Mary E. Wilkins Freeman - Pembroke

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When he got quite close to the gate he understood. "You ain't goin'
past, Richard? You ain't goin' past, Richard?" Sylvia was wailing
over and over, clinging to the old gate-post.

Barney stood before her, hesitating. Sylvia reached out a hand
towards him, clutching piteously with pale fingers through the gloom.
Barney drew back from the poor hand. "I rather think--you've--made a
mistake," he faltered out.

"You ain't goin' past, Richard?" Sylvia wailed out again. She flung
out her lean arm farther towards him. Then she wavered. Barney
thought she was going to fall, and he stepped forward and caught
hold of her elbow. "I guess you don't feel well, do you, Miss Crane?"
he said. "I guess you had better go into the house, hadn't you?"

"I feel--kind of--bad--I--thought you was goin'--past," gasped
Sylvia. Barney supported her awkwardly into the house. At times she
leaned her whole trembling weight upon him, and then withdrew
herself, all unnerved as she was, with the inborn maiden reticence
which so many years had strengthened; once she pushed him from her,
then drooped upon his arm again, and all the time she kept moaning,
"I thought you was goin' right past, Richard, I thought you was goin'
right past."

And Barney kept repeating, "I guess you've made a mistake, Miss
Crane"; but she did not heed him.

When they were inside the parlor he shifted her weight gently on to
the sofa, and would have drawn off; but she clung to his arm, and it
seemed to him that he was forced to sit down beside her or be rough
with her. "I thought you was goin' right past, Richard," she said
again.

"I ain't Richard," said Barney; but she did not seem to hear him. She
looked straight in his face with a strange boldness, her body
inclined towards him, her head thrown back. Her thin, faded cheeks
were burning, her blue eyes eager, her lips twitching with pitiful
smiles. The room was dim with candle-light, but everything in it was
distinct, and Sylvia Crane, looking straight at Barney Thayer's face,
saw the face of Richard Alger.

Suddenly Barney himself had a curious impression. The features of
Richard Alger instead of his own seemed to look back at him from his
own thoughts. He dashed his hand across his face with an impatient,
bewildered motion, as if he brushed away unseen cobwebs, and stood
up. "You have made--" he began again; but Sylvia interrupted him with
a weak cry. "Set down here, set down here, jest a minute, if you
don't want to kill me!" she wailed out, and she clutched at his
sleeve and pulled him down, and before he knew what she was doing had
shrunk close to him, and laid her head on his shoulder. She went on
talking desperately in her weak voice--strained shrill octaves above
her ordinary tone.

"I've had this--sofa ten years," she said--"ten years, Richard--an'
you never set with me on it before, an'--you'd been comin'--here a
long while before that came betwixt us last spring, Richard. Ain't
you forgiven me yet?"

Barney made no reply.

"Can't you put your arm around me jest once, Richard?" she went on.
"You ain't never, an' you've been comin' here a long while. I've had
this sofa ten years."

Barney put his arm around her, seemingly with no volition of his own.

"It's six months to-day sence you came last," Sylvia said--"it's six
whole months; an' when I see you goin' past to-night, it didn't seem
as if I could bear it--it didn't seem as if I could bear it,
Richard." Sylvia turned her pale profile closer to Barney's breast
and sobbed faintly. "I've watched so long for you," she sighed out;
"all these months I've sat there at the window, strainin' my eyes
into the dark. Oh, you don't know, Richard, you won't never know!"

Barney trembled with Sylvia's sobs. He sat with a serious
shamefacedness, his arm around the poor bony waist, staring over the
faded fair head, which had never lain on any lover's breast except in
dreams. For the moment he could not stir; he had a feeling of horror,
as if he saw his own double. There was a subtle resemblance which
lay deeper than the features between him and Richard Alger. Sylvia
saw it, and he saw his own self reflected as Richard Alger in that
straining mental vision of hers which exceeded the spiritual one.

"Can't you forgive me, an'--come again the way--you used to?" Sylvia
panted out. "I couldn't get home before, that night, nohow. I
couldn't, Richard--'twas the night Charlotte an' Barney fell out.
They had a dreadful time. I had to stay there. It wa'n't my fault.
If Barney had come back, I could have got here in season; but poor
Charlotte was settin' out there all alone on the doorstep, an' her
father wouldn't let her in, an' Sarah took on so I had to stay. I
thought I should die when I got back an' found out you'd been here
an' gone. Ain't you goin' to forgive me, Richard?"

Barney suddenly removed his arm from Sylvia's waist, pushed her
clinging hands away, and stood up again. "Now, Miss Crane," he said,
"I've got to tell you. You've got to listen, and take it in. I am
not Richard Alger; I am Barney Thayer."

"What?" Sylvia said, feebly, looking up at him. "I don't know what
you say, Richard; I wish you'd say it again."

"I ain't Richard Alger; I am Barney Thayer," repeated Barney, in a
loud, distinct voice. Sylvia's straining, questioning eyes did not
leave his face. "You made a mistake," said Barney.

Sylvia turned her eyes away; she laid her head down on the arm of the
hair-cloth sofa, and gasped faintly. Barney bent over her. "Now don't
feel bad, Miss Crane," said he; "I sha'n't ever say a word about this
to anybody."

Sylvia made no reply; she lay there half gasping for breath, and her
face looked deathly to Barney.

"Miss Crane, are you sick?" he cried out in alarm. When she did not
answer, he even laid hold of her shoulder, and shook her gently, and
repeated the question. He did not know if she were faint or dying; he
had never seen anybody faint or die. He wished instinctively that his
mother were there; he thought for a second of running for her in
spite of everything.

"I'll go and get some water for you, Miss Crane," he said,
desperately, and seized the candle, and went with it, flaring and
leaving a wake of smoke, out into the kitchen. He presently came back
with a dipper of water, and held it dripping over Sylvia. "Hadn't you
better drink a little?" he urged. But Sylvia suddenly motioned him
away and sat up. "No, I don't want any water; I don't want anything
after this," she said, in a quick, desperate tone. "I can never look
anybody in the face again. I can never go to meetin' again."

"Don't you feel so about it, Miss Crane," Barney pleaded, his own
voice uncertain and embarrassed. "The room ain't very light, and it's
dark outside; maybe I do look like him a little. It ain't any wonder
you made the mistake."

"It wa'n't that," returned Sylvia. "I dunno what the reason was; it
don't make any difference. I can't never go to meetin' again."

"I sha'n't tell anybody," said Barney; "I sha'n't ever speak of it to
any human being."

Sylvia turned on him with sudden fierceness. "You had better not,"
said she, "when you're doin' jest the same as Richard Alger yourself,
an' you're makin' Charlotte sit an' watch an' suffer for nothin' at
all, jest as he makes me. You had better not tell of it, Barney
Thayer, when it was all due to your awful will that won't let you
give in to anybody, in the first place, an' when you are so much like
Richard Alger yourself that it's no wonder that anybody that knows
him body and soul, as I do, took you for him. You had better not
tell."

Again Barney seemed to see before his eyes that image of himself as
Richard Alger, and he could no more change it than he could change
his own image in the looking-glass. He said not another word, but
carried the dipper of water back to the kitchen, returned with the
candle, setting it gingerly on the white mantel-shelf between a vase
of dried flowers and a mottle-backed shell, and went out of the
house. Sylvia did not speak again; but he heard her moan as he closed
the door, and it seemed to him that he heard her as he went down the
road, although he knew that he could not.

It was quite dark now; all the light came from a pale wild sky. The
moon was young, and feebly intermittent with the clouds.

Barney, hastening along, was all trembling and unnerved. He tried to
persuade himself that the woman whom he had just left was ill, and
laboring under some sudden aberration of mind; yet, in spite of
himself, he realized a terrible rationality in it. Little as he had
been among the village people of late, and little as he had heard of
the village gossip, he knew the story of Richard Alger's desertion
of Sylvia Crane. Was he not like Richard Alger in his own desertion
of Charlotte Barnard? and had not Sylvia been as little at fault
in taking one for the other as if they had been twin brothers?
Might there not be a closer likeness between characters than
features--perhaps by a repetition of sins and deformities? and might
not one now and then be able to see it?

Then the question came, was Charlotte like Sylvia? Was Charlotte even
now sitting watching for him with that awful eagerness which comes
from a hunger of the heart? He had seen one woman's wounded heart,
and, like most men, was disposed to generalize, and think he had seen
the wounded hearts of all women.

When he had reached the turn of the road, and had come out on the
main one where his house was, and where Charlotte lived, he stood
still, looking in her direction. He seemed to see her, a quarter of a
mile away in the darkness, sitting in her window watching for him, as
Sylvia had watched for Richard.

He set his mouth hard and crossed the road. He had just reached his
own yard when there was the pale flutter of a skirt out of the
darkness before him, and a little shadowy figure met him with a soft
shock. The was a smothered nervous titter from the figure. Barney did
not know who it was; he muttered an apology, and was about to pass
into his yard when Rose Berry's voice arrested him. It was quite
trembling and uncertain; all the laughter had gone out of it.

"Oh, it's you," said she; "you frightened me. I didn't know who it
was."

Barney felt suddenly annoyed without knowing why. "Oh, is it you,
Rose?" he returned, stiffly. "It's a pleasant evening;" then he
turned.

"Barney!" Rose said, and her voice sounded as if she were weeping.

Barney stopped and waited.

"I want to know if--you're mad with me, Barney."

"No, of course I ain't; why?"

"I thought you'd acted kind of queer to me lately."

Barney stood still, frowning in the darkness. "I don't know what you
mean," he said at length. "I don't know how I've treated you any
different from any of the girls."

"You haven't been to see me, and--you've hardly spoken to me since
the cherry party."

"I haven't been to see anybody," said Barney, shortly; and he turned
away again, but Rose caught his arm. "Then you are sure you aren't
mad with me?" she whispered.

"Of course I'm sure," Barney returned, impatiently.

"It would kill me if you were," Rose whispered. She pressed close to
him; he could feel her softly panting against his side, her head sunk
on his shoulder. "I've been worrying about it all these months," she
said in his ear. Her soft curly hair brushed his cheek, but her
little transient influence over him was all gone. He felt angry and
ashamed.

"I haven't thought anything about it," he said, brusquely.

Rose sobbed faintly, but she did not move away from him. Suddenly
that cruel repulsion which seizes mankind towards reptiles and
unsought love seized Barney. He unclasped her clinging hands, and
fairly pushed her away from him. "Good-night, Rose," he said,
shortly, and turned, and went up the path to his own door with
determined strides.

"Barney!" Rose called after him; but he paid no attention. She even
ran up the path after him; but the door shut, and she turned back.
She was trembling from head to foot, there was a great rushing in her
ears; but she heard a quick light step behind her when she got out on
the road, and she hurried on before it with a vague dread.

She almost ran at length; but the footsteps gained on her. A dark
skirt brushed her light-colored one, and Charlotte's voice, full of
contempt and indignation, said in her ear: "Oh, I thought it was
you."

"I--was coming up--to your--house," Rose faltered; she could hardly
get her breath to speak.

"Why didn't you come, then?" demanded Charlotte. "What made you go to
Barney Thayer's?"

"I didn't," said Rose, in feeble self-defence. "He was out in the
road--I--just stopped to--speak to him--"

"You were coming out of his yard," Charlotte said, pitilessly. "You
followed him in there--I saw you. Shame on you!"

"Oh, Charlotte, I haven't done anything out of the way," pleaded
Rose, weakly.

"You have tried your best to get Barney Thayer all the time you have
been pretending to be such a good friend to me. I don't know what you
call out of the way."

"Charlotte, don't--I haven't."

"Yes, you have. I am going to tell you, once for all, what I think of
you. You've been a false friend to me; and now when Barney don't
notice you, you follow him up as no girl that thought anything of
herself would. And you don't even care anything for him; you haven't
even that for an excuse."

"You don't know but what I do!" Rose cried out, desperately.

"Yes, I do know. If anybody else came along, you'd care for him just
the same."

"I shouldn't--Charlotte, I should never have thought of Barney if
he--hadn't left you, you know I shouldn't."

"That's no excuse," said Charlotte, sternly.

"You said yourself he would never come back to you," said Rose.

"Would you have liked me to have done so by you, if you had been in
my place?"

Rose twitched herself about. "You can't expect him never to marry
anybody because he isn't going to marry you," she said, defiantly.

"I don't--I am not quite so selfish as that. But he won't ever marry
anybody he don't like because she follows him up, and I don't see how
that alters what you've done."

Rose began to walk away. Charlotte stood still, but she raised her
voice. "I am not very happy," said she, "and I sha'n't be happy my
whole life, but I wouldn't change places with you. You've lowered
yourself, and that's worse than any unhappiness."

Rose fled away in the darkness without another word, and Charlotte
crossed the road to go to her Aunt Sylvia's.

Rose, as she went on, felt as if all her dreams were dying within
her; a dull vision of the next morning when she should awake without
them weighed upon her. She had a childish sense of shame and remorse,
and a conviction of the truth of Charlotte's words. And yet she had
an injured and bewildered feeling, as if somewhere in this terrible
nature, at whose mercy she was, there was some excuse for her.

Rose was nearly home when she began to meet the people coming from
meeting. She kept close to the wall, and scudded along swiftly that
no one might recognize her. All at once a young man whom she had
passed turned and walked along by her side, making a shy clutch at
her arm.

"Oh, it's you," she said, wearily.

"Yes; do you care if I walk along with you?"

"No," said Rose, "not if you want to."

An old pang of gratitude came over her. It was only the honest,
overgrown boy, Tommy Ray, of the store. She had known he worshipped
her afar off; she had laughed at him and half despised him, but now
she felt suddenly humble and grateful for even this devotion. She
moved her arm that he might hold it more closely.

"It's too dark for you to be out alone," he said, in his embarrassed,
tender voice.

"Yes, it's pretty dark," said Rose. Her voice shook. They had passed
the last group of returning people. Suddenly Rose, in spite of
herself, began to cry. She sobbed wildly, and the boy, full of alarm
and sympathy, walked on by her side.

"There ain't anything--scared you, has there?" he stammered out,
awkwardly, at length.

"No," sobbed Rose.

"You ain't sick?"

"No, it isn't anything."

The boy held her arm closer; he trembled and almost sobbed himself
with sympathy. Before they reached the old tavern Rose had stopped
crying--she even tried to laugh and turn it off with a jest. "I don't
know what got into me," she said; "I guess I was nervous."

"I didn't know but something had scared you," said the boy.

They stood on the door-steps; the house was dark. Rose's parents had
gone to bed, and William was out. The boy still held Rose's arm. He
had adored her secretly ever since he was a child, and he had never
dared as much as that before. He had thought of Rose like a queen or
a princess, and the thought had ennobled his boyish ignorance and
commonness.

"No, I wasn't scared," said Rose, and something in her voice gave
sudden boldness to her young lover.

He released her arm, and put both his arms around her. "I'm sorry you
feel so bad," he whispered, panting.

"It isn't anything," returned Rose, but she half sobbed again; the
boy's round cheek pressed against her wet, burning one. He was
several years younger than she. She had half scorned him, but she had
one of those natures that crave love for its own sweetness as palates
crave sugar.

She wept a little on his shoulder; and the boy, half beside himself
with joy and terror, stood holding her fast in his arms.

"Don't feel bad," he kept whispering. Finally Rose raised herself. "I
must go in," she whispered; "good-night."

The boy's pleading face, his innocent, passionate lips approached
hers, and they kissed each other.

"Don't you--like me a little?" gasped the boy.

"Maybe I will," Rose whispered back. His face came closer, and she
kissed him again. Then, with a murmured "good-night," she fled into
the house, and the boy went down the hill with sweeter dreams in his
heart than those which she had lost.

Chapter X

On the Sunday following the one of Barnabas Thayer's call Sylvia
Crane appeared at meeting in a black lace veil like a Spanish
senorita. The heavily wrought black lace fell over her face, and
people could get only shifting glimpses of her delicate features
behind it.

Richard Alger glanced furtively at the pale face shrinking austerely
behind the net-work of black silk leaves and flowers, and wondered at
some change which he felt but could not fathom. He scarcely knew that
she had never worn the veil before. And Richard Alger, had he known,
could never have fathomed the purely feminine motive compounded of
pride and shame which led his old sweetheart to unearth from the
depths of a bandbox her mother's worked-lace veil, and tie its narrow
black drawing-string with trembling fingers over her own bonnet.

"I'd like to know what in creation you've got that veil on for?"
whispered her sister, Hannah Berry, as they went down the aisle after
meeting.

"I thought I would," responded Sylvia's muffled voice behind the
veil.

"You've got the flowers right over your eyes. I shouldn't think you
could see to walk. You ain't never worn a veil in your life. I can't
see what has got into you," persisted Hannah.

Sylvia edged away from her as soon as she could, and glided down the
road towards her own house swiftly, although her knees trembled.
Sylvia's knees always trembled when she came out of church, after she
had sat an hour and a half opposite Richard Alger. To-day they felt
weaker than ever, after her encounter with Hannah. Nobody knew the
terror Sylvia had of her sister's discovering how she had called in
Barnabas Thayer, and in a manner unveiled her maiden heart to him.
When Charlotte had come in that night after Barnabas had gone, and
discovered her crying on the sofa, she had jumped up and confronted
her with a fierce instinct of concealment.

"There ain't nothin' new the matter," she said, in response to
Charlotte's question; "I was thinkin' about mother; I'm apt to when
it comes dusk." It was the first deliberate lie that Sylvia Crane had
ever told in her life. She reflected upon it after Charlotte had
gone, and reflected also with fierce hardihood that she would lie
again were it necessary. Should she hesitate at a lie if it would
cover the maiden reserve that she had cherished so long?

However, Charlotte had suspected more than her aunt knew of the true
cause of her agitation. A similar motive for grief made her acute.
Sylvia, mourning alone of a Sabbath night upon her hair-cloth sofa,
struck an old chord of her own heart. Charlotte dared not say a
word to comfort her directly. She condoled with her for the
fifteen-years-old loss of her mother, and did not allude to Richard
Alger; but going home she said to herself, with a miserable qualm of
pity, that poor Aunt Sylvia was breaking her heart because Richard
had stopped coming.

"It's harder for Aunt Sylvia because she's older," thought Charlotte,
on her way home that night. But then she thought also, with a sorer
qualm of self-pity, that Sylvia had not quite so long a life before
her, to live alone. Charlotte had nearly reached her own home that
night when two figures suddenly slunk across the road before her. She
at once recognized Rebecca Thayer as one of them, and called out
"Good-evening, Rebecca!" to her.

Rebecca made only a muttered sound in response, and they both
disappeared in the darkness. There was a look of secrecy and flight
about it which somehow startled Charlotte, engrossed as she was with
her own troubles and her late encounter with Rose.

When she got into the house she spoke of it to her mother. Cephas had
gone to bed, and Sarah was sitting up waiting for her.

"I met Rebecca and William out here," said she, untying her hat, "and
I thought they acted real queer." Sarah cast a glance at the bedroom
door, which was ajar, and motioned Charlotte to close it. Charlotte
tiptoed across the room and shut the door softly, lest she should
awaken her father; then her mother beckoned her to come close, and
whispered something in her ear.

Charlotte started, and a great blush flamed out all over her face and
neck. She looked at her mother with angry shame. "I don't believe a
word of it," said she; "not a word of it."

"I walked home from meetin' with Mrs. Allen this evenin'," said her
mother, "an' she says it's all over town. She says Rebecca's been
stealin' out, an' goin' to walk with him unbeknownst to her mother
all summer. You know her mother wouldn't let him come to the house."

"I don't believe one word of it," repeated Charlotte.

"Mis' Allen says it's so," said Sarah. "She says Mis' Thayer has had
to stay home from evenin' meetin' on account of Ephraim--she don't
like to leave him alone, he ain't been quite so well lately--an'
Rebecca has made believe go to meetin' when she's been off with
William. Mis' Thayer went to meetin' to-night."

"Wasn't Mr. Thayer there?"

"Yes, he was there, but he wouldn't know what was goin' on. 'Tain't
very hard to pull the wool over Caleb Thayer's eyes."

"I don't believe one word of it," Charlotte said, again. When she
went up-stairs to bed that whisper of her mother's seemed to sound
through and above all her own trouble. It was to her like a note of
despair and shame, quite outside her own gamut of life. She could not
believe that she heard it at all. Rebecca's face as she had always
known her came up before her. "I don't believe one word of it," she
said again to herself.

But that whisper which had shocked her ear had already begun to be
repeated all over the village--by furtive matrons, behind their
hands, when the children had been sent out of the room; by girls,
blushing beneath each other's eyes as they whispered; by the lounging
men in the village store; it was sent like an evil strain through the
consciousness of the village, until everybody except Rebecca's own
family had heard it.

Barnabas saw little of other people, and nobody dared repeat the
whisper to him, and they had too much mercy or too little courage to
repeat it to Caleb or Deborah. Indeed, it is doubtful if any woman in
the village, even Hannah Berry, would have ventured to face Deborah
Thayer with this rumor concerning her daughter.

Deborah had of late felt anxious about Rebecca, who did not seem like
herself. Her face was strangely changed; all the old meaning had gone
out of it, and given place to another, which her mother could not
interpret. Sometimes Rebecca looked like a stranger to her as she
moved about the house. She said to many that Rebecca was miserable,
and was incensed that she got so little sympathy in response. Once
when Rebecca fainted in meeting, and had to be carried out, she felt
in the midst of her alarm a certain triumph. "I guess folks will see
now that I ain't been fussin' over her for nothin'," she thought.
When Rebecca revived under a sprinkle of water, out in the vestibule,
she said impatiently to the other women bending their grave,
concerned faces over her, "She's been miserable for some time. I
ain't surprised at this at all myself."

Deborah watched over Rebecca with a fierce, pecking tenderness like a
bird. She brewed great bowls of domestic medicines from nuts and
herbs, and made her drink whether she would or not. She sent her to
bed early, and debarred her from the night air. She never had a
suspicion of the figure slipping softly as a shadow across the north
parlor and out the front door night after night.

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