues of benevolent cunning into a nature that would repel a direct expression of sympathy.

The next morning, however, Deb. Smith left the house, saying to Gilbert,–“You won’t see me ag’in, without it may be in Court, till after all’s over; and then I may have to ask you to hide me for awhile. Don’t mind what I’ve said; I’ve no larnin’, and can’t always make out the rights o’ things,–and sometimes it seems there’s two Sandys, a good ‘un and a bad ‘un, and meanin’ to punish one, I’ve ruined ’em both!”

When Gilbert reached Chester, the trial was just about to commence. The little old town on the Delaware was crowded with curious strangers, not only from all parts of the county, but even from Philadelphia and the opposite New-Jersey shore. Every one who had been summoned to testify was beset by an inquisitive circle, and none more so than himself. The Court-house was packed to suffocation; and the Sheriff, heavily armed, could with difficulty force a way through the mass. When the clanking of the prisoner’s irons was heard, all the pushing, struggling, murmuring sounds ceased until the redoubtable highwayman stood in the dock.

He looked around the Court-room with his usual defiant air, and no one observed any change of expression, as his eyes passed rapidly over Deb. Smith’s face, or Gilbert Potter’s. His hard red complexion was already beginning to fade in confinement, and his thick hair, formerly close-cropped for the convenience of disguises, had grown out in not ungraceful locks. He was decidedly a handsome man, and his bearing seemed to show that he was conscious of the fact.

The trial commenced. To the astonishment of all, and, as it was afterwards reported, against the advice of his counsel, the prisoner plead guilty to some of the specifications of the indictment, while he denied others. The Collectors whom he had plundered were then called to the witness-stand, but the public seemed to manifest less interest in the loss of its own money, than in the few cases where private individuals had suffered, and waited impatiently for the latter.

Deb. Smith had so long borne the curious gaze of hundreds of eyes, whenever she lifted her head, that when her turn came, she was able to rise and walk forward without betraying any emotion. Only when she was confronted with Sandy Flash, and he met her with a wonderfully strange, serious smile, did she shudder for a moment and hastily turn away. She gave her testimony in a hard, firm voice, making her statements as brief as possible, and volunteering nothing beyond what was demanded.

On being dismissed from the stand, she appeared to hesitate. Her eyes wandered over the faces of the lawyers, the judges, and the jurymen, as if with a dumb appeal, but she did not speak. Then she turned towards the prisoner, and some words passed between them, which, in the general movement of curiosity, were only heard by the two or three persons who stood nearest.

“Sandy!” she was reported to have said, “I couldn’t help myself; take the curse off o’ me!”

“Deb., it’s too late,” he answered. “It’s begun to work, and it’ll work itself out!”

Gilbert noticed the feeling of hostility with which Deb. Smith was regarded by the spectators,–a feeling that threatened to manifest itself in some violent way, when the restraints of the place should be removed. He therefore took advantage of the great interest with which his own testimony was heard, to present her character in the light which her services to him shed upon it. This was a new phase of the story, and produced a general movement of surprise. Sandy Flash, it was noticed, sitting with his fettered hands upon the rail before him, leaned forward and listened intently, while an unusual flush deepened upon his cheeks.

The statements, though not strictly in evidence, were permitted by the Court, and they produced the effect which Gilbert intended. The excitement reached its height when Deb. Smith, ignorant of rule, suddenly rose and cried out,–

“It’s true as Gospel, every word of it! Sandy, do you hear?”

She was removed by the constable, but the people, as they made way, uttered no word of threat or insult. On the contrary, many eyes rested on her hard, violent, wretched face with an expression of very genuine compassion.

The trial took its course, and terminated with the result which everybody–even the prisoner himself–knew to be inevitable. He was pronounced guilty, and duly sentenced to be hanged by the neck until he was dead.

Gilbert employed the time which he could spare from his attendance at the Court, in endeavoring to make a new loan, but with no positive success. The most he accomplished was an agreement, on the part of his creditor, that the foreclosure might be delayed two or three weeks, provided there was a good prospect of the money being obtained. In ordinary times he would have had no difficulty; but, as Mr. Trainer had written, the speculation in western lands had seized upon capitalists, and the amount of money for permanent investment was already greatly diminished.

He was preparing to return home, when Chaffey, the constable, came to him with a message from Sandy Flash. The latter begged for an interview, and both Judge and Sheriff were anxious that Gilbert should comply with his wishes, in the hope that a full and complete confession might be obtained. It was evident that the highwayman had accomplices, but he steadfastly refused to name them, even with the prospect of having his sentence commuted to imprisonment for life.

Gilbert did not hesitate a moment. There were doubts of his own to be solved,–questions to be asked, which Sandy Flash could alone answer. He followed the constable to the gloomy, high-walled jail-building, and was promptly admitted by the Sheriff into the low, dark, heavily barred cell, wherein the prisoner sat upon a wooden stool, the links of his leg-fetters passed through a ring in the floor.

Sandy Flash lifted his face to the light, and grinned, but not with his old, mocking expression. He stretched out his hand which Gilbert took,–hard and cold as the rattling chain at his wrist. Then, seating himself with a clash upon the floor, he pushed the stool towards his visitor, and said,–

“Set down, Potter. Limited accommodations, you see. Sheriff, you needn’t wait; it’s private business.”

The Sheriff locked the iron door behind him, and they were alone.

“Potter,” the highwayman began, “you see I’m trapped and done for, and all, it seems, on account o’ that little affair o’ your’n. You won’t think it means much, now, when I say I was in the wrong there; but I swear I was! I had no particular spite ag’in Barton, but he’s a swell, and I like to take such fellows down; and I was dead sure you were carryin’ his money, as you promised to.”

“Tell me one thing,” Gilbert interrupted; “how did you know I promised to take money for him?”

“I knowed it, that’s enough; I can give you, word for word, what both o’ you said, if you doubt me.”

“Then, as I thought, it was Barton himself!” Gilbert cried.

Sandy Flash burst into a roaring laugh. “_Him!_ Ah-ha! you think we go snacks, eh? Do I look like a fool? Barton’d give his eye-teeth to put the halter round my neck with his own hands! No, no, young man; I have ways and ways o’ learnin’ things that you nor him’ll never guess.”

His manner, even more than his words, convinced Gilbert Barton was absolved, but the mystery remained. “You won’t deny that you have friends?” he said.

“Maybe,” Sandy replied, in a short, rough tone. “That’s nothin’ to you,” he continued; “but what I’ve got to say is, whether or no you’re a friend to Deb., she thinks you are. Do you mean to look after her, once’t in a while, or are you one o’ them that forgits a good turn?”

“I have told her,” said Gilbert, “that she shall always have a home and a shelter in my house. If it’s any satisfaction to you, here’s my hand on it!”

“I believe you, Potter. Deb.’s done ill by me; she shouldn’t ha’ bullied me when I was sore and tetchy, and fagged out with _your_ curst huntin’ of me up and down! But I’ll do that much for her and for you. Here; bend your head down; I’ve got to whisper.”

Gilbert leaned his ear to the highwayman’s mouth.

“You’ll only tell _her,_ you understand?”

Gilbert assented.

“Say to her these words,–don’t forgit a single one of ’em!–Thirty steps from the place she knowed about, behind the two big chestnut-trees, goin’ towards the first cedar, and a forked sassyfrack growin’ right over it. What she finds, is your’n.”

“Sandy!” Gilbert exclaimed, starting from his listening posture.

“Hush, I say! You know what I mean her to do,–give you your money back. I took a curse with it, as you said. Maybe that’s off o’ me, now!”

“It is!” said Gilbert, in a low tone, “and forgiveness–mine and my mother’s–in the place of it. Have you any”–he hesitated to say the words–“any last messages, to her or anybody else, or anything you would like to have done?”

“Thank ye, no!–unless Deb. can find my black hair and whiskers. Then you may give ’em to Barton, with my dutiful service.”

He laughed at the idea, until his chains rattled.

Gilbert’s mind was haunted with the other and darker doubt, and he resolved, in this last interview, to secure himself against its recurrence. In such an hour he could trust the prisoner’s words.

“Sandy,” he asked, “have you any children?”

“Not to my knowledge; and I’m glad of it.”

“You must know,” Gilbert continued, “what the people say about my birth. My mother is bound from telling me who my father was, and I dare not ask her any questions. Did you ever happen to know her, in your younger days, or can you remember anything that will help me to discover his name?”

The highwayman sat silent, meditating, and Gilbert felt that his heart was beginning to beat painfully fast, as he waited for the answer.

“Yes,” said Sandy, at last, “I did know Mary Potter when I was a boy, and she knowed me, under another name. I may say I liked her, too, in a boy’s way, but she was older by three or four years, and never thought o’ lookin’ at me. But I can’t remember anything more; if I was out o’ this, I’d soon find out for you!”

He looked up with an eager, questioning glance, which Gilbert totally misunderstood.

“What was your other name?” he asked, in a barely audible voice.

“I dunno as I need tell it,” Sandy answered; “what’d be the good? There’s some yet livin’, o’ the same name, and they wouldn’t thank me.”

“Sandy!” Gilbert cried desperately, “answer this one question,–don’t go out of the world with a false word in your mouth!–You are not my father?”

The highwayman looked at him a moment, in blank amazement. “No, so help me God!” he then said.

Gilbert’s face brightened so suddenly and vividly that Sandy muttered to himself,–“I never thought I was that bad.”

“I hear the Sheriff at the outside gate,” he whispered again. “Don’t forgit–thirty steps from the place she knowed about–behind the two big chestnut-trees, goin’ towards the first cedar–and a forked sassyfrack growin’ right over it! Good-bye, and good-luck to the whole o’ your life!”

The two clasped hands with a warmth and earnestness which surprised the Sheriff. Then Gilbert went out from his old antagonist.

That night Sandy Flash made an attempt to escape from the jail, and very nearly succeeded. It appeared, from some mysterious words which he afterwards let fall, and which Gilbert alone could have understood, that he had a superstitious belief that something he had done would bring him a new turn of fortune. The only result of the attempt was to hasten his execution. Within ten days from that time he was transformed from a living terror into a romantic name.

CHAPTER XXVII.

GILBERT INDEPENDENT.

Gilbert Potter felt such an implicit trust in Sandy Flash’s promise of restitution, that, before leaving Chester, he announced the forthcoming payment of the mortgage to its holder. His homeward ride was like a triumphal march, to which his heart beat the music. The chill March winds turned into May-breezes as they touched him; the brown meadows were quick with ambushed bloom. Within three or four months his life had touched such extremes of experience, that the fate yet to come seemed to evolve itself speedily and naturally from that which was over and gone. Only one obstacle yet remained in his path,–his mother’s secret. Towards that he was powerless; to meet all others he was brimming with strength and courage.

Mary Potter recognized, even more keenly and with profounder faith than her son, the guidance of some inscrutable Power. She did not dare to express so uncertain a hope, but something in her heart whispered that the day of her own deliverance was not far off, and she took strength from it.

It was nearly a week before Deb. Smith made her appearance. Gilbert, in the mean time, had visited her cabin on the Woodrow farm, to find it deserted, and he was burning with impatience to secure, through her, the restoration of his independence. He would not announce his changed prospects, even to Martha Deane, until they were put beyond further risk. The money once in his hands, he determined to carry it to Chester without loss of time.

When Deb. arrived, she had a weary, hunted look, but she was unusually grave and silent, and avoided further reference to the late tragical episode in her life. Nevertheless, Gilbert led her aside and narrated to her the particulars of his interview with Sandy Flash. Perhaps he softened, with pardonable equivocation, the latter’s words in regard to her; perhaps he conveyed a sense of forgiveness which had not been expressed; for Deb. more than once drew the corners of her hard palms across her eyes. When he gave the marks by which she was to recognize a certain spot, she exclaimed,–

“It was hid the night I dreamt of him! I knowed he must ha’ been nigh, by that token. O, Mr. Gilbert, he said true! I know the place; it’s not so far away; this very night you’ll have y’r money back!”

After it was dark she set out, with a spade upon her shoulder, forbidding him to follow, or even to look after her. Both mother and son were too excited to sleep. They sat by the kitchen-fire, with one absorbing thought in their minds, and speech presently became easier than silence.

“Mother,” said Gilbert, “when–I mean _if_–she brings the money, all that has happened will have been for good. It has proved to us that we have true friends (and I count my Roger among them), and I think that our independence will be worth all the more, since we came so nigh losing it again.”

“Ay, my boy,” she replied; “I was over-hasty, and have been lessoned. When I bend my mind to submit, I make more headway than when I try to take the Lord’s work into my own hands. I’m fearsome still, but it seems there’s a light coming from somewhere,–I don’t know where.”

“Do you feel that way, mother?” he exclaimed. “Do you think–let me mention it this once!–that the day is near when you will be free to speak? Will there be anything more you can tell me, when we stand free upon our own property?”

Mary Potter looked upon his bright, wistful, anxious face, and sighed. “I can’t tell–I can’t tell,” she said. “Ah, my boy, you would understand it, if I dared say one thing, but that might lead you to guess what mustn’t be told; and I will be faithful to the spirit as well as the letter. It must come soon, but nothing you or I can do would hasten it a minute.”

“One word more, mother,” he persisted, “will our independence be no help to you?”

“A great help,” she answered, “or, maybe, a great comfort would be the true word. Without it, I might be tempted to–but see, Gilbert, how can I talk? Everything you say pulls at the one thing that cuts my mouth like a knife, because it’s shut tight on it! And the more because I owe it to you,–because I’m held back from my duty to my child,–maybe, every day putting a fresh sorrow into his heart! Oh, it’s not easy, Gilbert; it don’t grow lighter from use, only my faith is the stronger and surer, and that helps me to bear it.”

“Mother, I meant never to have spoken of this again,” he said. “But you’re mistaken; it is no sorrow; I never knew what it was to have a light heart, until you told me your trouble, and the question came to my mouth to-night because I shall soon feel strong in my own right as a man, and able to do more than you might guess. If, as you say, no man can help you, I will wait and be patient with you.”

“That’s all we can do now, my child. I wasn’t reproaching you for speaking, for you’ve held your peace a long while, when I know you’ve been fretting; but this isn’t one of the troubles that’s lightened by speech, because all talking must go around the outside, and never touch the thing itself.”

“I understand,” he said, and gazed for a long time into the fire, without speaking.

Mary Potter watched his face, in the wavering light of the flame. She marked the growing decision of the features, the forward, fearless glance of the large, deep-set eye, the fuller firmness and sweetness of the mouth, and the general expression, not only of self-reliance, but of authority, which was spread over the entire countenance. Both her pride in her son, and her respect for him, increased as she gazed. Heretofore, she had rather considered her secret as her own property, her right to which he should not question; but now it seemed as if she were forced to withhold something that of right belonged to him. Yet no thought that the mysterious obligation might be broken ever entered her mind.

Gilbert was thinking of Martha Deane. He had passed that first timidity of love which shrinks from the knowledge of others, and longed to tell his mother what noble fidelity and courage Martha had exhibited. Only the recollection of the fearful swoon into which she had fallen bound his tongue; he felt that the first return to the subject must come from her. She lay back in her chair and seemed to sleep; he rose from time to time, went out into the lane and listened,–and so the hours passed away.

Towards midnight a heavy step was heard, and Deb. Smith, hot, panting, her arms daubed with earth, and a wild light in her eyes, entered the kitchen. With one hand she grasped the ends of her strong tow-linen apron, with the other she still shouldered the spade. She knelt upon the floor between the two, set the apron in the light of the fire, unrolled the end of a leathern saddle-bag, and disclosed the recovered treasure.

“See if it’s all right!” she said.

Mary Potter and Gilbert bent over the rolls and counted them. It was the entire sum, untouched.

“Have you got a sup o’ whiskey, Mr. Gilbert?” Deb. Smith asked. “Ugh! I’m hot and out o’ breath, and yet I feel mortal cold. There was a screech-owl hootin’ in the cedar; and I dunno how’t is, but there always seems to be things around, where money’s buried. You can’t see ’em, but you hear ’em. I thought I’d ha’ dropped when I turned up the sassyfrack bush, and got hold on it; and all the way back I feared a big arm’d come out o’ every fence-corner, and snatch it from me!” [Footnote: It does not seem to have been generally known in the neighborhood that the money was unearthed. A tradition of that and other treasure buried by Sandy Flash, is still kept alive; and during the past ten years two midnight attempts have been made to find it, within a hundred yards of the spot indicated in the narrative.]

Mary Potter set the kettle on the fire, and Deb. Smith was soon refreshed with a glass of hot grog. Then she lighted her pipe and watched the two as they made preparations for the journey to Chester on the morrow, now and then nodding her head with an expression which chased away the haggard sorrow from her features.

This time the journey was performed without incident. The road was safe, the skies were propitious, and Gilbert Potter returned from Chester an independent man, with the redeemed mortgage in his pocket. His first care was to assure his mother of the joyous fact; his next to seek Martha Deane, and consult with her about their brightening future.

On the way to Kennett Square, he fell in with Mark, who was radiant with the promise of Richard Rudd’s new house, secured to him by the shrewd assistance of Miss Betsy Lavender.

“I tell you what it is, Gilbert,” said he; “don’t you think I might as well speak to Daddy Fairthorn about Sally? I’m gettin’ into good business now, and I guess th’ old folks might spare her pretty soon.”

“The sooner, Mark, the better for you; and you can buy the wedding-suit at once, for I have your hundred dollars ready.”

“You don’t mean that you wont use it, Gilbert?”

Who so delighted as Mark, when he heard Gilbert’s unexpected story? “Oh, glory!” he exclaimed; “the tide’s turnin’, old fellow! What’ll you bet you’re not married before I am? It’s got all over the country that you and Martha are engaged, and that the Doctor’s full o’ gall and wormwood about it; I hear it wherever I go, and there’s more for you than there is against you, I tell you that!”

The fact was as Mark had stated. No one was positively known to have spread the rumor, but it was afloat and generally believed. The result was to invest Gilbert with a fresh interest. His courage in confronting Sandy Flash, his robbery, his wonderful preservation from death, and his singular connection, through Deb. Smith, with Sandy Flash’s capture, had thrown a romantic halo around his name, which was now softly brightened by the report of his love. The stain of his birth and the uncertainty of his parentage did not lessen this interest, but rather increased it; and as any man who is much talked about in a country community will speedily find two parties created, one enthusiastically admiring, the other contemptuously depreciating him, so now it happened in this case.

The admirers, however, were in a large majority, and they possessed a great advantage over the detractors, being supported by a multitude of facts, while the latter were unable to point to any act of Gilbert Potter’s life that was not upright and honorable. Even his love of Martha Deane was shorn of its presumption by her reciprocal affection. The rumor that she had openly defied her father’s will created great sympathy, for herself and for Gilbert, among the young people of both sexes,–a sympathy which frequently was made manifest to Dr. Deane, and annoyed him not a little. His stubborn opposition to his daughter’s attachment increased, in proportion as his power to prevent it diminished.

We may therefore conceive his sensations when Gilbert Potter himself boldly entered his presence. The latter, after Mark’s description, very imperfect though it was, of Martha’s courageous assertion of the rights of her heart, had swiftly made up his mind to stand beside her in the struggle, with equal firmness and equal pride. He would openly seek an interview with her, and if he should find her father at home, as was probable at that hour, would frankly and respectfully acknowledge his love, and defend it against any attack.

On entering the room, he quietly stepped forward with extended hand, and saluted the Doctor, who was so taken by surprise that he mechanically answered the greeting before he could reflect what manner to adopt towards the unwelcome visitor.

“What might be thy business with me?” he asked, stiffly, recovering from the first shock.

“I called to see Martha,” Gilbert answered. “I have some news which she will be glad to hear.”

“Young man,” said the Doctor, with his sternest face and voice, “I may as well come to the point with thee, at once. If thee had had decency enough to apply to me before speaking thy mind to Martha, it would have saved us all a great deal of trouble. I could have told thee then, as I tell thee now, that I will never consent to her marriage with thee. Thee must give up all thought of such a thing.” “I will do so,” Gilbert replied, “when Martha tells me with her own mouth that such is her will. I am not one of the men who manage their hearts according to circumstances. I wish, indeed, I were more worthy of Martha; but I am trying to deserve her, and I know no better way than to be faithful as she is faithful. I mean no disrespect to you, Dr. Deane. You are her father; you have every right to care for her happiness, and I will admit that you honestly think I am not the man who could make her happy. All I ask is, that you should wait a little and know me better. Martha and I have both decided that we must wait, and there is time enough for you to watch my conduct, examine my character, and perhaps come to a more favorable judgment of me.”

Dr. Deane saw that it would be harder to deal with Gilbert Potter than he had imagined. The young man stood before him so honestly and fearlessly, meeting his angry gaze with such calm, frank eyes, and braving his despotic will with such a modest, respectful opposal, that he was forced to withdraw from his haughty position, and to set forth the same reasons which he had presented to his daughter.

“I see,” he said, with a tone slightly less arrogant, “that thee is sensible, in some respects, and therefore I put the case to thy understanding. It’s too plain to be argued. Martha is a rich bait for a poor man, and perhaps I oughtn’t to wonder–knowing the heart of man as I do–that thee was tempted to turn her head to favor thee; but the money is not yet hers, and I, as her father, can never allow that thy poverty shall stand for three years between her and some honorable man to whom her money would be no temptation! Why, if all I hear be true, thee hasn’t even any certain roof to shelter a wife; thy property, such as it is, may be taken out of thy hands!”

Gilbert could not calmly hear these insinuations. All his independent pride of character was aroused; a dark flush came into his face, the blood was pulsing hotly through his veins, and indignant speech was rising to his lips, when the inner door unexpectedly opened, and Martha entered the room.

She instantly guessed what was taking place, and summoned up all her self-possession, to stand by Gilbert, without increasing her father’s exasperation. To the former, her apparition was like oil on troubled waters. His quick blood struck into warm channels of joy, as he met her glowing eyes, and felt the throb of her soft, elastic palm against his own. Dr. Deane set his teeth, drew up his under lip, and handled his cane with restless fingers.

“Father,” said Martha, “if you are talking of me, it is better that I should be present. I am sure there is nothing that either thee or Gilbert would wish to conceal from me.”

“No, Martha!” Gilbert exclaimed; “I came to bring you good news. The mortgage on my farm is lifted, and I am an independent man!”

“Without my help! Does thee hear that, father?”

Gilbert did not understand her remark; without heeding it, he continued,–

“Sandy Flash, after his sentence, sent for me and told me where the money he took from me was to be found. I carried it to Chester, and have paid off all my remaining debt. Martha, your father has just charged me with being tempted by your property. I say to you, in his presence, put it beyond my reach,–give it away, forfeit the conditions of the legacy,–let me show truly whether I ever thought of money in seeking you!”

“Gilbert,” she said, gently, “father doesn’t yet know you as I do. Others will no doubt say the same thing, and we must both make up our minds to have it said; yet I cannot, for that, relinquish what is mine of right. We are not called upon to sacrifice to the mistaken opinions of men; your life and mine will show, and manifest to others in time, whether it is a selfish tie that binds us together.”

“Martha!” Dr. Deane exclaimed, feeling that he should lose ground, unless this turn of the conversation were interrupted; “thee compels me to show thee how impossible the thing is, even if this man were of the richest. Admitting that he is able to support a family, admitting that thee waits three years, comes into thy property, and is still of a mind to marry him against my will, can thee forget–or has he so little consideration for thee as to forget–that he bears his mother’s name?”

“Father!”

“Let me speak, Martha,” said Gilbert, lifting his head, which had drooped for a moment. His voice was earnest and sorrowful, yet firm. “It is true that I bear my mother’s name. It is the name of a good, an honest, an honorable, and a God-fearing woman. I wish I could be certain that the name which legally belongs to me will be as honorable and as welcome. But Martha knows, and you, her father, have a right to know, that I shall have another. I have not been inconsiderate. I trampled down my love for her, as long as I believed it would bring disgrace. I will not say that now, knowing her as I do, I could ever give her up, even if the disgrace was not removed,”–

“Thank you, Gilbert!” Martha interrupted.

“But there is none, Dr. Deane,” he continued, “and when the time comes, my birth will be shown to be as honorable as your own, or Mark’s.”

Dr. Deane was strangely excited at these words. His face colored, and he darted a piercing, suspicious glance at Gilbert. The latter, however, stood quietly before him, too possessed by what he had said to notice the Doctor’s peculiar expression; but it returned to his memory afterwards.

“Why,” the Doctor at last stammered, “I never heard of this before!”

“No,” Gilbert answered, “and I must ask of you not to mention it further, at present. I must beg you to be patient until my mother is able to declare the truth.”

“What keeps her from it?”

“I don’t know,” Gilbert sadly replied.

“Come!” cried the Doctor, as sternly as ever, “this is rather a likely story! If Potter isn’t thy name, what is?”

“I don’t know,” Gilbert repeated.

“No; nor no one else! How dare thee address my daughter,–talk of marriage with her,–when thee don’t know thy real name? What name would thee offer to her in exchange for her own? Young man, I don’t believe thee!”

“I do,” said Martha, rising and moving to Gilbert’s side.

“Martha, go to thy room!” the Doctor cried. “And as for thee, Gilbert Potter, or Gilbert Anything, I tell thee, once and for all, never speak of this thing again,–at least, until thee can show a legal name and an honorable birth! Thee has not prejudiced me in thy favor by thy devices, and it stands to reason that I should forbid thee to see my daughter,–to enter my doors!”

“Dr. Deane,” said Gilbert, with sad yet inflexible dignity, “it is impossible, after what you have said, that I should seek to enter your door, until my words are proved true, and I am justified in your eyes. The day may come sooner than you think. But I will do nothing secretly; I won’t promise anything to you that I can’t promise to myself; and so I tell you, honestly and above-board, that while I shall not ask Martha to share my life until I can offer her my true name, I must see her from time to time. I’m not fairly called upon to give up that.”

“No, Gilbert,” said Martha, who had not yet moved from her place by his side, “it is as necessary to my happiness as to yours. I will not ask you to come here again; you cannot, and must not, even for my sake; but when I need your counsel and your sympathy, and there is no other way left, I will go to you.”

“Martha!” Dr. Deane exclaimed; but the word conveys no idea of his wrath and amazement.

“Father,” she said, “this is thy house, and it is for thee to direct, here. Within its walls, I will conduct myself according to thy wishes; I will receive no guest whom thee forbids, and will even respect thy views in regard to my intercourse with our friends; but unless thee wants to deprive me of all liberty, and set aside every right of mine as an accountable being, thee must allow me sometimes to do what both my heart and my conscience command!”

“Is it a woman’s place,” he angrily asked, “to visit a man?”

“When the two have need of each other, and God has joined their hearts in love and in truth, and the man is held back from reaching the woman, then it is her place to go to him!”

Never before had Dr. Deane beheld upon his daughter’s sweet, gentle face such an expression of lofty spiritual authority. While her determination really outraged his conventional nature, he felt that it came from a higher source than his prohibition. He knew that nothing which he could urge at that moment would have the slightest weight in her mind, and moreover, that the liberal, independent customs of the neighborhood, as well as the respect of his sect for professed spiritual guidance, withheld him from any harsh attempt at coercion. He was powerless, but still inflexible.

As for Martha, what she had said was simply included in what she was resolved to do; the greater embraced the less. It was a defiance of her father’s authority, very painful from the necessity of its assertion, but rendered inevitable by his course. She knew with what tenacity he would seize and hold every inch of relinquished ground; she felt, as keenly as Gilbert himself, the implied insult which he could not resent; and her pride, her sense of justice, and the strong fidelity of her woman’s heart, alike impelled her to stand firm.

“Good-bye, Martha!” Gilbert said, taking her hand “I must wait.”

“We wait together, Gilbert!”

CHAPTER XXVIII.

MISS LAVENDER MAKES A GUESS.

There were signs of spring all over the land, and Gilbert resumed his farm-work with the fresh zest which the sense of complete ownership gave. He found a purchaser for his wagon, sold one span of horses, and thus had money in hand for all the coming expenses of the year. His days of hauling, of anxiety, of painful economy, were over; he rejoiced in his fully developed and recognized manhood, and was cheered by the respect and kindly sympathy of his neighbors.

Meanwhile, the gossip, not only of Kennett, but of Marlborough, Pennsbury, and New-Garden, was as busy as ever. No subject of country talk equalled in interest the loves of Gilbert Potter and Martha Deane. Mark, too open-hearted to be intrusted with any secret, was drawn upon wherever he went, and he revealed more (although he was by no means Martha’s confidant) than the public had any right to know. The idlers at the Unicorn had seen Gilbert enter Dr. Deane’s house, watched his return therefrom, made shrewd notes of the Doctor’s manner when he came forth that evening, and guessed the result of the interview almost as well as if they had been present.

The restoration of Gilbert’s plundered money, and his hardly acquired independence as a landholder, greatly strengthened the hands of his friends. There is no logic so convincing as that of good luck; in proportion as a man is fortunate (so seems to run the law of the world), he attracts fortune to him. A good deed would not have helped Gilbert so much in popular estimation, as this sudden and unexpected release from his threatened difficulties. The blot upon his name was already growing fainter, and a careful moral arithmetician might have calculated the point of prosperity at which it would cease to be seen.

Nowhere was the subject discussed with greater interest and excitement than in the Fairthorn household. Sally, when she first heard the news, loudly protested her unbelief; why, the two would scarcely speak to each other, she said; she had seen Gilbert turn his back on Martha, as if he couldn’t bear the sight of her; it ought to be, and she would be glad if it was, but it wasn’t!

When, therefore, Mark confirmed the report, and was led on, by degrees, to repeat Gilbert’s own words, Sally rushed out into the kitchen with a vehemence which left half her apron hanging on the door-handle, torn off from top to bottom in her whirling flight, and announced the fact to her mother.

Joe, who was present, immediately cried out,–

“O, Sally! now I may tell about Mark, mayn’t I?”

Sally seized him by the collar, and pitched him out the kitchen-door. Her face was the color of fire.

“My gracious, Sally!” exclaimed Mother Fairthorn, in amazement; “what’s that for?”

But Sally had already disappeared, and was relating her trouble to Mark, who roared with wicked laughter, whereupon she nearly cried with vexation.

“Never mind,” said he; “the boy’s right. I told Gilbert this very afternoon that it was about time to speak to the old man; and he allowed it was. Come out with me and don’t be afeard–I’ll do the talkin’.”

Hand in hand they went into the kitchen, Sally blushing and hanging back a little. Farmer Fairthorn had just come in from the barn, and was warming his hands at the fire. Mother Fairthorn might have had her suspicions, but it was her nature to wait cheerfully, and say nothing.

“See here, Daddy and Mammy!” said Mark, “have either o’ you any objections to Sally and me bein’ a pair?”

Farmer Fairthorn smiled, rubbed his hands together, and turning to his wife, asked,–“What has Mammy to say to it?”

She looked up at Mark with her kindly eyes, in which twinkled something like a tear, and said,–“I was guessin’ it might turn out so between you two, and if I’d had anything against you, Mark, I wouldn’t ha’ let it run on. Be a steady boy, and you’ll make Sally a steady woman. She’s had pretty much her own way.”

Thereupon Farmer Fairthorn, still rubbing his hands, ventured to remark,–“The girl might ha’ done worse.” This was equivalent to a hearty commendation of the match, and Mark so understood it. Sally kissed her mother, cried a little, caught her gown on a corner of the kitchen-table, and thus the betrothal was accepted as a family fact. Joe and Jake somewhat disturbed the bliss of the evening, it is true, by bursting into the room from time to time, staring significantly at the lovers, and then rushing out again with loud whoops and laughter.

Sally could scarcely await the coming of the next day, to visit Martha Deane. At first she felt a little piqued that she had not received the news from Martha’s own lips, but this feeling speedily vanished in the sympathy with her friend’s trials. She was therefore all the more astonished at the quiet, composed bearing of the latter. The tears she had expected to shed were not once drawn upon.

“O, Martha!” she cried, after the first impetuous outburst of feeling,–“to think that it has all turned out just as I wanted! No, I don’t quite mean that; you know I couldn’t wish you to have crosses; but about Gilbert! And it’s too bad–Mark has told me dreadful things, but I hope they’re not all true; you don’t look like it; and I’m so glad, you can’t think!”

Martha smiled, readily untangling Sally’s thoughts, and said,–“I mustn’t complain, Sally. Nothing has come to pass that I had not prepared my mind to meet. We will only have to wait a little longer than you and Mark.”

“No you won’t!” Sally exclaimed. “I’ll make Mark wait, too! And everything must be set right–somebody must do something! Where’s Betsy Lavender?”

“Here!” answered the veritable voice of the spinster, through the open door of the small adjoining room.

“Gracious, how you frightened me!” cried Sally. “But, Betsy, you seem to be able to help everybody; why can’t you do something for Martha and Gilbert?”

“Martha and Gilbert. That’s what I ask myself, nigh onto a hundred times a day, child. But there’s things that takes the finest kind o’ wit to see through, and you can’t make a bead-purse out of a sow’s-ear, neither jerk Time by the forelock, when there a’n’t a hair, as you can see, to hang on to. I dunno as you’ll rightly take my meanin’; but never mind, all the same, I’m flummuxed, and it’s the longest and hardest flummux o’ my life!”

Miss Betsy Lavender, it must here be explained, was more profoundly worried than she was willing to admit. Towards Martha she concealed the real trouble of her mind under the garb of her quaint, jocular speech, which meant much or little, as one might take it. She had just returned from one of her social pilgrimages, during which she had heard nothing but the absorbing subject of gossip. She had been questioned and cross-questioned, entreated by many, as Sally had done, to do something (for all had great faith in her powers), and warned by a few not to meddle with what did not concern her. Thus she had come back that morning, annoyed, discomposed, and more dissatisfied with herself than ever before, to hear Martha’s recital of what had taken place during her absence.

In spite of Martha’s steady patience and cheerfulness, Miss Lavender knew that the painful relation in which she stood to her father would not be assuaged by the lapse of time. She understood Dr. Deane’s nature quite as well as his daughter, and was convinced that, for the present, neither threats nor persuasions would move his stubborn resistance. According to the judgment of the world (the older part of it, at least), he had still right on his side. Facts were wanted; or, rather, the _one_ fact upon which resistance was based must be removed.

With all this trouble, Miss Lavender had a presentiment that there was work for her to do, if she could only discover what it was. Her faith in her own powers of assistance was somewhat shaken, and she therefore resolved to say nothing, promise nothing, until she had both hit upon a plan and carried it into execution.

Two or three days after Sally’s visit, on a mild, sunny morning in the beginning of April, she suddenly announced her intention of visiting the Potter farm-house.

“I ha’n’t seen Mary since last fall, you know, Martha,” she said; “and I’ve a mortal longin’ to wish Gilbert joy o’ his good luck, and maybe say a word to keep him in good heart about you. Have you got no message to send by me?”

“Only my love,” Martha answered; “and tell him how you left me. He knows I will keep my word; when I need his counsel, I will go to him.”

“If more girls talked and thought that way, us women’d have fairer shakes,” Miss Lavender remarked, as she put on her cloak and pattens.

When she reached the top of the hill overlooking the glen, she noticed fresh furrows in the field on her left. Clambering through the fence, she waited until the heads of a pair of horses made their appearance, rising over the verge of the hill. As she conjectured, Gilbert Potter was behind them, guiding the plough-handle. He was heartily glad to see her, and halted his team at the corner of the “land.”

“I didn’t know as you’d speak to me,” said she, with assumed grimness. “Maybe you wouldn’t, if I didn’t come direct from _her._ Ah, you needn’t look wild; it’s only her love, and what’s the use, for you had it already; but never mind, lovyers is never satisfied; and she’s chipper and peart enough, seein’ what she has to bear for your sake, but she don’t mind that, on the contrary, quite the reverse, and I’m sure you don’t deserve it!”

“Did she tell you what passed between us, the last time?” Gilbert asked.

“The last time. Yes. And jokin’ aside, which often means the contrary in my crooked ways o’ talkin’, a’n’t it about time somethin’ was done?”

“What can be done?”

“I dunno,” said Miss Lavender, gravely. “You know as well as I do what’s in the way, or rather none of us knows _what_ it is, only _where_ it is; and a thing unbeknown may be big or little; who can tell? And latterly I’ve thought, Gilbert, that maybe your mother is in the fix of a man I’ve heerd tell on, that fell into a pit, and ketched by the last bush, and hung on, and hung on, till he could hold on no longer; so he gev himself up to death, shet his eyes and let go, and lo and behold! the bottom was a matter o’ six inches under his feet! Leastways, everything p’ints to a sort o’ skeary fancy bein’ mixed up with it, not a thing to laugh at, I can tell you, but as earnest as sin, for I’ve seen the likes, and maybe easy to make straight if you could only look into it yourself; but you think there’s no chance o’ that?”

“No,” said Gilbert. “I’ve tried once too often, already; I shall not try again.”

“Try again,” Miss Lavender repeated. “Then why not?”–but here she paused, and seemed to meditate. The fact was, she had been tempted to ask Gilbert’s advice in regard to the plan she was revolving in her brain. The tone of his voice, however, was discouraging; she saw that he had taken a firm and gloomy resolution to be silent,–his uneasy air hinted that he desired to avoid further talk on this point. So, with a mental reprimand of the indiscretion into which her sympathy with him had nearly betrayed her, she shut her teeth and slightly bit her tongue.

“Well, well,” she said; “I hope it’ll come out before you’re both old and sour with waitin’, that’s all! I don’t want such true-love as your’n to be like firkin-butter at th’ end; for as fresh, and firm, and well-kep’ as you please, it ha’n’t got the taste o’ the clover and the sweet-grass; but who knows? I may dance at your weddin’, after all, sooner’n I mistrust; and so I’m goin’ down to spend the day with y’r mother!”

She strode over the furrow and across the weedy sod, and Gilbert resumed his ploughing. As she approached the house, Miss Lavender noticed that the secured ownership of the property was beginning to express itself in various slight improvements and adornments. The space in front of the porch was enlarged, and new flower-borders set along the garden-paling; the barn had received a fresh coat of whitewash, as well as the trunks of the apple-trees, which shone like white pillars; and there was a bench with bright straw bee-hives under the lilac-bush. Mary Potter was at work in the garden, sowing her early seeds.

“Well, I do declare!” exclaimed Miss Lavender, after the first cordial greetings were over. “Seems almost like a different place, things is so snugged up and put to rights.”

“Yes,” said Mary Potter; “I had hardly the heart, before, to make it everything that we wanted; and you can’t think what a satisfaction I have in it now.”

“Yes, I can! Give me the redishes, while you stick in them beets. I’ve got a good forefinger for plantin’ ’em,–long and stiff; and I can’t stand by and see you workin’ alone, without fidgets.”

Miss Lavender threw off her cloak and worked with a will. When the gardening was finished, she continued her assistance in the house, and fully earned her dinner before she sat down to it. Then she insisted on Mary Potter bringing out her sewing, and giving her something more to do; it was one of her working-days, she said; she had spent rather an idle winter; and moreover, she was in such spirits at Gilbert’s good fortune, that she couldn’t be satisfied without doing something for him, and to sew up the seams of his new breeches was the very thing! Never had she been so kind, so cheerful, and so helpful, and Mary Potter’s nature warmed into happy content in her society.

No one should rashly accuse Miss Lavender if there was a little design in this. The task she had set herself to attempt was both difficult and delicate. She had divided it into two portions, requiring very different tactics, and was shrewd enough to mask, in every possible way, the one from which she had most hopes of obtaining a result. She made no reference, at first, to Gilbert’s attachment to Martha Deane, but seemed to be wholly absorbed in the subject of the farm; then, taking wide sweeps through all varieties of random gossip, preserving a careless, thoughtless, rattling manner, she stealthily laid her pitfalls for the unsuspecting prey.

“I was over’t Warren’s t’ other day,” she said, biting off a thread, “and Becky had jist come home from Phildelphy. There’s new-fashioned bonnets comin’ up, she says. She stayed with Allen’s, but who they are I don’t know. Laws! now I think on it, Mary, you stayed at Allen’s, too, when you were there!”

“No,” said Mary Potter, “it was at–Treadwell’s.”

“Treadwell’s? I thought you told me Allen’s. All the same to me, Allen or Treadwell; I don’t know either of ’em. It’s a long while since I’ve been in Phildelphy, and never likely to go ag’in. I don’t fancy trampin’ over them hard bricks, though, to be sure, a body sees the fashions; but what with boxes tumbled in and out o’ the stores, and bar’ls rollin’, and carts always goin’ by, you’re never sure o’ y’r neck; and I was sewin’ for Clarissa Lee, Jackson that was, that married a dry goods man, the noisiest place that ever was; you could hardly hear yourself talk; but a body gets used to it, in Second Street, close’t to Market, and were you anywheres near there?”

“I was in Fourth Street,” Mary Potter answered, with a little hesitation. Miss Lavender secretly noticed her uneasiness, which, she also remarked, arose not from suspicion, but from memory.

“What kind o’ buttons are you goin’ to have, Mary?” she asked. “Horn splits, and brass cuts the stuff, and mother o’ pearl wears to eternity, but they’re so awful dear. Fourth Street, you said? One street’s like another to me, after you get past the corners. I’d always know Second, though, by the tobacco-shop, with the wild Injun at the door, liftin’ his tommyhawk to skulp you–ugh!–but never mind, all the same, skulp away for what I care, for I a’n’t likely ever to lay eyes on you ag’in!”

Having thus, with perhaps more volubility than was required, covered up the traces of her design, Miss Lavender cast about how to commence the second and more hopeless attack. It was but scant intelligence which she had gained, but in that direction she dared not venture further. What she now proposed to do required more courage and less cunning.

Her manner gradually changed; she allowed lapses of silence to occur, and restricted her gossip to a much narrower sweep. She dwelt, finally, upon the singular circumstances of Sandy Flash’s robbery of Gilbert, and the restoration of the money.

“Talkin’ o’ Deb. Smith,” she then said, “Mary, do you mind when I was here last harvest, and the talk we had about Gilbert? I’ve often thought on it since, and how I guessed right for once’t, for I know the ways o’ men, if I am an old maid, and so it’s come out as I said, and a finer couple than they’ll make can’t be found in the county!”

Mary Potter looked up, with a shadow of the old trouble on her face. “You know all about it, Betsy, then?” she asked.

“Bless your soul, Mary, everybody knows about it! There’s been nothin’ else talked about in the neighborhood for the last three weeks; why, ha’n’t Gilbert told you o’ what passed between him and Dr. Deane, and how Martha stood by him as no woman ever stood by a man?”

An expression of painful curiosity, such as shrinks from the knowledge it craves, came into Mary Potter’s eyes. “Gilbert has told me nothing,” she said, “since–since that time.”

“That time. I won’t ask you _what_ time; it’s neither here nor there; but you ought to know the run o’ things, when it’s common talk.” And therewith Miss Lavender began at the beginning, and never ceased until she had brought the history, in all its particulars, down to that very day. She did not fail to enlarge on the lively and universal Interest in the fortunes of the lovers which was manifested by the whole community. Mary Potter’s face grew paler and paler as she spoke, but the tears which some parts of the recital called forth were quenched again, as it seemed, by flashes of aroused pride.

“Now,” Miss Lavender concluded, “you see just how the matter stands. I’m not hard on you, savin’ and exceptin’ that facts is hard, which they sometimes are I don’t deny; but here we’re all alone with our two selves, and you’ll grant I’m a friend, though I may have queer ways o’ showin’ it; and why shouldn’t I say that all the trouble comes o’ Gilbert bearin’ your name?”

“Don’t I know it!” Mary Potter cried. “Isn’t my load heaped up heavier as it comes towards the end? What can I do but wait till the day when I can give Gilbert his father’s name?”

“His father’s name! Then you can do it, some day? I suspicioned as much. And you’ve been bound up from doin’ it, all this while,–and that’s what’s been layin’ so heavy on your mind, wasn’t it?”

“Betsy,” said Mary Potter, with sudden energy, “I’ll say as much as I dare, so that I may keep my senses. I fear, sometimes, I’ll break together for want of a friend like you, to steady me while I walk the last steps of my hard road. Gilbert was born in wedlock; I’m not bound to deny that; but I committed a sin,–not the sin people charge me with,–and the one that persuaded me to it has to answer for more than I have. I bound myself not to tell the name of Gilbert’s father,–not to say where or when I was married, not to do or say anything to put others On the track, until–but there’s the sin and the trouble and the punishment all in one. If I told that, you might guess the rest. You know what a name I’ve had to bear, but I’ve taken my cross and fought my way, and put up with all things, that I might deserve the fullest justification the Lord has in His hands. If I had known all beforehand, Betsy,–but I expected the release in a month or two, and it hasn’t come in twenty-five years!”

“Twenty-five years!” repeated Miss Lavender, heedless of the drops running down her thin face. “If there was a sin, Mary, even as big as a yearlin’ calf, you’ve worked off the cost of it, years ago! If you break your word now, you’ll stand justified in the sight o’ the Lord, and of all men, and even if you think a scrimption of it’s left, remember your dooty to Gilbert, and take a less justification for his sake!”

“I’ve been tempted that way, Betsy, but the end I wanted has been set in my mind so long I can’t get it out. I’ve seen the Lord’s hand so manifest in these past days, that I’m fearsome to hurry His judgments. And then, though I try not to, I’m waiting from day to day,–almost from hour to hour,–and it seems that if I was to give up and break my vow, He would break it for me the next minute afterwards, to punish my impatience!”

“Why,” Miss Lavender exclaimed, “it must be your husband’s death you’re waitin’ for!”

Mary Potter started up with a wild look of alarm. “No–no–not his death!” she cried. “I should want him to–be living! Ask me no more questions; forget what I’ve said, if it don’t incline you to encourage me! That’s why I’ve told you so much!”

Miss Lavender instantly desisted from further appeal. She rose, put her arm around Mary Potter’s waist, and said,–“I didn’t mean to frighten or to worry you, deary. I may think your conscience has worked on itself, like, till it’s ground a bit too sharp; but I see just how you’re fixed, and won’t say another word, without it’s to give comfort. An open confession’s good for the soul, they say, and half a loaf’s better than no bread, and you haven’t violated your word a bit, and so let it do you good!”

In fact, when Mary Potter grew calm, she was conscious of a relief the more welcome because it was so rare in her experience. Miss Lavender, moreover, hastened to place Gilbert’s position in a more cheerful light, and the same story, repeated for a different purpose, now assumed quite another aspect. She succeeded so well, that she left behind her only gratitude for the visit.

Late in the afternoon she came forth from the farmhouse, and commenced slowly ascending the hill. She stopped frequently and looked about her; her narrow forehead was wrinkled, and the base of her long nose was set between two deep furrows. Her lips were twisted in a pucker of great perplexity, and her eyes were nearly closed in a desperate endeavor to solve some haunting, puzzling question.

“It’s queer,” she muttered to herself, when she had nearly reached the top of the hill,–“it’s mortal queer! Like a whip-poor-will on a moonlight night: you hear it whistlin’ on the next fence-rail, it doesn’t seem a yard off; you step up to ketch it, and there’s nothin’ there; then you step back ag’in, and ‘whip-poor-will! whip-poor-will!’ whistles louder ‘n ever,–and so on, the whole night, and some folks says they can throw their voices outside o’ their bodies, but that’s neither here nor there.

“Now why can’t I ketch hold o’ this thing? It isn’t a yard off me, I’ll be snaked! And I dunno what ever she said that makes me think so, but I feel it in my bones, and no use o’ callin’ up words; it’s one o’ them things that comes without callin’, when they come at all, and I’m so near guessin’ I’ll have no peace day or night.”

With many similar observations she resumed her walk, and presently reached the border of the ploughed land. Gilbert’s back was towards her; he was on the descending furrow. She looked at him, started, suddenly lost her breath, and stood with open mouth and wide, fixed eyes.

“HA-HA-A! HA-HA-A-A!”

Loud and shrill her cry rang across the valley. It was like the yell of a war-horse, scenting the battle afar off. All the force of her lungs and muscles expended itself in the sound.

The next instant she dropped upon the moist, ploughed earth, and sat there, regardless of gown and petticoat. “Good Lord!” she repeated to herself, over and over again. Then, seeing Gilbert approaching, startled by the cry, she slowly arose to her feet.

“A good guess,” she said to herself, “and what’s more, there’s ways o’ provin’ it. He’s comin’, and he mustn’t know; you’re a fool, Betsy Lavender, not to keep your wits better about you, and go rousin’ up the whole neighborhood; good look that your face is crooked and don’t show much o’ what’s goin’ on inside!”

“What’s the matter, Betsy?” asked Gilbert.

“Nothin’–one o’ my crazy notions,” she said. “I used to holler like a kildeer when I was a girl and got out on the Brandywine hills alone, and I s’pose I must ha’ thought about it, and the yell sort o’ come of itself, for it just jerked me off o’ my feet; but you needn’t tell anybody that I cut such capers in my old days, not that folks’d much wonder, but the contrary, for they’re used to me.”

Gilbert laughed heartily, but he hardly seemed satisfied with the explanation. “You’re all of a tremble,” he said.

“Am I? Well, it’s likely,–and my gownd all over mud; but there’s one favor I want to ask o’ you, and no common one, neither, namely, the loan of a horse for a week or so.”

“A horse?” Gilbert repeated.

“A horse. Not Roger, by no means; I couldn’t ask that, and he don’t know me, anyhow; but the least rough-pacin’ o’ them two, for I’ve got considerable ridin’ over the country to do, and I wouldn’t ask you, but it’s a busy time o’ year, and all folks isn’t so friendly.”

“You shall have whatever you want, Betsy,” he said. “But you’ve heard nothing?”–

“Nothin’ o’ one sort or t’other. Make yourself easy, lad.”

Gilbert, however, had been haunted by new surmises in regard to Dr. Deane. Certain trifles had returned to his memory since the interview, and rather than be longer annoyed with them, he now opened his heart to Miss Lavender.

A curious expression came over her face. “You’ve got sharp eyes and ears Gilbert,” she said. “Now supposin’ I wanted your horse o’ purpose to clear up your doubts in a way to satisfy you, would you mind lettin’ me have it?”

“Take even Roger!” he exclaimed.

“No, that bay’ll do. Keep thinkin’ _that’s_ what I’m after, and ask me no more questions.”

She crossed the ploughed land, crept through the fence, and trudged up the road. When a clump of bushes on the bank had hid Gilbert from her sight, she stopped, took breath, and chuckled with luxurious satisfaction.

“Betsy Lavender,” she said, with marked approval, “you’re a cuter old thing than I took you to be!”

CHAPTER XXIX.

MYSTERIOUS MOVEMENTS.

The next morning Sam took Gilbert’s bay horse to Kennett Square, and hitched him in front of Dr. Deane’s door. Miss Lavender, who was on the look-out, summoned the boy into the house, to bring her own side-saddle down from the garret, and then proceeded to pack a small valise, with straps corresponding to certain buckles behind the saddle. Martha Deane looked on with some surprise at this proceeding, but as Miss Lavender continued silent, she asked no questions.

“There!” exclaimed the spinster, when everything was ready, “now I’m good for a week’s travel, if need be! You want to know where I’m goin’, child, I see, and you might as well out with the words, though not much use, for I hardly know myself.”

“Betsy,” said Martha, “you seem so strange, so unlike yourself, ever since you came home last evening. What is it?”

“I remembered somethin’, on the way up; my head’s been so bothered that I forgot things, never mind what, for I must have some business o’ my own or I wouldn’t seem to belong to myself; and so I’ve got to trapes round considerable,–money matters and the likes,–and folks a’n’t always ready for you to the minute; therefore count on more time than what’s needful, say I.”

“And you can’t guess when you will be back?” Martha asked.

“Hardly under a week. I want to finish up everything and come home for a good long spell.”

With these words she descended to the road, valise in hand, buckled it to the saddle, and mounted the horse. Then she said good-bye to Martha, and rode briskly away, down the Philadelphia road.

Several days passed and nothing was heard of her. Gilbert Potter remained on his farm, busy with the labor of the opening spring; Mark Deane was absent, taking measurements and making estimates for the new house, and Sally Fairthorn spent all her spare time in spinning flax for a store of sheets and table-cloths, to be marked “S. A. F.” in red silk, when duly woven, hemmed, and bleached.

One afternoon, during Miss Lavender’s absence, Dr. Deane was again called upon to attend Old-man Barton. It was not an agreeable duty, for the Doctor suspected that something more than medical advice was in question. He had not visited the farm-house since his discovery of Martha’s attachment to Gilbert Potter,–had even avoided intercourse with Alfred Barton, towards whom his manner became cold and constrained. It was a sore subject in his thoughts, and both the Bartons seemed to be, in some manner, accessory to his disappointment.

The old man complained of an attack of “buzzing in the head,” which molested him at times, and for which bleeding was the Doctor’s usual remedy. His face had a flushed, congested, purple hue, and there was an unnatural glare in his eyes; but the blood flowed thickly and sluggishly from his skinny arm, and a much longer time than usual elapsed before he felt relieved.

“Gad, Doctor!” he said, when the vein had been closed, “the spring weather brings me as much fulness as a young buck o’ twenty. I’d be frisky yet, if’t wasn’t for them legs. Set down, there; you’ve news to tell me!”

“I think, Friend Barton,” Dr. Deane answered, “thee’d better be quiet a spell. Talking isn’t exactly good for thee.”

“Eh?” the old man growled; “maybe you’d like to think so, Doctor. If I am house-bound, I pick up some things as they go around. And I know why you let our little matter drop so suddent.”

He broke off with a short, malicious laugh, which excited the Doctor’s ire. The latter seated himself, smoothed his garments and his face, became odorous of bergamot and wintergreen, and secretly determined to repay the old man for this thrust.

“I don’t know what thee may have heard, Friend Barton,” he remarked, in his blandest voice. “There is always plenty of gossip in this neighborhood, and some persons, no doubt, have been too free with my name,–mine and my daughter’s, I may say. But I want thee to know that that has nothing to do with the relinquishment of my visits to thee. If thee’s curious to learn the reason, perhaps thy son Alfred may be able to give it more circumstantially than I can.”

“What, what, what!” exclaimed the old man. “The boy told you not to come, eh?”

“Not in so many words, mind thee; but he made it unnecessary,–quite unnecessary. In the first place, he gave me no legal evidence of any property, and until that was done, my hands were tied. Further, he seemed very loath to address Martha at all, which was not so singular, considering that he never took any steps, from the first, to gain her favor; and then he deceived me into imagining that she wanted time, after she had positively refused his addresses. He is mistaken, and thee too, if you think that I am very anxious to have a man of no spirit and little property for my son-in-law!”

The Doctor’s words expressed more than he intended. They not only stung, but betrayed his own sting. Old-man Barton crooked his claws around his hickory staff, and shook with senile anger; while his small, keen eyes glared on his antagonist’s face. Yet he had force enough to wait until the first heat of his feeling subsided.

“Doctor,” he then said, “mayhap my boy’s better than a man o’ no name and no property. He’s worth, anyways, what I choose to make him worth. Have you made up y’r mind to take the t’other, that you’ve begun to run him down, eh?”

They were equally matched, this time. The color came into Dr. Deane’s face, and then faded, leaving him slightly livid about the mouth. He preserved his external calmness, by a strong effort, but there was a barely perceptible tremor in his voice, as he replied,–

“It is not pleasant to a man of my years to be made a fool of, as I have every reason to believe thy son has attempted. If I had yielded to his persuasions, I should have spent much time–all to no purpose, I doubt not–in endeavoring to ascertain what thee means to do for him in thy will. It was, indeed, the only thing he seemed to think or care much about. If he has so much money of his own, as thee says, it is certainly not creditable that he should be so anxious for thy decease.”

The Doctor had been watching the old man as he spoke, and the increasing effect of his words was so perceptible that he succeeded in closing with an agreeable smile and a most luxurious pinch of snuff. He had not intended to say so much, at the commencement of the conversation, but he had been sorely provoked, and the temptation was irresistible.