John Barth - The Sot-Weed Factor

Ebenezer laughed, somewhat nettled at Anna's lack of interest in his laureateship. " 'Twas true I'd got nowhere at Peter Paggen's, in all those years. And 'twas true a woman was in my chamber."

"And did you deceive her?" his sister asked anxiously.

"I did," Ebenezer said. Anna turned away and caught her breath.

"Stay!" he cried. " 'Twas not at all in the way you think. I deceived her inasmuch as she was a whore that came to me to be employed for five guineas; but I took a great love for her and would neither lay nor pay her on those terms."

Anna wiped her eyes and looked at him. "Is't true?"

"Aye," Ebenezer laughed. "Haply you'll judge me not a man for't, Anna, but I swear I am as much a virgin now as the day we were born. What, thou'rt weeping again!"

"But not for sorrow," Anna said, embracing him. "Do you know, Brother, I had come to think since you went to Magdalene College we no longer knew each other — but it may be I was wrong."

Ebenezer was moved by this statement, but a trifle embarrassed when Anna squeezed him more tightly before releasing him. Passersby, including Peter Sayer on the corner, turned their heads to look at them: doubtless they looked like parting lovers. Yet he was ashamed at being embarrassed. He moved closer to the coach, to prevent too gross a misunderstanding, and took his sister's hand, at least partly to forestall further embraces.

"Do you ever think of the past?" Anna asked.

"Aye."

"What times we had! Do you remember how we used to talk for hours after Mrs. Twigg had turned out the lamp?" Tears sprang again to her eyes. "I'faith, I miss you, Eben!"

Ebenezer patted her hand.

"And I thee," he said, sincerely but uncomfortably. "I remember one day when we were thirteen, you were ill in bed with a fever, and so Henry and I went alone to tour Westminster Abbey. 'Twas my first whole day apart from you, and by dinnertime I missed you so sorely I begged Henry to take me home. But we went instead to St. James's Park, and after supper to Dukes Theater in Lincoln's Inn Fields, and 'twas far past midnight ere we reached home. I felt ten years older for the day's adventure and could not see for the life of me how I'd e'er be able to tell you the whole of't. I'd had my first meal away from home, been to my first theater, and tasted my first brandy. We talked of nothing else for weeks but that day, and still I'd remember trifles I'd forgot to tell you. 'Twould give me pain to think of them, and at length I came to regret ever having gone and told Henry so, for't seemed to me you'd ne'er catch up after that day."

"I recall it as if 'twere but last week," Anna said. "How many times I've wondered whether you'd forgot it." She sighed. "And I never did catch up! Query as I might, there was no getting the whole story. The awful truth of't was, I'd not been there to see!"

Ebenezer interrupted her with a laugh. "Marry, e'en now I recall something of it I forgot to tell you! After supper at some Pall Mall tavern on that day, I waited a half hour alone at the table while Henry went upstairs for one reason or another — " He stopped and blushed scarlet, suddenly realizing, after fifteen years, what in all probability Henry Burlingame had gone upstairs for. Anna, however, to his relief, showed no sign of understanding.

"The wine had gone to my head, and everyone looked odd to me, none less than myself. 'Twas then I composed my first poem, in my head. A little quatrain. Nay, I must confess 'twas no slip of memory: I kept it secret, Heav'n knows why. I can e'en recite it now:

Figures, so strange, no GOD design'd

To be a Part of Human-kind:

But wanton Nature. .

La, I forget the rest. 'Sheart," he said, resolving happily to record the little verse in his notebook as soon as he boarded the carriage, "and since then what years we've spent apart! What crises and adventures we each have had, that the other knows naught of! 'Tis a pity all the same you had a fever that day!"

Anna shook her head. "I had a secret too, Eben, that Mrs. Twigg knew, and Henry guessed, but never you nor Father. 'Twas no fever I was bedded with, but my first monthly troubles! I'd changed from child to woman that morning, and had the cramp of't as many women do."

Ebenezer pressed her hand, uncertain what to say. It was time to board the coach: footmen and driver were attending last-minute details.

" 'Twill be long ere I see you again," he said. "Belike you'll be a stout matron with half-a-dozen children!"

"Not I," Anna said. " 'Twill be Mrs. Twigg's lot for me, when she dies: an old maid housekeeper."

Ebenezer scoffed. "Thou'rt a catch for the best of men! Could I find your equal I'd be neither virgin nor bachelor for long." He kissed her good-bye, forwarded his respects to his father, and made to board the carriage.

"Stay!" Anna said impulsively.

Ebenezer hesitated, uncertain of her meaning. Anna slipped from her finger a silver seal ring, well known to the poet because it was their only memento of their mother, whom they had never seen; Andrew had bought it during his brief courtship and had presented it to Anna some years past. Equally spaced around the seal were the letters A N N E B, for Anne Bowyer, his fiancée, and in the center, overlapped and joined by a single crossbar, was a brace of beflourished A 's signifying the connection of Anne and Andrew. The complete seal looked like this:

"Prithee take this ring," Anna entreated, and looked at it musingly. " 'Tis — 'tis my wont to alter its significance somewhat. . but no matter. Here, let me put it on you." She caught up his left hand and slipped the ring onto his little finger. "Pledge me. ." she began, but did not finish.

Ebenezer laughed, and to terminate the uncomfortable situation pledged that inasmuch as her share of Malden was a large part of her dowry, he would make it flourish.

It was time to leave. He kissed her again and boarded the carriage, taking the seat from which he could wave to her. At the last minute the wigless fellow, Peter Sayer, boarded the coach and took the opposite seat. A footman closed the door and sprang up to his post — apparently there were to be no other passengers. The driver whipped up the horses, Ebenezer waved to the forlorn figure of his twin at the posthouse door, and the carriage pulled away.

" 'Tis no light matter, to leave a woman ye love," Sayer offered. "Is't thy wife, perhaps, or a sweetheart?"

"Neither," sighed Ebenezer. " 'Tis my twin sister, that I shan't see again till Heav'n knows when." He turned to face his companion. "Thou'rt my savior from Ben Bragg's, I believe — Mr. Sayer?"

Sayer's face showed some alarm. "Ah, ye know me?"

"Only by name, from Ben Bragg." He extended his hand. "I am Ebenezer Cooke, bound for Maryland."

Sayer shook hands warily.

"Is Plymouth your home, Mr. Sayer?"

The man searched Ebenezer's face. "Do ye really not know Colonel Peter Sayer?" he asked.

"Why, no." Ebenezer smiled uncertainly. "I'm honored by your company, sir."

"Of Talbot County in Maryland?"

"Maryland! I'faith, what an odd chance!"

"Not so odd," Sayer said, "since the Smoker's Fleet sails on the first. Anyone bound for Plymouth these days is likely bound for the plantations."

"Well, 'twill be a pleasant journey. Is Talbot County near to Dorchester?"

"Really, sir, thou'rt twitting me!" Sayer cried.

"Nay, I swear't; I know naught of Maryland. 'Tis my first visit since the age of four."

Sayer still looked skeptical. "My dear fellow, you and I are neighbors, with only the Great Choptank between us."