Mary E. Wilkins Freeman - Pembroke

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"Jest so far as I went I was right," Cephas resumed, pouring in a
little more water with a judicial air. "I said Man was animal, an' he
is animal; an' if you don't take anything else into account, he'd
ought to live on animal food, jest the way I reasoned it out. But
you've got to take something else into account. Man is animal, but he
ain't all animal. He's something else. He's spiritual. Man has
command over all the other animals, an' all the beasts of the field;
an' it ain't because he's any better an' stronger animal, because he
ain't. What's a man to a horse, if the horse only knew it? but the
horse don't know it, an' there's jest where Man gets the advantage.
It's knowledge an' spirit that gives Man the rule over all the other
animals. Now, what we want is to eat the kind of things that will
strengthen knowledge an' spirit an' self-control, because the first
two ain't any account without the last; but there ain't no kind of
food that's known that can do that. If there is, I 'ain't never heard
of it."

Cephas dumped the whole mass of paste with a flop upon the
mixing-board, and plunged his fists into it. Sarah made an
involuntary motion forward, then she stood back with a great sigh.

"But what we can do," Cephas proceeded, "is to eat the kind of things
that won't strengthen the animal nature at the expense of the
spiritual. We know that animal food does that; we can see how it
works in tigers an' bears. Now, it's the spiritual part of us we want
to strengthen, because that is the biggest strength we can get, an'
it's worth more. It's what gives us the rule over animals. It's
better for us to eat some other kind of food, if we get real weak and
pindlin' on it, rather than eat animal food an' make the animal in us
stronger than the spiritual, so we won't be any better than wild
tigers an' bears, an' lose our rule over the other animals."

Cephas took the rolling-pin and brought it heavily down upon the
sticky mass on the board. Sarah shuddered and started as if it had
hit her. "Now, if we can't eat animal food," said Cephas, "what other
kind of food can we eat? There ain't but one other kind that's known
to man, an' that's vegetable food, the product of the earth. An'
that's of two sorts: one gets ripe an' fit to eat in the fall of the
year, an' the other comes earlier in the spring an' summer. Now, in
order to carry out the plans of nature, we'd ought to eat these
products of the earth jest as near as we can in the season of 'em.
Some had ought to be eat in the fall an' winter, an' some in the
spring an' summer. Accordin' to my reasonin', if we all lived this
way we should be a good deal better off; our spiritual natures would
be strengthened, an' we should have more power over other animals,
an' better dispositions ourselves."

"I've seen horses terribly ugly, an' they don't eat a mite of meat,"
said Sarah, with tremulous boldness. Her right hand kept moving
forward to clutch the rolling-pin, then she would draw it back.

"'Ain't I told ye once horses were the exceptions?" said Cephas,
severely. "There has to be exceptions. If there wa'n't any exceptions
there couldn't be any rule, an' there bein' exceptions shows there is
a rule. Women can't ever get hold of things straight. Their minds
slant off sideways, the way their arms do when they fling a stone."

Cephas brought the rolling-pin down upon the paste again with fierce
impetus. "You'll break it," Sarah murmured, feebly. Cephas brought it
down again, his mouth set hard; his face showed a red flush through
his white beard, the veins on his high forehead were swollen and his
brows scowling. The paste adhered to the rolling-pin; he raised it
with an effort; his hands were helplessly sticky. Sarah could
restrain herself no longer. She went into the pantry and got a dish
of flour, and spooned out some suddenly over the board and Cephas's
hands. "You've got to have some more flour," she said, in a desperate
tone.

Cephas's black eyes flashed at her. "I wish you would attend to your
own work, an' leave me alone," said he. But at last he succeeded in
moving the rolling-pin over the dough as he had seen his wife move
it.

"He ain't greasin' the pie-plates," said Sarah, as Cephas brought a
piece of dough with a dexterous jerk over a plate; "there ain't much
animal in the little mite of lard it takes to grease a plate."

Cephas spread handfuls of sorrel leaves over the dough; then he
brought the molasses-jug from the pantry, raised it, and poured
molasses over the sorrel with an imperturbable air.

Sarah watched him; then she turned to Charlotte. "To think of eatin'
it!" she groaned, quite openly; "it looks like p'ison."

Charlotte made no response; she knitted as one of the Fates might
have spun. Sarah sank down on a chair, and looked away from Cephas
and his cookery, as if she were overcome, and quite done with all
remonstrance.

Never before had she shown so much opposition towards one of her
husband's hobbies, but this galloped so ruthlessly over her own
familiar fields that she had plucked up boldness to try to veer it
away.

Somebody passed the window swiftly, the door opened abruptly, and
Mrs. Deborah Thayer entered. "_Good_-mornin'," said she, and her
voice rang out like a herald's defiance.

Sarah Barnard arose, and went forward quickly. "Good-mornin'," she
responded, with nervous eagerness. "Good-mornin', Mis' Thayer. Come
in an' set down, won't you?"

"I 'ain't come to set down," responded Deborah's deep voice.

She moved, a stately high-hipped figure, her severe face almost
concealed in a scooping green barege hood, to the centre of the
floor, and stood there with a pose that might have answered for a
statue of Judgment. She turned her green-hooded head slowly towards
them all in turn. Sarah watched her and waited, her eyes dilated.
Cephas rolled out another pie, calmly. Charlotte knitted fast; her
face was very pale.

"I've come over here," said Deborah Thayer, "to find out what my son
has done."

There was not a sound, except the thud of Cephas's rolling-pin.

"Mr. Barnard!" said Deborah. Cephas did not seem to hear her.

"Mr. Barnard!" she said, again. There was that tone of command in her
voice which only a woman can accomplish. It was full of that maternal
supremacy which awakens the first instinct of obedience in man, and
has more weight than the voice of a general in battle. Cephas did not
turn his head, but he spoke. "What is it ye want?" he said, gruffly.

"I want to know what my son has done, an' I want you to tell me in so
many words. I ain't afraid to face it. What has my son done?"

Cephas grunted something inarticulate.

"What?" said Deborah. "I can't hear what you say. I want to know what
my son has done. I've heard how you turned him out of your house last
night, and I want to know what it was for. I want to know what he has
done. You're an old man, and a God-fearing one, if you have got your
own ideas about some things. Barnabas is young, and apt to be
headstrong. He ain't always been as mindful of obedience as he might
be. I've tried to do my best by him, but he don't always carry out my
teachin's. I ain't afraid to say this, if he is my son. I want to
know what he's done. If it's anything wrong, I shall be jest as hard
on him as the Lord for it. I'm his mother, but I can see his faults,
and be just. I want to know what he has done."

Charlotte gave one great cry. "Oh, Mrs. Thayer, he hasn't done
anything wrong; Barney hasn't done anything wrong!"

But Deborah quite ignored her. She kept her eyes fixed upon Cephas.
"What has my son done?" she demanded again. "If he's done anything
wrong I want to know it. I ain't afraid to deal with him. You ordered
him out of your house, and he didn't come home at all last night. I
don't know where he was. He won't speak a word this mornin' to tell
me. I've been out in the field where he's to work ploughin', and I
tried to make him tell me, but he wouldn't say a word. I sat up and
waited all night, but he didn't come home. Now I want to know where
he was, and what he's done, and why you ordered him out of the house.
If he's been swearin', or takin' anything that didn't belong to him,
or drinkin', I want to know it, so I can deal with him as his mother
had ought to deal."

"He hasn't been doing anything wrong!" Charlotte cried out again;
"you ought to be ashamed of yourself talking so about him, when
you're his mother!"

Deborah Thayer never glanced at Charlotte. She kept her eyes fixed
upon Cephas. "What has he done?" she repeated.

"I guess he didn't do much of anything," Mrs. Barnard murmured,
feebly; but Deborah did not seem to hear her.

Cephas opened his mouth as if perforce. "Well," he said, slowly, "we
got to talkin'--"

"Talkin' about what?"

"About the 'lection. I think, accordin' to my reasonin', that what we
eat had a good deal to do with it."

"What?"

"I think if you'd kept your family on less meat, and given 'em more
garden-stuff to eat Barney wouldn't have been so up an' comin'. It's
what he's eat that's made him what he is."

Deborah stared at Cephas in stern amazement. "You're tryin' to make
out, as near as I can tell," said she, "that whatever my son has done
wrong is due to what he's eat, and not to original sin. I knew you
had queer ideas, Cephas Barnard, but I didn't know you wa'n't sound
in your faith. What I want to know is, what has he done?"

Suddenly Charlotte sprang up, and pushed herself in between her
father and Mrs. Thayer; she confronted Deborah, and compelled her to
look at her.

"I'll tell you what he's done," she said, fiercely. "I know what he's
done; you listen to me. He has done nothing--nothing that you've got
to deal with him for. You needn't feel obliged to deal with him. He
and father got into a talk over the 'lection, and they had words
about it. He didn't talk any worse than father, not a mite. Father
started it, anyway, and he knew better; he knew just how set Barney
was on his own side, and how set he was on his; he wanted to pick a
quarrel."

"Charlotte!" shouted Cephas.

"You keep still, father," returned Charlotte, with steady fierceness.
"I've never set myself up against you in my whole life before; but
now I'm going to, because it's just and right. Father wanted to pick
a quarrel," she repeated, turning to Deborah; "he's been kind of
grouty to Barney for some time. I don't know why; he took a notion
to, I suppose. When they got to having words about the 'lection,
father begun it. I heard him. Barney answered back, and I didn't
blame him; I would, in his place. Then father ordered him out of the
house, and he went. I don't see what else he could do. And I don't
blame him because he didn't go home if he didn't feel like it."

"Didn't he go away from here before nine o'clock?" demanded Deborah,
addressing Charlotte at last.

"Yes, he did, some time before nine; he had plenty of time to go home
if he wanted to."

"Where was he, then, I'd like to know?"

"I don't know, and I wouldn't lift my finger to find out. I am not
afraid he was anywhere he hadn't ought to be, nor doin' anything he
hadn't ought to."

"Didn't you stand out in the road and call him back, and he wouldn't
come, nor even turn his head to look at you?" asked Deborah.

"Yes, I did," returned Charlotte, unflinchingly. "And I don't blame
him for not coming back and not turning his head. I wouldn't if I'd
been in his place."

"You'll have to uphold him a long time, then; I can tell you that,"
said Deborah. "He won't never come back if he's said he won't. I know
him; he's got some of me in him."

"I'll uphold him as long as I live," said Charlotte.

"I wonder you ain't ashamed to talk so."

"I am not."

Deborah looked at Charlotte as if she would crush her; then she
turned away.

"You're a hard woman, Mrs. Thayer, and I pity Barney because he's got
you for a mother," Charlotte said, in undaunted response to Deborah's
look.

"Well, you'll never have to pity yourself on that account," retorted
Deborah, without turning her head.

The door opened softly, and a girl of about Charlotte's age slipped
in. Nobody except Mrs. Barnard, who said, absently, "How do you do,
Rose?" seemed to notice her. She sat down unobtrusively in a chair
near the door and waited. Her blue eyes upon the others were so
intense with excitement that they seemed to blot out the rest of her
face. She had her blue apron tightly rolled about both hands.

Deborah Thayer, on her way to the door, looked at her as if she had
been a part of the wall, but suddenly she stopped and cast a glance
at Cephas. "What be you makin'?" she asked, with a kind of scorn at
him, and scorn at her own curiosity.

Cephas did not reply, but he looked ugly as he slapped another piece
of dough heavily upon a plate.

Deborah, as if against her will, moved closer to the table and bent
over the pan of sorrel. She smelled of it; then she took a leaf and
tasted it, cautiously. She made a wry face. "It's sorrel," said she.
"You're makin' pies out of sorrel. A man makin' pies out of sorrel!"

She looked at Cephas like a condemning judge. He shot a fiery glance
at her, but said nothing. He sprinkled the sorrel leaves in the pie.

"Well," said Deborah, "I've got a sense of justice, and if my son, or
any other man, has asked a girl to marry him, and she's got her
weddin' clothes ready, I believe in his doin' his duty, if he can be
made to; but I must say if it wa'n't for that, I'd rather he'd gone
into a family that was more like other folks. I'm goin' to do the
best I can, whether you go half way or not. I'm goin' to try to make
my son do his duty. I don't expect he will, but I shall do all I can,
tempers or no tempers, and sorrel pies or no sorrel pies."

Deborah went out, and shut the door heavily after her.

Chapter IV

After Deborah Thayer had shut the door, the young girl sitting beside
it arose. "I didn't know she was in here, or I wouldn't have come
in," she said, nervously.

"That don't make any odds," replied Mrs. Barnard, who was trembling
all over, and had sunk helplessly into a rocking-chair, which she
swayed violently and unconsciously.

Cephas opened the door of the brick oven, and put in a batch of his
pies, and the click of the iron latch made her start as if it were a
pistol-shot.

Charlotte got up and went out of the room with a backward glance and
a slight beckoning motion of her head, and the girl slunk after her
so secretly that it seemed as if she did not see herself. Cephas
looked sharply after them, but said nothing; he was like a
philosopher in such a fury of research and experiment that for the
time he heeded thoroughly nothing else.

The young girl, who was Rose Berry, Charlotte's cousin, followed her
panting up the steep stairs to her chamber. She was a slender little
creature, and was now overwrought with nervous excitement. She fairly
gasped for breath when she sat down in the little wooden chair in
Charlotte's room. Charlotte sat on the bed. The two girls looked at
each other--Rose with a certain wary alarm and questioning in her
eyes, Charlotte with a dignified confidence of misery.

"I didn't sleep here last night," Charlotte said, at length.

"You went over to Aunt Sylvy's, didn't you?" returned Rose, as if
that were all the matter in hand.

Charlotte nodded, then she looked moodily past her cousin's face out
of the window.

"You've heard about it, I suppose?" said Charlotte.

"Something," replied Rose, evasively.

"I don't see how it got out, for my part. I don't believe he told
anybody."

Rose flushed all over her little eager face and her thin neck. She
opened her mouth as if to speak, then shut it with a catch of her
breath.

"I can't imagine how it got out," repeated Charlotte.

Rose looked at Charlotte with a painful effort; she clutched her
hands tightly into fists as she spoke. "I was coming up here 'cross
lots last night, and I heard you out in the road calling Barney," she
said, as if she forced out the words.

"Rose Berry, you didn't tell!"

"I went home and told mother, that's all. I didn't think that it
would do any harm, Charlotte."

"It'll be all over town, that's all. It's bad enough, anyway."

"I don't believe it'll get out; I told mother not to tell."

"Mrs. Thayer knew."

"Maybe Barney told her."

"Rose Berry, you know better. You know Barney wouldn't do such a
thing."

"No; I don't s'pose he would."

"Don't suppose! Don't you know?"

"Yes, of course I do. I know Barney just as well as you do,
Charlotte. Oh, Charlotte, don't feel bad. I wouldn't have told mother
if I'd thought. I didn't mean to do any harm. I was all upset myself
by it. Don't cry, Charlotte."

"I ain't going to cry," said Charlotte, with spirit. "I've stopped
cryin'." She wiped her eyes forcibly with her apron, and gave her
head a proud toss. "I know you didn't mean to do any harm, Rose, and
I suppose it would have got out anyway. 'Most everything does get out
but good deeds."

"I truly didn't mean to do any harm, Charlotte," Rose repeated.

"I know you didn't. We won't say any more about it."

"I was just running over across lots last night," Rose said. "I
supposed you'd be in the front room with Barney, but I thought I'd
see Aunt Sarah. I'd got terrible lonesome; mother had gone to sleep
in her chair, and father had gone to bed. When I got out by the
stone-wall next the wood I heard you; then I ran right back. Don't
you--suppose he'll ever come again, Charlotte?"

"No," said Charlotte.

"Oh, Charlotte!" There was a curious quality in the girl's voice, as
if some great hidden emotion in her heart tried to leap to the
surface and make a sound, although it was totally at variance with
the import of her cry. Charlotte started, without knowing why. It was
as if Rose's words and her tone had different meanings, and
conflicted like the wrong lines with a tune.

"I gave it up last night," said Charlotte. "It's all over. I'm goin'
to pack my wedding things away."

"I don't see what makes you so sure."

"I know him."

"But I don't see what you've done, Charlotte; he didn't quarrel with
you."

"That don't make any odds. He can't get married to me now without he
breaks his will, and he can't. He can't get outside himself enough to
break it. I've studied it all out. It's like ciphering. It's all
over."

"Charlotte."

"What is it?"

"Why--couldn't you go somewhere else to get married? What's the need
of his comin' here, if he's been ordered out, and he's said he
wouldn't?"

"That's just the letter of it," returned Charlotte, scornfully. "Do
you suppose he could cheat himself that way, or I'd have him if he
could? When Barney Thayer went out of this house last night, and said
what he did, he meant that it was all over, that he was never going
to marry me, nor have anything more to do with us, and he's going to
stand by it. I am not finding any fault with him. I've made up my
mind that it's all over, and I'm going to pack away my weddin'
things."

"Oh, Charlotte, you take it so calm!"

"What do you want me to do?"

"If it was anybody else, I should think they didn't care."

"Maybe I don't."

"I couldn't bear it so, anyhow! I couldn't!" Rose cried out, with
sudden passion. "I wouldn't bear it. I'd go down on my knees to him
to come back!" Rose flung back her head and looked at Charlotte with
a curious defiance; her face grew suddenly intense, and seemed to
open out into bloom and color like a flower. The pupils of her blue
eyes dilated until they looked black; her thin lips looked full and
red; her cheeks were flaming; her slender chest heaved. "I would,"
said she; "I don't care, I would."

Charlotte looked at her, and a quivering flush like a reflection was
left on her fair, steady face.

"I would," said Rose again.

"It wouldn't do any good."

"It would if he cared anything about you."

"It would if he could give up to the care. Barney Thayer has got a
terrible will that won't always let him do what he wants to himself."

"I don't believe he's enough of a fool to put his own eyes out."

"You don't know him."

"I'd try, anyway."

"It wouldn't do any good."

"I don't believe you care anything about him, Charlotte Barnard!"
Rose cried out. "If you did, you couldn't give him up so easy for
such a silly thing. You sit there just as calm. I don't believe but
what you'll have another fellow on the string in a month. I know one
that's dying to get you."

"Maybe I shall," replied Charlotte.

"Won't you, now?" Rose tried to speak archly, but her eyes were
fiercely eager.

"I can't tell till I get home from the grave," said Charlotte. "You
might wait till I did, Rose." She got up and went to dusting her
bureau and the little gilt-framed mirror behind it. Her lips were
shut tightly, and she never looked at her cousin.

"Now don't get mad, Charlotte," Rose said. "Maybe I ought not to have
spoken so, but it did seem to me you couldn't care as _much_-- It
does seem to me I couldn't settle down and be so calm if I was in
your place, and all ready to be married to anybody. I should want to
do something."

"I should, if there was anything to do," said Charlotte. She stopped
dusting and leaned against the wall, reflecting. "I wish it was a
real mountain to move," said she; "I'd do it."

"I'd go right down in the field where he is ploughing, and I'd make
him say he'd come to see me to-night."

"I called him back last night--you heard me," said Charlotte, with
slow bitterness. Her square delicate chin dipped into the muslin
folds of her neckerchief; she looked steadily at the floor and bent
her brow.

"I'd call him again."

"You would, would you?" cried Charlotte, straightening herself. "You
would stand out in the road and keep on calling a man who wouldn't
even turn his head? You'd keep on calling, and let all the town
hear?"

"Yes, I would. I would! I wouldn't be ashamed of anything if I was
going to marry him. I'd go on my knees before him in the face and
eyes of the whole town."

"Well, I wouldn't," said Charlotte.

"I would, if I was sure he thought as much of me as I did of him."

Charlotte looked at her proudly. "I'm sure enough of that," said she.

Rose winced a little. "Then I wouldn't mind what I did," she
persisted, stubbornly.

"Well, I would," said Charlotte; "but maybe I don't care. Maybe all
this isn't as hard for me as it would be for another girl."
Charlotte's voice broke, but she tossed her head back with a proud
motion; she took up the dusting-cloth and fell to work again.

"Oh, Charlotte!" said Rose; "I didn't mean that. Of course I know you
care. It's awful. It was only because I didn't see how you could seem
so calm; it ain't like me. Of course I know you feel bad enough
underneath. Your wedding-clothes all done and everything. They are
pretty near all done, ain't they, Charlotte?"

"Yes," said Charlotte. "They're--pretty near--done." She tried to
speak steadily, but her voice failed. Suddenly she threw herself on
the bed and hid her face, and her whole body heaved and twisted with
great sobs.

"Oh, poor Charlotte, don't!" Rose cried, wringing her own hands; her
face quivered, but she did not weep.

"Maybe I don't care," sobbed Charlotte; "maybe--I don't care."

"Oh, Charlotte!" Rose looked at Charlotte's piteous girlish shoulders
shaken with sobs, and the fair prostrate girlish head. Charlotte all
drawn up in this little heap upon the bed looked very young and
helpless. All her womanly stateliness, which made her seem so
superior to Rose, had vanished. Rose pulled her chair close to the
bed, sat down, and laid her little thin hand on Charlotte's arm, and
Charlotte directly felt it hot through her sleeve. "Don't,
Charlotte," Rose said; "I'm sorry I spoke so."

"Maybe I don't care," Charlotte sobbed out again. "Maybe I don't."

"Oh, Charlotte, I'm sorry," Rose said, trembling. "I do know you
care; don't you feel so bad because I said that."

Rose tightened her grasp on Charlotte's arm; her voice changed
suddenly. "Look here, Charlotte," said she, "I'll do anything in the
world I can to help you; I promise you that, and I mean it, honest."

Charlotte reached around a hand, and clasped her cousin's.

"I'm sorry I spoke so," Rose said.

"Never mind," Charlotte responded, chokingly. She sobbed a little
longer from pure inertia of grief; then she raised herself, shaking
off Rose's hand. "It's all right," said she; "I needn't have minded;
I know you didn't mean anything. It was just--the last straw,
and--when you said that about my wedding-clothes--"

"Oh, Charlotte, you did speak about them yourself first," Rose said,
deprecatingly.

"I did, so nobody else would," returned Charlotte. She wiped her
eyes, drooping her stained face away from her cousin with a kind of
helpless shame; then she smoothed her hair with the palms of her
hands. "I know you didn't mean any harm, Rose," she added, presently.
"I got my silk dress done last Wednesday; I wanted to tell you."
Charlotte tried to smile at Rose with her poor swollen lips and her
reddened eyes.

"I'm sorry I said anything," Rose repeated; "I ought to have known it
would make you feel bad, Charlotte."

"No, you hadn't. I was terrible silly. Don't you want to see my
dress, Rose?"

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