"No sir--_ee_," Cale nodded understandingly at him in turn, much to
Jamie's delight. "A marriage when it _is_ a marriage--'fore God an'
men, an' 'fore the altar of two lovin' hearts, is fer good--fer this
world anyway, an' fer the next if there is one. 'T ain't often you can
come acrosst 'em now-a-days. I guess some men, put it to 'em on a
sudden, could n't say under oath whether they was married or single,
seein' this divorce business mixes things up worse 'n a progressive
euchre party. I 'm only speakin' fer myself, mind you, an' I don't set
up fer judgin' others."
"Good for you, Cale! Those are my sentiments," said the Doctor
laughing heartily at Cale's idea of the "progressive euchre party".
"It's what keeps me young," Cale continued earnestly; "fer jest the
thought of the one woman I loved, an' love now with all the love thet
's in me, warms me jest as this blaze would thaw freezin' sap; it keeps
me, as you might say, kinder thawed out with folks, an' a durned cussed
tough world."
He paused a moment and, leaning forward, clasped his hands around his
crossed knees. I had seen him do this only when he was bracing himself
to say something of deep significance. He faced me squarely, with the
same keen look that I detected on the first night of my arrival.
"I 've been wonderin', Marcia, if you did n't hail from somewheres near
my place, Spencerville, in northern New England, jest over the
line--though come ter think of it, you said you was born in New York,
did n't you?"
Brought to bay by this question, put to me suddenly without warning, I
brought all my self control to bear on my voice and answered:
"Yes, I was born there, but my home for two thirds of my life was in
the vicinity of Spencerville."
"I thought so," said Cale almost indifferently. "You had a way with
you like the folks round there--not that I know any of your
generation," he added hastily. "I left there over a quarter of a
century ago. Only, now and then, your ways take me back into another
generation where my wife belonged," he said, as if explaining why he
had taken the liberty to approach me with the direct question. I
forced myself to put on a bold front and ask:
"Who was your wife, Cale? I may know of the family."
"I have my doubts about _thet_," he said with considerable emphasis.
"Girls of your age ain't apt to know of folks thet lived, an' loved,
an'--I was goin' to say 'lost', but she ain't never thet to me, 'fore
they was born. My wife's name, Marcia, was Morey, Jemimy Morey--one of
three--"
"Triplets? Yes _marm_," he said, in reply to Mrs. Macleod's look of
surprise. "Job Morey, her father, was a poor man, poor, as we used ter
say, as Job's turkey. He 'd had a hard time, no mistake. He 'd had
five boys ter raise on a farm thet was half rocks. Then come the war
an' the two oldest had ter go. The third an' fourth was drafted an'
Job hired the money to pay bounty; but the cuss turned bounty jumper
an' they had ter go. Thet was the year when there was a bleedin' heart
an' a rag of crape in most every house in the village. Two on 'em come
home ter die, an' the t' other two was never heard from; it most killed
Aunt Sally. They 'd had poor luck with four boys, an', by George,
after the youngest of them five was fifteen if Aunt Sally did n't have
triplets--gals all on em!
"Mother said half the women in the village was there ter help. She
said she was out in the woodshed cuttin' up some kindlin'--Job never
was known ter be forehanded in anythin'--an' Job come out the kitchen
end without seein' her. She heard him give a groan an' say, all to
himself he s'posed, as plain as could be: 'O Lord, three more mouths
ter fill, an' so little ter fill 'em with!' Then, turnin' an' seeing
mother, he smiled as well as he could in the circumstances, an' tried
ter put a good face on it by sayin':
"'Well, Aunt Marthy, I ain't got all the material goods thet Old
Testament Job had, but I 've got one of his latter day blessings, three
daughters, an' I guess, if Sally don't mind, I 'll name 'em after 'em.'
"Thet 'show they come by their names: Keziah, Jemimy, and
Keren-happuch, which was the most outlandish name fer about the
prettiest baby, mother said, thet ever she 'd set eyes on. They
shortened it to 'Happy' mighty quick.
"Aunt Sally who 'd never been strong sence the girls was born, broke
right down under her trouble, when she lost her last boy, and never
rallied. She died when the girls was n't more 'n ten year old, an'
after thet, those six little hands worked early an' late to keep the
house for their father. An' they kept it well too.
"Many 's the time after chores was done, I 'd sly over to Job's to
fetch wood an' carry water for the sake of gettin' a smile from my pet,
thet was Jemimy--a fair-skinned, blue-eyed little thing thet looked as
if a breath of wind would blow her over. I watched her grow up like
one of them pink-and-white wind-flowers thet come so early in spring,
an' I used ter pull whole basketfuls for her, jest ter see her flush up
so pleased like, an' get a kiss for my pains.
"I was ten years older than her--old enough ter know what would happen
when Jemimy was ten years older too. She growed right inter my life,
an' I growed right inter hers, so 't was nat'ral enough when she was
seventeen for us ter say we belonged to one another.
"Job never could get ahead, and the farm was mortgaged clear up to the
handle. I had n't much neither, for I had mother ter support and
worked out by the month, an' Jemimy said 't was no time ter think of
gettin' married; we 'd better wait till we could get a little ahead.
She said she 'd heard of a place in the mills down Mass'chusetts way,
an' although I stood out against it, she had set her heart on goin' an'
earnin' a little extra, an' I let her have her way. Keziah married
jest 'bout thet time a poor shote of a feller, an' went out West with
him on ter some gov'ment lands. Happy was ter keep the house.
"Jemimy promised faithfully ter write, an' so she did, though 't was
hard work after mill hours, she said, for she was so tired; but she
loved me too well to have me fret an' worry, so she wrote pretty
reg'lar every two weeks.
"She 'd been away 'bout seven months an' Job was lookin' like a man
with some backbone in him, for half of Jemimy's pay kept comin' reg'lar
an' Happy made everything she come nigh like sunshine, when one evenin'
Job come over an' asked me how long it had been sence I heard from
Jemimy. 'Goin' on four weeks,' says I. 'She told me not to expect
much this month she 's so busy.'
"'We ain't heard for six weeks,' says Job, 'an' t'other night I had a
dream; 't war n't much of a dream neither--only I can't get rid of it,
work it off nor sleep it off, neither. S'posin' you write.'
"You may be pretty sure I did, an', not gettin' an answer, I drove down
ter the nearest station an' sent a telegram, an' thet not gettin' an
answer neither, I jest put myself aboard the next train for Lowell.
Fust time I 'd been on the cars too, but they could n't go fast enough
for me.
"I went straight ter the mill she 'd been workin' in, an' asked fer the
boss. Then I put the question thet had been hangin' round me like a
nightmare for twenty-four hours back.
"'Can you tell me where ter find Jemimy Morey?'
"There was a cur'ous sort er smile went curlin' round the man's lips as
he opened a great ledger, an' read an entry thet made me set down on a
chair handy, feelin' weak as water:
"'Entered February 2.--Left July 19.'
"Thet was all, but 't was enough.
"'Where 's she gone ter?' says I.
"'We don't keep run of the hands after they 've left unless they go ter
another mill, an' she ain't,' says he, clappin' to the ledger with a
bang thet said plain as could be, 'Time 's up.'
"'I guess you 'll have ter let me see the women, fer it's a life an'
death matter ter me', says I, fer his drivin' ways madded me, an' I was
pretty green an' did n't know as much as I might have.
"The strength seemed ter come floodin' right in ter me when I 'd said
thet, and I guess there must have been a kinder 'knock-yer-down' look
in my eyes, fer the feller sort o' winced--there war n't but us two in
the office--an' said:
"'It's against the rules an' 't won't do no good, but if you 'll feel
any better you can this time.'
"You see I thought if I could see the women, I 'd ask 'em, an' p'raps
they 'd know 'bout her. But, Lord! when I see thet great room
stretchin' away ter nothin', an' them hundreds of girls and women
a-workin', tendin' them looms as if their life depended on them wooden
bolts shovin' back'ards an' for'ards like lightnin', I jest set down on
the first bench I come ter sicker 'n death.
"A great wave of black an' a wave of green went through the room. My
pulses kept time to the _rick-rack_ of the flyin' shuttles, an' my head
swum with the dizzyin' of the wheels an' the pumpin' of the shafts.
"'Good God,' I thought, 'is this the place she 's been breathin' out
her sweet life in!'
"I tried ter think, but could n't, the floor jarred so with the rumble
of the great machines; an' the air grew as thick with dust as a barn
floor in threshin' time; an' right through it all, a scorchin' August
sun burned in great quiverin' furrers; an' from outside where it
slanted on the river rushin' through the mill-sluices, it sent a
blindin' reflection whirlin' an' eddyin' along the glarin' white
ceilin's till I felt like a drownin' man bein' sucked under...
"I got out somehow, fer I found myself on the street. I went ter every
mill in the place--an' might have spared myself the trouble.
"Then I took the houses by rote, askin' at each one for Jemimy Morey.
Up one street, down another, I went, the little red brick boxes lookin'
as like as one honeycomb ter another; most of 'em was empty--all at the
mills except the old women and babies; the fust could n't give me no
kind of an answer, an' the second I stumbled over.
"It was gettin' towards six, an' I war n't no nearer findin' what I 'd
come fer than when I started, when I heard a factory bell ringin' an'
asked what it meant. They told me a quarter ter six an' shuttin' off
steam. I started on a dead run fer the little footbridge thet led from
the canal alongside, to the mill gates. There I took my stand jest as
the six o'clock whistle blew and the great mill gates was hoisted, an'
the women an' children come flockin' out an' over the bridge.
"I asked every squad of 'em--they could n't get by me without answerin'
me fer 't was only a foot-bridge--if they knew a mill hand by name
Jemimy Morey?
"For five minutes I got pretty much the same answer, then a little slip
of a gal no higher'n my elbow says: 'What d' you want of her? You
can't see her for she 's up at Granny's sick of the fever, an' nobody
dass n't go near her.'
"There 's no use my tellin' you how I found her nor what we said--only
't war n't exactly what I 'd planned all through hayin' time when,
noonin's, I 'd stretch out in the shadder of a hayrick an', buryin' my
face in the coolin' grass, think how 't would seem to have _her_ hand
strokin' my forehead an' smoothin' all care away by her lovin' ways.
"Jest as soon as she was strong enough, I took her home; an' without
much ceremony, she sittin' in the arm-chair an' I standin' by her side,
we was made man an' wife.... Oh, we was happy! an' thet choice of our
happiness, for we both knew it war n't for long. I 've sometimes
thought we took out a mortgage on our future bliss we was so happy....
Six months from the day I took her home, the church bell tolled
nineteen--an' might have tolled a thousand for all I heard."