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CHAPTER XXI.
GILCREST'S ATTITUDE
Several weeks wore away, and still no one except Major Gilcrest, his daughter, the Rogers family and James Drane was aware of the change in Abner's worldly prospects. As to his business affairs, he felt no uneasiness; for he knew that his interests in Virginia were being looked after by Dr. Dudley; and in regard to the Henderson County land, he agreed with Drane that as it was still in the hands of tenants, nothing need be done at present towards making known his ownership. But he became extremely impatient over the unsettled state of his love affair.
Major Gilcrest, instead of growing more like his former self, became sterner, if possible, and had little to do with his neighbors. Betsy, strong in the belief that time would effect a favorable change in her father's attitude, still pleaded with Abner not to speak with him.
James Drane was often at Oaklands, and Abner, aware of this, while he, Betsy's betrothed husband, was prohibited from visiting her, grew more and more moody and impatient, and sometimes in his despondency he pictured the girl as listening with growing interest to Drane's entertaining talk, and yielding more and more to his fascination.
"With her headstrong old father so set against me, and so confoundedly wrapped up in Drane, it would be no great wonder if Betty were finally stolen from me," thought Abner bitterly, one afternoon when he knew that the lawyer was at Oaklands. He had little heart for social gayeties of the neighborhood, although he sometimes went to these gatherings in the hope of seeing Betsy. Yet these meetings amid a crowd of young people were very unsatisfactory.
"I reckon Betsy holds herse'f above common fo'ks, now she's visitin' 'mong the big bugs," Abner heard Mrs. Rogers say one day in answer to Lucy's remark that Betsy never came to see them now.
"No, ma," Susan ventured, "Betsy is not one to change. She loves us as well as ever, I feel sure."
"Well, ef she ain't too stuck up to notice us, her ma's too proud to let her," retorted Mrs. Rogers. "I allus said thet in spite uv Jane's meechin' ways, she felt herse'f above us. We ain't got blue blood in our veins. We ain't kin to the Temples an' Blairs an' Goodloes, and the rest uv them ristahcrats."
"Mrs. Gilcrest always treats me well when I go there," answered Susan, "and as for Betsy," she continued, her cheeks flushing and her eyes shining, "she's the truest, sweetest girl that ever lived."
"Then, why don't she come to see us lak she usetah?" demanded Mrs. Rogers.
Susan said nothing, but involuntarily glanced at Abner. Their eyes met; Susan quickly averted hers, and he thought, "I wonder if Susan knows!"
"Thah's her pap, too," Mrs. Rogers went on, "he's gittin' crusty an' stiff-lipped ez a sore-eyed b'ar."
"Hiram ain't hisse'f jes' now," interposed Mason; "he's plum crazy kaze folks ain't ready to jump on Brothah Stone an' t'ar him limb frum limb. Hiram's daft on whut he calls pure faith an' docturn, an' is allus boastin' thet his ancestry wuz burnt et the stakes, way back in them dark ages, fur ther religion."
"Religion! sich carryin'-on ain't no religion," exclaimed Mrs. Rogers. "'Tain't nothin' but stubbunness an' devilment, an' it'd be a good thing, I say, ef Hirum could be tied up an' sco'ched a bit hisse'f."
"Well, well, he's a good man et bottom," replied her husband. "We hev lived neighbors ovah twenty year, an' he's allus been ready to do us a good turn, in sickness, in health an' in trouble. As fur his wife, I wondah, Cynthy Ann, thet you kin find it in yer heart to say aught ag'in her. Hev you furgot thet wintah the twins wuz borned, an' I wuz crippled up with rheumatiz, an' the niggahs down with the measles, how she sent ole Dilsey (though Jane hed a young baby herse'f, an' could ill spar' the niggah) to wait on us? Ez fur Betsy," with a sly look at Abner, "I agree with Cissy; she's the smartest, purtiest gal in these parts, an' good an' true ez she is purty."
One Saturday afternoon in February, Betsy did come to see Susan Rogers. Mrs. Rogers had gone to spend the afternoon at a neighbor's, and Abner, who had been felling trees at his own place, did not return to the house until just as Betsy was leaving. With a timidity born of self-consciousness, Betsy grew still and embarrassed, and soon afterwards rose to go. "It gets dark so early now," she said, "and I came alone through the fields."
Abner caught up his hat while she was donning cloak and hood.
"Let's walk part way with Betsy," cried Lucindy. "Come, Lucy, an' you too, Cissy. Maybe we'll meet ma comin' home." But Susan said she must attend to supper; nor would she let the twins go.
"Instead of taking the short cut through the fields, let's go around by the woods, dearest," Abner proposed as soon as he and Betsy had set out on their walk.
"Very well, we have plenty of time," she agreed happily. "There's no telling when we may have another such chance, and I have much to say to you. You may walk as far as the upper woods with me, if you are good."
"No farther than that?" he asked reproachfully.
"Only to the bars this time, I think, dear," she answered gently, slipping her hand into his.
In spite of her loving little gesture, he still looked gloomy. "Oh, these long, wretched weeks when I have so hungered for a sight of your face and the sound of your voice!" he presently exclaimed. "And now when I am at last alone with you, you appoint boundaries and limits, and place restrictions upon my walk with you!" and he grasped her hand in a tighter clasp and looked at her somewhat sternly. "Oh, my darling," he broke off, as she turned a wistful, tearful gaze upon him, "forgive my harsh words," and he gathered her into his arms and kissed her tenderly. "It is only because I love you so passionately, my life, my sweetest one. Won't you speak to me, dearest?" he asked, as she continued silent.
"'Speech is silver, silence is golden,' according to some wise authority," Betsy at last said meaningly and rather reproachfully, although she smiled faintly and looked at him with love-lit eyes.
"But the oracle, when he uttered that bit of questionable wisdom, wasn't, I dare say, walking with his sweetheart after dreary weeks of separation," said Abner, squeezing her hand. "If he had, he would have preferred silvery speech to golden silence—or, rather, the utterances of his beloved one would have been to him as doubly refined gold; and I'm perfectly certain that his sweetheart could not have compared with my piquant, peerless Betty. Besides, you declared awhile ago that you had much to say to me."
"So I had, Sir Flatterer," the girl answered with a radiant smile, her momentary sadness completely banished by his fond words, "but at the present moment the delight of being in your improving society has robbed me of all desire to talk. And what greater proof could I give that I love you?" she continued with an arch glance. "It is surely a mighty power indeed that makes a chatterbox like me to revel in silence."
"How I love this dear old forest!" was Abner's exclamation presently. "Every tree, every stick and stone, every foot of ground, seems sacred. Do you not love it all, my darling?"
"I do indeed," she acknowledged. "In fact," she added laughingly, "I think, by rights, this woods belongs exclusively to us and our love, and I consider any one else guilty of sacrilegious effrontery in even walking through its sacred precincts. But you don't appear in especially radiant spirits, my friend, even though we are together in our hallowed woods," she said presently as he walked silently by her side.
"How can I be in radiant humor, Betty?" he retorted sadly. "This restraint and concealment are becoming unendurable to me. We are nearly to the bars now where you say I must turn back, and I must first have some serious words with you. For three months and more, I have obeyed your behest and have kept aloof from your house; but patience ceases to be a virtue. I am no nearer winning your father to a more cordial frame of mind than I was at first. On the contrary, in the few times I have encountered him of late, he has appeared to be getting colder and more formal, and I really believe this is due in a great measure to his suspecting that there is a secret understanding between you and me. He is a straightforward man and likes straightforward courses. Moreover, how can I ever win his consent to our marriage unless I ask him? That's only common sense; and furthermore, anything underhanded or clandestine is as obnoxious to me as to him."
"Oh," she begged with a frightened look, "please wait a little longer. He's sure to be in a more pliable humor after awhile, when this horrid old church difficulty is settled. Oh, Abner, my love, I know it is hard, but——"
"How hard," he interrupted gloomily, "you are far from realizing. These miserable weeks of suppression and concealment have worn my patience and self-control to the breaking-point. Now," he went on firmly, "I will wait no longer. I will see your father to-morrow. Patience, forsooth!" he ejaculated in answer to her further pleading, "when I'm debarred from entering your home, must be satisfied with an occasional stolen interview like this; when, too, I know that James Drane is a frequent and welcome guest at Oaklands! How can I help being moody and bitter and harassed? Sometimes I think I have overcome my former dislike for Drane; for he is, to give him his due, invariably cordial to me—in fact, he seems to seek and to enjoy my company—but when I think of him as a favored guest at your father's house while I'm prohibited from entering its doors, and while you, my betrothed wife, beg me not to come near the house, is it any wonder I am harassed? He was at Oaklands again yesterday, was he not?"
"Yes, he was; but that is of no moment," Betty answered frankly. "He is dad's friend, not mine. I treat him courteously, of course; but that——"
"Your father may consider himself the magnet that draws Drane to Oaklands," sneered Abner; "but I know better, and so do you, my girl. The attraction for him is very different. The fellow's in love with you. That's plain. 'He who runs may read.'"
"And he who reads had better run!" retorted Betsy, now thoroughly nettled, "if this reading construes anything I do or say into encouragement of this lawyer." And her eyes snapped wickedly, she drew herself up haughtily, and her face grew pale and set.
"No, dear," Abner replied, undaunted by her anger. "I do not mean that. You must not catch up my words in that way. I know the truth and steadfastness of your nature too well to believe that you encourage or coquette with Drane or any other man. My meaning is this: your father likes Drane and thinks so highly of his brilliant prospects that the mere fact that he is a possible suitor for your hand will dispose your father to think with the less favor of my pretensions. And indeed, Betty dear, though I do not for a moment think you encourage the fellow, still what I have said of the situation is true in regard to his feelings and intentions; he wears his heart upon his sleeve."
"That he does not!" returned Betty with spirit; "not all of his heart, at any rate; only such portions as are fit for public perusal. There's much in his heart that would, I'm convinced, make queer reading, if one could see into the depths of that well-controlled organ of his. You see, I haven't got over my original instinct of distrust of James Drane, if you have. Let him make love to me! Bah! I'd sooner listen to the uncouth love phrases of the veriest clodhopper in Bourbon County than to his honeyed, courtly utterances. Oh, there comes father!" she broke off abruptly, looking across the woods.
When Major Gilcrest came up to the couple, his conduct fully justified what Abner had been telling Betty. He nodded curtly to the young man, asked Betty where she had been, and appeared little pleased when she told him. Then, reminding her that it was getting late and that her mother would be anxious, he advised her not to linger.
When the three reached the stile, Gilcrest, instead of inviting Abner in, gave him another cool nod, and with a wave of his hand indicated that Betty was to enter the house. Abner, however, detained him a moment to request an interview on the morrow, which Gilcrest hesitatingly granted, and in a way that boded ill for the lover's hopes.
At the appointed hour next morning, the young man, screwing up his courage to the sticking-place, knocked at the door of Oaklands. The servant ushered him at once into her master's private office. Gilcrest received his caller with extreme hauteur. Abner at once made known his business.
Gilcrest heard him through without question or comment. Then, after a pause, he said, "I have other plans for my daughter, Mr. Dudley."
"But—but—if—if—she herself—" stammered poor Abner, striving to find the right words for Betty as well as for himself.
"There are no 'buts' nor 'ifs' about it, sir," Gilcrest answered haughtily. "Betsy will do as I wish. She's at times rather self-willed, and no doubt has been led away for the moment by some romantic nonsense; but she's a sensible girl in the main, and knows what's best for her. If she doesn't, I do, and I'm master of my own household, I assure you."
"Has she other suitors?" Abner ventured.
"That, sir, if you will permit my saying so, is no affair of yours. She shall not marry any one against my will, you may be sure; and when she does marry, it will be a man whose social position and worldly prospects are such as to preclude all suspicion of his seeking her from any selfish motives."
"Sir," Abner broke forth hotly, "do you mean to insinuate that I have self-seeking motives in wishing to marry your daughter?"
"I mean to insinuate nothing, young man."
"But you do, sir; by God, you do insinuate that my love is founded upon self-interest, and that is something I can not permit."
"Come, come, Mr. Dudley, keep your temper, and don't talk to me about not permitting. Let your motives be what they may, we will not discuss that. Suffice it to say, I refuse my consent."
"At least tell me this, Major Gilcrest: do you object to me personally, or is your refusal due to other reasons? I'm of as good blood as yourself, and I can maintain your daughter in comfort."
"Understand this, young sir, once for all," replied Gilcrest, "I decline positively to accept any proposal from you. If you will have a plain answer, I now tell you that aside from any other matrimonial views which I may or may not have for my daughter, I should in any case decline the honor of an alliance with you. I bid you good morning, sir. Polly, open the door for Mr. Dudley."
From an upper window Betsy was watching for Abner; and the angry flush on his face, and the way he flung himself into the saddle, told her that he had fared ill. She raised the window, and he looked up. He gazed at her yearningly, then, with a wave of his hand toward her father's room, rode down the long avenue.
Betsy waited in her room an hour, then sought her father. He was fumbling with some papers, too busy to take any notice of her. Finally, as he would not speak, she went to him. "Father, why have you sent Abner away?"
Major Gilcrest was proud of his only girl, and, in his own way, extremely fond of her; but he would listen to no plea in behalf of her lover. He gave no reason, but simply said that the young man was no suitable match for her, and that she would one day be thankful that she had not been allowed to marry him.
Betsy, at first gentle and pleading, grew indignant. Her father, even more indignant, finally ordered her to her room, forbidding her to hold further communication with her lover.
Next day, Abner wrote her. He assured her of his unchangeable love, and bade her have courage. He wrote also to Major Gilcrest, stating that although he would not at present seek Betsy or urge his claim in any way, he nevertheless considered that they were pledged to one another, and that he would never give her up unless she herself asked for her release.
One day, a month after this, Betsy from her window saw Mr. Drane riding up the avenue. She got her bonnet and stole out the back way to where her horse was saddled. Coming back after a gallop, she met Abner, and they rode together a short while. Then her father overtook them. Without even a bow to her escort, Major Gilcrest told his daughter she was wanted at home, and, laying hold of her bridle, compelled her to ride on with him. This was intolerable to Betty's lover, and, after tossing all night in a tumult of indignation, he again sought her father.
CHAPTER XXII.
BANISHMENT
When Abner reached Oaklands next morning, Gilcrest, just returned from a ride to the lower farm, was standing on the stile-block, and a negro boy was leading his horse toward the stables. Gilcrest scowled at the young man as he rode up, and gave him no word of greeting, nor asked him to alight.
Abner began at once: "Major Gilcrest, I have come this morning to have a talk with you."
"Very well; state your business," was the curt rejoinder.
"It is private business and of grave importance. Can we not seek a more retired place than this?"
"Either here, or not at all, sir," answered Gilcrest.
"Major Gilcrest, no man has a right to treat another as you have me without some cause, and I demand the reason for your conduct."
"I'm answerable to no one save myself and my God for my conduct," returned Gilcrest. "Demand, indeed!" he continued with a short laugh. "What right has a popinjay like you to demand?"
"Well, then, I do not demand; I entreat you to assign some reason. I am willing to believe your motives to be good, but that you are laboring under some mistake."
"I have good reason for what I do, Mr. Dudley. Your conscience, if it be not already too much seared and deadened, ought to tell you why. I know more than you think, young man."
"My conscience certainly acquits me of any serious misdemeanor," answered Abner. "So far as I can see, my only offense is in loving your daughter and seeking her hand in marriage; and surely that is not an unpardonable crime. When I came to this community you treated me most cordially, inviting me to your house, and treating me when I did visit you with the utmost kindness, and even affection. In fact, up to the time of my return from Virginia, we were on terms of intimate friendship, notwithstanding the difference in age and position. But since my return all this is changed, and I'm convinced that this change is due to some far graver cause than disapproval of me as a suitor for your daughter. The matter is inexplicable to me; and so guiltless do I feel, that I'm certain you are but laboring under some egregious mistake."
"Young man, I'm laboring under no mistake."
"Then, what are your reasons for this course?" Abner asked again.
"That you have no right to ask. Moreover, it is quite unnecessary; for, in spite of your pretended ignorance, you know quite well to what I refer."
"As God in heaven is my judge, I do not, sir," exclaimed Abner.
"Do not call upon your Maker to witness your false protestations. Do not add blasphemy and perjury to the rest of your iniquities. Marry my daughter! You! I'd see her in her grave first!" By this time he had worked himself into a frenzy; his face was purple and the veins of his forehead were swollen and knotted like cords.
Abner, still apparently cool, though he could with difficulty restrain himself, replied stoutly, "Nothing which I have done or intended can justify your language to me, Major Gilcrest."
"Don't lie to me!" roared Gilcrest, "Don't I know what you have been about, plotting vagabond!" and he shook his cowhide riding-whip in Abner's face, causing the horse to rear and plunge.
The young man quieted his horse, then looked straight into Gilcrest's eyes, his own blazing and his face gray with passion. "Hiram Gilcrest, put down that whip. By God, sir, you shall retract your words!"
"I retract nothing," shouted Gilcrest, still brandishing the whip. "Get out of my sight, before I demean myself by striking you!"
Abner leaned over, and with a sudden movement snatched the whip from Gilcrest's hand, then flung it far over the fence into the adjoining field. Trying to master his anger and speak calmly, he said: "Now listen to me, Major Gilcrest. I love your daughter with an honorable love—stop! stop! You shall hear me through! I love your daughter, and the dearest wish of my life is to make her my wife; yet I should have accepted your decision, painful though it would have been, hoping that in time I could overcome your objections—be quiet! You shall listen to me!—but now, when you will give no reason for objecting to me, and in addition to this injustice heap opprobrious epithets upon me, I tell you emphatically that I shall pay no regard whatsoever to your wishes. Only Betsy herself shall decide. So long as she loves me and considers herself my promised wife, I will see her whenever I can, and will write to her whenever I have opportunity. But when she wishes to be free, I will then, and not till then, return to her her plighted word. As for you, you have forfeited all claim to consideration; you have grossly, wantonly insulted me, and without the shadow of reason."
"Out of my sight, you impudent impostor!" cried Gilcrest, choking with rage and shaking his fist at the young man. "You sneaking bastard, with no right to the name you bear!"
"You are so led away by passion, old man, that you are scarcely responsible for what you say—bastard and impostor, indeed!" he ejaculated, quivering with indignation. "Those epithets are as false as foul, and you know it. You shall not——"
"If they are false, prove them so, you insolent puppy!" shouted Gilcrest.
"Not even your gray hairs should protect you from the chastisement you deserve, were you not Betty's father; but I love her too well to forget consideration for you, on her account."
"Out of my sight! Go! this instant!" cried the old man, beside himself with fury. "If you ever set foot on this place again, my negroes shall drag you through the hog wallow. I would not demean my own hands by touching you."
Abner, feeling that, if he heard any more, he would forget his antagonist's gray head, his age and fatherhood, and strike him, wheeled quickly and rode away, leaving Gilcrest still shouting and gesticulating until horse and rider were out of sight.
CHAPTER XXIII.
MASON ROGERS' DIPLOMACY
Ever since Stone's memorable sermon in June of the preceding year, Deacon Gilcrest, who really believed that the young minister was subverting the truth and teaching dangerous heresies, had urged that the synod investigate the matter, and that until such investigation should be made, Stone should not be allowed to occupy the pulpit at Cane Ridge. But the majority of the members were convinced of the truth of Stone's teachings, and had, moreover, too warm a regard for their minister to permit them to listen to Gilcrest.
These were bitter days for the old man. In the main just and kindhearted, despite all his narrowness and vindictiveness, it was no small element of his trouble that his brethren with whom until now his opinions had been highly esteemed and his influence paramount, should pay no attention to his views. Especially did he sorrow because of Mason Rogers. The intense regard which these two men, so contrasted in culture and worldly position, had always felt for each other, was both strong and pathetic. More in sorrow than in anger had Gilcrest argued, reasoned and pleaded to bring Rogers to his own way of thinking. Rogers did not attempt to combat any of Gilcrest's arguments, and rarely protested against anything he said, except when he attacked his own beloved minister personally. Each valued the other too highly to lose self-control in these talks, both seeming determined that no matter what their differences of opinion with respect to church and minister, they themselves would live in neighborly harmony. But what neither minister nor religious difference could effect was presently brought about by the schoolmaster.
Abner, knowing the long friendship between Gilcrest and Rogers, and not wishing to be the means of causing a rupture, for some time told his kind host nothing of Gilcrest's altered demeanor toward himself. But after the encounter at the stile-block he informed Rogers of his engagement to Betsy and of her father's opposition and bitter enmity. Rogers accordingly went to Oaklands.
Several days had elapsed since Abner had been so grossly insulted. Gilcrest had had time for reflection and for realizing that he had said many things in that stormy interview which good feeling and prudence should have forbidden. He was at heart a gentleman, and since his passion had cooled he bitterly reproached himself for his brutal taunt in regard to Abner's probable illegitimacy; for Gilcrest was sure the poor boy was entirely ignorant on this point. Gilcrest also acquitted him of being knowingly a party to any fraud in claiming to be heir to the Hite estate. The Major likewise reproached himself for lack of caution; for until he and Drane had made full investigation into Mary Page's history, it behooved them to be absolutely silent concerning Mrs. Gilcrest's claim. Moreover, it was essential that for the present his suspicions of Abner's connection with political plots should not be revealed. So now that Mason Rogers was here, eager to set matters right between Betsy's father and her lover, Gilcrest was in a quandary. He refused to give his reasons for opposing Abner's suit; but he hinted darkly of nefarious schemes and dangerous, even treasonable, plots in which the young man was implicated.
"I nevah hearn tell uv sich an outrageous thing in my borned days," exclaimed Rogers, "I thought too high uv you, Hiram, to believe you'd listen to whispers an' insinerations ag'in sich a man as Abner."
"But, Mason, I tell you I have not heeded mere whispers and insinuations; I have clear proof, proof, man, for what I hold against this schoolmaster."
"Then, fur the sake uv common jestice, out with yer proofs!"
"I can not, Mason; I am pledged to silence; moreover, it would be dangerous to the peace of the commonwealth, and frustrate the ends of justice, to reveal anything now. I had intended to let no hint of my suspicions reach him, but when he presented himself as a suitor for my girl, and would demand my reasons for refusing him, and was altogether high-headed and arrogant and impudent, I was carried away by indignation, and hinted that I had knowledge of his intriguing schemes."
"High-headed he may be," said Rogers, "an' who hez a bettah right, I'd like to know? But arregent an' imperdent he ain't; an' not even you, Hiram, shell call him so to my face, 'thout me denyin' it."
"Mark what I tell you, my friend," interrupted Gilcrest; "I could with truth say even harder things of that young man. He has hoodwinked you finely, but the time is not far distant when you yourself will say that I am right."
"The time won't nevah come," said Rogers with homely dignity, "when I shell hev cause to think anything but good uv that deah boy. He's eat o' my bread an' sot et my h'arth fur three year come nex' October, an' he's lak my own son."
"Ah! he's deceived you grandly," retorted Gilcrest with a sneer, losing all patience. "I tell you he's a political schemer and traitor, and if he ever dares show his face on my premises again, I'll have him flogged."
"Yes, Hiram Gilcrest, I am deceived," Rogers answered slowly, but with rising anger, "an' it's in you, not him. I've stood a heap frum you lately. I've held my lip while you've been dissercratin' religion, an' tryin' to turn ole Cane Redge chu'ch upside down, inside out, an' wrong eend foremos'; but, blame yer hide! I won't stand ev'rything, an' I draw the line et yo' abusin' Abner Dudley."
"Why, Mason, old friend——" began Gilcrest.
"Don' you 'Mason' an' 'ole friend' me, Hiram Gilcrest! I'm done with you. Ef Abner hain't good 'nough to set foot on yo' place, you hain't good 'nough to set foot on mine; an', by glory, ef you evah do, I'll sick the dogs on you. You need hoss-whippin' to fetch you to yo' senses. You've got so et up with proud flesh an' malice, kaze you can't be high cock-o'-the-walk in Cane Redge chu'ch, thet you're gittin' rabid ez a mad dog."
"Not even from you, Mason Rogers, will I stand such words," exclaimed Gilcrest, furiously.
"Then, don't stand 'em!" retorted Rogers. "Set down on 'em, or lay on 'em, or roll ovah on 'em—jes' ez you please! I'm done with you," and, without once looking back, he strode wrathfully out of the house.
He was in a towering rage as he rode homeward, but, before reaching his own gate, he had cooled down sufficiently to plan what he should and should not say at home about his visit to Oaklands.
"'Twon't do to tell Abner whut thet ole sea skunk hinted 'bout plots an' treasons. Hiram'd be tortured by Injuns befoh he'd tell out plain whut he'd promised to keep secret; an' ef Abner knowed he'd hinted et sich damnation things ag'in him, he'd t'ar up the airth to mek him tell; fur Ab in his own way's ez stubbo'n an' sot ez the ole Scratch hisse'f. With the two uv 'em to manidge, I'm betwixt tommyhock an' buzzard, so to speak, an' I won't hev a minit's peace tell I wollop 'em both, an' mek 'em behave therse'ves. So I reckon I'll hafto talk in kindah gen'ral terms, or in par'bles, ez Brothah Stone would say, when Abner axes me 'bout my intahview with Hiram."
The opportunity for Rogers' diplomatic use of "par'bles" came that evening. "The angel Gabriel hisse'f couldn't mek heads or tails o' whut Hiram means," he said in answer to a question from Abner. "He don't know hisse'f whut he means. He's bittah an' sore ag'in ev'rything an' ev'rybody whut hain't ready to fall on Brothah Stone, an' eat him ha'r an' hide. You teched him up fust on thet p'int; then while he's still kindah riled with you—fur it teks him a long time to fergit a man's darin' to sot up opinions 'ginst his'n—up you prances ag'in 'bout Betsy. No, you didn't beg him sortah bashful an' meechin' lak—I know you so well, Ab—but you jes' demands his gal's hand in marridge. This riles him still futhah. Then, instid o' bein' meek an' lowly, an' smoothin' him down, an' axin' him to please be so kind ez to reconsidah the mattah, you puts on yo' I'm-ez-good-ez-you-an'-a-blamed-sight-bettah air, an' axes him to explain his conduc'."
"But indeed, Mr. Rogers, I was both respectful and deferential to Major Gilcrest."
"Oh, yes, ez meek ez Moses, I s'pose you think yo'se'f," ejaculated Mason, with a shrewd smile.
"I don't know exactly how meek Moses really was when he was courting Jethro's daughter," Abner began.
"Oh, go to thundah with yo' Moses an' yo' Jethro's daughtah!" laughed Mason, impatiently. "Mayby you thought you wuz meek an' differential; but don't I know you? Then, thah's anothah p'int," he added after a pause. "Thah's thet sneakin' fellah, Drane. Buttah won't melt in his mouth, an' maple syrup hain't ez sweet ez his ways. He's rich an' fine ez a fiddle, too, an' is all respect an' 'umbleness with ole Hi, who thinks jes' kaze the daddy, ole Anson Drane, wuz a honest man, thet the son is natchelly obleeged to be honest too. But with all this drawin' uv the wool ovah ole Hiram's eyes, Jeemes hain't succeedin' egzactly with the gal, an' he's cute 'nough to see whah the hitch is; so he uses his influence with her pap to belittle an' backbite the one she does favor. Mark my words, thet slick-tongued lawyer is et the bottom uv a lot o' this devilment."
"I never did thoroughly trust that fellow," exclaimed Abner, "but I've no proof against him; so what can be done?"
"No, you hain't no proof," returned Rogers, thoughtfully, "and mayby we mistrust him wrongful. So, fur the present," he added with quaint humor, "whut you got to do is to jes' fire low an' save yo' waddin'. 'Sides, ef Betsy loves you, an' you're both patient, things is bound to come out right in the eend."
"As for patience," Abner rejoined, "just think how long I've waited already. This state of things must not go on much longer, for Betty's sake as well as for mine."
"See here, my boy," said Rogers, quickly, a new gentleness in look and tone, "you hain't thought uv this thing in all its bearin's."
"Yes, I have. I've thought of nothing else for months," Abner responded gloomily.
"No, thah's one p'int you've ovahlooked," pursued the older man. "It's how ole Hiram will treat her, ef you an' her persists in goin' ag'in him; an' ef you love Betsy strong an' tendah, you'll hafto begin to think on it. Why, boy, that's the only way to spell love—to kiver self out o' sight, an' think only uv the peace an' well-bein' uv the gal whut hez given her heart intah yer keepin'. Hiram's a kind fathah usually, an' thet gal o' his'n is lak his very eyeballs to him; but thet very love an' pride he hez fur her will mek him more ovahbearin' an' obstrep'rous, ef she persists in open disregawd o' his wishes an' commands; an' thah's no tellin' how mean he might git. He might even lock her up."
"If I thought that——" cried Abner. "But he's not so much of a villain as that, for all his dictatorialness and his insulting treatment of me."
"But he hain't in his senses jes' now, I tell you," replied Rogers, judicially. "Thah's no tellin' how much uv a brute he may act, an' it's her we should be thinkin' uv."
"By heaven," Abner exclaimed, starting up, "if I thought he'd ever mistreat Betty, I'd——"
"You'd whut?"
"I'd run away with her," he answered, facing Rogers as he spoke. "If a father abuses his authority, he no longer merits consideration on the ground of his fatherhood."
"Well, my boy," said Rogers, kindly, "I advise patience an' prudence; but ef the wust comes to the wust, an' he begins to act mean to the gal, you'll do right to tek her away. I'll holp you all I kin; leastways, I'll wink et whut you do. Betsy's too fine a gal—bless her sweet face—to be made onhappy jes' bekaze her ole daddy's et up with spitefulness ag'in you an Parson Stone."
Rogers, knowing his wife's old feeling against the Gilcrests—a feeling compounded of envy on account of the superior social position of the family at Oaklands, jealousy on account of the friendship between her husband and Hiram Gilcrest, and resentment against Gilcrest's treatment of Stone—did not give her an account of his encounter with Gilcrest, but merely told her that Betsy and Abner loved each other, that her father did not favor the match, and that he had forbidden Betsy to have anything more to say to the young man.
"Reckon Hirum an' Jane expaict a dukedom or a king ter marry ther gal," remarked Mrs. Rogers, scornfully. "Abner not good 'nough! He's wuth the whole kit an' bilin' o' Gilcrests an' Temples; an' ef Betsy lets 'em threaten an' coax or skeer her inteh breakin' her word to him, she hain't the gal I tek her to be. But, pore thing! she must be havin' a hard time. An' who'd 'a' thought uv them two a-lovin' each othah lak thet? Come to think on it, though, it's a wondah I hain't suspicioned 'em foh this; but, la! they're both so young. Abner hain't more'n twenty-four or twenty-five, an' Betsy hain't but two yeah oldah'n our Cissy."
"You furgit, Cynthy Ann, thet Betsy's ez old or oldah then you wuz when you fust begun to mek eyes et me," observed Mason, with a droll smile.
"La, now, I wouldn't wondah ef Cissy didn't know all about Abner an' Betsy right 'long; her'n' Betsy wuz allus so thick," commented Mrs. Rogers, ignoring her husband's remark.
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE BAR SINISTER
Not even to Mason Rogers could Abner bring himself to mention Hiram Gilcrest's most insulting insinuation; but the memory of that base epithet, bastard, cut deeper and deeper into the young man's soul. "What could the vicious old man possibly have heard or imagined about my history to lead him to utter so foul a charge?" he thought again and again. "'A bastard who has no right to the name he bears,' those were his very words. I wonder I did not throttle him then and there—if he is the father of my betrothed wife. But, by heaven, he shall apologize and that right humbly, or else I'll—but pshaw! the old fellow was so enraged that he didn't know what he was saying. The epithet was simply a gratuitous insult which he in his anger was scarcely responsible for. But what could have turned him so completely against me?" Thus Abner tormented himself, his thoughts ever revolving about the puzzling question. At times he would find some comfort in the belief that the allusion to his parentage meant nothing but that Gilcrest was senselessly enraged when he made it. Then again, when he remembered that it was by accident that he himself had discovered his father's name, or when he thought of Richard and Rachel Dudley's singular reticence, and of Dr. Dudley's evident uneasiness and reluctance when pressed for the details of the life of Mary Hollis and John Logan, a sickening foreboding of he knew not what would seize him. "There's something about my father's and mother's life that Uncle Richard has always concealed from me," he would conclude, "and whatever it is, I must learn it. It's no use to write; I must see uncle face to face, and demand a full revelation. Much as I dread another long, lonely journey, it must be made, and that at once, if I am ever to know peace again. Everything is at a standstill: my hopes of Betty, my farm work, my other business. In no direction can I proceed, until I have solved this mystery. There may be nothing in it—surely there isn't, and I am tormenting myself unnecessarily. Still, if what Gilcrest said, meant nothing more, it certainly indicated most forcibly his extreme animosity to me; and I am convinced that the solution to his altered demeanor can best be discovered by another journey to Williamsburg."
It was getting late in the season, and farm work was pressing; but Mason Rogers promised that he would superintend the two negro men Abner had hired from Squire Trabue for the corn-planting, and that he and Henry would do all in their power to see that affairs at the farm on Hinkson Creek went on smoothly.
In addition to the facts already narrated in regard to Abner's parents, this was the story he heard the evening of his arrival in Williamsburg, as he and his uncle sat together in Dr. Dudley's office:
After an absence of several months, John Logan came to see Mary in the spring after the birth of his child. Mary had endured great privations and had led a lonely life during the last few months. Moreover, she was weak and nervous and broken in health. When her husband paid this brief visit, she bitterly reproached him for having drawn her into so imprudent a marriage, and for the hardships of her lot. Logan, who was weary and careworn, and had suffered many privations with the struggling army during the disastrous spring campaign, was in no mood to endure patiently Mary's tears and upbraidings. Hard words were exchanged, and he took his leave after but a partial reconciliation. She never saw him again. Late in June, she received tidings of his death on the battlefield at Monmouth. The comrade who brought this tidings was by Logan's side when he fell, had received his last messages, and brought Mary a letter from Logan, written the night before the battle. In this letter Logan acknowledged that he had wronged Mary, asked her forgiveness, and promised that if his life was spared he would try to atone to her and to their little son for all the wrong, assuring her that in spite of everything all the love of his heart was hers and their babe's. He also urged her to find refuge until the war was over with her sister Frances at Lawsonville.
Mary wrote Frances, telling of her sad plight, and asking shelter for herself and her babe. Richard Dudley could not come for Mary, but he sent a trusty messenger with money for her journey; and he assured her of a loving welcome and a home for herself and her boy.
She left Morristown at once, and on her way to Virginia, she stopped at Philadelphia. While there, she learned of a young woman in that city claiming to be the widow of a soldier, John Logan, who had been killed at Monmouth Court-house. Mary, in great foreboding, went to see this woman, who proved to be her cousin, Sarah Pepper. The two had heard nothing of each other during the years that had elapsed since Mary had quitted Chestnut Hall. Sarah was not penniless, but otherwise her condition was as pitiable as Mary's. The story she told Mary was this: She had first met John Logan in the summer of 1776. They fell in love with one another; and on account of her father's opposition and his threat of disinheritance if she did not renounce her lover, she and Logan were secretly married on her seventeenth birthday, November 19, 1776, at the house of Samuel and Ellen Smith, tenants on the Pepper estate. Her father was in Maryland at the time. The only one beside the Smiths, who was privy to this marriage, was Sarah's former nurse, Aunt Myra, a negro belonging to Jackson Pepper.
Logan remained in the neighborhood, meeting his wife at the Smiths' until early in February, when he left to join Washington's troops at Morristown. A week after his departure, Jackson Pepper returned home, and died suddenly of apoplexy a month later.
But even before Logan left the neighborhood, poor Sarah had cause to bitterly repent the step she had taken. Logan had proven a violent-tempered, dissolute, selfish man. He was constantly in want of money, and when Sarah supplied him, he would resort to the tavern in the village, and drink and gamble with a lot of low companions whose society seemed more congenial to him than that of the poor, deluded Sarah.
In April, Logan returned to the neighborhood, and he and Sarah were then quietly but openly married. Immediately afterward she quitted Chestnut Hall, and went to live in Philadelphia, her husband returning to his regiment. She only saw him after that at infrequent intervals and for a few hours at a time. His only object on these occasions appeared to be to extort money from her. Then, in June, came tidings of his having fallen in the battle of Monmouth.
"Were there two John Logans?" Abner asked huskily, his lips pallid, the shadow of a great horror upon his face.
"That was what both these poor women at first thought," answered Dr. Dudley, sadly; "but they were soon convinced otherwise."
"How was that?" asked Abner, feeling as if the ground which had hitherto seemed solid was giving way under his feet.
"Your mother," Richard continued, "had with her a miniature of your father. She showed it to Sarah, who recognized it as that of the man she had married. A further description of the man tended to prove this more conclusively—age, height, build, all corresponded. Logan, according to both women, was very tall and slender, had wavy dark hair, dark gray eyes, was a native of Kenelworth, Pennsylvania, and was twenty-eight years old at the time of his death. Soon after your mother came to us, I wrote to an old resident of this village, Kenelworth, and learned from him that he knew of but one family of Logans who had ever lived in the place. That was the family of Ezra Logan, who had been dead several years, and had left two daughters and one son. Both daughters had married and removed to a distant section of the country, and the son, John Logan, had been killed at the battle of Monmouth, in June, 1778."
"My God, my God!" Abner exclaimed, turning faint and sick, while the perspiration stood in great drops upon his forehead and about his drawn lips. He threw himself into a chair, and buried his face in his hands.
"My poor lad! my dear son!" said his uncle, sobbingly, standing over the stricken boy, and laying a hand tenderly on the bowed head. "Would that you could have been spared this. I have tried, God knows I have tried, to hide this from you."
"Yes, yes!" muttered Abner, grasping his uncle's hand, but not looking up, "you have done the best you could for me. You are all I have left now, you and Aunt Rachel. All else is gone. I a bastard! My father, whose memory I have revered as that of a brave soldier who gave his life for his country, a dastardly libertine! And my precious young mother—oh, my God in heaven! I can not bear this. Would that I were lying by your side, my poor, innocent, deceived mother; or, better still, that I had never been born! I have no name, no place in the world!" and as he thought of Betty, his heart was wrung with such agony as few can ever feel.
After a time, when the first storm of grief and horror had subsided somewhat, he again spoke. "Uncle Richard, if that clandestine marriage with Sarah Pepper was valid, why the open marriage five months later?" he asked, clinging to this straw of hope.
"Your poor mother asked that, my boy," Dudley replied, "and Sarah told her this: Several years before Sarah met Logan, her father had disowned and driven from home his son, Fletcher, on account of dishonorable conduct. The will, made soon after Sarah had been forbidden to have anything to do with Logan, left everything to her who, as this will read, 'had been a loving and dutiful daughter, ever ready to yield her own will in obedience to her father.' When the purport of the will was made known, after Jackson Pepper's death, Logan urged upon Sarah that the clandestine marriage ceremony must never be revealed, lest Fletcher Pepper should try to break the will on the plea that Sarah had not been a dutiful and obedient daughter."
"But why," asked Abner, "if she had discovered in the interval between the two marriages that this man Logan did not love her, and was a reckless, bad man, did she still wish to have more to do with him? Why, instead, did not she still hide the fact of the clandestine marriage, and refuse to go through with the open ceremony?"
"Because," answered Dudley, "she had discovered in the meanwhile that she was to become a mother; and on that account, although she had managed to hide her condition from every one except the negro woman, old Myra, she dared not refuse to be openly married to Logan. As soon as this second marriage ceremony was performed, she left Chestnut Hall, taking the faithful Myra with her. They went to Philadelphia, where they were strangers; and there, in September, 1777, Sarah gave birth to a child which, mercifully, was born dead. She told your mother all this, and also that once Logan, in one of his rages, because she had been unable to supply him money, had struck her, and had taunted her with having been his mistress before she had become his wife, asserting that the secret marriage was a fraud, the man who performed the ceremony not having been a real clergyman. He also told her that he had always loved another woman, and that his only motive in marrying herself had been that he might get control of her wealth. Then, at other times, when he was in better humor—so Sarah told your mother—he would deny all that he had asserted when angry, and would assure Sarah that the clandestine marriage was valid. Your mother, remembering that Logan in that last letter to herself had acknowledged that he had wronged her, was convinced that the clandestine marriage to Sarah was valid; and in that case, of course, her own marriage, three months later, was not."
"Was no trace of the scoundrel, if scoundrel he was, who performed the clandestine marriage ceremony, ever found?" asked Abner.
"Sarah never succeeded in locating him; but, years after, I, by accident, ascertained that without a doubt——"
"What?" eagerly asked Abner, his heavy, bloodshot eyes lighting with renewed hope.
"I found, my boy," answered Richard, sadly, "not what you hope, but the contrary. Thomas Baker was the man's name, and he was undoubtedly an ordained clergyman when he married Sarah Pepper to John Logan, November 19, 1776."
"What became of Sarah Pepper, or Sarah Logan?" Abner inquired after a long, miserable pause.
Dr. Dudley did not know where she was, nor whether she was still living. She had written once, he said, to her cousin, just before Mary's marriage to Page, and had said in her letter that she herself was on the eve of marrying again; but Dudley could not now remember, if he had ever heard, the name of her intended husband. "But," Richard continued, "the letter is no doubt in the package which your mother left with your Aunt Frances. When you feel equal to the painful task, you should go over these papers—they are in that old oak box in the garret—and then, perhaps, they had better be destroyed. You know," he continued presently, in explanation of his being unable to give any information about Sarah Pepper's whereabouts, "I never saw Mary's cousin. I married your Aunt Frances, who was seventeen years your mother's senior, at Plainfield, New Jersey, just before the death of John Hollis and his wife, and before Sarah Thornton, your mother's aunt, married Jackson Pepper. I brought my bride to Lawsonville, and she never saw her Pepper connections, who lived, as you are aware, in quite another part of the State."
"There is another fact in regard to your mother which I had better tell you now, Abner," Dr. Dudley went on after a time. "She did not die at Lawsonville, although I erected a stone there to her memory." He then related to his nephew what James Drane had already learned from Tom Gaines; namely, that Mary Hollis and her second husband, with her little son, then four years of age, had emigrated to Kentucky in the spring of 1782. Dudley likewise told Abner that Marshall Page had been killed the following August, at Blue Licks; that Mary had died at Bryan Station two days later; and that Marshall's brother had brought the little Abner back to the Dudleys late in that same year.