The key to Betsy's heart

by Sarah Noble Ives

And why this was done Van did not understand. That was the worst of it. Possibly, had the chicken been tied to him at the moment of the killing, he would have known it to be a just punishment for his slaughter of the innocent. But as it was he did not recognize in that dead, limp Thing, the flapping, squawking broiler he had so gayly murdered. When life had passed from his game he had no more use for it. How could he understand?

But there it was, and he could not get away from it. Furtively he tried to move off where he could not see it; it moved with him. He went to the length of his chain in one direction, then the other; still it followed, dragging grewsomely at his side. Turn as he would, there was the Thing, feathered and awful, close to him, hanging to him! Oh, the shame of it! He suffered as bitterly as if he were the first in all the wide world to be so punished.

And misery upon misery! this debasement was public, for all the world to see; and people came and looked at him, and talked about his sinfulness, and he knew they were talking about him. Even Dr. Peters, his friend, came across the lawn to see how he took it. Van slunk away to the end of his tether, and tried to hide, oh, anywhere. There was nothing to hide behind but the hated chicken, and he put his head under that. He would not look up, no matter how kindly Dr. Peters spoke.

The fat young doctor came and looked at him, and the black-bearded young doctor came and looked at him. Did they have no hearts? Could they not see that all he wanted was to get down into the bottomless pit of oblivion, where there were no curious eyes to pierce him through and through?

Then Betsy came, and she sent the curious ones to the right-about. She sat down by him, and looked sorrowfully at him, and he gazed up at her with his pitiful brown eyes, and saw that his dear mistress understood. He knew that there must be some reason why she could not set him free from his loathsome burden. He hid his head in her skirts and whined.

“Vanny-Boy, Vanny-Boy,” she said, “it has to be. When we’re bad or ign’rant we have to learn. It’s just like when Aunt Kate put those black spots on my nails. I was as ’shamed as ’shamed. But it made me remember.”

But Van would not be comforted, for he did not really understand. All day he neither ate nor drank, although there was a bowl of water placed for him, and a plate of most delectable viands prepared especially by Mary. At nightfall Betsy came again, and he lay still, without a sound, as if the fountains of grief had dried up within him. Betsy held a bowl of cool water to his lips, and from her hands for the first time he drank thirstily. He even tried to swallow a few morsels of food that she gave to him. But he felt no hunger, only a gnawing shame for something he did not comprehend, and his only comfort was Betsy’s sympathy. Her he could always trust, for she knew, and whether he was glad or sorry, triumphant or remorseful, defiant or humble, always she knew the fine, brave, fearless, loving little heart that lay beneath all his deeds or misdeeds, and she did not sit in judgment without sweet Charity at her side.

When the dew fell she led him into the cellar, for with his “Albatross” he might not sleep in his cosy basket. A soft bed was made for him in the furnace room; he sidled into it, and lay down, without a sound.

All night he crouched there in the dark with that awful thing beside him; moving when he moved, motionless when he lay still. Sleep did not come to his eyes. His fearsome companion lay so stark and stiff, his companion that he could not get away from. It destroyed all thought of rest, and filled him with a wide-eyed horror; it was a long, lonesome, terrible night.

Early in the morning his mistress came down with a delicious breakfast, but he would not touch it. He looked up at her with great eyes hollow with suffering, and made one pitiful little moan, so low that she could scarcely hear it, and laid his nose on her knee with a long shudder.