OLD KENNETT MEETING.
On the Sunday succeeding his return, Gilbert Potter proposed to his
mother that they should attend the Friends' Meeting at Old Kennett.
The Quaker element, we have already stated, largely predominated in this
part of the county; and even the many families who were not
actually members of the sect were strongly colored with its peculiar
characteristics. Though not generally using “the plain speech” among
themselves, they invariably did so towards Quakers, varied but little
from the latter in dress and habits, and, with very few exceptions,
regularly attended their worship. In fact, no other religious attendance
was possible, without a Sabbath journey too long for the well-used
farm-horses. To this class belonged Gilbert and his mother, the
Fairthorns, and even the Bartons. Farmer Fairthorn had a birthright, it
is true, until his marriage, which having been a stolen match, and
not performed according to “Friends' ceremony,” occasioned his
excommunication. He might have been restored to the rights of membership
by admitting his sorrow for the offence, but this he stoutly refused to
do. The predicament was not an unusual one in the neighborhood; but
a few, among whom was Dr. Deane, Martha's father, submitted to the
required humiliation. As this did not take place, however, until after
her birth, Martha was still without the pale, and preferred to remain
so, for two reasons: first, that a scoop bonnet was monstrous on a young
woman's head; and second, that she was passionately fond of music, and
saw no harm in a dance. This determination of hers was, as her father
expressed himself, a “great cross” to him; but she had a habit of
paralyzing his argument by turning against him the testimony of the
Friends in regard to forms and ceremonies, and their reliance on the
guidance of the Spirit.
Herein Martha was strictly logical, and though she, and others who
belonged to the same class, were sometimes characterized, by a zealous
Quaker, in moments of bitterness, as being “the world's people,” they
were generally regarded, not only with tolerance, but in a spirit of
fraternity. The high seats in the gallery were not for them, but they
were free to any other part of the meeting-house during life, and to
a grave in the grassy and briery enclosure adjoining, when dead. The
necessity of belonging to some organized church was recognized but
faintly, if at all; provided their lives were honorable, they were
considered very fair Christians.
Mary Potter but rarely attended meeting, not from any lack of the need
of worship, but because she shrank with painful timidity from appearing
in the presence of the assembled neighborhood. She was, nevertheless,
grateful for Gilbert's success, and her heart inclined to thanksgiving;
besides, he desired that they should go, and she was not able to offer
any valid objection. So, after breakfast, the two best horses of the
team were very carefully groomed, saddled, and--Sam having been sent off
on a visit to his father, with the house-key in his pocket--the mother
and son took the road up the creek.
Both were plainly, yet very respectably, dressed, in garments of the
same home-made cloth, of a deep, dark brown color, but Mary Potter wore
under her cloak the new crape shawl which Gilbert had brought to her
from Wilmington, and his shirt of fine linen displayed a modest ruffle
in front. The resemblance in their faces was even more strongly marked,
in the common expression of calm, grave repose, which sprang from the
nature of their journey. A stranger meeting them that morning, would
have seen that they were persons of unusual force of character, and
bound to each other by an unusual tie.
Up the lovely valley, or rather glen, watered by the eastern branch of
Redley Creek, they rode to the main highway. It was an early spring,
and the low-lying fields were already green with the young grass; the
weeping-willows in front of the farm-houses seemed to spout up and
fall like broad enormous geysers as the wind swayed them, and daffodils
bloomed in all the warmer gardens. The dark foliage of the cedars
skirting the road counteracted that indefinable gloom which the
landscapes of early spring, in their grayness and incompleteness, so
often inspire, and mocked the ripened summer in the close shadows which
they threw. It was a pleasant ride, especially after mother and son had
reached the main road, and other horsemen and horsewomen issued from the
gates of farms on either side, taking their way to the meeting-house.
Only two or three families could boast vehicles,--heavy, cumbrous
“chairs,” as they were called, with a convex canopy resting on four
stout pillars, and the bulging body swinging from side to side on huge
springs of wood and leather. No healthy man or woman, however, unless he
or she were very old, travelled otherwise than on horseback.
Now and then exchanging grave but kindly nods with their acquaintances,
they rode slowly along the level upland, past the Anvil Tavern,
through Logtown,--a cluster of primitive cabins at the junction of the
Wilmington Road,--and reached the meeting-house in good season. Gilbert
assisted his mother to alight at the stone platform built for that
purpose near the women's end of the building, and then fastened the
horses in the long, open shed in the rear. Then, as was the custom,
he entered by the men's door, and quietly took a seat in the silent
assembly.
The stiff, unpainted benches were filled with the congregation, young
and old, wearing their hats, and with a stolid, drowsy look upon their
faces. Over a high wooden partition the old women in the gallery,
but not the young women on the floor of the house, could be seen. Two
stoves, with interminable lengths of pipe, suspended by wires from
the ceiling, created a stifling temperature. Every slight sound
or motion,--the moving of a foot, the drawing forth of a
pocket-handkerchief, the lifting or lowering of a head,--seemed to
disturb the quiet as with a shock, and drew many of the younger eyes
upon it; while in front, like the guardian statues of an Egyptian
temple, sat the older members, with their hands upon their knees or
clasped across their laps. Their faces were grave and severe.
After nearly an hour of this suspended animation, an old Friend rose,
removed his broad-brimmed hat, and placing his hands upon the rail
before him, began slowly swaying to and fro, while he spoke. As he rose
into the chant peculiar to the sect, intoning alike his quotations from
the Psalms and his utterances of plain, practical advice, an expression
of quiet but almost luxurious satisfaction stole over the faces of his
aged brethren. With half-closed eyes and motionless bodies, they drank
in the sound like a rich draught, with a sense of exquisite refreshment.
A close connection of ideas, a logical derivation of argument from text,
would have aroused their suspicions that the speaker depended rather
upon his own active, conscious intellect, than upon the moving of the
Spirit; but this aimless wandering of a half-awake soul through the
cadences of a language which was neither song nor speech, was, to their
minds, the evidence of genuine inspiration.
When the old man sat down, a woman arose and chanted forth the
suggestions which had come to her in the silence, in a voice of
wonderful sweetness and strength. Here Music seemed to revenge herself
for the slight done to her by the sect. The ears of the hearers were so
charmed by the purity of tone, and the delicate, rhythmical cadences of
the sentences, that much of the wise lessons repeated from week to week
failed to reach their consciousness.
After another interval of silence, the two oldest men reached their
hands to each other,--a sign which the younger members had anxiously
awaited. The spell snapped in an instant; all arose and moved into the
open air, where all things at first appeared to wear the same aspect of
solemnity. The poplar-trees, the stone wall, the bushes in the corners
of the fence, looked grave and respectful for a few minutes. Neighbors
said, “How does thee do?” to each other, in subdued voices, and there
was a conscientious shaking of hands all around before they dared to
indulge in much conversation.
Gradually, however, all returned to the out-door world and its
interests. The fences became so many posts and rails once more,
the bushes so many elders and blackberries to be cut away, and the
half-green fields so much sod for corn-ground. Opinions in regard to the
weather and the progress of spring labor were freely interchanged, and
the few unimportant items of social news, which had collected in
seven days, were gravely distributed. This was at the men's end of the
meeting-house; on their side, the women were similarly occupied, but
we can only conjecture the subjects of their conversation. The young
men--as is generally the case in religious sects of a rigid and clannish
character--were by no means handsome. Their faces all bore the stamp
of _repression_, in some form or other, and as they talked their eyes
wandered with an expression of melancholy longing and timidity towards
the sweet, maidenly faces, whose bloom, and pure, gentle beauty not even
their hideous bonnets could obscure.
One by one the elder men came up to the stone platform with the stable
old horses which their wives were to ride home; the huge chair, in which
sat a privileged couple, creaked and swayed from side to side, as it
rolled with ponderous dignity from the yard; and now, while the girls
were waiting their turn, the grave young men plucked up courage,
wandered nearer, greeted, exchanged words, and so were helped into an
atmosphere of youth.
Gilbert, approaching with them, was first recognized by his old friend,
Sally Fairthorn, whose voice of salutation was so loud and cheery, as
to cause two or three sedate old “women-friends” to turn their heads
in grave astonishment. Mother Fairthorn, with her bright, round face,
followed, and then--serene and strong in her gentle, symmetrical
loveliness--Martha Deane. Gilbert's hand throbbed, as he held hers a
moment, gazing into the sweet blue of her eyes; yet, passionately as he
felt that he loved her in that moment, perfect as was the delight of her
presence, a better joy came to his heart when she turned away to speak
with his mother. Mark Deane--a young giant with curly yellow locks, and
a broad, laughing mouth--had just placed a hand upon his shoulder, and
he could not watch the bearing of the two women to each other; but all
his soul listened to their voices, and he heard in Martha Deane's the
kindly courtesy and respect which he did not see.
Mother Fairthorn and Sally so cordially insisted that Mary Potter
and her son should ride home with them to dinner, that no denial was
possible. When the horses were brought up to the block the yard was
nearly empty, and the returning procession was already winding up the
hill towards Logtown.
“Come, Mary,” said Mother Fairthorn, “you and I will ride together, and
you shall tell me all about your ducks and turkeys. The young folks can
get along without us, I guess.”
Martha Deane had ridden to meeting in company with her cousin Mark and
Sally, but the order of the homeward ride was fated to be different. Joe
and Jake, bestriding a single horse, like two of the Haymon's-children,
were growing inpatient, so they took the responsibility of dashing up to
Mark and Sally, who were waiting in the road, and announcing,--
“Cousin Martha says we're to go on; she'll ride with Gilbert.”
Both well knew the pranks of the boys, but perhaps they found the
message well-invented if not true; for they obeyed with secret alacrity,
although Sally made a becoming show of reluctance. Before they reached
the bottom of the hollow, Joe and Jake, seeing two school-mates in
advance, similarly mounted, dashed off in a canter, to overtake them,
and the two were left alone.
Gilbert and Martha naturally followed, since not more than two could
conveniently ride abreast. But their movements were so quiet and
deliberate, and the accident which threw them together was accepted so
simply and calmly that no one could guess what warmth of longing, of
reverential tenderness, beat in every muffled throb of one of the two
hearts.
Martha was an admirable horsewoman, and her slender, pliant figure never
showed to greater advantage than in the saddle. Her broad beaver hat was
tied down over the ears, throwing a cool gray shadow across her clear,
joyous eyes and fresh cheeks. A pleasanter face never touched a young
man's fancy, and every time it turned towards Gilbert it brightened
away the distress of love. He caught, unconsciously, the serenity of her
mood, and foretasted the peace which her being would bring to him if it
were ever intrusted to his hands.
“Did you do well by your hauling, Gilbert,” she asked, “and are you now
home for the summer?”
“Until after corn-planting,” he answered. “Then I must take two or three
weeks, as the season turns out. I am not able to give up my team yet.”
“But you soon will be, I hope. It must be very lonely for your mother to
be on the farm without you.”
These words touched him gratefully, and led him to a candid openness
of speech which he would not otherwise have ventured,--not from any
inherent lack of candor, but from a reluctance to speak of himself.
“That's it, Martha,” he said. “It is her work that I have the farm at
all, and I only go away the oftener now, that I may the sooner stay with
her altogether. The thought of her makes each trip lonelier than the
last.”
“I like to hear you say that, Gilbert. And it must be a comfort to you,
withal, to know that you are working as much for your mother's sake as
your own. I think I should feel so, at least, in your place. I feel my
own mother's loss more now than when she died, for I was then so young
that I can only just remember her face.”
“But you have a father!” he exclaimed, and the words were scarcely out
of his mouth before he became aware of their significance, uttered by
his lips. He had not meant so much,--only that she, like him, still
enjoyed one parent's care. The blood came into his face; she saw and
understood the sign, and broke a silence which would soon have become
painful.
“Yes,” she said, “and I am very grateful that he is spared; but we seem
to belong most to our mothers.”
“That is the truth,” he said firmly, lifting his head with the impulse
of his recovered pride, and meeting her eyes without flinching. “I
belong altogether to mine. She has made me a man and set me upon my
feet. From this time forward, my place is to stand between her and the
world!”
Martha Deane's blood throbbed an answer to this assertion of himself.
A sympathetic pride beamed in her eyes; she slightly bent her head, in
answer, without speaking, and Gilbert felt that he was understood and
valued. He had drawn a step nearer to the trial which he had resolved to
make, and would now venture no further.
There was a glimmering spark of courage in his heart. He was surprised,
in recalling the conversation afterwards, to find how much of his plans
he had communicated to her during the ride, encouraged by the kindly
interest she manifested, and the sensible comments she uttered. Joe and
Jake, losing their mates at a cross-road, and finding Sally and Mark
Deane not very lively company for them, rode back and disturbed these
confidences, but not until they had drawn the two into a relation of
acknowledged mutual interest.
Martha Deane had always, as she confessed to Sally, _liked_ Gilbert
Potter; she liked every young man of character and energy; but now she
began to suspect that there was a rarer worth in his nature than she had
guessed. From that day he was more frequently the guest of her thoughts
than ever before. Instinct, in him, had performed the same service which
men of greater experience of the world would have reached through keen
perception and careful tact,--in confiding to her his position, his
labors and hopes, material as was the theme and seemingly unsuited to
the occasion, he had in reality appreciated the serious, reflective
nature underlying her girlish grace and gayety. What other young man of
her acquaintance, she asked herself, would have done the same thing?
When they reached Kennett Square, Mother Fairthorn urged Martha to
accompany them, and Sally impetuously seconded the invitation. Dr.
Deane's horse was at his door, however, and his daughter, with her eyes
on Gilbert, as if saying “for my father's sake,” steadfastly declined.
Mark, however, took her place, but there never had been, or could be,
too many guests at the Fairthorn table.
When they reached the garden-wall, Sally sprang from her horse with such
haste that her skirt caught on the pommel and left her hanging, being
made of stuff too stout to tear. It was well that Gilbert was near, on
the same side, and disengaged her in an instant; but her troubles did
not end here. As she bustled in and out of the kitchen, preparing the
dinner-table in the long sitting-room, the hooks and door-handles seemed
to have an unaccountable habit of thrusting themselves in her way, and
she was ready to cry at each glance of Mark's laughing eyes. She
had never heard the German proverb, “who loves, teases,” and was too
inexperienced, as yet, to have discovered the fact for herself.
Presently they all sat down to dinner, and after the first solemn
quiet,--no one venturing to eat or speak until the plates of all had
been heaped with a little of everything upon the table,--the meal became
very genial and pleasant. A huge brown pitcher of stinging cider added
its mild stimulus to the calm country blood, and under its mellowing
influence Mark announced the most important fact of his life,--he was to
have the building of Hallowell's barn.
As Gilbert and his mother rode homewards, that afternoon, neither spoke
much, but both felt, in some indefinite way, better prepared for the
life that lay before them.