THE EVENTS OF AN EVENING.
At the first winding of the creek, Gilbert drew rein, with a vague,
half-conscious sense of escape. The eye which had followed him thus far
was turned away at last.
For half a mile the road lay through a lovely solitude of shade and
tangled bowery thickets, beside the stream. The air was soft and
tempered, and filled the glen like the breath of some utterly peaceful
and happy creature; yet over Gilbert's heart there brooded another
atmosphere than this. The sultriness that precedes an emotional crisis
weighed heavily upon him.
No man, to whom Nature has granted her highest gift,--that of
expression,--can understand the pain endured by one of strong feelings,
to whom not only this gift has been denied, but who must also wrestle
with an inherited reticence. It is well that in such cases a kindly law
exists, to aid the helpless heart. The least portion of the love which
lights the world has been told in words; it works, attracts, and binds
in silence. The eye never knows its own desire, the hand its warmth,
the voice its tenderness, nor the heart its unconscious speech through
these, and a thousand other vehicles. Every endeavor to hide the special
fact betrays the feeling from which it sprang.
Like all men of limited culture, Gilbert felt his helplessness keenly.
His mind, usually clear in its operations, if somewhat slow and
cautious, refused to assist him here; it lay dead or apathetic in an
air surcharged with passion. An anxious expectancy enclosed him with
stifling pressure; he felt that it must be loosened, but knew not how.
His craving for words--words swift, clear, and hot as lightning, through
which his heart might discharge itself--haunted him like a furious
hunger.
The road, rising out of the glen, passed around the brow of a grassy
hill, whence he could look across a lateral valley to the Falconer
farm-house. Pausing here, he plainly descried a stately “chair” leaning
on its thills, in the shade of the weeping-willow, three horses hitched
side by side to the lane-fence, and a faint glimmer of color between
the mounds of box which almost hid the porch. It was very evident to his
mind that the Falconers had other visitors, and that neither Mark nor
Sally, (whatever might be Martha Deane's inclination,) would be likely
to prolong their stay; so he slowly rode on, past the lane-end, and
awaited them at the ford beyond.
It was not long--though the wood on the western hill already threw its
shadow into the glen--before the sound of voices and hoofs emerged from
the lane. Sally's remark reached him first:
“They may be nice people enough, for aught I know, but their ways are
not my ways, and there's no use in trying to mix them.”
“That's a fact!” said Mark. “Hallo, here's Gilbert, ahead of us!”
They rode into the stream together, and let their horses drink from the
clear, swift-flowing water. In Mark's and Sally's eyes, Gilbert was
as grave and impassive as usual, but Martha Deane was conscious of a
strange, warm, subtle power, which seemed to envelop her as she drew
near him. Her face glowed with a sweet, unaccustomed flush; his was
pale, and the shadow of his brows lay heavier upon his eyes. Fate
was already taking up the invisible, floating filaments of these two
existences, and weaving them together.
Of course it happened, and of course by the purest accident, that
Mark and Sally first reached the opposite bank, and took the narrow
wood-road, where the loose, briery sprays of the thickets brushed them
on either side. Sally's hat, and probably her head, would have been
carried off by a projecting branch, had not Mark thrown his arm around
her neck and forcibly bent her forwards. Then she shrieked and struck at
him with her riding-whip, while Mark's laugh woke all the echoes of the
woods.
“I say, Gilbert!” he cried, turning back in his saddle, “I'll hold
_you_ responsible for Martha's head; it's as much as _I_ can do to keep
Sally's on her shoulders.”
Gilbert looked at his companion, as she rode slowly by his side, through
the cool, mottled dusk of the woods. She had drawn the strings of her
beaver through a buttonhole of her riding-habit, and allowed it to hang
upon her back. The motion of the horse gave a gentle, undulating grace
to her erect, self-reliant figure, and her lips, slightly parted,
breathed maidenly trust and consent. She turned her face towards him and
smiled, at Mark's words.
“The warning is unnecessary,” he said. “You will give me no chance to
take care of you, Martha.”
“Is it not better so?” she asked.
He hesitated; he would have said “No,” but finally evaded a direct
answer.
“I would be glad enough to do you a service--even so little as that,”
were his words, and the tender tone in which they were spoken made
itself evident to his own ears.
“I don't doubt it, Gilbert,” she answered, so kindly and cordially that
he was smitten to the heart. Had she faltered in her reply,--had she
blushed and kept silence,--his hope would have seized the evidence and
rushed to the trial; but this was the frankness of friendship, not the
timidity of love. She could not, then, suspect his passion, and ah, how
the risks of its utterance were multiplied!
Meanwhile, the wonderful glamour of her presence--that irresistible
influence which at once takes hold of body and spirit--had entered
into every cell of his blood. Thought and memory were blurred into
nothingness by this one overmastering sensation. Riding through the
lonely woods, out of shade into yellow, level sunshine, in the odors of
minty meadows and moist spices of the creekside, they twain seemed to
him to be alone in the world. If they loved not each other, why should
not the leaves shrivel and fall, the hills split asunder, and the sky
rain death upon them? Here she moved at his side--he could stretch out
his hand and touch her; his heart sprang towards her, his arms ached
for very yearning to clasp her,--his double nature demanded her with the
will and entreated for her with the affection! Under all, felt though
not suspected, glowed the vast primal instinct upon which the strength
of manhood and of womanhood is based.
Sally and Mark, a hundred yards in advance, now thrown into sight and
now hidden by the windings of the road, were so pleasantly occupied with
each other that they took no heed of the pair behind them. Gilbert was
silent; speech was mockery, unless it gave the words which he did not
dare to pronounce. His manner was sullen and churlish in Martha's eyes,
he suspected; but so it must be, unless a miracle were sent to aid him.
She, riding as quietly, seemed to meditate, apparently unconscious
of his presence; how could he know that she had never before been so
vitally conscious of it?
The long rays of sunset withdrew to the tree-tops, and a deeper hush
fell upon the land. The road which had mounted along the slope of a
stubble-field, now dropped again into a wooded hollow, where a tree,
awkwardly felled, lay across it. Roger pricked up his ears and leaped
lightly over. Martha's horse followed, taking the log easily, but
she reined him up the next moment, uttering a slight exclamation, and
stretched out her hand wistfully towards Gilbert.
To seize it and bring Roger to a stand was the work of an instant. “What
is the matter, Martha?” he cried.
“I think the girth is broken,” said she. “The saddle is loose, and I was
nigh losing my balance. Thank you, I can sit steadily now.”
Gilbert sprang to the ground and hastened to her assistance.
“Yes, it is broken,” he said, “but I can give you mine. You had better
dismount, though; see, I will hold the pommel firm with one hand, while
I lift you down with the other. Not too fast, I am strong; place your
hands on my shoulders--so!”
She bent forward and laid her hands upon his shoulders. Then, as she
slid gently down, his right arm crept around her waist, holding her so
firmly and securely that she had left the saddle and hung in its support
while her feet had not yet touched the earth. Her warm breath was on
Gilbert's forehead; her bosom swept his breast, and the arm that until
then had supported, now swiftly, tenderly, irresistibly embraced her.
Trembling, thrilling from head to foot, utterly unable to control the
mad impulse of the moment, he drew her to his heart and laid his lips
to hers. All that he would have said--all, and more than all, that words
could have expressed--was now said, without words. His kiss clung as
if it were the last this side of death--clung until he felt that Martha
feebly strove to be released.
The next minute they stood side by side, and Gilbert, by a revulsion
equally swift and overpowering, burst into a passion of tears.
He turned and leaned his head against Roger's neck. Presently a light
touch came upon his shoulder.
“Gilbert!”
He faced her then, and saw that her own cheeks were wet. “Martha!” he
cried, “unless you love me with a love like mine for you, you can never
forgive me!”
She came nearer; she laid her arms around him, and lifted her face to
his. Then she said, in a tender, tremulous whisper,--
“Gilbert--Gilbert! I forgive you.”
A pang of wonderful, incredulous joy shot through his heart. Exalted by
his emotion above the constraints of his past and present life, he arose
and stood free and strong in his full stature as a man. He held her
softly and tenderly embraced, and a purer bliss than the physical
delight of her warm, caressing presence shone upon his face as he
asked,--
“Forever, Martha?”
“Forever.”
“Knowing what I am?”
“Because I know what you are, Gilbert!”
He bowed his head upon her shoulder, and she felt softer tears--tears
which came this time without sound or pang--upon her neck. It was
infinitely touching to see this strong nature so moved, and the best
bliss that a true woman's heart can feel--the knowledge of the boundless
bounty which her love brings with it--opened upon her consciousness.
A swift instinct revealed to her the painful struggles of Gilbert's
life,--the stern, reticent strength they had developed,--the anxiety and
the torture of his long-suppressed passion, and the power and purity of
that devotion with which his heart had sought and claimed her. She
now saw him in his true character,--firm as steel, yet gentle as dew,
patient and passionate, and purposely cold only to guard the sanctity of
his emotions.
The twilight deepened in the wood, and Roger, stretching and shaking
himself, called the lovers to themselves. Gilbert lifted his head and
looked into Martha's sweet, unshrinking eyes.
“May the Lord bless you, as you have blessed me!” he said, solemnly.
“Martha, did you guess this before?”
“Yes,” she answered, “I felt that it must be so.”
“And you did not draw back from me--you did not shun the thought of me!
You were”--
He paused; was there not blessing enough, or must he curiously question
its growth?
Martha, however, understood the thought in his mind. “No, Gilbert!”
she said, “I cannot truly say that I loved you at the time when I first
discovered your feeling towards me. I had always esteemed and trusted
you, and you were much in my mind; but when I asked myself if I could
look upon you as my husband, my heart hesitated with the answer. I did
not deserve your affection then, because I could not repay it in
the same measure. But, although the knowledge seemed to disturb me,
sometimes, yet it was very grateful, and therefore I could not quite
make up my mind to discourage you. Indeed, I knew not what was right to
do, but I found myself more and more strongly drawn towards you; a power
came from you when we met, that touched and yet strengthened me, and
then I thought, 'Perhaps I _do_ love him.' To-day, when I first saw your
face, I knew that I did. I felt your heart calling to me like one that
cries for help, and mine answered. It has been slow to speak, Gilbert,
but I know it has spoken truly at last!”
He replaced the broken girth, lifted her into the saddle, mounted his
own horse, and they resumed their ride along the dusky valley. But how
otherwise their companionship now!
“Martha,” said Gilbert, leaning towards her and touching her softly as
he spoke, as if fearful that some power in his words might drive them
apart,--“Martha, have you considered what I am called? That the family
name I bear is in itself a disgrace? Have you imagined what it is to
love one so dishonored as I am?”
The delicate line of her upper lip grew clear and firm again,
temporarily losing its relaxed gentleness. “I have thought of it,” she
answered, “but not in that way. Gilbert, I honored you before I loved
you. I will not say that this thing makes no difference, for it does--a
difference in the name men give you, a difference in your work through
life (for you must deserve more esteem to gain as much as other
men)--and a difference in my duty towards you. They call me
'independent,' Gilbert, because, though a woman, I dare to think for
myself; I know not whether they mean praise by the word, or no; but I
think it would frighten away the thought of love from many men. It has
not frightened you; and you, however you were born, are the faithfullest
and best man I know. I love you with my whole heart, and I will be true
to you!”
With these words, Martha stretched out her hand. Gilbert took and held
it, bowing his head fondly over it, and inwardly thanking God that the
test which his pride had exacted was over at last. He could reward her
truth, spare her the willing sacrifice,--and he would.
“Martha,” he said, “if I sometimes doubted whether you could share my
disgrace, it was because I had bitter cause to feel how heavy it is
to bear. God knows I would have come to you with a clean and honorable
name, if I could have been patient to wait longer in uncertainty. But I
could not tell how long the time might be,--I could not urge my mother,
nor even ask her to explain”--
“No, no, Gilbert! Spare _her!”_ Martha interrupted.
“I _have,_ Martha,--God bless you for the words!--and I _will_; it would
be the worst wickedness not to be patient, now! But I have not yet told
you”--
A loud halloo rang through the dusk.
“It is Mark's voice,” said Martha; “answer him!”
Gilbert shouted, and a double cry instantly replied. They had reached
the cross-road from New-Garden, and Mark and Sally, who had been waiting
impatiently for a quarter of an hour, rode to meet them. “Did you lose
the road?” “Whatever kept you so long?” were the simultaneous questions.
“My girth broke in jumping over the tree,” Martha answered, in her
clear, untroubled voice. “I should have been thrown off, but for
Gilbert's help. He had to give me his own girth, and so we have ridden
slowly, since he has none.”
“Take my breast-strap,” said Mark.
“No,” said Gilbert, “I can ride Roger bareback, if need be, with the
saddle on my shoulder.”
Something in his voice struck Mark and Sally singularly. It was grave
and subdued, yet sweet in its tones as never before; he had not yet
descended from the solemn exaltation of his recent mood. But the dusk
sheltered his face, and its new brightness was visible only to Martha's
eyes.
Mark and Sally again led the way, and the lovers followed in silence up
the hill, until they struck the Wilmington road, below Hallowell's. Here
Gilbert felt that it was best to leave them.
“Well, you two are cheerful company!” exclaimed Sally, as they checked
their horses. “Martha, how many words has Gilbert spoken to you this
evening?”
“As many as I have spoken to him,” Martha answered; “but I will say
three more,--Good-night, Gilbert!”
“Good-night!” was all he dared say, in return, but the pressure of his
hand burned long upon her fingers.
He rode homewards in the starlight, transformed by love and gratitude,
proud, tender, strong to encounter any fate. His mother sat in the
lonely kitchen, with the New Testament in her lap; she had tried to
read, but her thoughts wandered from the consoling text. The table was
but half-cleared, and the little old teapot still squatted beside the
coals.
Gilbert strove hard to assume his ordinary manner, but he could not hide
the radiant happiness that shone from his eyes and sat upon his lips.
“You've not had supper?” Mary Potter asked.
“No, mother! but I'm sorry you kept things waiting; I can do well enough
without.”
“It's not right to go without your regular meals, Gilbert. Sit up to the
table!”
She poured out the tea, and Gilbert ate and drank in silence. His mother
said nothing, but he knew that her eye was upon him, and that he was
the subject of her thoughts. Once or twice he detected a wistful,
questioning expression, which, in his softened mood, touched him almost
like a reproach.
When the table had been cleared and everything put away, she resumed her
seat, breathing an unconscious sigh as she dropped her hands into her
lap. Gilbert felt that he must now speak, and only hesitated while he
considered how he could best do so, without touching her secret and
mysterious trouble.
“Mother!” he said at last, “I have something to tell you.”
“Ay, Gilbert?”
“Maybe it'll seem good news to you; but maybe not. I have asked Martha
Deane to be my wife!”
He paused, and looked at her. She clasped her hands, leaned forward, and
fixed her dark, mournful eyes intently upon his face.
“I have been drawn towards her for a long time,” Gilbert continued. “It
has been a great trouble to me, because she is so pretty, and withal
so proud in the way a girl should be,--I liked her pride, even while
it made me afraid,--and they say she is rich also. It might seem like
looking too high, mother, but I couldn't help it.”
“There's no woman too high for you, Gilbert!” Mary Potter exclaimed.
Then she went on, in a hurried, unsteady voice: “It isn't that--I
mistrusted it would come so, some day, but I hoped--only for your good,
my boy, only for that--I hoped not so soon. You're still young--not
twenty-five, and there's debt on the farm;--couldn't you ha' waited a
little, Gilbert?”
“I have waited, mother,” he said, slightly turning away his head, that
he might not see the tender reproach in her face, which her question
seemed to imply. “I _did_ wait--and for that reason. I wanted first to
be independent, at least; and I doubt that I would have spoken so soon,
but there were others after Martha, and that put the thought of losing
her into my head. It seemed like a matter of life or death. Alfred
Barton tried to keep company with her--he didn't deny it to my face; the
people talked of it. Folks always say more than they know, to be sure,
but then, the chances were so much against _me,_ mother! I was nigh
crazy, sometimes. I tried my best and bravest to be patient, but to-day
we were riding alone,--Mark and Sally gone ahead,--and--and then it came
from my mouth, I don't know how; I didn't expect it. But I shouldn't
have doubted Martha; she let me speak; she answered me--I can't tell you
her words, mother, though I'll never forget one single one of 'em to
my dying day. She gave me her hand and said she would be true to me
forever.”
Gilbert waited, as if his mother might here speak, but she remained
silent.
“Do you understand, mother?” he continued. “She pledged herself to
me--she will be my wife. And I asked her--you won't be hurt, for I felt
it to be my duty--whether she knew how disgraced I was in the eyes of
the people,--whether my name would not be a shame for her to bear? She
couldn't know what we know: she took me even with the shame,--and she
looked prouder than ever when she stood by me in the thought of it! She
would despise me, now, if I should offer to give her up on account of
it, but she may know as much as I do, mother? She deserves it.”
There was no answer. Gilbert looked up.
Mary Potter sat perfectly still in her high rocking-chair. Her arms hung
passively at her sides, and her head leaned back and was turned to one
side, as if she were utterly exhausted. But in the pale face, the closed
eyes, and the blue shade about the parted lips, he saw that she was
unconscious of his words. She had fainted.