A CROSS-EXAMINATION.
The story of Gilbert Potter's robbery and marvellous escape from death
ran rapidly through the neighborhood, and coming, as it did, upon the
heels of his former adventure, created a great excitement. He became
almost a hero in the minds of the people. It was not their habit to
allow any man to _quite_ assume so lofty a character as that, but they
granted to Gilbert fully as much interest as, in their estimation, any
human being ought properly to receive. Dr. Deane was eagerly questioned,
wherever he went; and if his garments could have exhaled the odors of
his feelings, his questioners would have smelled aloes and asafoetida
instead of sweet-marjoram and bergamot. But--in justice to him be it
said--he told and retold the story very correctly; the tide of sympathy
ran so high and strong, that he did not venture to stem it on grounds
which could not be publicly explained.
The supposed disgrace of Gilbert's birth seemed to be quite forgotten
for the time; and there was no young man of spirit in the four townships
who was not willing to serve under his command. More volunteers offered,
in fact, than could be profitably employed. Sandy Flash was not the game
to be unearthed by a loud, numerous, sweeping hunt; traps, pitfalls,
secret and unwearied following of his many trails, were what was needed.
So much time had elapsed that the beginning must be a conjectural
beating of the bushes, and to this end several small companies were
organized, and the country between the Octorara and the Delaware very
effectually scoured.
When the various parties reunited, after several days, neither of them
brought any positive intelligence, but all the greater store of guesses
and rumors. Three or four suspicious individuals had been followed and
made to give an account of themselves; certain hiding-places, especially
the rocky lairs along the Brandywine and the North Valley-Hill, were
carefully examined, and some traces of occupation, though none very
recent, were discovered. Such evidence as there was seemed to indicate
that part of the eastern branch of the Brandywine, between the forks of
the stream and the great Chester Valley, as being the probable retreat
of the highwayman, and a second expedition was at once organized.
The Sheriff, with a posse of men from the lower part of the county,
undertook to watch the avenues of escape towards the river.
This new attempt was not more successful, so far as its main object was
concerned, but it actually stumbled upon Sandy Flash's trail, and only
failed by giving tongue too soon and following too impetuously. Gilbert
and his men had a tantalizing impression (which later intelligence
proved to have been correct) that the robber was somewhere near
them,--buried in the depths of the very wood they were approaching,
dodging behind the next barn as it came into view, or hidden under
dead leaves in some rain-washed gulley. Had they but known, one gloomy
afternoon in late December, that they were riding under the cedar-tree
in whose close, cloudy foliage he was coiled, just above their heads!
Had they but guessed who the deaf old woman was, with her face muffled
from the cold, and six cuts of blue yarn in her basket! But detection
had not then become a science, and they were far from suspecting the
extent of Sandy Flash's devices and disguises.
Many of the volunteers finally grew tired of the fruitless chase, and
returned home; others could only spare a few days from their winter
labors; but Gilbert Potter, with three or four faithful and courageous
young fellows,--one of whom was Mark Deane,--returned again and again
to the search, and not until the end of December did he confess himself
baffled. By this time all traces of the highwayman were again lost; he
seemed to have disappeared from the country.
“I believe Pratt's right,” said Mark, as the two issued from the
Marlborough woods, on their return to Kennett Square. “Chester County is
too hot to hold him.”
“Perhaps so,” Gilbert answered, with a gloomy face. He was more keenly
disappointed at the failure than he would then confess, even to Mark.
The outrage committed upon him was still unavenged, and thus his
loss, to his proud, sensitive nature, carried a certain shame with
it. Moreover, the loss itself must speedily be replaced. He had half
flattered himself with the hope of capturing not only Sandy Flash, but
his plunder; it was hard to forget that, for a day or two, he had been
independent,--hard to stoop again to be a borrower and a debtor!
“What are the county authorities good for?” Mark exclaimed. “Between
you and me, the Sheriff's a reg'lar puddin'-head. I wish you was in his
place.”
“If Sandy is safe in Jersey, or down on the Eastern Shore, that would do
no good. It isn't enough that he leaves us alone, from this time on; he
has a heavy back-score to settle.”
“Come to think on it, Gilbert,” Mark continued, “isn't it rather queer
that you and him should be thrown together in such ways? There was
Barton's fox-chase last spring; then your shootin' at other, at the
Square; and then the robbery on the road. It seems to me as if he picked
you out to follow you, and yet I don't know why.”
Gilbert started. Mark's words reawakened the dark, incredible suspicion
which Martha Deane had removed. Again he declared to himself that he
would not entertain the thought, but he could not reject the evidence
that there was something more than accident in all these encounters. If
any one besides Sandy Flash were responsible for the last meeting, it
must be Alfred Barton. The latter, therefore, owed him an explanation,
and he would demand it.
When they reached the top of the “big hill” north of the Fairthorn
farm-house, whence they looked eastward down the sloping corn-field
which had been the scene of the husking-frolic, Mark turned to Gilbert
with an honest blush all over his face, and said,--
“I don't see why you shouldn't know it, Gilbert. I'm sure Sally wouldn't
care; you're almost like a brother to her.”
“What?” Gilbert asked, yet with a quick suspicion of the coming
intelligence.
“Oh, I guess you know, well enough, old fellow. I asked her that night,
and it's all right between us. What do you say to it, now?”
“Mark, I'm glad of it; I wish you joy, with all my heart!” Gilbert
stretched out his hand, and as he turned and looked squarely into Mark's
half-bashful yet wholly happy face, he remembered Martha's words, at
their last interview.
“You are like a brother to me, Mark,” he said, “and you shall have _my_
secret. What would you say if I had done the same thing?”
“No?” Mark exclaimed; “who?”
“Guess!”
“Not--not Martha?”
Gilbert smiled.
“By the Lord! It's the best day's work _you_'ve ever done! Gi' me y'r
hand ag'in; we'll stand by each other faster than ever, now!”
When they stopped at Fairthorn's, the significant pressure of Gilbert's
hand brought a blush into Sally's cheek; but when Mark met Martha with
his tell-tale face, she answered with a proud and tender smile.
Gilbert's first business, after his return, was to have a consultation
with Miss Betsy Lavender, who alone knew of the suspicions attaching to
Alfred Barton. The spinster had, in the mean time, made the matter the
subject of profound and somewhat painful cogitation. She had ransacked
her richly stored memory of persons and events, until her brain was
like a drawer of tumbled clothes; had spent hours in laborious mental
research, becoming so absorbed that she sometimes gave crooked answers
when spoken to, and was haunted with a terrible dread of having thought
aloud; and had questioned the oldest gossips right and left, coming as
near the hidden subject as she dared. When they met, she communicated
the result to Gilbert in this wise:
“'T a'n't agreeable for a body to allow they're flummuxed, but if _I_
a'n't, this time, I'm mighty near onto it. It's like lookin' for a set
o' buttons that'll match, in a box full o' tail-ends o' things. This'n
'd do, and that'n 'd do; but you can't put this'n and that'n together;
and here's got to be square work, everything fittin' tight and hangin'
plumb, or it'll be throwed back onto your hands, and all to be done
over ag'in. I dunno when I've done so much head-work and to no purpose,
follerin' here and guessin' there, and nosin' into everything that's
past and gone; and so my opinion is, whether you like it or not, but
never mind, all the same, I can't do no more than give it, that we'd
better drop what's past and gone, and look a little more into these
present times!”
“Well, Betsy,” said Gilbert, with a stern, determined face, “this is
what I shall do. I am satisfied that Barton is connected, in some way,
with Sandy Flash. What it is, or whether the knowledge will help us, I
can't guess; but I shall force Barton to tell me!”
“To tell me. That might do, as far as it goes,” she remarked, after a
moment's reflection. “It won't be easy; you'll have to threaten as well
as coax, but I guess you can git it out of him in the long run, and
maybe I can help you here, two bein' better than one, if one is but a
sheep's-head.”
“I don't see, Betsy, that I need to call on you.”
“This way, Gilbert. It's a strong p'int o' law, I've heerd tell, not
that I know much o' law, Goodness knows, nor ever want to, but never
mind, it's a strong p'int when there's two witnesses to a thing,--one
to clinch what the t'other drives in; and you must have a show o' law to
work on Alf. Barton, or I'm much mistaken!”
Gilbert reflected a moment. “It can do no harm,” he then said; “can you
go with me, now?”
“Now's the time! If we only git the light of a farden-candle out o' him,
it'll do me a mortal heap o' good; for with all this rakin' and scrapin'
for nothin', I'm like a heart pantin' after the water-brooks, though a
mouth would be more like it, to my thinkin', when a body's so awful dry
as that comes to!”
The two thereupon took the foot-path down through the frozen fields and
the dreary timber of the creek-side, to the Barton farm-house. As they
approached the barn, they saw Alfred Barton sitting on a pile of
straw and watching Giles, who was threshing wheat. He seemed a little
surprised at their appearance; but as Gilbert and he had not met since
their interview in the corn-field before the former's departure for
Chester, he had no special cause for embarrassment.
“Come into the house,” he said, leading the way.
“No,” Gilbert answered, “I came here to speak with you privately. Will
you walk down the lane?”
“No objection, of course,” said Barton, looking from Gilbert to Miss
Lavender, with a mixture of curiosity and uneasiness. “Good news, I
hope; got hold of Sandy's tracks, at last?”
“One of them.”
“Ah, you don't say so! Where?”
“Here!”
Gilbert stopped and faced Barton. They were below the barn, and out of
Giles's hearing.
“Barton,” he resumed, “you know what interest I have in the arrest of
that man, and you won't deny my right to demand of you an account of
your dealings with him. When did you first make his acquaintance?”
“I've told you that, already; the matter has been fully talked over
between us,” Barton answered, in a petulant tone.
“It has not been fully talked over. I require to know, first of all,
precisely when, and under what circumstances, you and Sandy Flash came
together. There is more to come, so let us begin at the beginning.”
“Damme, Gilbert, _you_ were there, and saw as much as I did. How could I
know who the cursed black-whiskered fellow was?”
“But you found it out,” Gilbert persisted, “and the manner of your
finding it out must be explained.”
Barton assumed a bold, insolent manner. “I don't see as that follows,”
he said. “It has nothing in the world to do with his robbery of you; and
as for Sandy Flash, I wish to the Lord you'd get hold of him, yourself,
instead of trying to make me accountable for his comings and goings!”
“He's tryin' to fly off the handle,” Miss Lavender remarked. “I'd drop
that part o' the business a bit, if I was you, and come to the t'other
proof.”
“What the devil have _you_ to do here?” asked Barton.
“Miss Betsy is here because I asked her,” Gilbert said. “Because all
that passes between us may have to be repeated in a court of justice,
and two witnesses are better than one!”
He took advantage of the shock which these words produced upon Barton,
and repeated to him the highwayman's declarations, with the inference
they might bear if not satisfactorily explained. “I kept my promise,”
he added, “and said nothing to any living soul of your request that
I should carry money for you to Chester. Sandy Flash's information,
therefore, must have come, either directly or indirectly, from you.”
Barton had listened with open mouth and amazed eyes.
“Why, the man is a devil!” he cried. “I, neither, never said a word of
the matter to any living soul!”
“Did you really send any money?” Gilbert asked.
“That I did! I got it of Joel Ferris, and it happened he was bound for
Chester, the very next day, on his own business; and so, instead
of turning it over to me, he just paid it there, according to my
directions. You'll understand, this is between ourselves?”
He darted a sharp, suspicious glance at Miss Betsy Lavender, who gravely
nodded her head.
“The difficulty is not yet explained,” said Gilbert, “and perhaps
you'll _now_ not deny my right to know something more of your first
acquaintance with Sandy Flash?”
“Have it then!” Barton exclaimed, desperately--“and much good may it
do you! I thought his name was Fortune, as much as you did, till nine
o'clock that night, when he put a pistol to my breast in the woods! If
you think I'm colloguing with him, why did he rob me under threat of
murder,--money, watch, and everything?”
“Ah-ha!” said Miss Lavender, “and so that's the way your watch has been
gittin' mended all this while? Mainspring broke, as I've heerd say;
well, I don't wonder! Gilbert, I guess this much is true. Alf. Barton'd
never live so long without that watch, and that half-peck o' seals, if
he could help it!”
“This, too, may as well be kept to ourselves,” Barton suggested. “It
isn't agreeable to a man to have it known that he's been so taken in
as I was, and that's just the reason why I kept it to myself; and, of
course, I shouldn't like it to get around.”
Gilbert could do no less than accept this part of the story, and it
rendered his later surmises untenable. But the solution which he sought
was as far off as ever.
“Barton,” he said, after a long pause, “will you do your best to help me
in finding out how Sandy Flash got the knowledge?”
“Only show me a way! The best would be to catch him and get it from his
own mouth.”
He looked so earnest, so eager, and--as far as the traces of cunning
in his face would permit--so honest, that Gilbert yielded to a sudden
impulse, and said,--
“I believe you, Barton. I've done you wrong in my thoughts,--not
willingly, for I don't want to think badly of you or any one else,--but
because circumstances seemed to drive me to it. It would have been
better if you had told me of your robbery at the start.”
“You're right there, Gilbert! I believe I was an outspoken fellow
enough, when I was young, and all the better for it, but the old man's
driven me into a curst way of keeping dark about everything, and so I go
on heaping up trouble for myself.”
“Trouble for myself, Alf. Barton,” said Miss Lavender, “that's the
truest word you've said this many a day. Murder will out, you know,
and so will robbery, and so will--other things. More o' your doin's
is known, not that they're agreeabler, but on the contrary, quite the
reverse, and as full need to be explained, though it don't seem to
matter much, yet it may, who can tell? And now look here, Gilbert; my
crow is to be picked, and you've seen the color of it, but never
mind, all the same, since Martha's told the Doctor, it can't make much
difference to you. And this is all between ourselves, you understand?”
The last words were addressed to Barton, with a comical, unconscious
imitation of his own manner. He guessed something of what was coming,
though not the whole of it, and again became visibly uneasy; but he
stammered out,--“Yes; oh, yes! of course.”
Gilbert could form a tolerably correct idea of the shape and size of
Miss Lavender's crow. He did not feel sure that this was the proper
time to have it picked, or even that it should be picked at all; but he
imagined that Miss Lavender had either consulted Martha Deane, or that
she had wise reasons of her own for speaking. He therefore remained
silent.
“First and foremost,” she resumed, “I'll tell you, Alf. Barton, what we
know o' your doin's, and then it's for you to judge whether we'll know
any more. Well, you've been tryin' to git Martha Deane for a wife,
without wantin' her in your heart, but rather the contrary, though it
seems queer enough when a body comes to think of it, but never mind;
and your father's druv you to it; and you were of a cold shiver for fear
she'd take you, and yet you want to let on it a'n't settled betwixt and
between you--oh, you needn't chaw your lips and look yaller about the
jaws, it's the Lord's truth; and now answer me this, _what do you mean?_
and maybe you'll say what right have I got to ask, but never mind, all
the same, if I haven't, Gilbert Potter has, for it's him that Martha
Deane has promised to take for a husband!”
It was a day of surprises for Barton. In his astonishment at the last
announcement, he took refuge from the horror of Miss Lavender's first
revelations. One thing was settled,--all the fruits of his painful and
laborious plotting were scattered to the winds. Denial was of no use,
but neither could an honest explanation, even if he should force himself
to give it, be of any possible service.
“Gilbert,” he asked, “is this true?--about _you_, I mean.”
“Martha Deane and I are engaged, and were already at the time when you
addressed her,” Gilbert answered.
“Good heavens! I hadn't the slightest suspicion of it. Well--I don't
begrudge you your luck, and of course I'll draw back, and never say
another word, now or ever.”
“_You_ wouldn't ha' been comfortable with Martha Deane, anyhow,” Miss
Lavender grimly remarked. “'T isn't good to hitch a colt-horse and an
old spavined critter in one team. But that's neither here nor there;
you ha'n't told us why you made up to her for a purpose, and kep' on
pretendin' she didn't know her own mind.”
“I've promised Gilbert that I won't interfere, and that's enough,” said
Barton, doggedly.
Miss Lavender was foiled for a moment, but she presently returned to the
attack. “I dunno as it's enough, after what's gone before,” she said.
“Couldn't you go a step furder, and lend Gilbert a helpin' hand,
whenever and whatever?”
“Betsy!” Gilbert exclaimed.
“Let me alone, lad! I don't speak in Gilbert's name, nor yet in
Martha's; only out o' my own mind. I don't ask you to do anything, but I
want to know how it stands with your willin'ness.”
“I've offered, more than once, to do him a good turn, if I could; but
I guess my help wouldn't be welcome,” Barton answered. The sting of the
suspicion rankled in his mind, and Gilbert's evident aversion sorely
wounded his vanity.
“Wouldn't be welcome. Then I'll only say this; maybe I've got it in my
power, and 't isn't sayin' much, for the mouse gnawed the mashes o' the
lion's net, to help you to what you're after, bein' as it isn't Martha,
and can't be her money. S'pose I did it o' my own accord, leavin' you to
feel beholden to me, or not, after all's said and done?”
But Alfred Barton was proof against even this assault. He was too
dejected to enter, at once, into a new plot, the issue of which would
probably be as fruitless as the others. He had already accepted a
sufficiency of shame, for one day. This last confession, if made, would
place his character in a still grosser and meaner light; while, if
withheld, the unexplained motive might be presented as a partial
justification of his course. He had been surprised into damaging
admissions; but here he would take a firm stand.
“You're right so far, Betsy,” he said, “that I had a reason--a good
reason, it seemed to me, but I may be mistaken--for what I did. It
concerns no one under Heaven but my own self; and though I don't doubt
your willingness to do me a good turn, it would make no difference--you
couldn't help one bit. I've given the thing up, and so let it be!”
There was nothing more to be said, and the two cross-examiners took
their departure. As they descended to the creek, Miss Lavender remarked,
as if to herself,--
“No use--it can't be screwed out of him! So there's one cur'osity
the less; not that I'm glad of it, for not knowin' worries more than
knowin', whatsoever and whosoever. And I dunno as I think any the wuss
of him for shuttin' his teeth so tight onto it.”
Alfred Barton waited until the two had disappeared behind the timber
in the bottom. Then he slowly followed, stealing across the fields and
around the stables, to the back-door of the Unicorn bar-room. It
was noticed that, although he drank a good deal that afternoon, his
ill-humor was not, as usual, diminished thereby.