THE NEW GILBERT.
This time the weather, which so often thwarts the farmer's calculations,
favored Gilbert Potter. In a week the two fields were ploughed, and what
little farm-work remained to be done before the first of April, could be
safely left to Sam. On the second Monday after the chase, therefore, he
harnessed his four sturdy horses to the wagon, and set off before the
first streak of dawn for Columbia, on the Susquehanna. Here he would
take from twelve to sixteen barrels of flour (according to the state
of the roads) and haul them, a two days' journey, to Newport, on the
Christiana River. The freight of a dollar and a half a barrel, which
he received, yielded him what in those days was considered a handsome
profit for the service, and it was no unusual thing for farmers who were
in possession of a suitable team, to engage in the business whenever
they could spare the time from their own fields.
Since the evening when she had spoken to him, for the first time in her
life, of the dismal shadow which rested upon their names, Mary Potter
felt that there was an indefinable change in her relation to her son. He
seemed suddenly drawn nearer to her, and yet, in some other sense which
she could not clearly comprehend, thrust farther away. His manner,
always kind and tender, assumed a shade of gentle respect, grateful in
itself, yet disturbing, because new in her experience of him. His head
was slightly lifted, and his lips, though firm as ever, less rigidly
compressed. She could not tell how it was, but his voice had more
authority in her ears. She had never before quite disentangled the man
that he was from the child that he had been; but now the separation,
sharp, sudden, and final, was impressed upon her mind. Under all the
loneliness which came upon her, when the musical bells of his team
tinkled into silence beyond the hill, there lurked a strange sense of
relief, as if her nature would more readily adjust itself during his
absence.
Instead of accepting the day with its duties, as a sufficient burden,
she now deliberately reviewed the Past. It would give her pain, she
knew; but what pain could she ever feel again, comparable to that which
she had so recently suffered? Long she brooded over that bitter period
before and immediately succeeding her son's birth, often declaring to
herself how fatally she had erred, and as often shaking her head in
hopeless renunciation of any present escape from the consequences of
that error. She saw her position clearly, yet it seemed that she had
so entangled herself in the meshes of a merciless Fate, that the only
reparation she could claim, either for herself or her son, would be
thrown away by forestalling--after such endless, endless submission and
suffering--the Event which should set her free.
Then she recalled and understood, as never before, Gilbert's childhood
and boyhood. For his sake she had accepted menial service in families
where he was looked upon and treated as an incumbrance. The child, it
had been her comfort to think, was too young to know or feel this,--but
now, alas! the remembrance of his shyness and sadness told her a
different tale. So nine years had passed, and she was then forced to
part with her boy. She had bound him to Farmer Fairthorn, whose good
heart, and his wife's, she well knew, and now she worked for him, alone,
putting by her savings every year, and stinting herself to the utmost
that she might be able to start him in life, if he should live to be his
own master. Little by little, the blot upon her seemed to fade out or
be forgotten, and she hoped--oh, how she had hoped!--that he might be
spared the knowledge of it.
She watched him grow up, a boy of firm will, strong temper, yet great
self-control; and the easy Fairthorn rule, which would have spoiled a
youth of livelier spirits, was, providentially, the atmosphere in which
his nature grew more serene and patient. He was steady, industrious, and
faithful, and the Fairthorns loved him almost as their own son. When he
reached the age of eighteen, he was allowed many important privileges:
he hauled flour to Newport, having a share of the profits, and in other
ways earned a sum which, with his mother's aid, enabled him to buy a
team of his own, on coming of age.
Two years more of this weary, lonely labor, and the one absorbing aim of
Mary Potter's life, which she had impressed upon him ever since he was
old enough to understand it, drew near fulfilment. The farm upon which
they now lived was sold, and Gilbert became the purchaser. There was
still a debt of a thousand dollars upon the property, and she felt that
until it was paid, they possessed no secure home. During the year which
had elapsed since the purchase, Gilbert, by unwearied labor, had laid up
about four hundred dollars, and another year, he had said, if he should
prosper in his plans, would see them free at last! Then,--let the world
say what it chose! They had fought their way from shame and poverty
to honest independence, and the respect which follows success would at
least be theirs.
This was always the consoling thought to which Mary Potter returned,
from the unallayed trouble of her mind. Day by day, Gilbert's new figure
became more familiar, and she was conscious that her own manner towards
him must change with it The subject of his birth, however, and the new
difficulties with which it beset her, would not be thrust aside. For
years she had almost ceased to think of the possible release, of which
she had spoken; now it returned and filled her with a strange, restless
impatience.
Gilbert, also, had ample time to review his own position, during the
fortnight's absence. After passing the hills and emerging upon the long,
fertile swells of Lancaster, his experienced leaders but rarely needed
the guidance of his hand or voice. Often, sunk in revery, the familiar
landmarks of the journey went by unheeded; often he lay awake in the
crowded bedroom of a tavern, striving to clear a path for his feet a
little way into the future. Only men of the profoundest culture make a
deliberate study of their own natures, but those less gifted often act
with an equal or even superior wisdom, because their qualities operate
spontaneously, unwatched by an introverted eye. Such men may be
dimly conscious of certain inconsistencies, or unsolved puzzles, in
themselves, but instead of sitting down to unravel them, they seek the
easiest way to pass by and leave them untouched. For them the material
aspects of life are of the highest importance, and a true instinct shows
them that beyond the merest superficial acquaintance with their own
natures lie deep and disturbing questions, with which they are not
fitted to grapple.
There comes a time, however, to every young man, even the most
uncultivated, when he touches one of the primal, eternal forces of life,
and is conscious of other needs and another destiny. This time had come
to Gilbert Potter, forcing him to look upon the circumstances of his
life from a loftier point of view. He had struggled, passionately but at
random, for light,--but, fortunately, every earnest struggle is towards
the light, and it now began to dawn upon him.
He first became aware of one enigma, the consideration of which was
not so easy to lay aside. His mother had not been deceived: there was
a change in the man since that evening. Often and often, in gloomy
breedings over his supposed disgrace, he had fiercely asserted to
himself that _he_ was free from stain, and the unrespect in which he
stood was an injustice to be bravely defied. The brand which he wore,
and which he fancied was seen by every eye he met, existed in his own
fancy; his brow was as pure, his right to esteem and honor equal, to
that of any other man. But it was impossible to act upon this reasoning;
still when the test came he would shrink and feel the pain, instead of
trampling it under his feet.
Now that the brand _was_ removed, the strength which he had so
desperately craved, was suddenly his. So far as the world was concerned,
nothing was altered; no one knew of the revelation which his mother had
made to him; he was still the child of her shame, but this knowledge was
no longer a torture. Now he had a right to respect, not asserted only
to his own heart, but which every man would acknowledge, were it made
known. He was no longer a solitary individual, protesting against
prejudice and custom. Though still feeling that the protest was just,
and that his new courage implied some weakness, he could not conceal
from himself the knowledge that this very weakness was the practical
fountain of his strength. He was a secret and unknown unit of the great
majority.
There was another, more intimate subject which the new knowledge touched
very nearly; and here, also, hope dawned upon a sense akin to despair.
With all the force of his nature, Gilbert Potter loved Martha Deane.
He had known her since he was a boy at Fairthorn's; her face had always
been the brightest in his memory; but it was only since the purchase
of the farm that his matured manhood had fully recognized its answering
womanhood in her. He was slow to acknowledge the truth, even to his own
heart, and when it could no longer be denied, he locked it up and sealed
it with seven seals, determined never to betray it, to her or any one.
Then arose a wild hope, that respect might come with the independence
for which he was laboring, and perhaps he might dare to draw
nearer,--near enough to guess if there were any answer in her heart. It
was a frail support, but he clung to it as with his life, for there was
none other.
Now,--although his uncertainty was as great as ever,--his approach could
not humiliate her. His love brought no shadow of shame; it was proudly
white and clean. Ah! he had forgotten that she did not know,--that his
lips were sealed until his mother's should be opened to the world. The
curse was not to be shaken off so easily.
By the time he had twice traversed the long, weary road between Columbia
and Newport, Gilbert reached a desperate solution of this difficulty.
The end of his meditations was: “I will see if there be love in woman as
in man!--love that takes no note of birth or station, but, once having
found its mate, is faithful from first to last.” In love, an honest and
faithful heart touches the loftiest ideal. Gilbert knew that, were the
case reversed, no possible test could shake his steadfast affection,
and how else could he measure the quality of hers? He said to himself:
“Perhaps it is cruel, but I cannot spare her the trial.” He was prouder
than he knew,--but we must remember all that he endured.
It was a dry, windy March month, that year, and he made four good
trips before the first of April. Returning home from Newport, by way of
Wilmington, with seventy-five dollars clear profit in his pocket, his
prospects seemed very cheerful. Could he accomplish two more months of
hauling during the year, and the crops should be fair, the money
from these sources, and the sale of his wagon and one span, would be
something more than enough to discharge the remaining debt. He knew,
moreover, how the farm could be more advantageously worked, having used
his eyes to good purpose in passing through the rich, abundant fields of
Lancaster. The land once his own,--which, like his mother, he could not
yet feel,--his future, in a material sense, was assured.
Before reaching the Buck Tavern, he overtook a woman plodding slowly
along the road. Her rusty beaver hat, tied down over her ears, and her
faded gown, were in singular contrast to the shining new scarlet shawl
upon her shoulders. As she stopped and turned, at the sound of his
tinkling bells, she showed a hard red face, not devoid of a certain
coarse beauty, and he recognized Deb. Smith, a lawless, irregular
creature, well known about Kennett.
“Good-day, Deborah!” said he; “if you are going my way, I can give you a
lift.”
“He calls me 'Deborah,'” she muttered to herself; then aloud--“Ay, and
thank ye, Mr. Gilbert.”
Seizing the tail of the near horse with one hand, she sprang upon the
wagon-tongue, and the next moment sat upon the board at his side. Then,
rummaging in a deep pocket, she produced, one after the other, a short
black pipe, an eel-skin tobacco-pouch, flint, tinder, and a clumsy
knife. With a dexterity which could only have come from long habit,
she prepared and kindled the weed, and was presently puffing forth rank
streams, with an air of the deepest satisfaction.
“Which way?” asked Gilbert.
“Your'n, as far as you go,--always providin' you takes me.”
“Of course, Deborah, you're welcome. I have no load, you see.”
“Mighty clever in you, Mr. Gilbert; but you always was one o' the clever
ones. Them as thinks themselves better born”--
“Come, Deborah, none of that!” he exclaimed.
“Ax your pardon,” she said, and smoked her pipe in silence. When she had
finished and knocked the ashes out against the front panel of the wagon,
she spoke again, in a hard, bitter voice,--
“'Tisn't much difference what _I_ am. I was raised on hard knocks, and
now I must git my livin' by 'em. But I axes no'un's help, I'm _that_
proud, anyways. I go my own road, and a straighter one, too, damme, than
I git credit for, but I let other people go their'n. You might have wuss
company than me, though _I_ say it.”
These words hinted at an inward experience in some respects so
surprisingly like his own, that Gilbert was startled. He knew the
reputation of the woman, though he would have found it difficult to
tell whereupon it was based. Everybody said she was bad, and nobody
knew particularly why. She lived alone, in a log-cabin in the woods; did
washing and house-cleaning; worked in the harvest-fields; smoked, and
took her gill of whiskey with the best of them,--but other vices, though
inferred, were not proven. Involuntarily, he contrasted her position,
in this respect, with his own. The world, he had recently learned, was
wrong in his case; might it not also be doing her injustice? Her
pride, in its coarse way, was his also, and his life, perhaps, had only
unfolded into honorable success through a mother's ever-watchful care
and never-wearied toil.
“Deborah,” he said, after a pause, “no man or woman who makes an honest
living by hard work, is bad company for me. I am trying to do the same
thing that you are,--to be independent of others. It's not an easy thing
for anybody, starting from nothing, but I can guess that it must be much
harder for you than for me.”
“Yes, you're a man!” she cried. “Would to God I'd been one, too! A man
can do everything that I do, and it's all right and proper. Why did the
Lord give me strength? Look at that!” She bared her right arm--hard,
knitted muscle from wrist to shoulder--and clenched her fist. “What's
that for?--not for a woman, I say; I could take two of 'em by the necks
and pitch 'em over yon fence. I've felled an Irishman like an ox when he
called me names. The anger's in me, and the boldness and the roughness,
and the cursin'; I didn't put 'em there, and I can't git 'em out now,
if I tried ever so much. Why did they snatch the sewin' from me when
I wanted to learn women's work, and send me out to yoke th' oxen? I do
believe I was a gal onc't, a six-month or so, but it's over long ago.
I've been a man ever since!”
She took a bottle out of her pocket, and offered it to Gilbert. When he
refused, she simply said: “You're right!” set it to her mouth, and drank
long and deeply. There was a wild, painful gleam of truth in her words,
which touched his sympathy. How should he dare to judge this unfortunate
creature, not knowing what perverse freak of nature, and untoward
circumstances of life had combined to make her what she was? His manner
towards her was kind and serious, and by degrees this covert respect
awoke in her a desire to deserve it. She spoke calmly and soberly,
exhibiting a wonderful knowledge as they rode onwards, not only of
farming, but of animals, trees, and plants.
The team, knowing that home and rest were near, marched cheerily up and
down the hills along the border, and before sunset, emerging from the
woods, they overlooked the little valley, the mill, and the nestling
farmhouse. An Indian war-whoop rang across the meadow, and Gilbert
recognized Sam's welcome therein.
“Now, Deborah,” said he, “you shall stop and have some supper, before
you go any farther.”
“I'm obliged, all the same,” said she, “but I must push on. I've to go
beyond the Square, and couldn't wait. But tell your mother if she wants
a man's arm in house-cleanin' time to let me know. And, Mr. Gilbert, let
me say one thing: give me your hand.”
The horses had stopped to drink at the creek. He gave her his right
hand.
She held it in hers a moment, gazing intently on the palm. Then she bent
her head and blew upon it gently, three times.
“Never mind: it's my fancy,” she said. “You're born for trial and
good-luck, but the trials come first, all of a heap, and the good luck
afterwards. You've got a friend in Deb. Smith, if you ever need one.
Good-bye to ye!”
With these words she sprang from the wagon, and trudged off silently up
the hill. The horses turned of themselves into the lane leading to the
barn, and Gilbert assisted Sam in unharnessing and feeding them before
entering the house. By the time he was ready to greet his mother,
and enjoy, without further care, his first evening at home, he knew
everything that had occurred on the farm during his absence.