3stalwarts (106 page)

Those were pleasant evenings: he and Molly, sitting together in the cabin of the old boat, the fire roaring till the draft holes and the belly of the firebox reddened, the kettle purring on the stove and spouting its stream of steam. Behind them on its shelf, the clock ticked the minutes out and beat the hours rapidly.

Molly had fixed over the cabin until it seemed like a different place. It had taken on a clean, healthy smell; there was no dust. She had made new curtains for the sleeping cuddy, heavy green ones that kept out the light in the morning, so that he never woke till she had his breakfast ready.

Now and then Mrs. Gurget breezed in with Sol to pass an evening, or they went to the Nancy. More often they were alone, and then Dan sat in a sort of comfortable daze, listening to her voice and watching her; wondering in a vague way where they would be next winter. He never thought of that long; this winter was enough for him.

Once in a while they went out to dinner with Mrs. Gurget and Sol, to eat at Baggs’s or some other place; and on Sundays they went to church —to different churches, for Molly liked the variety. She was interested in the clothes of the women; but she had real devoutness, and Dan enjoyed seeing her kneel beside him. He liked it also when people turned to look at her, to catch a friendly smile from an older woman; to listen to the sermon and to take the benediction, solemnly and seriously, with Molly; and then to walk out into the fresh air with the other people and slowly to take their way back to the Sarsey Sal, squatting low and ungainly beside the dock with the ice round about her and the snow drifted up toward the outer windows; to go aboard and start the fire in the stove, while Molly pinned an apron over her Sunday dress; to tend his horses in the barn and chat with the stableman on feeds and liniments and the price of oats in the dim, musty-smelling shadows by the hay chutes; to go inside the cabin and take off his coat and sit at ease, smelling the cooking food and listening to Molly dressing the sermon with observations on millinery. Lazy, comfortable days were Sundays, between the long drives up to the lumber camps in Goldbrook; something to look back at… .

In the lumber camp he and Solomon unloaded their sleighs at the store-house and took their teams into the long log barns. Here in the woods the snow hardly melted during the days. The road leading in was feet about the earth, packed hard on its double tracks; and the snow had drifted up against the buildings till the windows on the northern walls had tunnels dug down to them to let the light in.

The stable had a line of long single stalls running down one side, and a space at the end for hay. It was dark inside, and the unfrozen earth just under the board beds of the stalls smelt fresh and strong. At night, with the teams all in, it was as warm as the bunk house, and the air was thick with steam, choking with the smell of sweat and sharp ammonia. It braced Dan like a tonic after the long cold ride.

Then he and Solomon sat in the cookhouse, with their backs to the great stove, where the cook worked in an undershirt and apron, his blacksmith’s arms hot and red from baking, his quick stiff fingers white with flour. He could bake twenty pies at a time in the great oven; he had eighty men to feed all at once. It was a man’s job. Yet all the time he gave them gossip over his shoulder and asked for news of Utica. And when the talk went low he told them how he lost his foot on a steamboat, when a connecting rod broke in a race down the Hudson; and how he had a wooden foot made in its place and took to cooking.

“I couldn’t keep away from a fire. Feeding pies to jacks is just the same as raising steam in a boiler. It’s harder work on your arms, but not so hard on the foot.”

It clacked and banged on the planks as he moved back and forth.

“I had it carved in the shape of a shoe,” he said. “So I only have to get one real shoe made to a time. And it don’t squeak, nor does it need a shine— only once a year.”

He pulled his moustache away from his mouth, leaving the end white with flour.

The men came in and lined at the tables, and the cook’s helpers put the food in front of them. They did not talk as they ate; they were too tired. Now and then the cook made a snatch at conversation with Dan and Solomon in an effort at hospitality. After the meal he cleaned his skillets and pans, leaving the dishes to his helpers. The men went to sleep in the bunk house early, and Dan and Solomon went after them. A single lantern burned by the door, making a feeble glimmer in the long room with its double rack of bunks. Beyond it in the shadows the deep steady breathing and heavy snores mingled with a hum and drone like twelve-foot band saws ripping virgin pine. It was a heavy sound, beating upon Dan’s ears, and it brought into his mind, each night he spent there, the quiet of the cabin on the Sarsey Sal. He turned in his sleep on the narrow mattress and fought the wall. Or he lay awake for a time, his eyes on the small square window at the far end, where the moonlight cut a slice through the darkness and showed a glimmer on the snow outside. Once he heard wolves running.

Then, next day when the lumbermen were at work in the woods once more, the cook made them up lunches and he and Solomon harnessed their teams and took the road back. All the long ride, his mind went ahead to the Sarsey Sal, where Molly would be getting his supper when he arrived, and where he would have his hours of ease, to stretch the stiffness from his back, to eat hot food that made him sleepy just to eat it; to have the deep quiet night of sleep.

The days and weeks went by like a dream; and he felt lazily contented. The routine absorbed his consciousness, with the nights on the boat and Sundays to keep track of and remember. Molly, in a print dress and fresh apron, at the cabin door to greet him and and look him over with her frank blue eyes. Sometimes she came out along the road on fine days to meet him, when he could be expected early; and they rode into the city together. The smoke rose up against the gathering darkness like a shelter from the snow. Molly, Sunday mornings combing her light brown hair in front of the mirror, with the sun against it, glowing on her shoulders; and he sitting there looking at her, pulling at his pipe now and then, taking pride in her while she made talk.

It snowed heavily in February; there were four feet on the level in the open valley; and in the woods, if a man jumped from his snowshoes, he went in up to his neck. The snow was piled higher than Molly’s head along the sidewalks. The city went about its daily life with a curious hemmed-in feeling in the air.

Few minstrel shows traveled during the cold months. What entertain-ments there were had been got up by church workers. Generally they were given for special audiences. But even so Dan did not care to go to them, for they were apt to come on Saturday nights, and he was tired after his day on the sleigh. He preferred to sit in the Sarsey Sal, to listen to what Molly would tell him of her doings. Her accounts of marketing, of shopping for dress goods, of a hardware sale, of a walk in the streets, never seemed to him to be the same. It was enough to hear her voice.

When he talked, himself, he talked about the team.

“They’re good, Molly. They couldn’t be better-matched if they was own brothers.”

“Yes,” she would say, with her eyes on the cap she was crocheting.

“I’d like to see ‘em working on a plough.”

His eyes were fixed on the windows with a far-away glance when Molly looked up at him. She had seen him so more often lately. It was the time of year.

“I’ll be glad when the canal opens,” she said. “I can’t hardly stand waiting for spring.”

“Yeanh. Men’ll be going over their seed potatoes soon.”

They were silent.

“What’ve you been doing?” he asked.

“I’ve been working on a rug,” she said, with a sudden lifting of her head. He caught the strain in her voice. “I got some odd pieces yesterday.”

She got up to show them to him.

“They’re pretty,” he said, scraping the bowl of his pipe.

“Me and Mrs. Gurget went after some red flannel in the afternoon. We didn’t get any. She couldn’t find none with a yard and a half in a piece, and she needs all of it in a petticoat.”

“Yeanh.”

“Eggs have dropped two cents,” she said.

“Pullets commencing to lay,” he said. “I thought they’d be coming in about now.”

They talked on, in odd sentences, Dan watching her out of the corner of his eye, and she him. When their glances met, they dropped them. She did not seem natural to him; ever since the fair she had acted queer. It was the wear of the winter, perhaps.

“What’s the matter with you, Molly?” he asked, suddenly, when their silence had left the tick of the clock to itself for several minutes. His voice sounded harsh to his own ears.

She looked up swiftly, her eyes shining as he had never seen them. He thought she was going to cry; he hadn’t meant to speak so roughly. He stared out of the window, waiting for her answer.

Suddenly she forced a laugh.

“There’s nothing the matter with me. Is there?”

He did not look at her, for his ears had noticed the catch in her voice.

“Well,” he said heavily, “I guess I’d ought to fix the team for the night.”

He got up, put on his hat, and went out. On deck he paused, wondering to himself. Then he glanced in the windows. Between the curtains he could see her. She had broken down, crying. He wondered whether he should go back; then he decided she would not want him to see her. He grunted and went to the barn.

There he fussed with the team for a few minutes, slapping their bellies after he had taken up the blanket straps, and grinning when they humped themselves.

“Only a month and a half,” he said to them, “and you’ll be sweating on the towpath.”

When he came out of the barn, he paused, glanced at the Sarsey Sal, and then went swiftly along the basin until he came to the Nancy. Mrs. Gurget told him cheerfully to come in. She was sitting in a rocking-chair, with her feet against the stove, her red hair in a thick braid round her head. She was alone.

“Hullo,” she said. “Come in, Dan. Where’s Molly?”

Dan took off his hat and sat down.

“She’s on the Sarsey Sal.”

Mrs. Gurget rocked jerkily back and forth. After a while she remarked: “Sol’s gone up to Bentley’s for a snort to soak his nose in.

“What’s the trouble?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Dan said. “Molly seems to act queer. She’s crying now, to beat all. And there ain’t anything to cry about I can see.”

Mrs. Gurget watched her toes as she rocked. Then she said, “Reach me that pie on the table, Dan.”

There was one piece left, and she held the knife over it with a firm hand.

“Have a piece?” she asked.

“No.”

She sighed, picked it up deftly in her fingers, and began to nibble it.

“I always did like cold pie,” she remarked.

She watched her toes over the piece of pie as she rocked.

Dan said, “She’s been queer off and on since she was to the fair. When I ask her what’s the trouble, she don’t say nothing.”

Mrs. Gurget nodded her head and munched.

“I noticed that, Dan. I’ll tell you. She had her fortune told there by a gypsy. It give her a turn, I think.”

“She ain’t been singing lately,” said Dan.

“Don’t get worried,” said Mrs. Gurget, smiling at him and running her tongue along her lips. “She’s young, and young gals is notional.”

“What did the gypsy tell her?” Dan asked.

“She won’t say. I’ve tried to edge it out of her a lot of times when she’d be aboard here to spend the day. She won’t tell. I’ve told her all such ideas gypsies has is untrue nonsense. But she’ll just set there, and then after a while she’ll perk and laugh.”

“I’ve noticed it,” Dan nodded gloomily.

Mrs. Gurget studied him with a kind light in her eyes.

“Don’t you worry, Dan. Gals is notional at times. There ain’t anything you can do if she’s getting notional. I’ll bet when you go back you’ll find her all perked up. She’ll have rinsed herself all out.”

Mrs. Gurget put the last of the pie into her mouth, munched it deliberately, swallowed it down. She sighed and licked each thumb.

“How long’ve you and Molly been living together?” she asked.

Dan reckoned up: “Four months.”

Mrs. Gurget pulled her shawl up round her neck.

“That’s just about time to get to know each other, ain’t it?”

“Lord!” said Dan. “I know her all I need to know her. She’s a good gal.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Gurget. “I think she is.”

Dan felt comforted. Then, mulling on her words, he was startled.

“You don’t think there’s another man she’s took a notion to?”

Mrs. Gurget dodged the question momentarily.

“The gypsy’s talk upset her, didn’t it?”

“Seems so,” Dan admitted.

Mrs. Gurget nodded.

“All gypsies has two lines of talk,” she said. “If it’s a gal they’re a-reading for, they talk about a journey and sickness, or about a dark and a light man. You’re light. I’ll bet she’s worrying about you. She’d ought to know better, but in the winter little odd notions get growing. But she’s good to you, ain’t she?”

“You ain’t any idea,” said Dan, earnestly. He was thinking: a dark man or a light man— a journey and sickness— a dark man and a light man. “You’re light,” Mrs. Gurget had said. Maybe he was. And Jotham Klore was the dark man.

“Well,” said Mrs. Gurget, “you don’t need to be worrying about anybody else only you two. Molly wouldn’t hold to but one at a time. Should she change her mind, she’d leave like knocking a bung; all in one rap. Don’t you worry, Dan. There ain’t anything you can do.”

“Do you think she’d want me to marry her?”

“Well …”

“I’d thought about it,” Dan said.

“You can ask her,” said Mrs. Gurget, “but I don’t think it would help. And if you ask her, it’s like saying—” the fat woman shied clear of her words. “Mostly there ain’t anything wrong in not being married on the canal. As long as you’re honest there ain’t any real sense in it. It’s different if you’re going to get off the canal. Then you’ve got to act like other folks. But here living’s just a working agreement, and if you want you can get a minister to lick the revenue stamp to seal it with; but it don’t add a lot. And a gal’s free to back out. Sometimes it makes it hard for her, but if she wants it that way, it ain’t any bother of yours. Unless you want to take her off’n the canal. Be you going to stick at boating, Dan?”