THE SONG OF THE FIRE
The fire was nearly out when Caleb entered his kitchen door and drew a
chair to the stove. Carleton’s taunting words, “Why don’t you take her
home?” rang in his ears. Their sting hurt him. Everything else seemed
to fall away from his mind. He knew why he did not take her home, he
said to himself; every one else knew why,—every one up and down
Keyport knew what Betty had done to ruin him. If she was friendless,
tramping the road, within sight of her own house, whose fault was it?
Not his. He had never done anything but love her and take care of her.
He reached for a pair of tongs, stirred the coals, and threw on a
single piece of driftwood. The fire blazed up brightly at once, its
light flickering on the diver’s ruddy face, and as quickly died out.
“Why don’t I take care of ’er, eh? Why didn’t she take care of
herself?” he cried aloud, gazing into the smouldering embers. “She
sees what it is now trampin’ the road nights, runnin’ up agin such
curs as him. He’s a nice un, he is. I wish I’d choked the life out’er
him; such fellers ain’t no right to live,” looking about him as if he
expected to find Carleton behind the door, and as quickly recovering
himself. “I wonder if he hurt ’er,”—his voice had softened. “She
screamed turrible. I ought, maybe, to ’a’ ketched up to her. Poor
little gal, she ain’t used to this.” He was silent awhile, his head
bent, his shoulders updrawn, his big frame stretched out in the chair.
“She ain’t nothin’ but a child, anyhow,” he broke out again,—“Cap’n
Joe says so. He says I don’t think o’ this; maybe he’s right. He says
I’m bigger an’ twice as old’s she be, an’ ought’er know more; that it
ain’t me she’s hurted,—it’s herself; that I married her to take care
of ’er; and that the fust time she got in a hole I go back on ’er,
’cause she’s dragged me in arter ’er. Well, ain’t I a-takin’ care of
’er? Ain’t I split squar’ in two every cent I’ve earned since she run
away with that”—
Caleb paused abruptly. Even to himself he never mentioned Lacey’s
name. Bending forward he poked the fire vigorously, raking the coals
around the single stick of driftwood. “It’s all very well for th’
cap’n to talk; he ain’t gone through what I have.”
Pushing back his chair he paced the small room, talking to himself as
he walked, pausing to address his sentences to the several articles of
furniture,—the chairs, the big table, the kitchen sink, whatever came
in his way. It was an old trick of his when alone. “I ain’t a-goin’ to
have ’er come home so late no more,” he continued. His voice had sunk
to a gentle whisper. “I’m goin’ to tell them folks she works for that
they’ve got to let ’er out afore dark, or she shan’t stay.” He was
looking now at an old rocker as if it were the shopkeeper himself.
“She’ll be so scared arter this she won’t have a minute’s peace. She
needn’t worrit herself, though, ’bout that skunk. She’s shut o’
_him_. But there’ll be more of ’em. They all think that now I’ve
throwed ’er off they kin do as they’ve a mind to.” He stopped again
and gazed down at the floor, seemingly absorbed in a hole in one of
the planks. “Cap’n Joe sez I ain’t got no business to throw ’er off.
He wouldn’t treat a dog so,—that’s what ye said, cap’n; I ain’t never
goin’ to forgit it. _I_ ain’t throwed _her_ off. She throwed
_me_ off,—lef’ me here without a word; an’ ye know it, cap’n. Ye
want me to take ’er back, do ye?” He spoke with as much earnestness as
though the captain stood before him. “S’pose I do, an’ she finds out
arter all that her comin’ home was ’cause she was skeared of it all,
and that she still loved”—
He stopped, reseated himself, and picking up another stick threw it on
the fire, snuggling the two together. The sticks, cheered by each
other’s warmth, burst into a crackling flame.
“Poor little Betty!” he began again aloud. “I’m sorry for ye.
Everybody’s agin ye, child, ’cept Cap’n Joe’s folks. I know it hurts
ye turrible to have folks look away from ye. Ye always loved to have
folks love ye. I ain’t got nothin’ agin ye, child, indeed I ain’t. It
was my fault, not yourn. I told Cap’n Joe so; ask him,—he’ll tell
ye.” He turned toward the empty chair beside him, as if he saw her sad
face there. “I know it’s hard, child,” shaking his head. “Ain’t nobody
feels it more ’n me,—ain’t nobody feels it more ’n me. I guess I must
take care o’ ye; I guess there ain’t nobody else but me kin do it.”
The logs blazed cheerily; the whole room was alight. “I wish ye loved
me like ye did onct, little woman,—I wouldn’t want no better
happiness; jest me an’ you, like it useter was. I wonder if ye do? No,
I know ye don’t.” The last words came with a positive tone.
For a long time he remained still, gazing at the blazing logs locked
together, the flames dancing about them. Then he got up and roamed
mechanically around the room, his thoughts away with Betty and her
helpless condition, and her rightful dependence on him. In the same
dreary way he opened the cupboard, took out a piece of cold meat and
some slices of stale bread, laying them on the table, poured some tea
into a cup and put it on the stove; it was easier making the tea that
way than in a pot. He drew the table toward the fire, so that his
supper would be within reach, stirring the brewing tea meanwhile with
a fork he had in his hand, and began his frugal meal. Since Betty left
he had never set the table. It seemed less lonely to eat this way.
Just as he had finished there came a knock at the front door. Caleb
started, and put down his cup. Who could come at this hour? Craning
his head toward the small open hall, he saw through the glass in the
door the outlines of a woman’s figure approaching him through the
hall. His face flushed, and his heart seemed to jump in his throat.
“It’s me, Caleb,” said the woman. “It’s Aunty Bell. The door was open,
so I didn’t wait. Cap’n sent me up all in a hurry. He’s jes’ come in
from the Ledge, and hollered to me from the tug to send up and get ye.
The pump’s broke on the big h’ister. A new one’s got to be cast
to-night and bored out to-morrer, if it _is_ Sunday. Cap’n says
everything’s stopped at the Ledge, and they can’t do another stroke
till this pump’s fixed. Weren’t nobody home but Betty, and so I come
myself. Come right along; he wants ye at the machine shop jes’ ’s
quick as ye kin git there.”
Caleb kept his seat and made no reply. Something about the shock of
discovering who the woman was had stunned him. He did not try to
explain it to himself; he was conscious only of a vague yet stinging
sense of disappointment. Automatically, like a trained soldier obeying
a command, he bent forward in his chair, drew his thick shoes from
under the stove, slipped his feet into them, and silently followed
Aunty Bell out of the house and down the road. When they reached
Captain Joe’s gate he looked up at Betty’s window. There was no light.
“Has Betty gone to bed?” he asked quietly.
“Yes, more ’n an hour ago. She come home late, all tuckered out. I see
’er jes’ before I come out. She said she warn’t sick, but she wouldn’t
eat nothin’.”
Caleb paused, looked at her as if he were about to speak again,
hesitated, then, without a word, walked away.
“Stubborn as a mule,” said Aunty Bell, looking after him. “I ain’t got
no patience with such men.”