CAMDEN WAS SITTING in the breakfast nook they’d made in that old kitchen, when Benjy finally came and stood beside her. There had been no awkwardness about the homeward journey; they hadn’t been compelled to ride three in the cab of that small truck, and crowded close. Camden had tripped off solitary on the forest path as soon as Little Lady made her return. Camden had a flashlight with her, and full well she knew the way, and could have found it in the darkest night which ever pressed.
Old Spring kept Little Lady at his place that night; he said he’d worried so, and wanted her to lie beside his bed.
Long afterward I learned the thorny words exchanged.
“You did it,” Benjy Davis told his wife, “like you said you’d do.”
“It’s all my fault,” she whispered. “I’ll bear the blame. I guess you’d not believe me if I told you it was done by accident.”
“You contend it was an accident? It wasn’t done for spite?”
“No, not for spite,” she said. “I did it. I don’t know how it came about.”
He shuffled round. “It’s wrong to have some strains mixed up. There’s types of blood that quarrel with other blood.”
And Camden rolled her flashlight back and forth upon the table, never lifting up her eyes. “You’re speaking of the Davis blood and Terry blood, I feel.”
“I never mentioned such a thing. But you—You honey-loved that dirty beast. You kept him here, a-feeding and a-babying. If you’d drove him off, the way I ordered—”
So it went, and there are never words which scald so hot as those in anger, pitched back and forth between young people who are strong in love.
Types of blood that quarrel with other blood … He spoke of this again, and she flung the same hot charge that he was meaning Davises and Terrys. All right, he said. Suppose he was? She’d willed the deed, by wishing it. It was her stubborn unconscious self, a-praying that the hook upon that gate would never find the staple; so it never had.
She’d done it, Benjy cried, just as wickedly as if with full intent; and now they’d be a laughingstock all through the whole vicinity. They’d picked and chosen and denied a breeding-match with any hound around there, when there wasn’t a man who hunted fox within a radius of fifty miles who wouldn’t have got down on his knees and begged the Davises to bring the gyp to his best hound.
She didn’t scream at him to stop, for she was past that stage now. The Camden heritage was ruling her at last, and it was mighty stern and proud. She rose up soberly while Benjy still assailed, and she went upstairs and shut her door. Her mind was made. She wouldn’t stay to have his eyes accusing when his voice had ceased.
So they slept apart that night, and in the forenoon Camden walked through corn rows to the Davis place. She paused to kiss her mother-in-law, and then went on through the setting-room and found Spring Davis throned as usual in his green rocking chair. He sat out on the porch where his dim vision might command a view of the distant road, though nobody went along it very often.
Little Lady was spread beside him, legs straight out, and tail whacking the floor when she heard Camden’s step. The girl got down on her knees beside the old man’s chair.
“All I can say is I’m sorry.”
He moved his silky white head in agreement. “There’s reason for regret. But I do believe you never done it apurpose.”
“Benjy believes I did.”
Springfield sighed, and groped around with his fingers until they found Little Lady’s ear, and he played softly with this precious toy. “It’s a matter sole between you two. I never did hold with elder folks mixing amid problems of the young.”
For a time Camden sat with glance turned down, but her blue eyes were wet no longer: she’d expended all her tears. Then she raised her face to meet Spring’s gaze.
“Mr. Davis, there’s the matter of Little Lady.”
He shifted around, sad and uncomfortable in that most comfortable rocker in the world. He got out his tobacco sack and put it back again. “Oh, there’s nothing can be mended now where she’s concerned. Wait until the litter comes, and then get rid of them in any easy manner. Next year—” he brightened just the slightest. “Next year we’ll mate her right, I reckon.”
“Until you ask for her,” said Camden softly, “I’d like to take the care.”
The old man made a sound inside his chest, as if his heart was saying things in other languages. “I’m old. I might not be here in another sixty days. Are you dead certain that you want to have her close to you?”
She told him, speaking flat: “The way that Benjy feels—No, Mr. Davis, I should be the one. I took care of Bugle Ann; and I reared Little Lady and the rest when Bugle Ann was sick and couldn’t feed them proper. I’ll cherish Little Lady till she whelps.”
He nodded; it was hard for him to build a word. Slowly then did Camden rise and kiss Spring Davis on his cheek. She got a leash, and she took Little Lady back across the field. Upstairs in the Terry place she packed the things which she desired to take; perhaps she worked in fog, but it is certain that her mind was made.
Benjy was busy at the barn. His best cow lay poorly with milk fever, and he waited for a vet to come from town. But now he witnessed Camden walking back and forth. One suitcase she brought out, and then another, and a box with dresses in it. Benjy went to stand beside the car.
When she emerged again he questioned her, and with a stranger’s tone. “Going somewhere?”
She said, “I’m going home.”
“Where’s that?”
“Up yonder,” and she nodded toward the north and west. “In the lowest corner of Jackson County, where once I went before.”
He stood and looked, not at the wife he loved, but at the timberland. “Your Uncle Elnathan is dead. A year ago last Christmas. Have you forgot?”
“Florry’s there,” Camden told him. “Or have you forgot? My cousin, and she’s teaching in the new school that they’ve built, and she’s hired a man and wife to work the place. She’s always wishing that I’d come to visit. Guess the time is here.”
Wrens were busy in their tiny house atop the garden post, and chattering because a jay had come; both the young folks watched the birds a while. “A visit?’’ Benjy Davis asked again.
“Yes, a mighty long one.”
He cleared his throat; his shoulders seemed to bend and tighten when he did it. “I guess you made your choice. There’s nothing I can say.”
“You said enough. Last night, and some before.”
“You take the car. The corn is doing good. If prices hold when we have got it picked, I’ll trade that old wreck which I keep at Pa’s, and buy another car.”
She moved up toward the porch, and Benjy followed her. “If you need money—”
“No, I don’t,” Camden said. “Have you forgot again? I sold those lots my father used to own in Warrensburg; I’ve got the money put away Come on,” she whispered, gently as could be to Little Lady.
She led the fox-hound out, and Benjy Davis gave a growl. “Who told you you could take her with you? Who?”
“Your father told me,” Camden said. “And me, I guess I told myself. Good-bye.” She drove away.