A Day's Lodging Page #4

"A Day's Lodging" is a compelling short story by Jack London that explores themes of poverty, survival, and the human spirit. Set against the backdrop of a harsh winter, the narrative follows a destitute man who seeks shelter for the night. As he navigates the challenges of his circumstances, London delves into the stark realities of life on the fringes of society, highlighting both the resilience and vulnerability of his characters. The story captures the essence of human struggle and the small acts of kindness that can provide solace amidst adversity.

								

entered with an armful of firewood. At the first warning, Theresa began
casually to clear away the dishes. Haythorne went out again after more
wood.

"Why didn't you introduce us?" Messner queried.

"I'll tell him," she replied, with a toss of her head. "Don't think I'm
afraid."

"I never knew you to be afraid, very much, of anything."

"And I'm not afraid of confession, either," she said, with softening
face and voice.

"In your case, I fear, confession is exploitation by indirection,
profit-making by ruse, self-aggrandizement at the expense of God."

"Don't be literary," she pouted, with growing tenderness. "I never did
like epigrammatic discussion. Besides, I'm not afraid to ask you to
forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive, Theresa. I really should thank you. True,
at first I suffered; and then, with all the graciousness of spring,
it dawned upon me that I was happy, very happy. It was a most amazing
discovery."

"But what if I should return to you?" she asked.

"I should" (he looked at her whimsically), "be greatly perturbed."

"I am your wife. You know you have never got a divorce."

"I see," he meditated. "I have been careless. It will be one of the
first things I attend to."

She came over to his side, resting her hand on his arm. "You don't
want me, John?" Her voice was soft and caressing, her hand rested like
a lure. "If I told you I had made a mistake? If I told you that I was
very unhappy?--and I am. And I did make a mistake."

Fear began to grow on Messner. He felt himself wilting under the
lightly laid hand. The situation was slipping away from him, all his
beautiful calmness was going. She looked at him with melting eyes, and
he, too, seemed all dew and melting. He felt himself on the edge of an
abyss, powerless to withstand the force that was drawing him over.

"I am coming back to you, John. I am coming back to-day ... now."

As in a nightmare, he strove under the hand. While she talked, he
seemed to hear, rippling softly, the song of the Lorelei. It was as
though, somewhere, a piano were playing and the actual notes were
impinging on his ear-drums.

Suddenly he sprang to his feet, thrust her from him as her arms
attempted to clasp him, and retreated backward to the door. He was in a
panic.

"I'll do something desperate!" he cried.

"I warned you not to get excited." She laughed mockingly, and went
about washing the dishes. "Nobody wants you. I was just playing with
you. I am happier where I am."

But Messner did not believe. He remembered her facility in changing
front. She had changed front now. It was exploitation by indirection.
She was not happy with the other man. She had discovered her mistake.
The flame of his ego flared up at the thought. She wanted to come back
to him, which was the one thing he did not want. Unwittingly, his hand
rattled the door-latch.

"Don't run away," she laughed. "I won't bite you."

"I am not running away," he replied with child-like defiance, at the
same time pulling on his mittens. "I'm only going to get some water."

He gathered the empty pails and cooking pots together and opened the
door. He looked back at her.

"Don't forget you're to tell Mr.--er--Haythorne who I am."

Messner broke the skin that had formed on the water-hole within the
hour, and filled his pails. But he did not return immediately to the
cabin. Leaving the pails standing in the trail, he walked up and down,
rapidly, to keep from freezing, for the frost bit into the flesh like
fire. His beard was white with his frozen breath when the perplexed and
frowning brows relaxed and decision came into his face. He had made
up his mind to his course of action, and his frigid lips and cheeks
crackled into a chuckle over it. The pails were already skinned over
with young ice when he picked them up and made for the cabin.

When he entered he found the other man waiting, standing near the
stove, a certain stiff awkwardness and indecision in his manner.
Messner set down his water-pails.

"Glad to meet you, Graham Womble," he said in conventional tones, as
though acknowledging an introduction.

Messner did not offer his hand. Womble stirred uneasily, feeling for
the other the hatred one is prone to feel for one he has wronged.

"And so you're the chap," Messner said in marvelling accents. "Well,
well. You see, I really am glad to meet you. I have been--er--curious
to know what Theresa found in you--where, I may say, the attraction
lay. Well, well."

And he looked the other up and down as a man would look a horse up and
down.

"I know how you must feel about me," Womble began.

"Don't mention it," Messner broke in with exaggerated cordiality of
voice and manner. "Never mind that. What I want to know is how do you
find her? Up to expectations? Has she worn well? Life been all a happy
dream ever since?"

"Don't be silly," Theresa interjected.

"I can't help being natural," Messner complained.

"You can be expedient at the same time, and practical," Womble said
sharply. "What we want to know is what are you going to do?"

Messner made a well-feigned gesture of helplessness. "I really don't
know. It is one of those impossible situations against which there can
be no provision."

"All three of us cannot remain the night in this cabin."

Messner nodded affirmation.

"Then somebody must get out."

"That also is incontrovertible," Messner agreed. "When three bodies
cannot occupy the same space at the same time, one must get out."

"And you're that one," Womble announced grimly. "It's a ten-mile pull
to the next camp, but you can make it all right."

"And that's the first flaw in your reasoning," the other objected.
"Why, necessarily, should I be the one to get out? I found this cabin
first."

"But Tess can't get out," Womble explained. "Her lungs are already
slightly chilled."

"I agree with you. She can't venture ten miles of frost. By all means
she must remain."

"Then it is as I said," Womble announced with finality.

Messner cleared his throat. "Your lungs are all right, aren't they?"

"Yes, but what of it?"

Again the other cleared his throat and spoke with painstaking and
judicial slowness. "Why, I may say, nothing of it, except, ah,
according to your own reasoning, there is nothing to prevent your
getting out, hitting the frost, so to speak, for a matter of ten miles.
You can make it all right."

Womble looked with quick suspicion at Theresa and caught in her eyes a
glint of pleased surprise.

"Well?" he demanded of her.

She hesitated, and a surge of anger darkened his face. He turned upon
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