Mary E. Wilkins Freeman - Pembroke

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"Oh, Charlotte! you don't want to show it to me?"

"Yes, I do. I want you to see it--before I pack it away. It's in the
north chamber."

Rose followed Charlotte out of the room across the passageway to the
north chamber. Charlotte had had one brother, who had died some ten
years before, when he was twenty. The north chamber had been his
room, the bureau drawers were packed with his clothes, and the silk
hat which had been the pride of his early manhood hung on the nail
where he had left it, and also his Sunday coat. His mother would not
have them removed, but kept them there, with frequent brushings, to
guard against dust and moths.

Always when Charlotte entered this small long room, which was full of
wavering lines from its uneven floor and walls and ceiling and the
long arabesques on its old blue-and-white paper, whose green paper
curtains with fringed white dimity ones drooping over them were
always drawn, and in summertime when the windows were open undulated
in the wind, she had the sense of a presence, dim, but as positive as
the visions she had used to have of faces in the wandering design of
the old wall-paper when she had studied it in her childhood. Ever
since her brother's death she had had this sense of his presence in
his room; now she thought no more of it than of any familiar figure.
All the grief at his death had vanished, but she never entered his
old room that the thought of him did not rise up before her and stay
with her while she remained.

Now, when she opened the door, and the opposite green and white
curtains flew out in the draught towards her, they were no more
evident than this presence to which she now gave no thought, and
pushed by her brother's memory without a glance.

Rose followed her to the bed. A white linen sheet was laid over the
chintz counterpane. Charlotte lifted the sheet.

"I took the last stitch on it Wednesday night," she said, in a hushed
voice.

"Didn't he come that night?"

"I finished it before he came."

"Did he see it?"

Charlotte nodded. The two girls stood looking solemnly at the silk
dress.

"You can't see it here; it's too dark," said Charlotte, and she
rolled up a window curtain.

"Yes, I can see better," said Rose, in a whisper. "It's beautiful,
Charlotte."

The dress was spread widely over the bed in crisp folds. It was
purple, plaided vaguely with cloudy lines of white and delicate
rose-color. Over it lay a silvery lustre that was the very light of
the silken fabric.

Rose felt it reverently. "How thick it is!" said she.

"Yes, it's a good piece," Charlotte replied.

"You thought you'd have purple?"

"Yes, he liked it."

"Well, it's pretty, and it's becoming to you."

Charlotte took up the skirt, and slipped it, loud with silken
whispers, over her head. It swept out around her in a great circle;
she looked like a gorgeous inverted bell-flower.

"It's beautiful," Rose said.

Charlotte's face, gazing downward at the silken breadths, had quite
its natural expression. It was as if her mind in spite of herself
would stop at old doors.

"Try on the waist," pleaded Rose.

Charlotte slipped off her calico waist, and thrust her firm white
arms into the flaring silken sleeves of the wedding-gown. Her neck
arose from it with a grand curve. She stood before the glass and
strained the buttons together, frowning importantly.

"It fits you like a glove," Rose murmured, admiringly, smoothing
Charlotte's glossy back.

"I've got a spencer-cape to wear over my neck to meeting," Charlotte
said, and she opened the upper-most drawer in the chest and took out
a worked muslin cape, and adjusted it carefully over her shoulders,
pinning it across her bosom with a little brooch of her brother's
hair in a rim of gold.

"It's elegant," said Rose.

"I'll show you my bonnet," said Charlotte. She went into a closet and
emerged with a great green bandbox.

Rose bent over, watching her breathlessly as she opened it. "Oh!" she
cried. "Oh, Charlotte!"

Charlotte held up the bonnet of fine Dunstable straw, flaring in
front, and trimmed under the brim with a delicate lace ruche and a
wreath of feathery white flowers. Bows of white gauze ribbon stood up
from it stiffly. Long ribbon strings floated back over her arm as she
held it up.

"Try it on," said Rose.

Charlotte stepped before the glass and adjusted the bonnet to her
head. She tied the strings carefully under her chin in a great square
bow; then she turned towards Rose. The fine white wreath under the
brim encircled her face like a nimbus; she looked as she might have
done sitting a bride in the meeting-house.

"It's beautiful," Rose said, smiling, with grave eyes. "You look real
handsome in it, Charlotte." Charlotte stood motionless a moment, with
Rose surveying her.

"Oh, Charlotte," Rose cried out, suddenly, "I don't believe but what
you'll have him, after all!" Rose's eyes were sharp upon Charlotte's
face. It was as if the bridal robes, which were so evident, became
suddenly proofs of something tangible and real, like a garment left
by a ghost. Rose felt a sudden conviction that the quarrel was but a
temporary thing; that Charlotte would marry Barney, and that she knew
it.

A change came over Charlotte's face. She began untying the bonnet
strings.

"Sha'n't you?" repeated Rose, breathlessly.

"No, I sha'n't."

Charlotte took the bonnet off and smoothed the creases carefully out
of the strings.

"If I were you," Rose cried out, "I'd feel like tearing that bonnet
to pieces!"

Charlotte replaced it in the bandbox, and began unfastening her
dress.

"I don't see how you can bear the sight of them. I don't believe I
could bear them in the house!" Rose cried out again. "I would put
that dress in the rag-bag if it was mine!" Her cheeks burned and her
eyes were quite fierce upon the dress as Charlotte slipped it off and
it fell to the floor in a rustling heap around her.

"I don't see any sense in losing everything you have ever had because
you haven't got anything now," Charlotte returned, in a stern voice.
She laid the shining silk gown carefully on the bed, and put on her
cotton one again. Her face was quite steady.

Rose watched her with the same sharp question in her eyes. "You know
you and Barney will make it up," she said, at length.

"No, I don't," returned Charlotte. "Suppose we go down-stairs now.
I've got some work I ought to do."

Charlotte pulled down the green paper shades of the windows, and went
out of the room. Rose followed. Charlotte turned to go down-stairs,
but Rose caught her arm.

"Wait a minute," said she. "Look here, Charlotte."

"What is it?"

"Charlotte," said Rose again; then she stopped.

Charlotte turned and looked at her. Rose's eyes met hers, and her
face had a noble expression.

"You write a note to him, and I'll carry it," said Rose. "I'll go
down in the field where he is, on my way home."

Tears sprang into Charlotte's eyes. "You're real good, Rose," she
said; "but I can't."

"Hadn't you better?"

"No; I can't. Don't let's talk any more about it."

Charlotte pushed past Rose's detaining hand, and the girls went
down-stairs. Mrs. Barnard looked around dejectedly at them as they
entered the kitchen. Her eyes were red, and her mouth drooping; she
was clearing the debris of the pies from the table; there was a smell
of baking, but Cephas had gone out. She tried to smile at Rose. "Are
you goin' now?" said she.

"Yes; I've got to. I've got to sew on my muslin dress. When are you
coming over, Aunt Sarah? You haven't been over to our house for an
age."

"I don't care if I never go anywhere!" cried Sarah Barnard, with
sudden desperation. "I'm discouraged." She sank in a chair, and flung
her apron over her face.

"Don't, mother," said Charlotte.

"I can't help it," sobbed her mother. "You're young and you've got
more strength to bear it, but mine's all gone. I feel worse about you
than if it was myself, an' there's so much to put up with besides. I
don't feel as if I could put up with things much longer, nohow."

"Uncle Cephas ought to be ashamed of himself!" Rose cried out.

Sarah stood up. "Well, I don't s'pose I have so much to put up with
as some folks," she said, catching her breath as if it were her
dignity. "Your Uncle Cephas means well. It did seem as if them sorrel
pies were the last straw, but I hadn't ought to have minded it."

"You haven't got to eat sorrel pies, have you?" Rose asked, in a
bewildered way.

"I don't s'pose they'll be any worse than some other things we eat,"
Sarah answered, scraping the pie-board again.

"I don't see how you can."

"I guess they won't hurt us any," Sarah said, shortly, and Rose
looked abashed.

"Well, I must be going," said she.

As she went out, she looked hesitatingly at Charlotte. "Hadn't you
better?" she whispered. Charlotte shook her head, and Rose went out
into the spring sunlight. She bent her head as she went down the road
before the sweet gusts of south wind; the white apple-trees seemed to
sing, for she could not see the birds in them.

Rose's face between the green sides of her bonnet had in it all the
quickened bloom of youth in spring; her eyes had all the blue
surprise of violets; she panted softly between red swelling lips as
she walked; pulses beat in her crimson cheeks. Her slender figure
yielded to the wind as to a lover. She passed Barney Thayer's new
house; then she came opposite the field where he was at work
ploughing, driving a white horse, stooping to his work in his blue
frock.

Rose stood still and looked at him; then she walked on a little way;
then she paused again. Barney never looked around at her. There was
the width of a field between them.

Finally Rose went through the open bars into the first field. She
crossed it slowly, holding up her skirts where there was a wet gleam
through darker grass, and getting a little nosegay of violets with a
busy air, as if that were what she had come for. She passed through
the other bars into the second field, and Barney was only a little
way from her. He did not glance at her then. He was ploughing with
the look that Cadmus might have worn preparing the ground for the
dragon's teeth.

Rose held up her skirts, and went along the furrows behind him.
"Hullo, Barney," she said, in a trembling voice.

"Hullo," he returned, without looking around, and he kept on, with
Rose following.

"Barney," said she, timidly.

"Well?" said Barney, half turning, with a slight show of courtesy.

"Do you know if Rebecca is at home?"

"I don't know whether she is or not."

Barney held stubbornly to his rocking plough, and Rose followed.

"Barney," said she, again.

"Well?"

"Stop a minute, and look round here."

"I can't stop to talk."

"Yes, you can; just a minute. Look round here."

Barney stopped, and turned a stern, miserable face over his shoulder.

"I've been up to Charlotte's," Rose said.

"I don't know what that is to me."

"Barney Thayer, ain't you ashamed of yourself?"

"I can't stop to talk."

"Yes, you can. Look here. Charlotte feels awfully."

Barney stood with his back to Rose; his very shoulders had a dogged
look.

"Barney, why don't you make up with her?"

Barney stood still.

"Barney, she feels awfully because you didn't come back when she
called you last night."

Barney made no reply. He and the white horse stood like statues.

"Barney, why don't you make up with her? I wish you would." Rose's
voice was full of tender inflections; it might have been that of an
angel peace-making.

Barney turned around between the handles of the plough, and looked at
her steadily. "You don't know anything about it, Rose," he said.

Rose looked up in his face, and her own was full of fine pleading.
"Oh, Barney," she said, "poor Charlotte does feel so bad! I know that
anyhow."

"You don't know how I am situated. I can't--"

"Do go and see her, Barney."

"Do you think I'm going into Cephas Barnard's house after he's
ordered me out?"

"Go up the road a little way, and she'll come and meet you. I'll run
ahead and tell her."

Barney shook his head. "I can't; you don't know anything about it,
Rose." He looked into Rose's eyes. "You're real good, Rose," he said,
as if with a sudden recognition of her presence.

Rose blushed softly, a new look came into her eyes, she smiled up at
him, and her face was all pink and sweet and fully set towards him,
like a rose for which he was a sun.

"No, I ain't good," she whispered.

"Yes, you are; but I can't. You don't know anything about it." He
swung about and grasped his plough-handles again.

"Barney, do stop a minute," Rose pleaded.

"I can't stop any longer; there's no use talking," Barney said; and
he went on remorselessly through the opening furrow. Just before he
turned the corner Rose made a little run forward and caught his arm.

"You don't think I've done anything out of the way speaking to you
about it, do you, Barney?" she said, and she was half crying.

"I don't know why I should think you had; I suppose you meant all
right," Barney said. He pulled his arm away softly, and jerked the
right rein to turn the horse. "G'lang!" he cried out, and strode
forward with a conclusive air.

Rose stood looking after him a minute; then she struck off across the
field. Her knees trembled as she stepped over the soft plough-ridges.

When she was out on the road again she went along quickly until she
came to the Thayer house. She was going past that when she heard some
one calling her name, and turned to see who it was.

Rebecca Thayer came hurrying out of the yard with a basket on her
arm. "Wait a minute," she called, "and I'll go along with you."

Chapter V

Rebecca, walking beside Rose, looked like a woman of another race.
She was much taller, and her full, luxuriant young figure looked
tropical beside Rose's slender one. Her body undulated as she walked,
but Rose moved only with forward flings of delicate limbs.

"I've got to carry these eggs down to the store and get some sugar,"
said Rebecca.

Rose assented, absently. She was full of the thought of her talk with
Barney.

"It's a pleasant day, ain't it?" said Rebecca.

"Yes, it's real pleasant. Say, Rebecca, I'm awful afraid I made
Barney mad just now."

"Why, what did you do?"

"I stopped in the field when I was going by. I'd been up to see
Charlotte, and I said something about it to him."

"How much do you know about it?" Rebecca asked, abruptly.

"Charlotte told me this mornin', and last night when I was going to
her house across lots I saw Barney going, and heard her calling him
back. I thought I'd see if I couldn't coax him to make up with her,
but I couldn't."

"Oh, he'll come round," said Rebecca.

"Then you think it'll be made up?" Rose asked, quickly.

"Of course it will. We're having a terrible time about poor Barney.
He didn't come home last night, and it's much as ever he's spoken
this morning. He wouldn't eat any breakfast. He just went into his
room, and put on his other clothes, and then went out in the field to
work. He wouldn't tell mother anything about it. I never saw her so
worked up. She's terribly afraid he's done something wrong."

"He hasn't done anything wrong," returned Rose. "I think your mother
is terrible hard on him. It's Uncle Cephas; he just picked the
quarrel. He hasn't never more'n half liked Barney. So you think
Barney will make up with Charlotte, and they'll get married, after
all?"

"Of course they will," Rebecca replied, promptly. "I guess they won't
be such fools as not to for such a silly reason as that, when
Barney's got his house 'most done, and Charlotte has got all her
wedding-clothes ready."

"Ain't Barney terrible set?"

"He's set enough, but I guess you'll find he won't be this time."

"Well, I'm sure I hope he won't be," Rose said, and she walked along
silently, her face sober in the depths of her bonnet.

They came to Richard Alger's house on the right-hand side of the
road, and Rebecca looked reflectively at the white cottage with its
steep peak of Gothic roof set upon a ploughed hill. "It's queer how
he's been going with your aunt Sylvy all these years," she said.

"Yes, 'tis," assented Rose, and she too glanced up at the house. As
they looked, a man came around the corner with a basket. He was about
to plant potatoes in his hilly yard.

"There he is now," said Rose.

They watched Richard Alger coming towards them, past a great tree
whose new leaves were as red as flowers.

"What do you suppose the reason is?" Rebecca said, in a low voice.

"I don't know. I suppose he's got used to living this way."

"I shouldn't think they'd be very happy," Rebecca said; and she
blushed, and her voice had a shamefaced tone.

"I don't suppose it makes so much difference when folks get older,"
Rose returned.

"Maybe it don't. Rose."

"What is it?"

"I wish you'd go into the store with me."

Rose laughed. "What for?"

"Nothing. Only I wish you would."

"You afraid of William?" Rose peered around into Rebecca's bonnet.

Rebecca blushed until tears came to her eyes. "I'd like to know what
I'd be afraid of William Berry for," she replied.

"Then what do you want me to go into the store with you for?"

"Nothing."

"You're a great ninny, Rebecca Thayer," Rose said, laughing, "but
I'll go if you want me to. I know William won't like it. You run away
from him the whole time. There isn't another girl in Pembroke treats
him as badly as you do."

"I don't treat him badly."

"Yes, you do. And I don't believe but what you like him, Rebecca
Thayer; you wouldn't act so silly if you didn't."

Rebecca was silent. Rose peered around in her face again. "I was only
joking. I think a sight more of you for not running after him, and so
does William. You haven't any idea how some of the girls act chasing
to the store. Mother and I have counted 'em some days, and then we
plague William about it, but he won't own up they come to see him. He
acts more ashamed of it than the girls do."

"That's one thing I never would do--run after any fellow," said
Rebecca.

"I wouldn't either."

Then the two girls had reached the tavern and the store. Rose's
father, Silas Berry, had kept the tavern, but now it was closed,
except to occasional special guests. He had gained a competency, and
his wife Hannah had rebelled against further toil. Then, too, the
railroad had been built through East Pembroke instead of Pembroke,
the old stage line had become a thing of the past, and the tavern was
scantily patronized. Still, Silas Berry had given it up with great
reluctance; he cherished a grudge against his wife because she had
insisted upon it, and would never admit that business policy had
aught to do with it.

The store adjoining the tavern, which he had owned for years, he
still retained, but his son William had charge of it. Silas Berry was
growing old, and the year before had had a slight shock of paralysis,
which had made him halt and feeble, although his mind was as clear as
ever. However, although he took no active part in the duties of the
store, he was still there, and sharply watchful for his interests,
the greater part of every day.

The two girls went up the steps to the store piazza. Rose stepped
forward and looked in the door. "Father's in there, and Tommy Ray,"
she whispered. "You needn't be afraid to go in." But she entered as
she spoke, and Rebecca followed her.

There was one customer in the great country store, a stout old man,
on the grocery side. His broad red face turned towards them a second,
then squinted again at some packages on the counter. He was haggling
for garden seeds. William Berry, who was waiting upon him, did not
apparently look at his sister and Rebecca Thayer, but Rebecca had
entered his heart as well as the store, and he saw her face deep in
his own consciousness.

Tommy Ray, the great white-headed boy who helped William in the
store, shuffled along behind the counter indeterminately, but the
girls did not seem to see him. Rose was talking fast to Rebecca. He
lounged back against the shelves, stared out the door, and whistled.

Out of the obscurity in the back of the store an old man's narrow
bristling face peered, watchful as a cat, his body hunched up in a
round-backed arm-chair.

"Mr. Nims will go in a minute," Rose whispered, and presently the old
farmer clamped past them out the door, counting his change from one
hand to the other, his lips moving.

William Berry replaced the seed packages which the customer had
rejected on the shelves as the girls approached him.

"Rebecca's got some eggs to sell," Rose announced.

[Illustration: "'Rebecca's got some eggs to sell'"]

William Berry's thin, wide-shouldered figure towered up behind the
counter; he smiled, and the smile was only a deepening of the
pleasant intensity of his beardless face, with its high pale forehead
and smooth crest of fair hair. The lines in his face scarcely
changed.

"How d'ye do?" said he.

"How d'ye do?" returned Rebecca, with fluttered dignity. Her face
bloomed deeply pink in the green tunnel of her sun-bonnet, her black
eyes were as soft and wary as a baby's, her full red lips had a
grave, innocent expression.

"How many dozen eggs have you got, Rebecca?" Rose inquired, peering
into the basket.

"Two; mother couldn't spare any more to-day," Rebecca replied, in a
trembling voice.

"How much sugar do you give for two dozen eggs, William?" asked Rose.

William hesitated; he gave a scarcely perceptible glance towards the
watchful old man, whose eyes seemed to gleam out of the gloom in the
back of the store. "Well, about two pounds and a half," he replied,
in a low voice.

Rebecca set her basket of eggs on the counter.

"How many pound did you tell her, William?" called the old man's
hoarse voice.

William compressed his lips. "About two and a half, father."

"How many?"

"Two and a half."

"How many dozen of eggs?"

"Two."

"You ain't offerin' of her two pound of sugar for two dozen eggs?"

"I said two pounds and a half of sugar, father," said William. He
began counting the eggs.

"Be you gone crazy?"

"Never mind," whispered Rebecca. "That's too much sugar for the eggs.
Mother didn't expect so much. Don't say any more about it, William."
Her face was quite steady and self-possessed now, as she looked at
William, frowning heavily over the eggs.

"Give Rebecca two pounds of sugar for the eggs, father, and call it
square," Rose called out.

Silas Berry pulled himself up a joint at a time; then he came forward
at a stiff halt, his face pointing out in advance of his body. He
entered at the gap in the counter, and pressed close to his son's
side. Then he looked sharply across at Rebecca. "Sugar is fourteen
cents a pound now," said he, "an' eggs ain't fetchin' more'n ten
cents a dozen. You tell your mother."

"Father, I told her I'd giver her two and a half pounds for two
dozen," said William; he was quite pale. He began counting the eggs
over again, and his hands trembled.

"I'll take just what you're willing to give," Rebecca said to Silas.

"Sugar is fourteen cents a pound, an' eggs is fetchin' ten cents a
dozen," said the old man; "you can have a pound and a half of sugar
for them eggs if you can give me a cent to boot."

Rebecca colored. "I'm afraid I haven't got a cent with me," said she;
"I didn't fetch my purse. You'll have to give me a cent's worth less
sugar, Mr. Berry."

"It's kinder hard to calkilate so close as that," returned Silas,
gravely; "you had better tell your mother about it, an' you come back
with the cent by-an'-by."

"Why, father!" cried Rose.

William shouldered his father aside with a sudden motion. "I'm
tending to this, father," he said, in a stern whisper; "you leave it
alone."

"I ain't goin' to stan' by an' see you givin' twice as much for eggs
as they're worth 'cause it's a gal you're tradin' with. That wa'n't
never my way of doin' business, an' I ain't goin' to have it done in
my store. I shouldn't have laid up a cent if I'd managed any such
ways, an' I ain't goin' to see my hard earnin's wasted by you. You
give her a pound and a half of sugar for them eggs and a cent to
boot."

"You sha'n't lose anything by it, father," said William, fiercely.
"You leave me alone."

The sugar-barrel stood quite near. William strode over to it, and
plunged in the great scoop with a grating noise. He heaped it
recklessly on some paper, and laid it on the steelyards.

"Don't give me more'n a pound and a half," Rebecca said, softly.

"Keep still," Rose whispered in her ear.

Silas pushed forward, and bent over the steelyards. "You've weighed
out nigh three," he began. Then his son's face suddenly confronted
his, and he stopped talking and stood back.

Almost involuntarily at times Silas Berry yielded to the combination
of mental and superior physical force in his son. While his own mind
had lost nothing of its vigor, his bodily weakness made him
distrustful of it sometimes, when his son towered over him in what
seemed the might of his own lost strength and youth, brandishing his
own old weapons.

William tied up the sugar neatly; then he took the eggs from
Rebecca's basket, and put the parcel in their place. Silas began
lifting the eggs from the box in which William had put them, and
counted them eagerly.

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