Crestlands Part 18

"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 c.o.c.k-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 d.a.m.nation 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," e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed 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. b.u.t.tah 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 natch.e.l.ly 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 eyeb.a.l.l.s 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, b.a.s.t.a.r.d, 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d 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, a.s.suring 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 a.s.sured 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.