[Transcriber’s note: There was no table of contents in the originalbook; one has been added in this project to ease the navigation. ]

At Fault

by Kate Chopin

Part I. 

 I. The Mistress of Place-du-Bois. II. At the Mill. III. In the Pirogue. IV. A Small Interruption. V. In the Pine Woods. VI. Melicent Talks. VII. Painful Disclosures. VIII. Treats of Melicent. IX. Face to Face. X. Fanny’s Friends. XI. The Self-Assumed Burden. XII. Severing Old Ties. 

Part II. 

 I. Fanny’s First Night at Place-du-Bois. II. “Neva to See You!” III. A Talk Under the Cedar Tree. IV. Thérèse Crosses the River. V. One Afternoon. VI. One Night. VII. Melicent Leaves Place-du-Bois. VIII. With Loose Rein. IX. The Reason Why. X. Perplexing Things. XI. A Social Evening. XII. Tidings That Sting. XIII. Melicent Hears the News. XIV. A Step Too Far. XV. A Fateful Solution. XVI. To Him Who Waits. XVII. Conclusion. 

PART I

I

The Mistress of Place-du-Bois. 

When Jérôme Lafirme died, his neighbors awaited the results of hissudden taking off with indolent watchfulness. It was a matter ofunusual interest to them that a plantation of four thousand acres hadbeen left unincumbered to the disposal of a handsome, inconsolable, childless Creole widow of thirty. A _bêtise_ of some sort might safelybe looked for. But time passing, the anticipated folly failed toreveal itself; and the only wonder was that Thérèse Lafirme sosuccessfully followed the methods of her departed husband. 

Of course Thérèse had wanted to die with her Jérôme, feeling that lifewithout him held nothing that could reconcile her to its furtherendurance. For days she lived alone with her grief; shutting out theappeals that came to her from the demoralized “hands, ” and unmindfulof the disorder that gathered about her. Till Uncle Hiram came one daywith a respectful tender of sympathy, offered in the guise of areckless misquoting of Scripture--and with a grievance. 

“Mistuss, ” he said, “I ’lowed ’twar best to come to de house an’ tellyou; fur Massa he alluz did say ‘Hi’urm, I counts on you to keep a eyeopen endurin’ my appersunce;’ you ricollic, marm?” addressing anexpanse of black bordered cambric that veiled the features of hismistress. “Things is a goin’ wrong; dat dey is. I don’t wants to nameno names ’doubt I’se ’bleeged to; but dey done start a kiarrin’ decotton seed off de place, and dats how. ”

If Hiram’s information had confined itself to the bare statement ofthings “goin’ wrong, ” such intimation, of its nature vague andsusceptible of uncertain interpretation, might have failed to rouseThérèse from her lethargy of grief. But that wrong doing presented asa tangible abuse and defiance of authority, served to move her toaction. She felt at once the weight and sacredness of a trust, whoseacceptance brought consolation and awakened unsuspected powers ofdoing. 

In spite of Uncle Hiram’s parting prediction “de cotton ’ll be a goin’naxt” no more seed was hauled under cover of darkness fromPlace-du-Bois. 

The short length of this Louisiana plantation stretched along CaneRiver, meeting the water when that stream was at its highest, with athick growth of cotton-wood trees; save where a narrow convenientopening had been cut into their midst, and where further down the pinehills started in abrupt prominence from the water and the dead levelof land on either side of them. These hills extended in a long line ofgradual descent far back to the wooded borders of Lac du Bois; andwithin the circuit which they formed on the one side, and theirregular half circle of a sluggish bayou on the other, lay thecultivated open ground of the plantation--rich in its exhaustlesspowers of reproduction. 

Among changes which the railroad brought soon after Jérôme Lafirme’sdeath, and which were viewed by many as of questionable benefit, wasone which drove Thérèse to seek another domicile. The old homesteadthat nestled to the hill side and close to the water’s edge, had beenabandoned to the inroads of progressive civilization; and Mrs. Lafirmehad rebuilt many rods away from the river and beyond sight of themutilated dwelling, converted now into a section house. In building, she avoided the temptations offered by modern architecturalinnovations, and clung to the simplicity of large rooms and broadverandas: a style whose merits had stood the test of easy-going andcomfort-loving generations. 

The negro quarters were scattered at wide intervals over the land, breaking with picturesque irregularity into the systematic division offield from field; and in the early spring-time gleaming in their newcoat of whitewash against the tender green of the sprouting cotton andcorn. 

Thérèse loved to walk the length of the wide verandas, armed with herfield-glass, and to view her surrounding possessions with comfortablesatisfaction. Then her gaze swept from cabin to cabin; from patch topatch; up to the pine-capped hills, and down to the station whichsquatted a brown and ugly intruder within her fair domain. 

She had made pouting resistance to this change at first, opposing itstep by step with a conservatism that yielded only to the resistless. She pictured a visionary troop of evils coming in the wake of therailroad, which, in her eyes no conceivable benefits could mitigate. The occasional tramp, she foresaw as an army; and the travelers whomchance deposited at the store that adjoined the station, she dreadedas an endless procession of intruders forcing themselves upon herprivacy. 

Grégoire, the young nephew of Mrs. Lafirme, whose duty on theplantation was comprehended in doing as he was bid, qualified by apropensity for doing as he liked, rode up from the store one day inthe reckless fashion peculiar to Southern youth, breathless with theinformation that a stranger was there wishing audience with her. 

Thérèse at once bristled with objections. Here was a confirmation ofher worst dread. But encouraged by Grégoire’s reiteration “he ’pear tome like a nice sort o’ person, ” she yielded a grudging assent to theinterview. 

She sat within the wide hall-way beyond the glare and heat that werebeating mercilessly down upon the world out of doors, engaged in alight work not so exacting as to keep her thoughts and glance fromwandering. Looking through the wide open back doors, the picture whichshe saw was a section of the perfect lawn that encircled the house foran acre around, and from which Hiram was slowly raking the leaves castfrom a clump of tall magnolias. Beneath the spreading shade of anumbrella-China tree, lay the burly Hector, but half awake to thepossible nearness of tramps; and Betsy, a piece of youthful ebony inblue cottonade, was crossing leisurely on her way to the poultry yard;unheeding the scorching sun-rays that she thought were sufficientlyparried by the pan of chick feed that she balanced adroitly on herbushy black head. 

At the front, the view at certain seasons would have been clear andunbroken: to the station, the store, and out-lying hills. But now shecould see beyond the lawn only a quivering curtain of rich green whichthe growing corn spread before the level landscape, and above whoseswaying heads appeared occasionally the top of an advancing whitesun-shade. 

Thérèse was of a roundness of figure suggesting a future of excessivefullness if not judiciously guarded; and she was fair, with a warmwhiteness that a passing thought could deepen into color. The wavingblonde hair, gathered in an abundant coil on top of her head, grewaway with a pretty sweep from the temples, the low forehead and napeof the white neck that showed above a frill of soft lace. Her eyeswere blue, as certain gems are; that deep blue that lights, and glows, and tells things of the soul. When David Hosmer presented himself, they were intense only with expectancy and the color was in her cheeklike the blush in a shell. 

He was a tall individual of perhaps forty; thin and sallow. His blackhair was streaked abundantly with grey, and his face marked withpremature lines; left there by care, no doubt, and, by a too closeattention to what men are pleased to call the main chances of life. 

“A serious one, ” was Thérèse’s first thought in looking at him. “A manwho has never learned to laugh or who has forgotten how. ” Thoughplainly feeling the effects of the heat, he did not seem to appreciatethe relief offered by the grateful change into this shadowy, sweetsmelling, cool retreat; used as he was to ignore the comforting thingsof life when presented to him as irrelevant to that dominant mainchance. He accepted under protest a glass of ice water from thewide-eyed Betsy, and suffered a fan to be thrust into his hand, seemingly to save his time or his timidity by its possibly unheededrejection. 

“Lor’-zee folks, ” exclaimed the observant Betsy on re-entering thekitchen, “dey’se a man in yonda, look like he gwine eat somebody up. Iwas fur gittin’ ’way quick me. ”

It can be readily imagined that Hosmer lost little time in preliminarysmall talk. He introduced himself vaguely as from the West; thenperceiving the need of being more specific as from Saint Louis. Shehad guessed he was no Southerner. He had come to Mrs. Lafirme on thepart of himself and others with a moneyed offer for the privilege ofcutting timber from her land for a given number of years. The amountnamed was alluring, but here was proposed another change and she feltplainly called on for resistance. 

The company which he represented had in view the erection of a sawmillsome two miles back in the woods, close beside the bayou and at aconvenient distance from the lake. He was not wordy, nor was he eagerin urging his plans; only in a quiet way insistent in showing pointsto be considered in her own favor which she would be likely herself tooverlook. 

Mrs. Lafirme, a clever enough business woman, was moved by no unduehaste to give her answer. She begged for time to think the matterover, which Hosmer readily agreed to; expressing a hope that afavorable answer be sent to him at Natchitoches, where he would awaither convenience. Then resisting rather than declining all furtherhospitality, he again took his way through the scorching fields. 

Thérèse wanted but time to become familiar with this further change. Alone she went out to her beloved woods, and at the hush of mid-day, bade a tearful farewell to the silence. 

II

At the Mill. 

David Hosmer sat alone in his little office of roughly fashioned pineboard. So small a place, that with his desk and his clerk’s desk, anarrow bed in one corner, and two chairs, there was scant room for aman to more than turn himself comfortably about. He had justdispatched his clerk with the daily bundle of letters to thepost-office, two miles away in the Lafirme store, and he now turnedwith the air of a man who had well earned his moment of leisure, tothe questionable relaxation of adding columns and columns of figures. 

The mill’s unceasing buzz made pleasant music to his ears and stirredreflections of a most agreeable nature. A year had gone by since Mrs. Lafirme had consented to Hosmer’s proposal; and already the businessmore than gave promise of justifying the venture. Orders came in fromthe North and West more rapidly than they could be filled. That“Cypresse Funerall” which stands in grim majesty through the denseforests of Louisiana had already won its just recognition; andHosmer’s appreciation of a successful business venture was showingitself in a little more pronounced stoop of shoulder, a deepening ofpre-occupation and a few additional lines about mouth and forehead. 

Hardly had the clerk gone with his letters than a light footstepsounded on the narrow porch; the quick tap of a parasol was heard onthe door-sill; a pleasant voice asking, “Any admission except onbusiness?” and Thérèse crossed the small room and seated herselfbeside Hosmer’s desk before giving him time to arise. 

She laid her hand and arm, --bare to the elbow--across his work, andsaid, looking at him reproachfully:--

“Is this the way you keep a promise?”

“A promise?” he questioned, smiling awkwardly and looking furtively atthe white arm, then very earnestly at the ink-stand beyond. 

“Yes. Didn’t you promise to do no work after five o’clock?”

“But this is merely pastime, ” he said, touching the paper, yet leavingit undisturbed beneath the fair weight that was pressing it down. “Mywork is finished: you must have met Henry with the letters. ”

“No, I suppose he went through the woods; we came on the hand-car. Oh, dear! It’s an ungrateful task, this one of reform, ” and she leanedback, fanning leisurely, whilst he proceeded to throw the contents ofhis desk into hopeless disorder by pretended efforts at arrangement. 

“My husband used sometimes to say, and no doubt with reason, ” shecontinued, “that in my eagerness for the rest of mankind to do right, I was often in danger of losing sight of such necessity for myself. ”

“Oh, there could be no fear of that, ” said Hosmer with a short laugh. There was no further pretext for continued occupation with his pensand pencils and rulers, so he turned towards Thérèse, rested an arm onthe desk, pulled absently at his black moustache, and crossing hisknee, gazed with deep concern at the toe of his boot, and set of histrouser about the ankle. 

“You are not what my friend Homeyer would call an individualist, ” heventured, “since you don’t grant a man the right to follow thepromptings of his character. ”

“No, I’m no individualist, if to be one is to permit men to fall intohurtful habits without offering protest against it. I’m losing faithin that friend Homeyer, who I strongly suspect is a mythical apologyfor your own short-comings. ”

“Indeed he’s no myth; but a friend who is fond of going into suchthings and allows me the benefit of his deeper perceptions. ”

“You having no time, well understood. But if his influence has had themerit of drawing your thoughts from business once in a while we won’tquarrel with it. ”

“Mrs. Lafirme, ” said Hosmer, seeming moved to pursue the subject, andaddressing the spray of white blossoms that adorned Thérèse’s blackhat, “you admit, I suppose, that in urging your views upon me, youhave in mind the advancement of my happiness?”

“Well understood. ”

“Then why wish to substitute some other form of enjoyment for the onewhich I find in following my inclinations?”

“Because there is an unsuspected selfishness in your inclinations thatworks harm to yourself and to those around you. I want you to know, ”she continued warmly, “the good things of life that cheer and warm, that are always at hand. ”

“Do you think the happiness of Melicent or--or others could bematerially lessened by my fondness for money getting?” he asked dryly, with a faint elevation of eyebrow. 

“Yes, in proportion as it deprives them of a charm which any man’ssociety loses, when pursuing one object in life, he grows insensibleto every other. But I’ll not scold any more. I’ve made myselftroublesome enough for one day. You haven’t asked about Melicent. It’strue, ” she laughed, “I haven’t given you much chance. She’s out on thelake with Grégoire. ”

“Ah?”

“Yes, in the pirogue. A dangerous little craft, I’m afraid; but shetells me she can swim. I suppose it’s all right. ”

“Oh, Melicent will look after herself. ”

Hosmer had great faith in his sister Melicent’s ability to look afterherself; and it must be granted that the young lady fully justifiedhis belief in her. 

“She enjoys her visit more than I thought she would, ” he said. 

“Melicent’s a dear girl, ” replied Thérèse cordially, “and a wise onetoo in guarding herself against a somber influence that I know, ” witha meaning glance at Hosmer, who was preparing to close his desk. 

She suddenly perceived the picture of a handsome boy, far back in oneof the pigeon-holes, and with the familiarity born of countryintercourse, she looked intently at it, remarking upon the boy’sbeauty. 

“A child whom I loved very much, ” said Hosmer. “He’s dead, ” and heclosed the desk, turning the key in the lock with a sharp click whichseemed to add--“and buried. ”

Thérèse then approached the open door, leaned her back against itscasing, and turned her pretty profile towards Hosmer, who, it need notbe supposed, was averse to looking at it--only to being caught in theact. 

“I want to look in at the mill before work closes, ” she said; and notwaiting for an answer she went on to ask--moved by some association ofideas:--

“How is Joçint doing?”

“Always unruly, the foreman tells me. I don’t believe we shall be ableto keep him. ”

Hosmer then spoke a few words through the telephone which connectedwith the agent’s desk at the station, put on his great slouch hat, andthrusting keys and hands into his pocket, joined Thérèse in thedoor-way. 

Quitting the office and making a sharp turn to the left, they came indirect sight of the great mill. She quickly made her way past the hugepiles of sawed timber, not waiting for her companion, who loitered ateach step of the way, with observant watchfulness. Then mounting thesteep stairs that led to the upper portions of the mill, she went atonce to her favorite spot, quite on the edge of the open platform thatoverhung the dam. Here she watched with fascinated delight the greatlogs hauled dripping from the water, following each till it hadchanged to the clean symmetry of sawed planks. The unending work madeher giddy. For no one was there a moment of rest, and she could wellunderstand the open revolt of the surly Joçint; for he rode the daylong on that narrow car, back and forth, back and forth, with hisheart in the pine hills and knowing that his little Creole pony wasroaming the woods in vicious idleness and his rifle gathering anunsightly rust on the cabin wall at home. 

The boy gave but ugly acknowledgment to Thérèse’s amiable nod; for hethought she was one upon whom partly rested the fault of thisintrusive Industry which had come to fire the souls of indolentfathers with a greedy ambition for gain, at the sore expense ofrevolting youth. 

III

In the Pirogue. 

“You got to set mighty still in this pirogue, ” said Grégoire, as witha long oar-stroke he pulled out into mid stream. 

“Yes, I know, ” answered Melicent complacently, arranging herselfopposite him in the long narrow boat: all sense of danger which thesituation might arouse being dulled by the attractiveness of a newexperience. 

Her resemblance to Hosmer ended with height and slenderness of figure, olive tinted skin, and eyes and hair which were of that dark brownoften miscalled black; but unlike his, her face was awake with aneagerness to know and test the novelty and depth of unaccustomedsensation. She had thus far lived an unstable existence, free from theweight of responsibilities, with a notion lying somewhere deep in herconsciousness that the world must one day be taken seriously; but thatcontingency was yet too far away to disturb the harmony of her days. 

She had eagerly responded to her brother’s suggestion of spending asummer with him in Louisiana. Hitherto, having passed her summersNorth, West, or East as alternating caprice prompted, she was ready ata word to fit her humor to the novelty of a season at the South. Sheenjoyed in advance the startling effect which her announced intentionproduced upon her intimate circle at home; thinking that her whimdeserved the distinction of eccentricity with which they chose toinvest it. But Melicent was chiefly moved by the prospect of anuninterrupted sojourn with her brother, whom she loved blindly, and towhom she attributed qualities of mind and heart which she thought theworld had discovered to use against him. 

“You got to set mighty still in this pirogue. ”

“Yes, I know; you told me so before, ” and she laughed. 

“W’at are you laughin’ at?” asked Grégoire with amused but uncertainexpectancy. 

“Laughing at you, Grégoire; how can I help it?” laughing again. 

“Betta wait tell I do somethin’ funny, I reckon. Ain’t this a puttysight?” he added, referring to the dense canopy of an overarchingtree, beneath which they were gliding, and whose extreme branchesdipped quite into the slow moving water. 

The scene had not attracted Melicent. For she had been engaged inobserving her companion rather closely; his personality holding herwith a certain imaginative interest. 

The young man whom she so closely scrutinized was slightly undersized, but of close and brawny build. His hands were not so refinedly whiteas those of certain office bred young men of her acquaintance, yetthey were not coarsened by undue toil: it being somewhat an axiom withhim to do nothing that an available “nigger” might do for him. 

Close fitting, high-heeled boots of fine quality incased his feet, inwhose shapeliness he felt a pardonable pride; for a young man’sexcellence was often measured in the circle which he had frequented, by the possession of such a foot. A peculiar grace in the dance and atalent for bold repartee were further characteristics which had madeGrégoire’s departure keenly felt among certain belles of upper RedRiver. His features were handsome, of sharp and refined cut; and hiseyes black and brilliant as eyes of an alert and intelligent animalsometimes are. Melicent could not reconcile his voice to her liking;it was too softly low and feminine, and carried a note of pleading orpathos, unless he argued with his horse, his dog, or a “nigger, ” atwhich times, though not unduly raised, it acquired a biting qualitythat served the purpose of relieving him from further form ofinsistence. 

He pulled rapidly and in silence down the bayou, that was now soentirely sheltered from the open light of the sky by the meetingbranches above, as to seem a dim leafy tunnel fashioned by man’singenuity. There were no perceptible banks, for the water spread outon either side of them, further than they could follow its flashingsthrough the rank underbrush. The dull plash of some object fallinginto the water, or the wild call of a lonely bird were the only soundsthat broke upon the stillness, beside the monotonous dipping of theoars and the occasional low undertones of their own voices. WhenGrégoire called the girl’s attention to an object near by, she fanciedit was the protruding stump of a decaying tree; but reaching for hisrevolver and taking quiet aim, he drove a ball into the black upturnednozzle that sent it below the surface with an angry splash. 

“Will he follow us?” she asked, mildly agitated. 

“Oh no; he’s glad ’nough to git out o’ the way. You betta put down yo’veil, ” he added a moment later. 

Before she could ask a reason--for it was not her fashion to obey atword of command--the air was filled with the doleful hum of a grayswarm of mosquitoes, which attacked them fiercely. 

“You didn’t tell me the bayou was the refuge of such savagecreatures, ” she said, fastening her veil closely about face and neck, but not before she had felt the sharpness of their angry sting. 

“I reckoned you’d ’a knowed all about it: seems like you knoweverything. ” After a short interval he added, “you betta take yo’ veiloff. ”

She was amused at Grégoire’s authoritative tone and she said to himlaughing, yet obeying his suggestion, which carried a note of command:“you shall tell me always, why I should do things. ”

“All right, ” he replied; “because they ain’t any mo’ mosquitoes;because I want you to see somethin’ worth seein’ afta while; andbecause I like to look at you, ” which he was doing, with the innocentboldness of a forward child. “Ain’t that ’nough reasons?”

“More than enough, ” she replied shortly. 

The rank and clustering vegetation had become denser as they went on, forming an impenetrable tangle on either side, and pressing so closelyabove that they often needed to lower their heads to avoid the blow ofsome drooping branch. Then a sudden and unlooked for turn in the bayoucarried them out upon the far-spreading waters of the lake, with thebroad canopy of the open sky above them. 

“Oh, ” cried Melicent, in surprise. Her exclamation was like a sigh ofrelief which comes at the removal of some pressure from body or brain. 

The wildness of the scene caught upon her erratic fancy, speeding itfor a quick moment into the realms of romance. She was an Indianmaiden of the far past, fleeing and seeking with her dusky lover somewild and solitary retreat on the borders of this lake, which offeredthem no seeming foot-hold save such as they would hew themselves withaxe or tomahawk. Here and there, a grim cypress lifted its head abovethe water, and spread wide its moss covered arms inviting refuge tothe great black-winged buzzards that circled over and about it inmid-air. Nameless voices--weird sounds that awake in a Southern forestat twilight’s approach, --were crying a sinister welcome to thesettling gloom. 

“This is a place thet can make a man sad, I tell you, ” said Grégoire, resting his oars, and wiping the moisture from his forehead. “Iwouldn’t want to be yere alone, not fur any money. ”

“It is an awful place, ” replied Melicent with a little appreciativeshudder; adding “do you consider me a bodily protection?” and feeblysmiling into his face. 

“Oh; I ain’t ’fraid o’ any thing I can see an on’erstan’. I can han’lemos’ any thing thet’s got a body. But they do tell some mighty queertales ’bout this lake an’ the pine hills yonda. ”

“Queer--how?”

“W’y, ole McFarlane’s buried up there on the hill; an’ they’s folks’round yere says he walks about o’ nights; can’t res’ in his grave furthe niggas he’s killed. ”

“Gracious! and who was old McFarlane?”

“The meanest w’ite man thet ever lived, seems like. Used to own thisplace long befo’ the Lafirmes got it. They say he’s the person thatMrs. W’at’s her name wrote about in Uncle Tom’s Cabin. ”

“Legree? I wonder if it could be true?” Melicent asked with interest. 

“Thet’s w’at they all say: ask any body. ”

“You’ll take me to his grave, won’t you Grégoire, ” she entreated. 

“Well, not this evenin’--I reckon not. It’ll have to be broad day, an’the sun shinin’ mighty bright w’en I take you to ole McFarlane’sgrave. ”

They had retraced their course and again entered the bayou, from whichthe light had now nearly vanished, making it needful that they watchcarefully to escape the hewn logs that floated in numbers upon thewater. 

“I didn’t suppose you were ever sad, Grégoire, ” Melicent said gently. 

“Oh my! yes;” with frank acknowledgment. “You ain’t ever seen me w’enI was real lonesome. ’Tain’t so bad sence you come. But times w’en Igit to thinkin’ ’bout home, I’m boun’ to cry--seems like I can’t he’pit. ”

“Why did you ever leave home?” she asked sympathetically. 

“You see w’en father died, fo’ year ago, mother she went back toFrance, t’her folks there; she never could stan’ this country--an’lef’ us boys to manage the place. Hec, he took charge the firs’ yearan’ run it in debt. Placide an’ me did’n’ have no betta luck the naxtyear. Then the creditors come up from New Orleans an’ took holt. That’s the time I packed my duds an’ lef’. ”

“And you came here?”

“No, not at firs’. You see the Santien boys had a putty hard name inthe country. Aunt Thérèse, she’d fallen out with father years ago’bout the way, she said, he was bringin’ us up. Father, he wasn’t theman to take nothin’ from nobody. Never ’lowed any of us to come downyere. I was in Texas, goin’ to the devil I reckon, w’en she sent forme, an’ yere I am. ”

“And here you ought to stay, Grégoire. ”

“Oh, they ain’t no betta woman in the worl’ then Aunt Thérèse, w’enyou do like she wants. See ’em yonda waitin’ fur us? Reckon theythought we was drowned. ”

IV

A Small Interruption. 

When Melicent came to visit her brother, Mrs. Lafirme persuaded him toabandon his uncomfortable quarters at the mill and take up hisresidence in the cottage, which stood just beyond the lawn of the bighouse. This cottage had been furnished _de pied en cap_ many yearsbefore, in readiness against an excess of visitors, which in days goneby was not of infrequent occurrence at Place-du-Bois. It wasMelicent’s delighted intention to keep house here. And she foresaw noobstacle in the way of procuring the needed domestic aid in a placewhich was clearly swarming with idle women and children. 

“Got a cook yet, Mel?” was Hosmer’s daily enquiry on returning home, to which Melicent was as often forced to admit that she had no cook, but was not without abundant hope of procuring one. 

Betsy’s Aunt Cynthy had promised with a sincerity which admitted notof doubt, that “de Lord willin’ ” she would “be on han’ Monday, timeto make de mornin’ coffee. ” Which assurance had afforded Melicent aSunday free of disturbing doubts concerning the future of herundertaking. But who may know what the morrow will bring forth? Cynthyhad been “tuck sick in de night. ” So ran the statement of the weepickaninny who appeared at Melicent’s gate many hours later thanmorning coffee time: delivering his message in a high voice ofcomplaint, and disappearing like a vision without further word. 

Uncle Hiram, then called to the breach, had staked his patriarchalhonor on the appearance of his niece Suze on Tuesday. Melicent andThérèse meeting Suze some days later in a field path, asked the causeof her bad faith. The girl showed them all the white teeth whichnature had lavished on her, saying with the best natured laugh in theworld: “I don’ know how come I didn’ git dere Chewsday like Ipromise. ”

If the ladies were not disposed to consider that an all-sufficientreason, so much the worse, for Suze had no other to offer. 

From Mose’s wife, Minervy, better things might have been expected. Butafter a solemn engagement to take charge of Melicent’s kitchen onWednesday, the dusky matron suddenly awoke to the need of “holpin’Mose hoe out dat co’n in the stiff lan. ”

Thérèse, seeing that the girl was really eager to play in the briefrole of housekeeper had used her powers, persuasive and authoritative, to procure servants for her, but without avail. She herself was notwithout an abundance of them, from the white-haired Hiram, whoseposition on the place had long been a sinecure, down to the littlebrown legged tot Mandy, much given to falling asleep in the sun, whennot chasing venturesome poultry off forbidden ground, or stirringgentle breezes with an enormous palm leaf fan about her mistressduring that lady’s after dinner nap. 

When pressed to give a reason for this apparent disinclination of thenegroes to work for the Hosmers, Nathan, who was at the moment beinginterviewed on the front veranda by Thérèse and Melicent, spoke out. 

“Dey ’low ’roun’ yere, dat you’s mean to de black folks, ma’am: datwhat dey says--I don’ know me. ”

“Mean, ” cried Melicent, amazed, “in what way, pray?”

“Oh, all sort o’ ways, ” he admitted, with a certain shy brazenness;determined to go through with the ordeal. 

“Dey ’low you wants to cut de little gals’ plaits off, an’ sich--Idon’ know me. ”

“Do you suppose, Nathan, ” said Thérèse attempting but poorly to hideher amusement at Melicent’s look of dismay, “that Miss Hosmer wouldbother herself with darkies’ plaits?”

“Dat’s w’at I tink m’sef. Anyways, I’ll sen’ Ar’minty ’roun’to-morrow, sho. ”

Melicent was not without the guilty remembrance of having one dayplayfully seized one of the small Mandy’s bristling plaits, daintilybetween finger and thumb, threatening to cut them all away with thescissors which she carried. Yet she could not but believe that therewas some deeper motive underlying this systematic reluctance of thenegroes to give their work in exchange for the very good pay which sheoffered. Thérèse soon enlightened her with the information that thenegroes were very averse to working for Northern people whose speech, manners, and attitude towards themselves were unfamiliar. She wasgiven the consoling assurance of not being the only victim of thisboycott, as Thérèse recalled many examples of strangers whom she knewto have met with a like cavalier treatment at the darkies’ hands. 

Needless to say, Araminty never appeared. 

Hosmer and Melicent were induced to accept Mrs. Lafirme’s generoushospitality; and one of that lady’s many supernumeraries was detailedeach morning to “do up” Miss Melicent’s rooms, but not without theprevious understanding that the work formed part of Miss T’rèse’ssystem. 

Nothing which had happened during the year of his residence atPlace-du-Bois had furnished Hosmer such amusement as thesemisadventures of his sister Melicent, he having had no like experiencewith his mill hands. 

It is not unlikely that his good humor was partly due to theacceptable arrangement which assured him the daily society of Thérèse, whose presence was growing into a need with him. 

V

In the Pine Woods. 

When Grégoire said to Melicent that there was no better woman in theworld than his Aunt Thérèse, “W’en you do like she wants, ” thestatement was so incomplete as to leave one in uncomfortable doubt ofthe expediency of venturing within the influence of so exacting anature. True, Thérèse required certain conduct from others, but shewas willing to further its accomplishment by personal efforts, evensacrifices--that could leave no doubt of the pure unselfishness of hermotive. There was hardly a soul at Place-du-Bois who had not felt theforce of her will and yielded to its gentle influence. 

The picture of Joçint as she had last seen him, stayed with her, tillit gave form to a troubled desire moving her to see him again andspeak with him. He had always been an unruly subject, inclined to asurreptitious defiance of authority. Repeatedly had he been given workon the plantation and as many times dismissed for various causes. Thérèse would have long since removed him had it not been for his oldfather Morico, whose long life spent on the place had established aclaim upon her tolerance. 

In the late afternoon, when the shadows of the magnolias werestretching in grotesque lengths across the lawn, Thérèse stood waitingfor Uncle Hiram to bring her sleek bay Beauregard around to the front. The dark close fitting habit which she wore lent brilliancy to hersoft blonde coloring; and there was no mark of years about her face orfigure, save the settling of a thoughtful shadow upon the eyes, whichjoys and sorrows that were past and gone had left there. 

As she rode by the cottage, Melicent came out on the porch to wave alaughing good-bye. The girl was engaged in effacing the simplicity ofher rooms with certain bizarre decorations that seemed the promptingsof a disordered imagination. Yards of fantastic calico had beenbrought up from the store, which Grégoire with hammer and tacks wasamiably forming into impossible designs at the prompting of the girl. The little darkies had been enlisted to bring their contributions ofpalm branches, pine cones, ferns, and bright hued bird wings--and arow of those small recruits stood on the porch, gaping in wide-mouthedadmiration at a sight that stirred within their breasts such remnantof savage instinct as past generations had left there in dormantsurvival. 

One of the small audience permitted her attention to be drawn for amoment from the gorgeous in-door spectacle, to follow the movements ofher mistress. 

“Jis’ look Miss T’rèse how she go a lopin’ down de lane. Dere shego--dere she go--now she gone, ” and she again became contemplative. 

Thérèse, after crossing the railroad, for a space kept to the brow ofthe hill where stretched a well defined road, which by almostimperceptible degrees led deeper and always higher into the woods. Presently, leaving this road and turning into a bridle path where anunpracticed eye would have discovered no sign of travel, she rode onuntil reaching a small clearing among the pines, in the center ofwhich stood a very old and weather beaten cabin. 

Here she dismounted, before Morico knew of her presence, for he satwith his back partly turned to the open door. As she entered andgreeted him, he arose from his chair, all trembling with excitement ather visit; the long white locks, straggling and unkept, falling abouthis brown visage that had grown old and weather beaten with his cabin. Sinking down into his seat--the hide covered chair that had been wornsmooth by years of usefulness--he gazed well pleased at Thérèse, whoseated herself beside him. 

“Ah, this is quite the handsomest you have made yet, Morico, ” she saidaddressing him in French, and taking up the fan that he was curiouslyfashioning of turkey feathers. 

“I am taking extra pains with it, ” he answered, looking complacentlyat his handiwork and smoothing down the glossy feathers with the endsof his withered old fingers. “I thought the American lady down at thehouse might want to buy it. ”

Thérèse could safely assure him of Melicent’s willingness to seize onthe trophy. 

Then she asked why Joçint had not been to the house with news of him. “I have had chickens and eggs for you, and no way of sending them. ”

At mention of his son’s name, the old man’s face clouded withdispleasure and his hand trembled so that he was at some pains toplace the feather which he was at the moment adding to the wideningfan. 

“Joçint is a bad son, madame, when even you have been able to donothing with him. The trouble that boy has given me no one knows; butlet him not think I am too old to give him a sound drubbing. ”

Joçint meanwhile had returned from the mill and seeing Thérèse’s horsefastened before his door, was at first inclined to skulk back into thewoods; but an impulse of defiance moved him to enter, and gave to hisugly countenance a look that was far from agreeable as he mumbled agreeting to Thérèse. His father he did not address. The old man lookedfrom son to visitor with feeble expectancy of some good to come fromher presence there. 

Joçint’s straight and coarse black hair hung in a heavy mop over hislow retreating forehead, almost meeting the ill-defined line ofeyebrow that straggled above small dusky black eyes, that with therest of his physique was an inheritance from his Indian mother. 

Approaching the safe or _garde manger_, which was the most prominentpiece of furniture in the room, he cut a wedge from the round loaf ofheavy soggy corn bread that he found there, added a layer of fat pork, and proceeded to devour the unpalatable morsel with hungry relish. 

“That is but poor fare for your old father, Joçint, ” said Thérèse, looking steadily at the youth. 

“Well, I got no chance me, fu’ go fine nuttin in de ’ood” (woods), heanswered purposely in English, to annoy his father who did notunderstand the language. 

“But you are earning enough to buy him something better; and you knowthere is always plenty at the house that I am willing to spare him. ”

“I got no chance me fu’ go to de ’ouse neider, ” he replieddeliberately, after washing down the scant repast with a long draughtfrom the tin bucket which he had replenished at the cistern beforeentering. He swallowed the water regardless of the “wiggles” whosepresence was plainly visible. 

“What does he say?” asked Morico scanning Thérèse’s face appealingly. 

“He only says that work at the mill keeps him a good deal occupied, ”she said with attempted carelessness. 

As she finished speaking, Joçint put on his battered felt hat, andstrode out the back door; his gun on his shoulder and a yellow curfollowing close at his heels. 

Thérèse remained a while longer with the old man, hearingsympathetically the long drawn story of his troubles, and cheering himas no one else in the world was able to do, then she went away. 

Joçint was not the only one who had seen Beauregard fastened atMorico’s door. Hosmer was making a tour of inspection that afternoonthrough the woods, and when he came suddenly upon Thérèse some momentsafter she had quitted the cabin, the meeting was not so whollyaccidental as that lady fancied it was. 

If there could be a situation in which Hosmer felt more than inanother at ease in Thérèse’s company, it was the one in which he foundhimself. There was no need to seek occupation for his hands, thosemembers being sufficiently engaged with the management of his horse. His eyes found legitimate direction in following the various detailswhich a rider is presumed to observe; and his manner freed from thenecessity of self direction took upon itself an ease which wasoccasional enough to mark it as noteworthy. 

She told him of her visit. At mention of Joçint’s name he reddened:then followed the acknowledgment that the youth in question had causedhim to lose his temper and forget his dignity during the afternoon. 

“In what way?” asked Thérèse. “It would be better to dismiss him thanto rail at him. He takes reproof badly and is extremely treacherous. ”

“Mill hands are not plentiful, or I should send him off at once. Oh, he is an unbearable fellow. The men told me of a habit he has ofletting the logs roll off the carriage, causing a good deal ofannoyance and delay in replacing them. I was willing enough to believeit might be accidental, until I caught him today in the very act. I amthankful not to have knocked him down. ”

Hosmer felt exhilarated. The excitement of his encounter with Joçinthad not yet died away; this softly delicious atmosphere; the subtlearoma of the pines; his unlooked for meeting with Thérèse--allcombined to stir him with unusual emotions. 

“What a splendid creature Beauregard is, ” he said, smoothing theanimal’s glossy mane with the end of his riding whip. The horses werewalking slowly in step, and close together. 

“Of course he is, ” said Thérèse proudly, patting the arched neck ofher favorite. “Beauregard is a blooded animal, remember. He quitethrows poor Nelson in the shade, ” looking pityingly at Hosmer’sheavily built iron-grey. 

“Don’t cast any slurs on Nelson, Mrs. Lafirme. He’s done me servicethat’s worthy of praise--worthy of better treatment than he gets. ”

“I know. He deserves the best, poor fellow. When you go away youshould turn him out to pasture, and forbid any one to use him. ”

“It would be a good idea; but--I’m not so certain about going away. ”

“Oh I beg your pardon. I fancied your movements were directed by someunchangeable laws. ”

“Like the planets in their orbits? No, there is no absolute need of mygoing; the business which would have called me away can be done asreadily by letter. If I heed my inclination it certainly holds mehere. ”

“I don’t understand that. It’s natural enough that I should be fond ofthe country; but you--I don’t believe you’ve been away for threemonths, have you? and city life certainly has its attractions. ”

“It’s beastly, ” he answered decidedly. “I greatly prefer thecountry--this country; though I can imagine a condition under which itwould be less agreeable; insupportable, in fact. ”

He was looking fixedly at Thérèse, who let her eyes rest for aninstant in the unaccustomed light of his, while she asked “and thecondition?”

“If you were to go away. Oh! it would take the soul out of my life. ”

It was now her turn to look in all directions save the one in whichhis glance invited her. At a slight and imperceptible motion of thebridle, well understood by Beauregard, the horse sprang forward into aquick canter, leaving Nelson and his rider to follow as they could. 

Hosmer overtook her when she stopped to let her horse drink at theside of the hill where the sparkling spring water came trickling fromthe moist rocks, and emptied into the long out-scooped trunk of acypress, that served as trough. The two horses plunged their headsdeep in the clear water; the proud Beauregard quivering withsatisfaction, as arching his neck and shaking off the clingingmoisture, he waited for his more deliberate companion. 

“Doesn’t it give one a sympathetic pleasure, ” said Thérèse, “to seethe relish with which they drink?”

“I never thought of it, ” replied Hosmer, cynically. His face wasunusually flushed, and diffidence was plainly seizing him again. 

Thérèse was now completely mistress of herself, and during theremainder of the ride she talked incessantly, giving him no chance formore than the briefest answers. 

VI

Melicent Talks. 

“David Hosmer, you are the most supremely unsatisfactory manexisting. ”

Hosmer had come in from his ride, and seating himself in the largewicker chair that stood in the center of the room, became at onceabsorbed in reflections. Being addressed, he looked up at his sister, who sat sidewards on the edge of a table slightly removed, swaying adainty slippered foot to and fro in evident impatience. 

“What crime have I committed now, Melicent, against your code?” heasked, not fully aroused from his reverie. 

“You’ve committed nothing; your sin is one of omission. I absolutelybelieve you go through the world with your eyes, to all practicalpurposes, closed. Don’t you notice anything; any change?”

“To be sure I do, ” said Hosmer, relying on a knowledge lent him byprevious similar experiences, and taking in the clinging artisticdrapery that enfolded her tall spare figure, “you’ve a new gown on. Ididn’t think to mention it, but I noticed it all the same. ”

This admission of a discernment that he had failed to make evident, aroused Melicent’s uncontrolled mirth. 

“A new gown!” and she laughed heartily. “A threadbare remnant! A thingthat holds by shreds and tatters. ”

She went behind her brother’s chair, taking his face between herhands, and turning it upward, kissed him on the forehead. With hishead in such position, he could not fail to observe the brilliantfolds of muslin that were arranged across the ceiling to simulate thecanopy of a tent. Still holding his face, she moved it sidewards, sothat his eyes, knowing now what oflice was expected of them, followedthe line of decorations about the room. 

“It’s immense, Mel; perfectly immense. When did you do it all?”

“This afternoon, with Grégoire’s help, ” she answered, looking proudlyat her work. “And my poor hands are in such condition! But really, Dave, ” she continued, seating herself on the side of his chair, withan arm about his neck, and he leaning his head back on the improvisedcushion, “I wonder that you ever got on in business, observing thingsas little as you do. ”

“Oh, that’s different. ”

“Well, I don’t believe you see half that you ought to, ” addingnaively, “How did you and Mrs. Lafirme happen to come home togetherthis evening?”

The bright lamp-light made the flush quite evident that arose to hisface under her near gaze. 

“We met in the woods; she was coming from Morico’s. ”

“David, do you know that woman is an angel. She’s simply the mostperfect creature I ever knew. ”

Melicent’s emphasis of speech was a thing so recurrent, so singularlyher own, as to startle an unaccustomed hearer. 

“That opinion might carry some weight, Mel, if I hadn’t heard itscores of times from you, and of as many different women. ”

“Indeed you have not. Mrs. Lafirme is exceptional. Really, when shestands at the end of the veranda, giving orders to those darkies, herface a little flushed, she’s positively a queen. ”

“As far as queenliness may be compatible with the angelic state, ”replied Hosmer, but not ill pleased with Melicent’s exaggerated praiseof Thérèse. 

Neither had heard a noiseless step approaching, and they only becameaware of an added human presence, when Mandy’s small voice was heardto issue from Mandy’s small body which stood in the mingled light andshadow of the door-way. 

“Aunt B’lindy ’low supper on de table gittin’ cole. ”

“Come here, Mandy, ” cried Melicent, springing after the child. ButMandy was flying back through the darkness. She was afraid ofMelicent. 

Laughing heartily, the girl disappeared into her bedroom, to make someneeded additions to her toilet; and Hosmer, waiting for her, returnedto his interrupted reflections. The words which he had spoken during amoment of emotion to Thérèse, out in the piny woods, had served adouble purpose with him. They had shown him more plainly than he hadquite been certain of, the depth of his feeling for her; and also hadthey settled his determination. He was not versed in the reading of awoman’s nature, and he found himself at a loss to interpret Thérèse’sactions. He recalled how she had looked away from him when he hadspoken the few tender words that were yet whirling in his memory; howshe had impetuously ridden ahead, --leaving him to follow alone; andher incessant speech that had forced him into silence. All of whichmight or might not be symptoms in his favor. He remembered her kindsolicitude for his comfort and happiness during the past year; but heas readily recalled that he had not been the only recipient of suchfavors. His reflections led to no certainty, except that he loved herand meant to tell her so. 

Thérèse’s door being closed, and moreover locked, Aunt Belindy, thestout negress who had superintended the laying of supper, felt free togive low speech to her wrath as she went back and forth betweendining-room and kitchen. 

“Suppa gittin’ dat cole ’tain’ gwine be fittin’ fu’ de dogs te’ tech. Believe half de time w’ite folks ain’t got no feelin’s, no how. If deyspeck I’se gwine stan’ up heah on my two feet all night, dey’s foolin’dey sef. I ain’t gwine do it. Git out dat doo’ you Mandy! you want medash dis heah coffee pot at you--blockin’ up de doo’s dat away? W’ardat good fu’ nuttin Betsy? Look yonda, how she done flung dem dereknife an forks on de table. Jis let Miss T’rèse kotch’er. Good GodA’mighty, Miss T’rèse mus’ done gone asleep. G’long dar an’ see. ”

There was no one on the plantation who would have felt at liberty toenter Thérèse’s bedroom without permission, the door being closed; yetshe had taken the needless precaution of bringing lock and bolt to thedouble security of her moment of solitude. The first announcement ofsupper had found her still in her riding habit, with head thrown backupon the cushion of her lounging chair, and her mind steeped in asemi-stupor that it would be injustice to her brighter moments to callreflection. 

Thérèse was a warm-hearted woman, and a woman of clear mental vision;a combination not found so often together as to make it ordinary. Being a woman of warm heart, she had loved her husband with thedevotion which good husbands deserve; but being a clear-headed woman, she was not disposed to rebel against the changes which Time brings, when so disposed, to the human sensibilities. She was not steeped inthat agony of remorse which many might consider becoming in a widow offive years’ standing at the discovery that her heart which had fittedwell the holding of a treasure, was not narrowed to the holding of amemory, --the treasure being gone. 

Mandy’s feeble knock at the door was answered by her mistress inperson who had now banished all traces of her ride and its resultantcogitations. 

The two women, with Hosmer and Grégoire, sat out on the veranda aftersupper as their custom was during these warm summer evenings. Therewas no attempt at sustained conversation; they talked by snatches toand at one another, of the day’s small events; Melicent and Grégoirehaving by far the most to say. The girl was half reclining in thehammock which she kept in a slow, unceasing motion by the impetus ofher slender foot; he sitting some distance removed on the steps. Hosmer was noticeably silent; even Joçint as a theme failing to rousehim to more than a few words of dismissal. His will and tenacity werecontrolling him to one bent. He had made up his mind that he hadsomething to say to Mrs. Lafirme, and he was impatient at any enforceddelay in the telling. 

Grégoire slept now in the office of the mill, as a measure ofprecaution. To-night, Hosmer had received certain late telegrams thatnecessitated a return to the mill, and his iron-grey was standingoutside in the lane with Grégoire’s horse, awaiting the pleasure ofhis rider. When Grégoire quitted the group to go and throw the saddlesacross the patient animals, Melicent, who contemplated an additionalhour’s chat with Thérèse, crossed over to the cottage to procure alight wrap for her sensitive shoulders against the chill night air. Hosmer, who had started to the assistance of Grégoire, seeing thatThérèse had remained alone, standing at the top of the stairs, approached her. Remaining a few steps below her, and looking up intoher face, he held out his hand to say good-night, which was an unusualproceeding, for they had not shaken hands since his return toPlace-du-Bois three months before. She gave him her soft hand to holdand as the warm, moist palm met his, it acted like a charged electricbattery turning its subtle force upon his sensitive nerves. 

“Will you let me talk to you to-morrow?” he asked. 

“Yes, perhaps; if I have time. ”

“Oh, you will make the time. I can’t let the day go by without tellingyou many things that you ought to have known long ago. ” The batterywas still doing its work. “And I can’t let the night go by withouttelling you that I love you. ”

Grégoire called out that the horses were ready. Melicent wasapproaching in her diaphanous envelope, and Hosmer reluctantly letdrop Thérèse’s hand and left her. 

As the men rode away, the two women stood silently following theirdiminishing outlines into the darkness and listening to the creakingof the saddles and the dull regular thud of the horses’ feet upon thesoft earth, until the sounds grew inaudible, when they turned to theinner shelter of the veranda. Melicent once more possessed herself ofthe hammock in which she now reclined fully, and Thérèse sat nearenough beside her to intertwine her fingers between the tense cords. 

“What a great difference in age there must be between you and yourbrother, ” she said, breaking the silence. 

“Yes--though he is younger and I older than you perhaps think. He wasfifteen and the only child when I was born. I am twenty-four, so he ofcourse is thirty-nine. ”

“I certainly thought him older. ”

“Just imagine, Mrs. Lafirme, I was only ten when both my parents died. We had no kindred living in the West, and I positively rebelledagainst being separated from David; so you see he’s had the care of mefor a good many years. ”

“He appears very fond of you. ”

“Oh, not only that, but you’ve no idea how splendidly he’s done for mein every way. Looked after my interest and all that, so that I’mperfectly independent. Poor Dave, ” she continued, heaving a profoundsigh, “he’s had more than his share of trouble, if ever a man had. Iwonder when his day of compensation will come. ”

“Don’t you think, ” ventured Thérèse, “that we make too much of ourindividual trials. We are all so prone to believe our own burdenheavier than our neighbor’s. ”

“Perhaps--but there can be no question about the weight of David’s. I’m not a bit selfish about him though; poor fellow, I only wish he’dmarry again. ”

Melicent’s last words stung Thérèse like an insult. Her native priderebelled against the reticence of this man who had shared herconfidence while keeping her in ignorance of so important a feature ofhis own life. But her dignity would not permit a show of disturbance;she only asked:--

“How long has his wife been dead?”

“Oh, ” cried Melicent, in dismay. “I thought you knew of course;why--she isn’t dead at all--they were divorced two years ago. ”

The girl felt intuitively that she had yielded to an indiscretion ofspeech. She could not know David’s will in the matter, but since hehad all along left Mrs. Lafirme in ignorance of his domestic trials, she concluded it was not for her to enlighten that lady further. Hernext remark was to call Thérèse’s attention to the unusual number ofglow-worms that were flashing through the darkness, and to ask thesign of it, adding “every thing seems to be the sign of something downhere. ”

“Aunt Belindy might tell you, ” replied Thérèse, “I only know that Ifeel the signs of being very sleepy after that ride through the woodsto-day. Don’t mind if I say good night?”

“Certainly not. Good night, dear Mrs. Lafirme. Let me stay here tillDavid comes back; I should die of fright, to go to the cottage alone. ”

VII

Painful Disclosures. 

Thérèse possessed an independence of thought exceptional enough whenconsidered in relation to her life and its surrounding conditions. Butas a woman who lived in close contact with her fellow-beings she waslittle given to the consideration of abstract ideas, except in so faras they touched the individual man. If ever asked to give her opinionof divorce, she might have replied that the question being one whichdid not immediately concern her, its remoteness had removed it fromthe range of her inquiry. She felt vaguely that in many cases it mightbe a blessing; conceding that it must not infrequently be a necessity, to be appealed to however only in an extremity beyond which endurancecould scarcely hold. With the prejudices of her Catholic educationcoloring her sentiment, she instinctively shrank when the themeconfronted her as one having even a remote reference to her own cleanexistence. There was no question with her of dwelling upon the matter;it was simply a thing to be summarily dismissed and as far as possibleeffaced from her remembrance. 

Thérèse had not reached the age of thirty-five without learning thatlife presents many insurmountable obstacles which must be accepted, whether with the callousness of philosophy, the revolt of weakness orthe dignity of self-respect. The following morning, the only signwhich she gave of her mental disturbance, was an appearance that mighthave succeeded a night of unrefreshing sleep. 

Hosmer had decided that his interview with Mrs. Lafirme should not beleft further to the caprice of accident. An hour or more before noonhe rode up from the mill knowing it to be a time when he would likelyfind her alone. Not seeing her he proceeded to make inquiry of theservants; first appealing to Betsy. 

“I don’ know whar Miss T’rèse, ” with a rising inflection on the“whar. ” “I yain’t seed her sence mornin’, time she sont Unc’ Hi’umyonda to old Morico wid de light bread an’ truck, ” replied the verboseBetsy. “Aunt B’lindy, you know whar Miss T’rèse?”

“How you want me know? standin’ up everlastin’ in de kitchen a bakin’light-bread fu’ lazy trash det betta be in de fiel’ wurkin’ a craplike people, stid o’ ’pendin’ on yeda folks. ”

Mandy, who had been a silent listener, divining that she had perhapsbetter make known certain information that was exclusively her ownpiped out:--

“Miss T’rèse shet up in de parla; ’low she want we all lef ’er’lone. ”

Having as it were forced an entrance into the stronghold where Thérèsehad supposed herself secure from intrusion, Hosmer at once seatedhimself beside her. 

This was a room kept for the most part closed during the summer dayswhen the family lived chiefly on the verandas or in the wide open hallThere lingered about it the foreign scent of cool clean matting, mingled with a faint odor of rose which came from a curious Japanesejar that stood on the ample hearth. Through the green half-closedshutters the air came in gentle ripples, sweeping the filmy curtainsback and forth in irregular undulations. A few tasteful pictures hungupon the walls, alternating with family portraits, for the most partstiff and unhandsome, except in the case of such as were of so remotedate that age gave them a claim upon the interest and admiration of afar removed generation. 

It was not entirely clear to the darkies whether this room were not asort of holy sanctuary, where one should scarce be permitted tobreathe, except under compulsion of a driving necessity. 

“Mrs. Lafirme, ” began Hosmer, “Melicent tells me that she made youacquainted last night with the matter which I wished to talk to youabout to-day. ”

“Yes, ” Thérèse replied, closing the book which she had made a pretenseof reading, and laying it down upon the window-sill near which shesat; adding very simply, “Why did you not tell me long ago, Mr. Hosmer?”

“God knows, ” he replied; the sharp conviction breaking upon him, thatthis disclosure had some how changed the aspect of life for him. “Natural reluctance to speak of a thing so painful--nativereticence--I don’t know what. I hope you forgive me; that you will letit make no difference in whatever regard you may have for me. ”

“I had better tell you at once that there must be no repetition of--ofwhat you told me last night. ”

Hosmer had feared it. He made no protest in words; his revolt wasinward and showed itself only in an added pallor and increasedrigidity of face lines. He arose and went to a near window, peeringfor a while aimlessly out between the partly open slats. 

“I hadn’t thought of your being a Catholic, ” he said, finally turningtowards her with folded arms. 

“Because you have never seen any outward signs of it. But I can’tleave you under a false impression: religion doesn’t influence myreason in this. ”

“Do you think then that a man who has had such misfortune, should bedebarred the happiness which a second marriage could give him?”

“No, nor a woman either, if it suit her moral principle, which I holdto be something peculiarly one’s own. ”

“That seems to me to be a prejudice, ” he replied. “Prejudices may beset aside by an effort of the will, ” catching at a glimmer of hope. 

“There are some prejudices which a woman can’t afford to part with, Mr. Hosmer, ” she said a little haughtily, “even at the price ofhappiness. Please say no more about it, think no more of it. ”

He seated himself again, facing her; and looking at him all hersympathetic nature was moved at sight of his evident trouble. 

“Tell me about it. I would like to know every thing in your life, ” shesaid, feelingly. 

“It’s very good of you, ” he said, holding a hand for a moment over hisclosed eyes. Then looking up abruptly, “It was a painful enoughexperience, but I never dreamed that it could have had this last blowin reserve for me. ”

“When did you marry?” she asked, wishing to start him with the storywhich she fancied he would feel better for the telling. 

“Ten years ago. I am a poor hand to analyze character: my own oranother’s. My reasons for doing certain things have never been quiteclear to me; or I have never schooled myself to inquiry into my ownmotives for action. I have been always thoroughly the business man. Idon’t make a boast of it, but I have no reason to be ashamed of theadmission. Socially, I have mingled little with my fellow-beings, especially with women, whose society has had little attraction for me;perhaps, because I have never been thrown much into it, and I wasnearly thirty when I first met my wife. ”

“Was it in St. Louis?” Thérèse asked. 

“Yes. I had been inveigled into going on a river excursion, ” he said, plunging into the story, “Heaven knows how. Perhaps I was feelingunwell--I really can’t remember. But at all events I met a friend whointroduced me early in the day to a young girl--Fanny Larimore. Shewas a pretty little thing, not more than twenty, all pink and whiteand merry blue eyes and stylish clothes. Whatever it was, there wassomething about her that kept me at her side all day. Every word andmovement of hers had an exaggerated importance for me. I fancied suchthings had never been said or done quite in the same way before. ”

“You were in love, ” sighed Thérèse. Why the sigh she could not havetold. 

“I presume so. Well, after that, I found myself thinking of her at themost inopportune moments. I went to see her again and again--my firstimpression deepened, and in two weeks I had asked her to marry me. Ican safely say, we knew nothing of each other’s character. Aftermarriage, matters went well enough for a while. ” Hosmer here arose, and walked the length of the room. 

“Mrs. Lafirme, ” he said, “can’t you understand that it must be apainful thing for a man to disparage one woman to another: the womanwho has been his wife to the woman he loves? Spare me the rest. ”

“Please have no reservations with me; I shall not misjudge you in anycase, ” an inexplicable something was moving her to know what remainedto be told. 

“It wasn’t long before she attempted to draw me into what she calledsociety, ” Hosmer continued. “I am little versed in defining shades ofdistinction between classes, but I had seen from the beginning thatFanny’s associates were not of the best social rank by any means. Ihad vaguely expected her to turn from them, I suppose, when shemarried. Naturally, I resisted anything so distasteful as beingdragged through rounds of amusement that had no sort of attractionwhatever for me. Besides, my business connections were extending, andthey claimed the greater part of my time and thoughts. 

“A year after our marriage our boy was born. ” Here Hosmer ceasedspeaking for a while, seemingly under pressure of a crowding ofpainful memories. 

“The child whose picture you have at the office?” asked Thérèse. 

“Yes, ” and he resumed with plain effort: “It seemed for a while thatthe baby would give its mother what distraction she sought sopersistently away from home; but its influence did not last and shesoon grew as restless as before. Finally there was nothing that unitedus except the child. I can’t really say that we were united throughhim, but our love for the boy was the one feeling that we had incommon. When he was three years old, he died. Melicent had come tolive with us after leaving school. She was a high-spirited girl fullof conceits as she is now, and in her exaggerated way became filledwith horror of what she called the mésalliance I had made. After amonth she went away to live with friends. I didn’t oppose her. I sawlittle of my wife, being often away from home; but as feebly observantas I was, I had now and again marked a peculiarity of manner about herthat vaguely troubled me. She seemed to avoid me and we grew more andmore divided. 

“One day I returned home rather early. Melicent was with me. We foundFanny in the dining-room lying on the sofa. As we entered, she lookedat us wildly and in striving to get up grasped aimlessly at the backof a chair. I felt on a sudden as if there were some awful calamitythreatening my existence. I suppose, I looked helplessly at Melicent, managing to ask her what was the matter with my wife. Melicent’s blackeyes were flashing indignation. ‘Can’t you see she’s been drinking. God help you, ’ she said. Mrs. Lafirme, you know now the reason whichdrove me away from home and kept me away. I never permitted my wife towant for the comforts of life during my absence; but she sued fordivorce some years ago and it was granted, with alimony which Idoubled. You know the miserable story now. Pardon me for dragging itto such a length. I don’t see why I should have told it after all. ”

Thérèse had remained perfectly silent; rigid at times, listening toHosmer often with closed eyes. 

He waited for her to speak, but she said nothing for a while tillfinally: “Your--your wife is still quite young--do her parents livewith her?”

“Oh no, she has none. I suppose she lives alone. ”

“And those habits; you don’t know if she continues them?”

“I dare say she does. I know nothing of her, except that she receiptsfor the amount paid her each month. ”

The look of painful thought deepened on Thérèse’s face but herquestions having been answered, she again became silent. 

Hosmer’s eyes were imploring her for a look, but she would not answerthem. 

“Haven’t you a word to say to me?” he entreated. 

“No, I have nothing to say, except what would give you pain. ”

“I can bear anything from you, ” he replied, at a loss to guess hermeaning. 

“The kindest thing I can say, Mr. Hosmer, is, that I hope you haveacted blindly. I hate to believe that the man I care for, woulddeliberately act the part of a cruel egotist. ”

“I don’t understand you. ”

“I have learned one thing through your story, which appears very plainto me, ” she replied. “You married a woman of weak character. Youfurnished her with every means to increase that weakness, and shut herout absolutely from your life and yourself from hers. You left herthen as practically without moral support as you have certainly donenow, in deserting her. It was the act of a coward. ” Thérèse spoke thelast words with intensity. 

“Do you think that a man owes nothing to himself?” Hosmer asked, inresistance to her accusation. 

“Yes. A man owes to his manhood, to face the consequences of his ownactions. ”

Hosmer had remained seated. He did not even with glance follow Thérèsewho had arisen and was moving restlessly about the room. He had solong seen himself as a martyr; his mind had become so habituated tothe picture, that he could not of a sudden look at a different one, believing that it could be the true one. Nor was he eager to accept aview of the situation that would place him in his own eyes in acontemptible light. He tried to think that Thérèse must be wrong; buteven admitting a doubt of her being right, her words carried anelement of truth that he was not able to shut out from his conscience. He felt her to be a woman with moral perceptions keener than his ownand his love, which in the past twenty-four hours had grown tooverwhelm him, moved him now to a blind submission. 

“What would you have me do, Mrs. Lafirme?”

“I would have you do what is right, ” she said eagerly, approachinghim. 

“O, don’t present me any questions of right and wrong; can’t you seethat I’m blind?” he said, self accusingly. “What ever I do, must bebecause you want it; because I love you. ”

She was standing beside him and he took her hand. 

“To do a thing out of love for you, would be the only comfort andstrength left me. ”

“Don’t say that, ” she entreated. “Love isn’t everything in life; thereis something higher. ”

“God in heaven, there shouldn’t be!” he exclaimed, passionatelypressing her hand to his forehead, his cheek, his lips. 

“Oh, don’t make it harder for me, ” Thérèse said softly, attempting towithdraw her hand. 

It was her first sign of weakness, and he seized on it for hisadvantage. He arose quickly--unhesitatingly--and took her in his arms. 

For a moment that was very brief, there was danger that the task ofrenunciation would not only be made harder, but impossible, for both;for it was in utter blindness to everything but love for each other, that their lips met. 

The great plantation bell was clanging out the hour of noon; the hourfor sweet and restful enjoyment; but to Hosmer, the sound was like thevoice of a derisive demon, mocking his anguish of spirit, as hemounted his horse, and rode back to the mill. 

VIII

Treats of Melicent. 

Melicent knew that there were exchanges of confidence going on betweenher brother and Mrs. Lafirme, from which she was excluded. She hadnoted certain lengthy conferences held in remote corners of theverandas. The two had deliberately withdrawn one moonlight evening topace to and fro the length of gravel walk that stretched from doorfront to lane; and Melicent had fancied that they rather lingered whenunder the deep shadow of the two great live-oaks that overarched thegate. But that of course was fancy; a young girl’s weakness to thinkthe world must go as she would want it to. 

She was quite sure of having heard Mrs. Lafirme say “I will help you. ”Could it be that David had fallen into financial straights and wantedassistance from Thérèse? No, that was improbable and furthermore, distasteful, so Melicent would not burden herself with the suspicion. It was far more agreeable to believe that affairs were shapingthemselves according to her wishes regarding her brother and herfriend. Yet her mystification was in no wise made clearer, when Davidleft them to go to St. Louis. 

Melicent was not ready or willing to leave with him. She had not hadher “visit out” as she informed him, when he proposed it to her. Toremain in the cottage during his absence was out of the question, soshe removed herself and all her pretty belongings over to the house, taking possession of one of the many spare rooms. The act of removalfurnished her much entertainment of a mild sort, into which, however, she successfully infused something of her own intensity by making theoccasion one to bring a large detachment of the plantation force intoher capricious service. 

Melicent was going out, and she stood before her mirror to make surethat she looked properly. She was black from head to foot. From thegreat ostrich plume that nodded over her wide-brimmed hat, to thepointed toe of the patent leather boot that peeped from under hergown--a filmy gauzy thing setting loosely to her slender shapelyfigure. She laughed at the somberness of her reflection, which she atonce set about relieving with a great bunch of geraniums--big andscarlet and long-stemmed, that she thrust slantwise through her belt. 

Melicent, always charming, was very pretty when she laughed. Shethought so herself and laughed a second time into the depths of herdark handsome eyes. One corner of the large mouth turned saucilyupward, and the lips holding their own crimson and all that the cheekswere lacking, parted only a little over the gleaming whiteness of herteeth. As she looked at herself critically, she thought that a fewmore pounds of flesh would have well become her. It had been only theother day that her slimness was altogether to her liking; but atpresent she was in love with plumpness as typified in Mrs. Lafirme. However, on the whole, she was not ill pleased with her appearance, and gathering up her gloves and parasol, she quitted the room. 

It was “broad day, ” one of the requirements which Grégoire had namedas essential for taking Melicent to visit old McFarlane’s grave. Butthe sun was not “shining mighty bright, ” the second condition, andwhose absence they were willing enough to overlook, seeing that themonth was September. 

They had climbed quite to the top of the hill, and stood on the verybrink of the deep toilsome railroad cut all fringed with matted grassand young pines, that had but lately sprung there. Up and down thetrack, as far as they could see on either side the steel railsglittered on into gradual dimness. There were patches of the fieldbefore them, white with bursting cotton which scores of negroes, men, women and children were dexterously picking and thrusting into greatbags that hung from their shoulders and dragged beside them on theground; no machine having yet been found to surpass the sufficiency offive human fingers for wrenching the cotton from its tenacious hold. Elsewhere, there were squads “pulling fodder” from the dry cornstalks; hot and distasteful work enough. In the nearest field, wherethe cotton was young and green, with no show of ripening, the overseerrode slowly between the rows, sprinkling plentifully the dry powder ofparis green from two muslin bags attached to the ends of a short polethat lay before him across the saddle. 

Grégoire’s presence would be needed later in the day, when the cottonwas hauled to gin to be weighed; when the mules were brought tostable, to see them properly fed and cared for, and the gearing allput in place. In the meanwhile he was deliciously idle with Melicent. 

They retreated into the woods, soon losing sight of everything but thetrees that surrounded them and the underbrush, that was scant andscattered over the turf which the height of the trees permitted togrow green and luxuriant. 

There, on the far slope of the hill they found McFarlane’s grave, which they knew to be such only by the battered and weather-worn crossof wood, that lurched disreputably to one side--there being no hand inall the world that cared enough to make it straight--and from whichall lettering had long since been washed away. This cross was all thatmarked the abiding place of that mist-like form, so often seen at darkto stalk down the hill with threatening stride, or of moonlight nightsto cross the lake in a pirogue, whose substance though visible wasnought; with sound of dipping oars that made no ripple on the lake’ssmooth surface. On stormy nights, some more gifted with spiritualinsight than their neighbors, and with hearing better sharpened todelicate intonations of the supernatural, had not only seen the mistfigure mounted and flying across the hills, but had heard the pantingof the blood-hounds, as the invisible pack swept by in hot pursuit ofthe slave so long ago at rest. 

But it was “broad day, ” and here was nothing sinister to causeMelicent the least little thrill of awe. No owl, no bat, no ill-omenedcreature hovering near; only a mocking bird high up in the branches ofa tall pine tree, gushing forth his shrill staccatoes as blithely asthough he sang paeans to a translated soul in paradise. 

“Poor old McFarlane, ” said Melicent, “I’ll pay a little tribute to hismemory; I dare say his spirit has listened to nothing but abuse ofhimself there in the other world, since it left his body here on thehill;” and she took one of the long-stemmed blood-red flowers and laidit beside the toppling cross. 

“I reckon he’s in a place w’ere flowers don’t git much waterin’, ifthey got any there. ”

“Shame to talk so cruelly; I don’t believe in such places. ”

“You don’t believe in hell?” he asked in blank surprise. 

“Certainly not. I’m a Unitarian. ”

“Well, that’s new to me, ” was his only comment. 

“Do you believe in spirits, Grégoire? I don’t--in day time. ”

“Neva mine ’bout spirits, ” he answered, taking her arm and leading heroff, “let’s git away f’om yere. ”

They soon found a smooth and gentle slope where Melicent sat herselfcomfortably down, her back against the broad support of a tree trunk, and Grégoire lay prone upon the ground with--his head in Melicent’slap. 

When Melicent first met Grégoire, his peculiarities of speech, sounfamiliar to her, seemed to remove him at once from the possibilityof her consideration. She was not then awake to certain finepsychological differences distinguishing man from man; precluding thepossibility of naming and classifying him in the moral as one might inthe animal kingdom. But short-comings of language, which finallyseemed not to detract from a definite inheritance of good breeding, touched his personality as a physical deformation might, adding to itcertainly no charm, yet from its pathological aspect not without aspecies of fascination, for a certain order of misregulated mind. 

She bore with him, and then she liked him. Finally, whilst indulgingin a little introspection; making a diagnosis of various symptoms, indicative by no means of a deep-seated malady, she decided that shewas in love with Grégoire. But the admission embraced theunderstanding with herself, that nothing could come of it. Sheaccepted it as a phase of that relentless fate which in pessimisticmoments she was inclined to believe pursued her. 

It could not be thought of, that she should marry a man whoseeccentricity of speech would certainly not adapt itself to therequirements of polite society. 

He had kissed her one day. Whatever there was about the kiss--possiblyan over exuberance--it was not to her liking, and she forbade that heever repeat it, under pain of losing her affection. Indeed, on the fewoccasions when Melicent had been engaged, kissing had been excluded assuperfluous to the relationship, except in the case of the younglieutenant out at Fort Leavenworth who read Tennyson to her, as anangel might be supposed to read, and who in moments of rapturousself-forgetfulness, was permitted to kiss her under the ear: aproceeding not positively distasteful to Melicent, except in so muchas it tickled her. 

Grégoire’s hair was soft, not so dark as her own, and possessed aninclination to curl about her slender fingers. 

“Grégoire, ” she said, “you told me once that the Santien boys were ahard lot; what did you mean by that?”

“Oh no, ” he answered, laughing good-humoredly up into her eyes, “youdid’n year me right. W’at I said was that we had a hard name in thecountry. I don’ see w’y eitha, excep’ we all’ays done putty much likewe wanted. But my! a man can live like a saint yere at Place-du-Bois, they ain’t no temptations o’ no kine. ”

“There’s little merit in your right doing, if you have no temptationsto withstand, ” delivering the time worn aphorism with the air and toneof a pretty sage, giving utterance to an inspired truth. 

Melicent felt that she did not fully know Grégoire; that he had alwaysbeen more or less under restraint with her, and she was troubled bysomething other than curiosity to get at the truth concerning him. Oneday when she was arranging a vase of flowers at a table on the backporch, Aunt Belindy, who was scouring knives at the same table, hadfollowed Grégoire with her glance, when he walked away afterexchanging a few words with Melicent. 

“God! but dats a diffunt man sence you come heah. ”

“Different?” questioned the girl eagerly, and casting a quick sidewardlook at Aunt Belindy. 

“Lord yas honey, ’f you warn’t heah dat same Mista Grégor ’d be inCentaville ev’y Sunday, a raisin’ Cain. Humph--I knows ’im. ”

Melicent would not permit herself to ask more, but picked up her vaseof flowers and walked with it into the house; her comprehension ofGrégoire in no wise advanced by the newly acquired knowledge that hewas liable to “raise Cain” during her absence--a proceeding which shecould not too hastily condemn, considering her imperfect apprehensionof what it might imply. 

Meanwhile she would not allow her doubts to interfere with thekindness which she lavished on him, seeing that he loved her todesperation. Was he not at this very moment looking up into her eyes, and talking of his misery and her cruelty? turning his face downwardin her lap--as she knew to cry--for had she not already seen him lieon the ground in an agony of tears, when she had told him he shouldnever kiss her again?

And so they lingered in the woods, these two curious lovers, till theshadows grew so deep about old McFarlane’s grave that they passed itby with hurried step and averted glance. 

IX

Face to Face. 

After a day of close and intense September heat, it had rained duringthe night. And now the morning had followed chill and crisp, yet withpossibilities of a genial sunshine breaking through the mist that hadrisen at dawn from the great sluggish river and spread itself throughthe mazes of the city. 

The change was one to send invigorating thrills through the blood, andto quicken the step; to make one like the push and jostle of themultitude that thronged the streets; to make one in love withintoxicating life, and impatient with the grudging dispensation thathad given to mankind no wings wherewith to fly. 

But with no reacting warmth in his heart, the change had only madeHosmer shiver and draw his coat closer about his chest, as he pushedhis way through the hurrying crowd. 

The St. Louis Exposition was in progress with all its many allurementsthat had been heralded for months through the journals of the State. 

Hence, the unusual press of people on the streets this brightSeptember morning. Home people, whose air of ownership to thesurroundings classified them at once, moving unobservantly about theiraffairs. Women and children from the near and rich country towns, infor the Exposition and their fall shopping; wearing gowns of ultrafashionable tendencies; leaving in their toilets nothing toexpediency; taking no chances of so much as a ribbon or a loop set indisaccordance with the book. 

There were whole families from across the bridge, hurrying towards theExposition. Fathers and mothers, babies and grandmothers, with basketsof lunch and bundles of provisional necessities, in for the day. 

Nothing would escape their observation nor elude their criticism, fromthe creations in color lining the walls of the art gallery, to themost intricate mechanism of inventive genius in the basement. Allwould pass inspection, with drawing of comparison between the present, the past year and the “year before, ” likely in a nasal drawl with theR’s brought sharply out, leaving no doubt as to their utterance. 

The newly married couple walking serenely through the crowd, young, smiling, up-country, hand-in-hand; well pleased with themselves, withtheir new attire and newer jewelry, would likely have answeredHosmer’s “beg pardon” with amiability if he had knocked them down. Buthe had only thrust them rather violently to one side in his eagernessto board the cable car that was dashing by, with no seemingwillingness to stay its mad flight. He still possessed the agility inhis unpracticed limbs to swing himself on the grip, where he took afront seat, well buttoned up as to top-coat, and glad of the bodilyrest that his half hour’s ride would bring him. 

The locality in which he descended presented some noticeable changessince he had last been there. Formerly, it had been rather a quietstreet, with a leisurely horse car depositing its passengers twoblocks away to the north from it; awaking somewhat of afternoons whenhordes of children held possession. But now the cable had come todisturb its long repose, adding in the office, nothing to itsattractiveness. 

There was the drug store still at the corner, with the sameproprietor, tilted back in his chair as of old, and as of old readinghis newspaper with only the change which a newly acquired pair ofspectacles gave to his appearance. The “drug store boy” had unfoldedinto manhood, plainly indicated by the mustache that in addingadornment and dignity to his person, had lifted him above the menialoffice of window washing. A task relegated to a mustacheless urchinwith a leaning towards the surreptitious abstraction of caramels andchewing gum in the intervals of such manual engagements as did notrequire the co-operation of a strategic mind. 

Where formerly had been the vacant lot “across the street, ” the Sundayafternoon elysium of the youthful base ball fiend from Biddle Street, now stood a row of brand new pressed-brick “flats. ” Marvelous musthave been the architectural ingenuity which had contrived to unite somany dwellings into so small a space. Before each spread a length ofclosely clipped grass plot, and every miniature front door wore itsfantastic window furnishing; each set of decorations having seeminglyfired the next with efforts of surpassing elaboration. 

The house at which Hosmer rang--a plain two-storied red brick, standing close to the street--was very old-fashioned in face of itsmodern opposite neighbors, and the recently metamorphosed dwellingnext door, that with added porches and appendages to tax man’s facultyof conjecture, was no longer recognizable for what it had been. Eventhe bell which he pulled was old-fashioned and its tingle might beheard throughout the house long after the servant had opened the door, if she were only reasonably alert to the summons. Its reverberationswere but dying away when Hosmer asked if Mrs. Larimore were in. Mrs. Larimore was in; an admission which seemed to hold in reserve adefiant “And what if she is, sir. ”

Hosmer was relieved to find the little parlor into which he wasushered, with its adjoining dining-room, much changed. The carpetswhich he and Fanny had gone out together to buy during the early daysof their housekeeping, were replaced by rugs that lay upon the bare, well polished floors. The wall paper was different; so were thehangings. The furniture had been newly re-covered. Only the smallhousehold gods were as of old: things--trifles--that had never muchoccupied or impressed him, and that now, amid their alteredsurroundings stirred no sentiment in him of either pleased or sadremembrance. 

It had not been his wish to take his wife unawares, and he hadpreviously written her of his intended coming, yet without giving hera clue for the reason of it. 

There was an element of the bull-dog in Hosmer. Having made up hismind, he indulged in no regrets, in no nursing of if’s and and’s, butstood like a brave soldier to his post, not a post of danger, true--but one well supplied with discomfiting possibilities. 

And what had Homeyer said of it? He had railed of course as usual, atthe submission of a human destiny to the exacting and ignorant rule ofwhat he termed moral conventionalities. He had startled and angeredHosmer with his denunciation of Thérèse’s sophistical guidance. Rather--he proposed--let Hosmer and Thérèse marry, and if Fanny wereto be redeemed--though he pooh-poohed the notion as untenable withcertain views of what he called the rights to existence: the existenceof wrongs--sorrows--diseases--death--let them all go to make up theconglomerate whole--and let the individual man hold on to hispersonality. But if she must be redeemed--granting this point to theirlittleness, let the redemption come by different ways than those ofsacrifice: let it be an outcome from the capability of their unitedhappiness. 

Hosmer did not listen to his friend Homeyer. Love was his god now, andThérèse was Love’s prophet. 

So he was sitting in this little parlor waiting for Fanny to come. 

She came after an interval that had been given over to the indulgenceof a little feminine nervousness. Through the open doors Hosmer couldhear her coming down the back stairs; could hear that she haltedmid-way. Then she passed through the dining-room, and he arose andwent to meet her, holding out his hand, which she was not at onceready to accept, being flustered and unprepared for his manner inwhichever way it might direct itself. 

They sat opposite each other and remained for a while silent; he withastonishment at sight of the “merry blue eyes” faded and sunken intodeep, dark round sockets; at the net-work of little lines all tracedabout the mouth and eyes, and spreading over the once rounded cheeksthat were now hollow and evidently pale or sallow, beneath a layer ofrouge that had been laid on with an unsparing hand. Yet was she stillpretty, or pleasing, especially to a strong nature that would find anappeal in the pathetic weakness of her face. There was no guessing atwhat her figure might be, it was disguised under a very fashionabledress, and a worsted shawl covered her shoulders, which occasionallyquivered as with an inward chill. She spoke first, twisting the end ofthis shawl. 

“What did you come for, David? why did you come now?” with peevishresistance to the disturbance of his coming. 

“I know I have come without warrant, ” he said, answering herimplication. “I have been led to see--no matter how--that I mademistakes in the past, and what I want to do now is to right them, ifyou will let me. ”

This was very unexpected to her, and it startled her, but neither withpleasure nor pain; only with an uneasiness which showed itself in herface. 

“Have you been ill?” he asked suddenly as the details of change in herappearance commenced to unfold themselves to him. 

“Oh no, not since last winter, when I had pneumonia so bad. Theythought I was going to die. Dr. Franklin said I would ’a died if BelleWorthington hadn’t ’a took such good care of me. But I don’t see whatyou mean coming now. It’ll be the same thing over again: I don’t seewhat’s the use, David. ”

“We won’t talk about the use, Fanny. I want to take care of you forthe rest of your life--or mine--as I promised to do ten years ago; andI want you to let me do it. ”

“It would be the same thing over again, ” she reiterated, helplessly. 

“It will not be the same, ” he answered positively. “I will not be thesame, and that will make all the difference needful. ”

“I don’t see what you want to do it for, David. Why we’d haf to getmarried over again and all that, wouldn’t we?”

“Certainly, ” he answered with a faint smile. “I’m living in the Southnow, in Louisiana, managing a sawmill down there. ”

“Oh, I don’t like the South. I went down to Memphis, let’s see, it waslast spring, with Belle and Lou Dawson, after I’d been sick; and Idon’t see how a person can live down there. ”

“You would like the place where I’m living. It’s a fine largeplantation, and the lady who owns it would be the best of friends toyou. She knew why I was coming, and told me to say she would help tomake your life a happy one if she could. ”

“It’s her told you to come, ” she replied in quick resentment. “I don’tsee what business it is of hers. ”

Fanny Larimore’s strength of determination was not one to hold againstHosmer’s will set to a purpose, during the hour or more that theytalked, he proposing, she finally acquiescing. And when he left her, it was with a gathering peace in her heart to feel that his nearnesswas something that would belong to her again; but differently as heassured her. And she believed him, knowing that he would stand to hispromise. 

Her life was sometimes very blank in the intervals of streetperambulations and matinées and reading of morbid literature. Thatelation which she had felt over her marriage with Hosmer ten yearsbefore, had soon died away, together with her weak love for him, whenshe began to dread him and defy him. But now that he said he was readyto take care of her and be good to her, she felt great comfort in herknowledge of his honesty. 

X

Fanny’s Friends. 

It was on the day following Hosmer’s visit, that Mrs. LorenzoWorthington, familiarly known to her friends as Belle Worthington, wasoccupied in constructing a careful and extremely elaborate streettoilet before her dressing bureau which stood near the front window ofone of the “flats” opposite Mrs. Larimore’s. The Nottingham curtainscreened her effectually from the view of passers-by without hinderingher frequent observance of what transpired in the street. 

The lower portion of this lady’s figure was draped, or better, seemingly supported, by an abundance of stiffly starched whitepetticoats that rustled audibly at her slightest movement. Her neckwas bare, as were the well shaped arms that for the past five minuteshad been poised in mid-air, in the arrangement of a front ofexquisitely soft blonde curls, which she had taken from her “topdrawer” and was adjusting, with the aid of a multitude of tinyinvisible hair-pins, to her own very smoothly brushed hair. Yellowhair it was, with a suspicious darkness about the roots, and astreakiness about the back, that to an observant eye would have morethan hinted that art had assisted nature in coloring Mrs. Worthington’s locks. 

Dressed, and evidently waiting with forced patience for thetermination of these overhead maneuvers of her friend, sat Lou, --Mrs. Jack Dawson, --a woman whom most people called handsome. If she werehandsome, no one could have told why, for her beauty was a thing whichcould not be defined. She was tall and thin, with hair, eyes, andcomplexion of a brownish neutral tint, and bore in face and figure, astamp of defiance which probably accounted for a certain eccentricityin eschewing hair dyes and cosmetics. Her face was full of littleirregularities; a hardly perceptible cast in one eye; the nose drawn abit to one side, and the mouth twitched decidedly to the other whenshe talked or laughed. It was this misproportion which gave a piquancyto her expression and which in charming people, no doubt made thembelieve her handsome. 

Mrs. Worthington’s coiffure being completed, she regaled herself witha deliberate and comprehensive glance into the street, and the outcomeof her observation was the sudden exclamation. 

“Well I’ll be switched! come here quick Lou. If there ain’t FannyLarimore getting on the car with Dave Hosmer!”

Mrs. Dawson approached the window, but without haste; and in no wisesharing her friend’s excitement, gave utterance to her calm opinion. 

“They’ve made it up, I’ll bet you what you want. ”

Surprise seemed for the moment to have deprived Mrs. Worthington offurther ability to proceed with her toilet, for she had fallen into achair as limply as her starched condition would permit, her face fullof speculation. 

“See here, Belle Worthington, if we’ve got to be at the ’Lympic at twoo’clock, you’d better be getting a move on yourself. ”

“Yes, I know; but I declare, you might knock me down with a feather. ”

A highly overwrought figure of speech on the part of Mrs. Worthington, seeing that the feather which would have prostrated her must have meta resistance of some one hundred and seventy-five pounds of solidavoirdupois. 

“After all she said about him, too!” seeking to draw her friend intosome participation in her own dumbfoundedness. 

“Well, you ought to know Fanny Larimore’s a fool, don’t you?”

“Well, but I just can’t get over it; that’s all there is about it. ”And Mrs. Worthington went about completing the adornment of her personin a state of voiceless stupefaction. 

In full garb, she presented the figure of a splendid woman; trim andtight in a black silk gown of expensive quality, heavy with jets whichhung and shone, and jangled from every available point of her person. Not a thread of her yellow hair was misplaced. She shone withcleanliness, and her broad expressionless face and meaningless blueeyes were set to a good-humored readiness for laughter, which would bewholesome if not musical. She exhaled a fragrance of patchouly orjockey-club, or something odorous and “strong” that clung to everyarticle of her apparel, even to the yellow kid gloves which she wouldnow be forced to put on during her ride in the car. Mrs. Dawson, attired with equal richness and style, showed more of individuality inher toilet. 

As they quitted the house she observed to her friend:

“I wish you’d let up on that smell; it’s enough to sicken a body. ”

“I know you don’t like it, Lou, ” was Mrs. Worthington’s apologetic andhalf disconcerted reply, “and I was careful as could be. Give you myword, I didn’t think you could notice it. ”

“Notice it? Gee!” responded Mrs. Dawson. 

These were two ladies of elegant leisure, the conditions of whoselives, and the amiability of whose husbands, had enabled them todevelop into finished and professional time-killers. 

Their intimacy with each other, as also their close acquaintance withFanny Larimore, dated from a couple of years after that lady’smarriage, when they had met as occupants of the same big up-townboarding house. The intercourse had never since been permitted to dieout. Once, when the two former ladies were on a visit to Mrs. Larimore, seeing the flats in course of construction, they were atonce assailed with the desire to abandon their hitherto nomadic life, and settle to the responsibilities of housekeeping; a scheme whichthey carried into effect as soon as the houses became habitable. 

There was a Mr. Lorenzo Worthington; a gentleman employed for manyyears past in the custom house. Whether he had been overlooked, whichhis small unobtrusive, narrow-chested person made possible--or whetherhis many-sided usefulness had rendered him in a manner indispensableto his employers, does not appear; but he had remained at his postduring the various changes of administration that had gone by sincehis first appointment. 

During intervals of his work--intervals often occurring of afternoonhours, when he had been given night work--he was fond of sitting atthe sunny kitchen window, with his long thin nose, and shortsightedeyes plunged between the pages of one of his precious books: a smallhoard of which he had collected at some cost and more self-denial. 

One of the grievances of his life was the necessity under which hefound himself of protecting his treasure from the Philistine abuse andcontempt of his wife. When they moved into the flat, Mrs. Worthington, during her husband’s absence, had ranged them all, systematicallyenough, on the top shelf of the kitchen closet to “get them out of theway. ” But at this he had protested, and taken a positive stand, towhich his wife had so far yielded as to permit that they be placed onthe top shelf of the bedroom closet; averring that to have them layingaround was a thing that she would not do, for they spoilt the looks ofany room. 

He had not foreseen the possibility of their usefulness being atemptation to his wife in so handy a receptacle. 

Seeking once a volume of Ruskin’s Miscellanies, he discovered that ithad been employed to support the dismantled leg of a dressing bureau. On another occasion, a volume of Schopenhauer, which he had been atmuch difficulty and expense to procure, Emerson’s Essays, and twoother volumes much prized, he found had served that lady as weights tohold down a piece of dry goods which she had sponged and spread to dryon an available section of roof top. 

He was glad enough to transport them all back to the safer refuge ofthe kitchen closet, and pay the hired girl a secret stipend to guardthem. 

Mr. Worthington regarded women as being of peculiar and unsuitableconformation to the various conditions of life amid which they areplaced; with strong moral proclivities, for the most part subservientto a weak and inadequate mentality. 

It was not his office to remodel them; his rôle was simply to endurewith patience the vagaries of an order of human beings, who after all, offered an interesting study to a man of speculative habit, apart fromtheir usefulness as propagators of the species. 

As regards this last qualification, Mrs. Worthington had done lessthan her fair share, having but one child, a daughter of twelve, whosetraining and education had been assumed by an aunt of her father’s, anun of some standing in the Sacred Heart Convent. 

Quite a different type of man was Jack Dawson, Lou’s husband. Short, round, young, blonde, good looking and bald--as what St. Louis manpast thirty is not? he rejoiced in the agreeable calling of atraveling salesman. 

On the occasions when he was at home; once in two weeks--sometimesseldomer--never oftener--the small flat was turned inside out andupside down. He filled it with noise and merriment. If a theater partywere not on hand, it was a spin out to Forest park behind a fast team, closing with a wine supper at a road-side restaurant. Or a card partywould be hastily gathered to which such neighbors as were congenialwere bid in hot haste; deficiencies being supplied from his largecircle of acquaintances who happened not to be on the road, and who atthe eleventh hour were rung up by telephone. On such occasions Jack’svoice would be heard loud in anecdote, introduced in some such wise as“When I was in Houston, Texas, the other day, ” or “Tell you what itis, sir, those fellers over in Albuquerque are up to a thing or two. ”

One of his standing witticisms was to inquire in a stage whisper ofBelle or Lou--whether the little gal over the way had taken the pledgeyet. 

This gentleman and his wife were on the most amiable of termstogether, barring the small grievance that he sometimes lost money atpoker. But as losing was exceptional with him, and as he did not makeit a matter of conscience to keep her at all times posted as to thefluctuations of his luck, this grievance had small occasion to showitself. 

What he thought of his wife, might best be told in his own language:that Lou was up to the mark and game every time; femininecharacteristics which he apparently held in high esteem. 

The two ladies in question had almost reached the terminus of theirride, when Mrs. Worthington remarked incidentally to her friend, “Itwas nothing in the God’s world but pure sass brought those two fellersto see you last night, Lou. ”

Mrs. Dawson bit her lip and the cast in her eye became moreaccentuated, as it was apt to do when she was ruffled. 

“I notice you didn’t treat ’em any too cool yourself, ” she retorted. 

“Oh, they weren’t my company, or I’d a give ’em a piece of my mindpretty quick. You know they’re married, and they know you’re married, and they hadn’t a bit o’ business there. ”

“They’re perfect gentlemen, and I don’t see what business ’tis ofyours, anyway. ”

“Oh that’s a horse of another color, ” replied Mrs. Worthington, bridling and relapsing into injured silence for the period of tenseconds, when she resumed, “I hope they ain’t going to poke themselvesat the matinée. ”

“Likely they will ’s long as they gave us the tickets. ”

One of the gentlemen was at the matinée: Mr. Bert Rodney, but hecertainly had not “poked” himself there. He never did any thing vulgaror in bad taste. He had only “dropped in!” Exquisite in dress andmanner, a swell of the upper circles, versed as was no one better inthe code of gentlemanly etiquette--he was for the moment awaitingdisconsolately the return of his wife and daughter from Narragansett. 

He took a vacant seat behind the two ladies, and bending forward beganto talk to them in his low and fascinating drawl. 

Mrs. Worthington, who often failed to accomplish her fierce designs, was as gracious towards him as if she had harbored no desire to givehim a piece of her mind; but she was resolute in her refusal to makeone of a proposed supper party. 

A quiet sideward look from Mrs. Dawson, told Mr. Rodney as plainly aswords, that in the event of his _partie-carrée_ failing him, he mightcount upon her for a _tête-à-tête_. 

XI

The Self-Assumed Burden. 

The wedding was over. Hosmer and Fanny had been married in the smalllibrary of their Unitarian minister whom they had found intent uponthe shaping of his Sunday sermon. 

Out of deference, he had been briefly told the outward circumstancesof the case, which he knew already; for these two had been formerlymembers of his congregation, and gossip had not been reluctant intelling their story. Hosmer, of course, had drifted away from hisknowledge, and in late years, he had seen little of Fanny, who whenmoved to attend church at all usually went to the Redemptorist’s RockChurch with her friend Belle Worthington. This lady was a goodCatholic to the necessary extent of hearing a mass on Sundays, abstaining from meat on Fridays and Ember days, and making her“Easters. ” Which concessions were not without their attendantdiscomforts, counterbalanced, however, by the soothing assurance whichthey gave her of keeping on the safe side. 

The minister had been much impressed with the significance of thisre-marriage which he was called upon to perform, and had offered somefew and well chosen expressions of salutary advice as to its futureguidance. The sexton and housekeeper had been called in as witnesses. Then Hosmer had taken Fanny back home in a cab as she requested, because of her eyes that were red and swollen. 

Inside the little hall-way he took her in his arms and kissed her, calling her “my child. ” He could not have told why, except that itexpressed the responsibility he accepted of bearing all things that afather must bear from the child to whom he has given life. 

“I should like to go out for an hour, Fanny; but if you would rathernot, I shall stay. ”

“No, David, I want to be alone, ” she said, turning into the littleparlor, with eyes big and heavy from weariness and inward clashingemotions. 

Along the length of Lindell avenue from Grand avenue west to Forestpark, reaches for two miles on either side of the wide and well keptgravel drive a smooth stone walk, bordered its full extent with adouble row of trees which were young and still uncertain, when Hosmerwalked between them. 

Had it been Sunday, he would have found himself making one of afashionable throng of promenaders; it being at that time a fad withsociety people to walk to Forest park and back of a Sunday afternoon. Driving was then considered a respectable diversion only on the sixwork days of the week. 

But it was not Sunday and this inviting promenade was almost deserted. An occasional laborer would walk clumsily by; apathetic; swinging histin bucket and bearing some implement of toil with the yellow clay yetclinging to it. Or it might be a brace of strong-minded girls walkingwith long and springing stride, which was then fashionable; lookingnot to the right nor left; indulging in no exchange of friendly andgirlish chatter, but grimly intent upon the purpose of their walk. 

A steady line of vehicles was pushing on towards the park at themoderate speed which the law required. On both sides the wideboulevard tasteful dwellings, many completed, but most of them incourse of construction, were in constant view. Hosmer noted everything, but absently; and yet he was not pre-occupied with thought. Hefelt himself to be hurrying away from something that was fastovertaking him, and his faculties for the moment were centered in themere act of motion. It is said that motion is pleasurable to man. Nodoubt, in connection with a healthy body and free mind, movementbrings to the normal human being a certain degree of enjoyment. Butwhere the healthful conditions are only physical, rapid motion changesfrom a source of pleasure to one of mere expediency. 

So long as Hosmer could walk he kept a certain pressing consciousnessat bay. He would have liked to run if he had dared. Since he hadentered the park there were constant trains of cars speeding somewhereoverhead; he could hear them at near intervals clashing over the stonebridge. And there was not a train which passed that he did not long tobe at the front of it to measure and let out its speed. What a madflight he would have given it, to make men hold their breath withterror! How he would have driven it till its end was death andchaos!--so much the better. 

There suddenly formed in Hosmer’s mind a sentence--sharp and distinct. We are all conscious of such quick mental visions whether of words orpictures, coming sometimes from a hidden and untraceable source, making us quiver with awe at this mysterious power of mind manifestingitself with the vividness of visible matter. 

“It was the act of a coward. ”

Those were the words which checked him, and forbade him to go farther:which compelled him to turn about and face the reality of hisconvictions. 

It is no unusual sight, that of a man lying full length in the softtender grass of some retired spot of Forest park--with his face hiddenin his folded arms. To the few who may see him, if they speculate atall about him he sleeps or he rests his body after a day’s fatigue. “Am I never to be the brave man?” thought Hosmer, “always the coward, flying even from my own thoughts?”

How hard to him was this unaccustomed task of dealing with moraldifficulties, which all through his life before, however lightly theyhad come, he had shirked and avoided! He realized now, that there wasto be no more of that. If he did not wish his life to end indisgraceful shipwreck, he must take command and direction of it uponhimself. 

He had felt himself capable of stolid endurance since love haddeclared itself his guide and helper. But now--only to-day--somethingbeside had crept into his heart. Not something to be endured, but athing to be strangled and thrust away. It was the demon of hate; sonew, so awful, so loathsome, he doubted that he could look it in theface and live. 

Here was the problem of his new existence. 

The woman who had formerly made his life colorless and empty he hadquietly turned his back upon, carrying with him a pity that was notuntender. But the woman who had unwittingly robbed him of allpossibility of earthly happiness--he hated her. The woman who for theremainder of a life-time was to be in all the world the nearest thingto him, he hated her. He hated this woman of whom he must be careful, to whom he must be tender, and loyal and generous. And to give no signor word but of kindness; to do no action that was not considerate, wasthe task which destiny had thrust upon his honor. 

He did not ask himself if it were possible of accomplishment. He hadflung hesitancy away, to make room for the all-powerful “Must be. ”

He walked slowly back to his home. There was no need to run now;nothing pursued him. Should he quicken his pace or drag himself everso slowly, it could henceforth make no difference. The burden fromwhich he had fled was now banded upon him and not to be loosed, unlesshe fling himself with it into forgetfulness. 

XII

Severing Old Ties. 

Returning from the matinée, Belle and her friend Lou Dawson, beforeentering their house, crossed over to Fanny’s. Mrs. Worthington triedthe door and finding it fastened, rang the bell, then commenced tobeat a tattoo upon the pane with her knuckles; an ingenuous mannerwhich she had of announcing her identity. Fanny opened to themherself, and the three walked into the parlor. 

“I haven’t seen you for a coon’s age, Fanny, ” commenced Belle, “whereon earth have you been keeping yourself?”

“You saw me yesterday breakfast time, when you came to borrow thewrapper pattern, ” returned Fanny, in serious resentment to herfriend’s exaggeration. 

“And much good the old wrapper pattern did me: a mile too small everyway, no matter how much I let out the seams. But see here--”

“Belle’s the biggest idiot about her size: there’s no convincing hershe’s not a sylph. ”

“_Thank_ you, Mrs. Dawson. ”

“Well, it’s a fact. Didn’t you think Furgeson’s scales were all wrongthe other day because you weighed a hundred and eighty pounds?”

“O that’s the day I had that heavy rep on. ”

“Heavy nothing. We were coming over last night, Fanny, but we hadcompany, ” continued Mrs. Dawson. 

“Who d’you have?” asked Fanny mechanically and glad of the respite. 

“Bert Rodney and Mr. Grant. They’re so anxious to meet you. I’d ’asent over for you, but Belle--”

“See here, Fanny, what the mischief was Dave Hosmer doing here to-day, and going down town with you and all that sort o’ thing?”

Fanny flushed uneasily. “Have you seen the evening paper?” she asked. 

“How d’you want us to see the paper? we just come from the matinée. ”

“David came yesterday, ” Fanny said working nervously at the windowshade. “He’d wrote me a note the postman brought right after you leftwith the pattern. When you saw us getting on the car, we were goingdown to Dr. Martin’s, and we’ve got married again. ”

Mrs. Dawson uttered a long, low whistle by way of comment. Mrs. Worthington gave vent to her usual “Well I’ll be switched, ” which shewas capable of making expressive of every shade of astonishment, fromthe lightest to the most pronounced; at the same time unfastening thebridle of her bonnet which plainly hindered her free respiration aftersuch a shock. 

“Say that Fanny isn’t sly, after that, Belle. ”

“Sly? My God, she’s a fool! If ever a woman had a snap! and to go towork and let a man get around her like that. ”

Mrs. Worthington seemed powerless to express herself in anything butdisconnected exclamations. 

“What are you going to do, Fanny?” asked Lou, who having aired all theastonishment which she cared to show, in her whistle, was collectedenough to want her natural curiosity satisfied. 

“David’s living down South. I guess we’ll go down there pretty soon. Soon’s he can get things fixed up here. ”

“Where--down South?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Somewheres in Louisiana. ”

“It’s to be hoped in New Orleans, ” spoke Belle didactically, “that’sthe only decent place in Louisiana where a person could live. ”

“No, ’tain’t in New Orleans. He’s got a saw mill somewheres downthere. ”

“Heavens and earth! a saw mill?” shrieked Belle. Lou was lookingcalmly resigned to the startling news. 

“Oh, I ain’t going to live in a saw mill. I wisht you’d all let mealone, any way, ” she returned pettishly. “There’s a lady keeps aplantation, and that’s where he lives. ”

“Well of all the rigmaroles! a lady, and a saw mill and a plantation. It’s my opinion that man could make you believe black’s white, FannyLarimore. ”

As Hosmer approached his house, he felt mechanically in his pocket forhis latch key; so small a trick having come back to him with the oldhabit of misery. Of course he found no key. His ring startled Fanny, who at once sprang from her scat to open the door for him; but havingtaken a few steps, she hesitated and irresolutely re-seated herself. It was only his second ring that the servant unamiably condescended toanswer. 

“So you’re going to take Fanny away from us, Mr. Hosmer, ” said Belle, when he had greeted them and seated himself beside Mrs. Dawson on thesmall sofa that stood between the door and window. Fanny sat at theadjoining window, and Mrs. Worthington in the center of the room;which was indeed so small a room that any one of them might havereached out and almost touched the hand of the others. 

“Yes, Fanny has agreed to go South with me, ” he answered briefly. “You’re looking well, Mrs. Worthington. ”

“Oh, Law yes, I’m never sick. As I tell Mr. Worthington, he’ll neverget rid of me, unless he hires somebody to murder me. But I tell youwhat, you came pretty near not having any Fanny to take away with you. She was the sickest woman! Did you tell him about it, Fanny? Come tothink of it, I guess the climate down there’ll be the very thing tobring her round. ”

Mrs. Dawson without offering apology interrupted her friend to inquireof Hosmer if his life in the South were not of the most interesting, and begging that he detail them something of it; with a look toindicate that she felt the deepest concern in anything that touchedhim. 

A masculine presence had always the effect of rousing Mrs. Dawson intoan animation which was like the glow of a slumbering ember, when astrong pressure of air is brought to bear upon it. 

Hosmer had always considered her an amiable woman, with ratherdelicate perceptions; frivolous, but without the vulgarisms of Mrs. Worthington, and consequently a less objectionable friend for Fanny. He answered, looking down into her eyes, which were full ofattentiveness. 

“My life in the South is not one that you would think interesting. Ilive in the country where there are no distractions such as you ladiescall amusements--and I work pretty hard. But it’s the sort of lifethat one grows attached to and finds himself longing for again if hehave occasion to change it. ”

“Yes, it must be very satisfying, ” she answered; for the momentperfectly sincere. 

“Oh very!” exclaimed Mrs. Worthington, with a loud and aggressivelaugh. “It would just suit you to a T, Lou, but how it’s going tosatisfy Fanny! Well, I’ve got nothing to say about it, thanks be; itdon’t concern me. ”

“If Fanny finds that she doesn’t like it after a fair trial, she hasthe privilege of saying so, and we shall come back again, ” he saidlooking at his wife whose elevation of eyebrow, and droop of mouthgave her the expression of martyred resignation, which St. Lawrencemight have worn, when invited to make himself comfortable on thegridiron--so had Mrs. Worthington’s words impressed her with the forceof their prophetic meaning. 

Mrs. Dawson politely hoped that Hosmer would not leave before Jackcame home; it would distress Jack beyond everything to return and findthat he had missed an old friend whom he thought so much of. 

Hosmer could not say precisely when they would leave. He was inpresent negotiation with a person who wanted to rent the house, furnished; and just as soon as he could arrange a few businessdetails, and Fanny could gather such belongings as she wished to takewith her they would go. 

“You seem mighty struck on Dave Hosmer, all of a sudden, ” remarkedMrs. Worthington to her friend, as the two crossed over the street. “Afeller without any more feelings than a stick; it’s what I always saidabout him. ”

“Oh, I always did like Hosmer, ” replied Mrs. Dawson. “But I thought hehad more sense than to tie himself to that little gump again, afterhe’d had the luck to get rid of her. ”

A few days later Jack came home. His return was made palpable to theentire neighborhood; for no cab ever announced itself with quite thedash and clatter and bang of door that Jack’s cabs did. 

The driver had staggered behind him under the weight of the hugeyellow valise, and had been liberally paid for the service. 

Immediately the windows were thrown wide open, and the lace curtainsdrawn aside until no smallest vestige of them remained visible fromthe street. A condition of things which Mrs. Worthington upstairsbitterly resented, and naturally, spoiling as it necessarily did, thegeneral _coup d’œil_ of the flat to passers-by. But Mrs. Dawson hadwon her husband’s esteem by just such acts as this one of amiablepermission to ventilate the house according to methods of his own andessentially masculine; regardless of dust that might be flying, or sunthat might be shining with disastrous results to the parlor carpet. 

Clouds of tobacco smoke were seen to issue from the open windows. Those neighbors whose openings commanded a view of the Dawson’salley-gate might have noted the hired girl starting for the grocerywith unusual animation of step, and returning with her basket wellstocked with beer and soda bottles--a provision made against a needfor “dutch-cocktails, ” likely to assail Jack during his hours ofdomesticity. 

In the evening the same hired girl, breathless from the multiplicityof errands which she had accomplished during the day, appeared at theHosmers with a message that Mrs. Dawson wanted them to “come over. ”

They were preparing to leave on the morrow, but concluded that theycould spare a few moments in which to bid adieu to their friends. 

Jack met them at the very threshold, with warm and heartyhand-shaking, and loud protest when he learned that they had not cometo spend the evening and that they were going away next day. 

“Great Scott! you’re not leaving to-morrow? And I ain’t going to havea chance to get even with Mrs. Hosmer on that last deal? By Jove, sheknows how to do it, ” he said, addressing Hosmer and holding Fannyfamiliarly by the elbow. “Drew to the middle, sir, and hang me, if shedidn’t fill. Takes a woman to do that sort o’ thing; and me a layingfor her with three aces. Hello there, girls! here’s Hosmer and Fanny, ”in response to which summons his wife and Mrs. Worthington issued fromthe depths of the dining-room, where they had been engaged inpreparing certain refreshments for the expected guests. 

“See here, Lou, we’ll have to fix it up some way to go and see themoff to-morrow. If you’d manage to lay over till Thursday I could joinyou as far as Little Rock. But no, that’s a fact, ” he addedreflectively, “I’ve got to be in Cincinnati on Thursday. ”

They had all entered the parlor, and Mrs. Worthington suggested thatHosmer go up and make a visit to her husband, whom he would find upthere “poring over those everlasting books. ”

“I don’t know what’s got into Mr. Worthington lately, ” she said, “he’sgetting that religious. If it ain’t the Bible he’s poring over, wellit’s something or other just as bad. ”

The brightly burning light guided Hosmer to the kitchen, where hefound Lorenzo Worthington seated beside his student lamp at the table, which was covered with a neat red cloth. On the gas-stove was spread asimilar cloth and the floor was covered with a shining oil-cloth. 

Mr. Worthington was startled, having already forgotten that his wifehad told him of Hosmer’s return to St. Louis. 

“Why, Mr. Hosmer, is this you? come, come into the parlor, this is noplace, ” shaking Hosmer’s hand and motioning towards the parlor. 

“No, it’s very nice and cozy here, and I have only a moment to stay, ”said Hosmer, seating himself beside the table on which the other hadlaid his book, with his spectacles between the pages to mark hisplace. Mr. Worthington then did a little hemming and hawingpreparatory to saying something fitting the occasion; not wishing tobe hasty in offering the old established form of congratulation, in acase whose peculiarity afforded him no precedential guide. Hosmer cameto his relief by observing quite naturally that he and his wife hadcome over to say good-bye, before leaving for the South, adding “nodoubt Mrs. Worthington has told you. ”

“Yes, yes, and I’m sure we’re very sorry to lose you; that is, Mrs. Larimore--I should say Mrs. Hosmer. Isabella will certainly regret herdeparture, I see them always together, you know. ”

“You cling to your old habit, I see, Mr. Worthington, ” said Hosmer, indicating his meaning by a motion of the hand towards the book on thetable. 

“Yes, to a certain extent. Always within the forced limits, youunderstand. At this moment I am much interested in tracing the historyof various religions which are known to us; those which have died out, as well as existing religions. It is curious, indeed, to note thecircumstances of their birth, their progress and inevitable death;seeming to follow the course of nations in such respect. And thesimilitude which stamps them all, is also a feature worthy of study. You would perhaps be surprised, sir, to discover the points ofresemblance which indicate in them a common origin. To observe theslight differences, indeed technical differences, distinguishing theIslam from the Hebrew, or both from the Christian religion. The creedsare obviously ramifications from the one deep-rooted trunk which wecall religion. Have you ever thought of this, Mr. Hosmer?”

“No, I admit that I’ve not gone into it. Homeyer would have me thinkthat all religions are but mythological creations invented to satisfya species of sentimentality--a morbid craving in man for the unknownand undemonstrable. ”

“That is where he is wrong; where I must be permitted to differ fromhim. As you would find, my dear sir, by following carefully thehistory of mankind, that the religious sentiment is implanted, a trueand legitimate attribute of the human soul--with peremptory right toits existence. Whatever may be faulty in the creeds--that makes nodifference, the foundation is there and not to be dislodged. Homeyer, as I understand him from your former not infrequent references, is anIconoclast, who would tear down and leave devastation behind him;building up nothing. He would deprive a clinging humanity of thesupports about which she twines herself, and leave her helpless andsprawling upon the earth. ”

“No, no, he believes in a natural adjustment, ” interrupted Hosmer. “Inan innate reserve force of accommodation. What we commonly call lawsin nature, he styles accidents--in society, only arbitrary methods ofexpediency, which, when they outlive their usefulness to an advancingand exacting civilization, should be set aside. He is a littleimpatient to always wait for the inevitable natural adjustment. ”

“Ah, my dear Mr. Hosmer, the world is certainly to-day not prepared tostand the lopping off and wrenching away of old traditions. She musttake her stand against such enemies of the conventional. Take religionaway from the life of man--”

“Well, I knew it--I was just as sure as preaching, ” burst out Mrs. Worthington, as she threw open the door and confronted the twomen--resplendent in “baby blue” and much steel ornamentation. “As Itell Mr. Worthington, he ought to turn Christian Brother or somethingand be done with it. ”

“No, no, my dear; Mr. Hosmer and I have merely been interchanging afew disjointed ideas. ”

“I’ll be bound they were disjointed. I guess Fanny wants you, Mr. Hosmer. If you listen to Mr. Worthington he’ll keep you here tilldaylight with his ideas. ”

Hosmer followed Mrs. Worthington down-stairs and into Mrs. Dawson’s. As he entered the parlor he heard Fanny laughing gaily, and saw thatshe stood near the sideboard in the dining-room, just clicking herglass of punch to Jack Dawson’s, who was making a gay speech on theoccasion of her new marriage. 

They did not leave when they had intended. Need the misery of that oneday be told?

But on the evening of the following day, Fanny peered with pale, haggard face from the closed window of the Pullman car as it movedslowly out of Union depôt, to see Lou and Jack Dawson smiling andwaving good-bye, Belle wiping her eyes and Mr. Worthington lookingblankly along the line of windows, unable to see them without hisspectacles, which he had left between the pages of his Schopenhauer onthe kitchen table at home. 

PART II

I

Fanny’s First Night at Place-du-Bois. 

The journey South had not been without attractions for Fanny. She hadthat consciousness so pleasing to the feminine mind of being welldressed; for her husband had been exceedingly liberal in furnishingher the means to satisfy her fancy in that regard. Moreover the changeholding out a promise of novelty, irritated her to a feebleexpectancy. The air, that came to her in puffs through the car window, was deliciously soft and mild; steeped with the rich languor of theIndian summer, that had already touched the tree tops, the slopinghill-side, and the very air, with russet and gold. 

Hosmer sat beside her, curiously inattentive to his newspaper;observant of her small needs, and anticipating her timid halfexpressed wishes. Was there some mysterious power that had so soontaught the man such methods to a woman’s heart, or was he not ratheron guard and schooling himself for the rôle which was to be acted outto the end? But as the day was approaching its close, Fanny becametired and languid; a certain mistrust was creeping into her heart withthe nearing darkness. It had grown sultry and close, and the view fromthe car window was no longer cheerful, as they whirled throughforests, gloomy with trailing moss, or sped over an unfamiliar countrywhose features were strange and held no promise of a welcome for her. 

They were nearing Place-du-Bois, and Hosmer’s spirits had risen almostto the point of gaiety as he began to recognize the faces of those wholoitered about the stations at which they stopped. At the Centervillestation, five miles before reaching their own, he had even gone out onthe platform to shake hands with the rather mystified agent who hadnot known of his absence. And he had waved a salute to the littleFrench priest of Centerville who stood out in the open beside hishorse, booted, spurred and all equipped for bad weather, waiting forcertain consignments which were to come with the train, and whoanswered Hosmer’s greeting with a sober and uncompromising sweep ofthe hand. When the whistle sounded for Place-du-Bois, it was nearlydark. Hosmer hurried Fanny on to the platform, where stood Henry, hisclerk. There were a great many negroes loitering about, some of whomoffered him a cordial “how’dy Mr. Hosma, ” and pushing through wasGrégoire, meeting them with the ease of a courtier, and acknowledgingHosmer’s introduction of his wife, with a friendly hand shake. 

“Aunt Thérèse sent the buggy down fur you, ” he said, “we had rain thismornin’ and the road’s putty heavy. Come this way. Mine out fur thatba’el, Mrs. Hosma, it’s got molasses in. Hiurm bring that buggy ovayere. ”

“What’s the news, Grégoire?” asked Hosmer, as they waited for Hiram toturn the horses about. 

“Jus’ about the same’s ev’a. Miss Melicent wasn’t ver’ well a few daysback; but she’s some betta. I reckon you’re all plum wore out, ” headded, taking in Fanny’s listless attitude, and thinking her verypretty as far as he could discover in the dim light. 

They drove directly to the cottage, and on the porch Thérèse waswaiting for them. She took Fanny’s two hands and pressed them warmlybetween her own; then led her into the house with an arm passed abouther waist. She shook hands with Hosmer, and stood for a while incheerful conversation, before leaving them. 

The cottage was fully equipped for their reception, with Minervy inpossession of the kitchen and the formerly reluctant Suze ashousemaid: though Thérèse had been silent as to the methods which shehad employed to prevail with these unwilling damsels. 

Hosmer then went out to look after their baggage, and when hereturned, Fanny sat with her head pillowed on the sofa, sobbingbitterly. He knelt beside her, putting his arm around her, and askedthe cause of her distress. 

“Oh it’s so lonesome, and dreadful, I don’t believe I can stand it, ”she answered haltingly through her tears. 

And here was he thinking it was so home-like and comforting, andtasting the first joy that he had known since he had gone away. 

“It’s all strange and new to you, Fanny; try to bear up for a day ortwo. Come now, don’t be a baby--take courage. It will all seem quitedifferent by and by, when the sun shines. ”

A knock at the door was followed by the entrance of a young coloredboy carrying an armful of wood. 

“Miss T’rèse sont me kin’le fiar fu’ Miss Hosma; ’low he tu’nin’cole, ” he said depositing his load on the hearth; and Fanny, dryingher eyes, turned to watch him at his work. 

He went very deliberately about it, tearing off thin slathers from thefat pine, and arranging them into a light frame-work, beneath atopping of kindling and logs that he placed on the massive brassandirons. He crawled about on hands and knees, picking up the straybits of chips and moss that had fallen from his arms when he came in. Then sitting back on his heels he looked meditatively into the blazewhich he had kindled and scratched his nose with a splinter of pinewood. When Hosmer presently left the room, he rolled his big blackeyes towards Fanny, without turning his head, and remarked in a toneplainly inviting conversation “yo’ all come f’om way yonda?”

He was intensely black, and if Fanny had been a woman with theslightest sense of humor, she could not but have been amused at thepicture which he presented in the revealing fire-light with his elfishand ape like body much too small to fill out the tattered andill-fitting garments that hung about it. But she only wondered at himand his rags, and at his motive for addressing her. 

“We’re come from St. Louis, ” she replied, taking him with aseriousness which in no wise daunted him. 

“Yo’ all brung de rain, ” he went on sociably, leaving off thescratching of his nose, to pass his black yellow-palmed hand slowlythrough the now raging fire, a feat which filled her withconsternation. After prevailing upon him to desist from thissalamander like exhibition, she was moved to ask if he were not verypoor to be thus shabbily clad. 

“No ’um, ” he laughed, “I got some sto’ close yonda home. Dis yere coatw’at Mista Grégor gi’me, ” looking critically down at its length, whichswept the floor as he remained on his knees. “He done all to’e tupieces time he gi’ him tu me, whar he scuffle wid Joçint yonda tu demill. Mammy ’low she gwine mek him de same like new w’en she kin kotchde time. ”

The entrance of Minervy bearing a tray temptingly arranged with adainty supper, served to silence the boy, who at seeing her, threwhimself upon all fours and appeared to be busy with the fire. Thewoman, a big raw-boned field hand, set her burden awkwardly down on atable, and after staring comprehensively around, addressed the boy ina low rich voice, “Dar ain’t no mo’ call to bodda wid dat fiar, youSampson; how come Miss T’rèse sont you lazy piece in yere tu buil’fiar?”

“Don’ know how come, ” he replied, vanishing with an air of the utmostself-depreciation. 

Hosmer and Fanny took tea together before the cheerful fire and hetold her something of methods on the plantation, and made her furtheracquainted with the various people whom she had thus far encountered. She listened apathetically; taking little interest in what he said, and asking few questions. She did express a little bewilderment at theservant problem. Mrs. Lafirme, during their short conversation, haddeplored her inability to procure more than two servants for her; andFanny could not understand why it should require so many to do thework which at home was accomplished by one. But she was tired--verytired, and early sought her bed, and Hosmer went in quest of hissister whom he had not yet seen. 

Melicent had been told of his marriage some days previously, and hadbeen thrown into such a state of nerves by the intelligence, as toseriously alarm those who surrounded her and whose experience withhysterical girls had been inadequate. 

Poor Grégoire had betaken himself with the speed of the wind to thestore to procure bromide, valerian, and whatever else should bethought available in prevailing with a malady of this distressingnature. But she was “some betta, ” as he told Hosmer, who found herwalking in the darkness of one of the long verandas, all enveloped infilmy white wool. He was a little prepared for a cool reception fromher, and ten minutes before she might have received him with a studiedindifference. But her mood had veered about and touched the pointwhich moved her to fall upon his neck, and in a manner, condole withhim; seasoning her sympathy with a few tears. 

“Whatever possessed you, David? I have been thinking, and thinking, and I can see no reason which should have driven you to do this thing. Of course I can’t meet her; you surely don’t expect it?”

He took her arm and joined her in her slow walk. 

“Yes, I do expect it, Melicent, and if you have the least regard forme, I expect more. I want you to be good to her, and patient, and showyourself her friend. No one can do such things more amiably than you, when you try. ”

“But David, I had hoped for something so different. ”

“You couldn’t have expected me to marry Mrs. Lafirme, a Catholic, ” hesaid, making no pretense of misunderstanding her. 

“I think that woman would have given up religion--anything for you. ”

“Then you don’t know her, little sister. ”

It must have been far in the night when Fanny awoke suddenly. Shecould not have told whether she had been awakened by the long, wailingcry of a traveler across the narrow river, vainly trying to rouse theferryman; or the creaking of a heavy wagon that labored slowly by inthe road and moved Hector to noisy enquiry. Was it not rather thepattering rain that the wind was driving against the window panes? Thelamp burned dimly upon the high old-fashioned mantel-piece and herhusband had thoughtfully placed an improvised screen before it, toprotect her against its disturbance. He himself was not beside her, nor was he in the room. She slid from her bed and moved softly on herbare feet over to the open sitting-room door. 

The fire had all burned away. Only the embers lay in a glowing heap, and while she looked, the last stick that lay across the andirons, broke through its tapering center and fell amongst them, stirring afitful light by which she discovered her husband seated and bowed likea man who has been stricken. Uncomprehending, she stood a momentspeechless, then crept back noiselessly to bed. 

II

“Neva to See You!”

Thérèse judged it best to leave Fanny a good deal to herself duringher first days on the plantation, without relinquishing a certainwatchful supervision of her comfort, and looking in on her for a fewmoments each day. The rain which had come with them continued fitfullyand Fanny remained in doors, clad in a warm handsome gown, her smallslippered feet cushioned before the fire, and reading the latest novelof one of those prolific female writers who turn out their unwholesomeintellectual sweets so tirelessly, to be devoured by the girls andwomen of the age. 

Melicent, who always did the unexpected, crossed over early on themorning after Fanny’s arrival; penetrated to her sleeping room andembraced her effusively, even as she lay in bed, calling her “poordear Fanny” and cautioning her against getting up on such a morning. 

The tears which had come to Fanny on arriving, and which had dried onher cheek when she turned to gaze into the cheer of the great woodfire, did not return. Everybody seemed to be making much of her, whichwas a new experience in her life; she having always felt herself as oflittle consequence, and in a manner, overlooked. The negroes wereoverawed at the splendor of her toilettes and showed a respect for herin proportion to the money value which these toilettes reflected. Eachmorning Grégoire left at her door his compliments with a huge bouquetof brilliant and many colored crysanthemums, and enquiry if he couldserve her in any way. And Hosmer’s time, that was not given to work, was passed at her side; not in brooding or pre-occupied silence, butin talk that invited her to friendly response. 

With Thérèse, she was at first shy and diffident, and over watchful ofherself. She did not forget that Hosmer had told her “The lady knowswhy I have come” and she resented that knowledge which Thérèsepossessed of her past intimate married life. 

Melicent’s attentions did not last in their ultra-effusiveness, butshe found Fanny less objectionable since removed from her St. Louissurroundings; and the evident consideration with which she had beenaccepted at Place-du-Bois seemed to throw about her a halo ofsufficient distinction to impel the girl to view her from a new anddifferent stand-point. 

But the charm of plantation life was letting go its hold uponMelicent. Grégoire’s adoration alone, and her feeble response to itwere all that kept her. 

“I neva felt anything like this befo’, ” he said, as they stoodtogether and their hands touched in reaching for a splendid rose thathung invitingly from its tall latticed support out in mid lawn. Thesun had come again and dried the last drop of lingering moisture ongrass and shrubbery. 

“W’en I’m away f’om you, even fur five minutes, ’t seems like I mus’hurry quick, quick, to git back again; an’ w’en I’m with you, everything ’pears all right, even if you don’t talk to me or look atme. Th’ otha day, down at the gin, ” he continued, “I was figurin’ onsome weights an’ wasn’t thinkin’ about you at all, an’ all at once Iremember’d the one time I’d kissed you. Goodness! I couldn’t see thefigures any mo’, my head swum and the pencil mos’ fell out o’ my han’. I neva felt anything like it: hones’, Miss Melicent, I thought I wasgoin’ to faint fur a minute. ”

“That’s very unwise, Grégoire, ” she said, taking the roses that hehanded her to add to the already large bunch. “You must learn to thinkof me calmly: our love must be something like a sacred memory--a sweetrecollection to help us through life when we are apart. ”

“I don’t know how I’m goin’ to stan’ it. Neva to see you! neva--myGod!” he gasped, paling and crushing between his nervous fingers theflower she would have taken from him. 

“There is nothing in this world that one cannot grow accustomed to, dear, ” spoke the pretty philosopher, picking up her skirts daintilywith one hand and passing the other through his arm--the hand whichheld the flowers, whose peculiar perfume ever afterwards made Grégoireshiver through a moment of pain that touched very close upon rapture. 

He was more occupied than he liked during those busy days ofharvesting and ginning, that left him only brief and snatchedintervals of Melicent’s society. If he could have rested in thecomfort of being sure of her, such moments of separation would havehad their compensation in reflective anticipation. But with hisundisciplined desires and hot-blooded eagerness, her half-heartedacknowledgments and inadequate concessions, closed her about with achilling barrier that staggered him with its problematic nature. Feeling himself her equal in the aristocracy of blood, and her masterin the knowledge and strength of loving, he resented those halfunderstood reasons which removed him from the possibility of beinganything to her. And more, he was angry with himself for acquiescingin that self understood agreement. But it was only in her absence thatthese thoughts disturbed him. When he was with her, his whole beingrejoiced in her existence and there was no room for doubt or dread. 

He felt himself regenerated through love, and as having no part inthat other Grégoire whom he only thought of to dismiss withunrecognition. 

The time came when he could ill conceal his passion from others. Thérèse became conscious of it, through an unguarded glance. Theunhappiness of the situation was plain to her; but to what degree shecould not guess. It was certainly so deplorable that it would havebeen worth while to have averted it. Yet, she felt great faith in thepower of time and absence to heal such wounds even to the extent ofleaving no tell-tale scar. 

“Grégoire, my boy, ” she said to him, speaking in French, and layingher hand on his, when they were alone together. “I hope that yourheart is not too deep in this folly. ”

He reddened and asked, “What do you mean, aunt?”

“I mean, that unfortunately, you are in love with Melicent. I do notknow how much longer she will remain here, but taking any possibilityfor granted, let me advise you to leave the place for a while; go backto your home, or take a little trip to the city. ”

“No, I could not. ”

“Force yourself to it. ”

“And lose days, perhaps weeks, of being near her? No, no, I could notdo that, aunt. There will be plenty time for that in the rest of mylife, ” he said, trying to speak calmly and forcing his voice to aharshness which the nearness of tears made needful. 

“Does she know? Have you told her?”

“Oh yes, she knows how much I love her. ”

“And she does not love you, ” said Thérèse, seeming rather to assertthan to question. 

“No, she does not. No matter what she says--she does not. I can feelthat here, ” he answered, striking his breast. “Oh aunt, it is terribleto think of her going away; forever, perhaps; of never seeing her. Icould not stand it. ” And he stood the strain no longer, but sobbed andwept with his aunt’s consoling arms around him. 

Thérèse, knowing that Melicent would not tarry much longer with them, thought it not needful to approach her on the subject. Had it beenotherwise, she would not have hesitated to beg the girl to desist fromthis unprofitable amusement of tormenting a human heart. 

III

A Talk Under the Cedar Tree. 

Day by day, Fanny threw off somewhat of the homesickness which hadweighted her at coming. Not by any determined effort of the will, norby any resolve to make the best of things. Outside influences meetinghalf-way the workings of unconscious inward forces, were the agentsthat by degrees were gently ridding her of the acute pressure ofdissatisfaction, which up to the present, she had stolidly bornewithout any personal effort to cast it off. 

Thérèse affected her forcibly. This woman so wholesome, so fair andstrong; so un-American as to be not ashamed to show tenderness andsympathy with eye and lip, moved Fanny like a new and pleasingexperience. When Thérèse touched her caressingly, or gently strokedher limp hand, she started guiltily, and looked furtively around tomake sure that none had witnessed an exhibition of tenderness thatmade her flush, and the first time found her unresponsive. A secondtime, she awkwardly returned the hand pressure, and later, thesemildly sensuous exchanges prefaced the outpouring of all Fanny’s woes, great and small. 

“I don’t say that I always done what was right, Mrs. Laferm, but Iguess David’s told you just what suited him about me. You got toremember there’s always two sides to a story. ”

She had been to the poultry yard with Thérèse, who had introduced herto its feathery tenants, making her acquainted with stately Brahmasand sleek Plymouth-Rocks and hardy little “Creole chickens”--not muchto look at, but very palatable when converted into _fricassée_. 

Returning, they seated themselves on the bench that encircled amassive cedar--spreading and conical. Hector, who had trottedattendance upon them during their visit of inspection, cast himselfheavily down at his mistress’ feet and after glancing knowingly upinto her face, looked placidly forth at Sampson, gathering gardengreens on the other side of a low dividing fence. 

“You see if David’d always been like he is now, I don’t know butthings’d been different. Do you suppose he ever went any wheres withme, or even so much as talked to me when he came home? There wasalways that everlasting newspaper in his pocket, and he’d haul it outthe first thing. Then I used to read the paper too sometimes, and whenI’d go to talk to him about what I read, he’d never even looked at thesame things. Goodness knows what he read in the paper, I never couldfind out; but here’d be the edges all covered over with figuring. Ibelieve it’s the only thing he ever thought or dreamt about; thateternal figuring on every bit of paper he could lay hold of, till Iwas tired picking them up all over the house. Belle Worthington usedto say it’d of took an angel to stand him. I mean his throwing papersaround that way. For as far as his never talking went, she couldn’tfind any fault with that; Mr. Worthington was just as bad, if hewasn’t worse. But Belle’s not like me; I don’t believe she’d let poorMr. Worthington talk in the house if he wanted to. ”

She gradually drifted away from her starting point, and like mostpeople who have usually little to say, became very voluble, when onceshe passed into the humor of talking. Thérèse let her talk unchecked. It seemed to do her good to chatter about Belle and Lou, and JackDawson, and about her home life, of which she unknowingly made such apitiable picture to her listener. 

“I guess David never let on to you about himself, ” she said moodily, having come back to the sore that rankled: the dread that Thérèse hadlaid all the blame of the rupture on her shoulders. 

“You’re mistaken, Mrs. Hosmer. It was a knowledge of his ownshort-comings that prompted your husband to go back and ask yourforgiveness. You must grant, there’s nothing in his conduct now thatyou could reproach him with. And, ” she added, laying her hand gentlyon Fanny’s arm, “I know you’ll be strong, and do your share in thisreconciliation--do what you can to please him. ”

Fanny flushed uneasily under Thérèse’s appealing glance. 

“I’m willing to do anything that David wants, ” she replied, “I made upmy mind to that from the start. He’s a mighty good husband now, Mrs. Laferm. Don’t mind what I said about him. I was afraid you thoughtthat--”

“Never mind, ” returned Thérèse kindly, “I know all about it. Don’tworry any farther over what I may think. I believe in you and in him, and I know you’ll both be brave and do what’s right. ”

“There isn’t anything so very hard for David to do, ” she said, depressed with a sense of her inadequate strength to do the task whichshe had set herself. “He’s got no faults to give up. David never didhave any faults. He’s a true, honest man; and I was a coward to saythose things about him. ”

Melicent and Grégoire were coming across the lawn to join the two, andFanny, seeing them approach, suddenly chilled and wrapt herself aboutin her mantle of reserve. 

“I guess I better go, ” she said, offering to rise, but Thérèse heldout a detaining hand. 

“You don’t want to go and sit alone in the cottage; stay here with metill Mr. Hosmer comes back from the mill. ”

Grégoire’s face was a study. Melicent, who did what she wanted withhim, had chosen this afternoon, for some inscrutable reason, to makehim happy. He carried her shawl and parasol; she herself bearing averitable armful of flowers, leaves, red berried sprigs, a tangle ofrichest color. They had been in the woods and she had bedecked himwith garlands and festoons of autumn leaves, till he looked a verySatyr; a character which his flushed, swarthy cheeks, and glitteringanimal eyes did not belie. 

They were laughing immoderately, and their whole bearing stillreflected their exuberant gaiety as they joined Thérèse and Fanny. 

“What a ‘Mater Dolorosa’ Fanny looks!” exclaimed Melicent, throwingherself into a picturesque attitude on the bench beside Thérèse, andresting her feet on Hector’s broad back. 

Fanny offered no reply, but to look helplessly resigned; an expressionwhich Melicent knew of old, and which had always the effect ofirritating her. Not now, however, for the curve of the bench aroundthe great cedar tree removed her from the possibility of contemplatingFanny’s doleful visage, unless she made an effort to that end, whichshe was certainly not inclined to do. 

“No, Grégoire, ” she said, flinging a rose into his face when he wouldhave seated himself beside her, “go sit by Fanny and do something tomake her laugh; only don’t tickle her; David mightn’t like it. Andhere’s Mrs. Lafirme looking almost as glum. Now, if David would onlyjoin us with that ‘pale cast of thought’ that he bears about usually, what a merry go round we’d have. ”

“When Melicent looks at the world laughing, she wants it to laugh backat her, ” said Thérèse, reflecting something of the girl’s gaiety. 

“As in a looking-glass, well isn’t that square?” she returned, fallinginto slang, in her recklessness of spirit. 

Endeavoring to guard her treasure of flowers from Thérèse, who waswithout ceremony making a critical selection among them of whatpleased her, Melicent slid around the bench, bringing herself close toGrégoire and begging his protection against the Vandalism of his aunt. She looked into his eyes for an instant as though asking him for loveinstead of so slight a favor and he grasped her arm, pressing it tillshe cried out from the pain: which act, on his side, served to driveher again around to Thérèse. 

“Guess what we are going to do to-morrow: you and I and all of us;Grégoire and David and Fanny and everybody?”

“Going to Bedlam along with you?” Thérèse asked. 

“Mrs. Lafirme is in need of a rebuke, which I shall proceed toadminister, ” thrusting a crumpled handful of rose leaves down the neckof Thérèse’s dress, and laughing joyously in her scuffle to accomplishthe punishment. 

“No, madam; I don’t go to Bedlam; I drive others there. Ask Grégoirewhat we’re going to do. Tell them, Grégoire. ”

“They ain’t much to tell. We’a goin’ hoss back ridin’. ”

“Not me; I can’t ride, ” wailed Fanny. 

“You can get up Torpedo for Mrs. Hosmer, can’t you, Grégoire?” askedThérèse. 

“Certainly. W’y you could ride ole Torpedo, Mrs. Hosma, if you novasaw a hoss in yo’ life. A li’l chile could manage him. ”

Fanny turned to Thérèse for further assurance and found all that shelooked for. 

“We’ll go up on the hill and see that dear old Morico, and I shalltake along a comb, and comb out that exquisite white hair of his andthen I shall focus him, seated in his low chair and making one ofthose cute turkey fans. ”

“Ole Morico ain’t goin’ to let you try no monkeyshines on him; I tellyou that befo’ han’, ” said Grégoire, rising and coming to Melicent torid him of his sylvan ornamentations, for it was time for him to leavethem. When he turned away, Melicent rose and flung all her flowerywealth into Thérèse’s lap, and following took his arm. 

“Where are you going?” asked Thérèse. 

“Going to help Grégoire feed the mules, ” she called back looking overher shoulder; the sinking sun lighting her handsome mischievous face. 

Thérèse proceeded to arrange the flowers with some regard to gracefulsymmetry; and Fanny did not regain her talkative spirit thatMelicent’s coming had put to flight, but sat looking silent andlistlessly into the distance. 

As Thérèse glanced casually up into her face she saw it warmed by asudden faint glow--an unusual animation, and following her gaze, shesaw that Hosmer had returned and was entering the cottage. 

“I guess I better be going, ” said Fanny rising, and this time Thérèseno longer detained her. 

IV

Thérèse Crosses the River. 

To shirk any serious duties of life would have been entirely foreignto Thérèse’s methods or even instincts. But there did come to hermoments of rebellion--or repulsion, against the small demands thatpresented themselves with an unfailing recurrence; and from such, sheat times indulged herself with the privilege of running away. WhenFanny left her alone--a pathetic little droop took possession of thecorners of her mouth that might not have come there if she had notbeen alone. She laid the flowers, only half arranged, on the benchbeside her, as a child would put aside a toy that no longer interestedit. She looked towards the house and could see the servants going backand forth. She knew if she entered, she would be met by appeals fromone and the other. The overseer would soon be along, with his cribkeys, and stable keys; his account of the day’s doings andconsultations for to-morrow’s work, and for the moment, she would havenone of it. 

“Come, Hector--come, old boy, ” she said rising abruptly; and crossingthe lawn she soon gained the gravel path that led to the outer road. This road brought her by a mild descent to the river bank. The water, seldom stationary for any long period, was at present running low andsluggishly between its red banks. 

Tied to the landing was a huge flat-boat, that was managed by the aidof a stout cable reaching quite across the river; and beside itnestled a small light skiff. In this Thérèse seated herself, andproceeded to row across the stream, Hector plunging into the water andswimming in advance of her. 

The banks on the opposite shore were almost perpendicular; and theirsummit to be reached only by the artificial road that had been cutinto them: broad and of easy ascent. This river front was a standingworry to Thérèse, for when the water was high and rapid, the bankscaved constantly, carrying away great sections from the land. Almostevery year, the fences in places had to be moved back, not only forsecurity, but to allow a margin for the road that on this sidefollowed the course of the small river. 

High up and perilously near the edge, stood a small cabin. It had oncebeen far removed from the river, which had now, however, eaten its wayclose up to it--leaving no space for the road-way. The house wassomewhat more pretentious than others of its class, being fashioned ofplaned painted boards, and having a brick chimney that stood fullyexposed at one end. A great rose tree climbed and spread generouslyover one side, and the big red roses grew by hundreds amid the darkgreen setting of their leaves. 

At the gate of this cabin Thérèse stopped, calling out, “_Grossetante!--oh, Grosse tante!_”

The sound of her voice brought to the door a negress--coal black andso enormously fat that she moved about with evident difficulty. Shewas dressed in a loosely hanging purple calico garment of the motherHubbard type--known as a _volante_ amongst Louisiana Creoles; and onher head was knotted and fantastically twisted a bright _tignon_. Herglistening good-natured countenance illumined at the sight of Thérèse. 

“_Quo faire to pas woulez rentrer, Tite maîtresse?_” and Thérèseanswered in the same Creole dialect: “Not now, _Grosse tante_--I shallbe back in half an hour to drink a cup of coffee with you. ” No Englishwords can convey the soft music of that speech, seemingly made fortenderness and endearment. 

As Thérèse turned away from the gate, the black woman re-entered thehouse, and as briskly as her cumbersome size would permit, beganpreparations for her mistress’ visit. Milk and butter were taken fromthe safe; eggs, from the India rush basket that hung against the wall;and flour, from the half barrel that stood in convenient readiness inthe corner: for _Tite maîtresse_ was to be treated to a dish of_croquignoles_. Coffee was always an accomplished fact at hand in thechimney corner. 

_Grosse tante_, or more properly, Marie Louise, was a Creole--Thérèse’snurse and attendant from infancy, and the only one of the familyservants who had come with her mistress from New Orleans toPlace-du-Bois at that lady’s marriage with Jérôme Lafirme. But herever increasing weight had long since removed her from the possibilityof usefulness, otherwise than in supervising her small farm yard. Shehad little use for “_ces néges Américains_, ” as she called theplantation hands--a restless lot forever shifting about and changingquarters. 

It was seldom now that she crossed the river; only two occasions beingconsidered of sufficient importance to induce her to such effort. Onewas in the event of her mistress’ illness, when she would installherself at her bedside as a fixture, not to be dislodged by any lessinducement than Thérèse’s full recovery. The other was when a dinnerof importance was to be given: then Marie Louise consented to act as_chef de cuisine_, for there was no more famous cook than she in theState; her instructor having been no less a personage than old LucienSantien--a _gourmet_ famed for his ultra Parisian tastes. 

Seated at the base of a great China-berry on whose gnarled protrudingroots she rested an arm languidly, Thérèse looked out over the riverand gave herself up to doubts and misgivings. She first took exceptionwith herself for that constant interference in the concerns of otherpeople. Might not this propensity be carried too far at times? Did thegood accruing counterbalance the personal discomfort into which shewas often driven by her own agency? What reason had she to know that apolicy of non-interference in the affairs of others might not afterall be the judicious one? As much as she tried to vaguely generalize, she found her reasoning applying itself to her relation with Hosmer. 

The look which she had surprised in Fanny’s face had been a painfulrevelation to her. Yet could she have expected other, and should shehave hoped for less, than that Fanny should love her husband and he inturn should come to love his wife?

Had she married Hosmer herself! Here she smiled to think of the stormof indignation that such a marriage would have roused in the parish. Yet, even facing the impossibility of such contingency, it pleased herto indulge in a short dream of what might have been. 

If it were her right instead of another’s to watch for his coming andrejoice at it! Hers to call him husband and lavish on him the lovethat awoke so strongly when she permitted herself, as she was doingnow, to invoke it! She felt what capability lay within her of rousingthe man to new interests in life. She pictured the dawn of anunsuspected happiness coming to him: broadening; illuminating; growingin him to answer to her own big-heartedness. 

Were Fanny, and her own prejudices, worth the sacrifice which she andHosmer had made? This was the doubt that bade fair to unsettle her;that called for a sharp, strong out-putting of the will before shecould bring herself to face the situation without its accessions ofpersonalities. Such communing with herself could not be condemned as aweakness with Thérèse, for the effect which it left upon her strongnature was one of added courage and determination. 

When she reached Marie Louise’s cabin again, twilight, which is sobrief in the South, was giving place to the night. 

Within the cabin, the lamp had already been lighted, and Marie Louisewas growing restless at Thérèse’s long delay. 

“Ah _Grosse tante_, I’m so tired, ” she said, falling into a chair nearthe door; not relishing the warmth of the room after her quick walk, and wishing to delay as long as possible the necessity of sitting attable. At another time she might have found the dish of golden brown_croquignoles_ very tempting with its accessory of fragrant coffee;but not to-day. 

“Why do you run about so much, _Tite maîtresse_? You are always goingthis way and that way; on horseback, on foot--through the house. Makethose lazy niggers work more. You spoil them. I tell you if it was oldmistress that had to deal with them, they would see somethingdifferent. ”

She had taken all the pins from Thérèse’s hair which fell in agleaming, heavy mass; and with her big soft hands she was stroking herhead as gently as if those hands had been of the whitest and mostdelicate. 

“I know that look in your eyes, it means headache. It’s time for me tomake you some more _eau sédative_--I am sure you haven’t any more;you’ve given it away as you give away every thing. ”

“_Grosse tante_, ” said Thérèse seated at table and sipping her coffee;_Grosse tante_ also drinking her cup--but seated apart, “I am going toinsist on having your cabin moved back; it is silly to be so stubbornabout such a small matter. Some day you will find yourself out in themiddle of the river--and what am I going to do then?--no one to nurseme when I am sick--no one to scold me--nobody to love me. ”

“Don’t say that, _Tite maîtresse_, all the world loves you--it isn’tonly Marie Louise. But no. You must remember the last time poorMonsieur Jérôme moved me, and said with a laugh that I can neverforget, ‘well, _Grosse tante_, I know we have got you far enough thistime out of danger, ’ away back in Dumont’s field you recollect? I saidthen, Marie Louise will move no more; she’s too old. If the good Goddoes not want to take care of me, then it’s time for me to go. ”

“Ah but, _Grosse tante_, remember--God does not want all the troubleon his own shoulders, ” Thérèse answered humoring the woman, in herconception of the Deity. “He wants us to do our share, too. ”

“Well, I have done my share. Nothing is going to harm Marie Louise. Ithought about all that, do not fret. So the last time Père Antoinepassed in the road--going down to see that poor Pierre Pardou at theMouth--I called him in, and he blessed the whole house inside and out, with holy water--notice how the roses have bloomed since then--andgave me medals of the holy Virgin to hang about. Look over the door, _Tite maîtresse_, how it shines, like a silver star. ”

“If you will not have your cabin removed, _Grosse tante_, then comelive with me. Old Hatton has wanted work at Place-du-Bois, the longesttime. We will have him build you a room wherever you choose, a prettylittle house like those in the city. ”

“_Non--non, Tite maîtresse, Marie Louise ’prè créver icite avé tousson butin, si faut_” (no, no, _Tite maîtresse_, Marie Louise will diehere with all her belongings if it must be). 

The servants were instructed that when their mistress was not at homeat a given hour, her absence should cause no delay in the householdarrangements. She did not choose that her humor or her movements behampered by a necessity of regularity which she owed to no one. Whenshe reached home supper had long been over. 

Nearing the house she heard the scraping of Nathan’s violin, the noiseof shuffling feet and unconstrained laughter. These festive soundscame from the back veranda. She entered the dining-room, and from itsobscurity looked out on a curious scene. The veranda was lighted by alamp suspended from one of its pillars. In a corner sat Nathan;serious, dignified, scraping out a monotonous but rhythmic minorstrain to which two young negroes from the lower quarters--famousdancers--were keeping time in marvelous shuffling and pigeon-wings;twisting their supple joints into astonishing contortions and thesweat rolling from their black visages. A crowd of darkies stood at arespectful distance an appreciative and encouraging audience. Andseated on the broad rail of the veranda were Melicent and Grégoire, patting Juba and singing a loud accompaniment to the breakdown. 

Was this the Grégoire who had only yesterday wept such bitter tears onhis aunt’s bosom?

Thérèse turning away from the scene, the doubt assailed her whether itwere after all worth while to strive against the sorrows of life thatcan be so readily put aside. 

V

One Afternoon. 

Whatever may have been Torpedo’s characteristics in days gone by, atthis advanced period in his history he possessed none so striking as astoical inaptitude for being moved. Another of his distinguishingtraits was a propensity for grazing which he was prone to indulge atinopportune moments. Such points taken in conjunction with a gaitclosely resembling that of the camel in the desert, might give muchcause to wonder at Thérèse’s motive in recommending him as a suitablemount for the unfortunate Fanny, were it not for his wide-spreadreputation of angelic inoffensiveness. 

The ride which Melicent had arranged and in which she held out suchpromises of a “lark” proved after all but a desultory affair. For withFanny making but a sorry equestrian debut and Hosmer creeping along ather side; Thérèse unable to hold Beauregard within conventionallimits, and Melicent and Grégoire vanishing utterly from the scene, sociability was a feature entirely lacking to the excursion. 

“David, I can’t go another step: I just can’t, so that settles it. ”

The look of unhappiness in Fanny’s face and attitude, would have movedthe proverbial stone. 

“I think if you change horses with me, Fanny, you’ll find it morecomfortable, and we’ll turn about and go home. ”

“I wouldn’t get on that horse’s back, David Hosmer, if I had to dieright here in the woods, I wouldn’t. ”

“Do you think you could manage to walk back that distance then? I canlead the horses, ” he suggested as a _pis aller_. 

“I guess I’ll haf to; but goodness knows if I’ll ever get therealive. ”

They were far up on the hill, which spot they had reached by painfullyslow and labored stages, each refraining from mention of a discomfortthat might interfere with the supposed enjoyment of the other, tillFanny’s note of protest. 

Hosmer cast about him for some expedient that might lighten theunpleasantness of the situation, when a happy thought occurred to him. 

“If you’ll try to bear up, a few yards further, you can dismount atold Morico’s cabin and I’ll hurry back and get the buggy. It can bedriven this far anyway: and it’s only a short walk from here throughthe woods. ”

So Hosmer set her down before Morico’s door: her long riding skirt, borrowed for the occasion, twisting awkwardly around her legs, andevery joint in her body aching. 

Partly by pantomimic signs interwoven with a few French words which hehad picked up within the last year, Hosmer succeeded in making himselfunderstood to the old man, and rode away leaving Fanny in his care. 

Morico fussily preceded her into the house and placed a great clumsyhome-made rocker at her disposal, into which she cast herself withevery appearance of bodily distress. He then busied himself in tidyingup the room out of deference to his guest; gathering up the scissors, waxen thread and turkey feathers which had fallen from his lap in hisdisturbance, and laying them on the table. He knocked the ashes fromhis corn-cob pipe which he now rested on a projection of the brickchimney that extended into the room and that served as mantel-piece. All the while he cast snatched glances at Fanny, who sat pale andtired. Her appearance seemed to move him to make an effort towardsrelieving it. He took a key from his pocket and unlocking a side ofthe _garde manger_, drew forth a small flask of whisky. Fanny hadclosed her eyes and was not aware of his action, till she heard him ather elbow saying in his feeble quavering voice:--

“_Tenez madame; goutez un peu: ça va vous faire du bien, _” and openingher eyes she saw that he held a glass half filled with strong “toddy”for her acceptance. 

She thrust out her hand to ward it away as though it had been areptile that menaced her with its sting. 

Morico looked nonplussed and a little abashed: but he had much faithin the healing qualities of his remedy and urged it on her anew. Shetrembled a little, and looked away with rather excited eyes. 

“_Je vous assure madame, ça ne peut pas vous faire du mal. _”

Fanny took the glass from his hand, and rising went and placed it onthe table, then walked to the open door and looked eagerly out, asthough hoping for the impossibility of her husband’s return. 

She did not seat herself again, but walked restlessly about the room, intently examining its meager details. The circuit of inspectionbringing her again to the table, she picked up Morico’s turkey fan, looking at it long and critically. When she laid it down, it was toseize the glass of “toddy” which she unhesitatingly put to her lipsand drained at a draught. All uneasiness and fatigue seemed to leaveher on the instant as though by magic. She went back to her chair andreseated herself composedly. Her eyes now rested on her old host witha certain quizzical curiosity strange to them. 

He was plainly demoralized by her presence, and still made pretense ofoccupying himself with the arrangement of the room. 

Presently she said to him: “Your remedy did me more good than I’dexpected, ” but not understanding her, he only smiled and looked at herblankly. 

She laughed good-humoredly back at him, then went to the table andpoured from the flask which he had left standing there, liquor to thedepth of two fingers, this time drinking it more deliberately. Afterthat she tried to talk to Morico and thought it very amusing that hecould not understand her. 

Presently Joçint came home and accepted her presence there veryindifferently. He went to the _garde manger_ to stay his hunger, muchas he had done on the occasion of Thérèse’s visit; talked in grumabrupt utterances to his father, and disappeared into the adjoiningroom where Fanny could hear him and occasionally see him polishing andoiling his cherished rifle. 

Morico, more accustomed to foreign sounds in the woods than she, wasthe first to detect the approach of Grégoire, whom he went outhurriedly to meet, glad of the relief from the supposed necessity ofentertaining his puzzling visitor. When he was fairly out of the room, she arose quickly, approached the table and reaching for the flask ofliquor, thrust it hastily into her pocket, then went to join him. Atthe moment that Grégoire came up, Joçint issued from a side door andstood looking at the group. 

“Well, Mrs. Hosma, yere I am. I reckon you was tired waitin’. Thebuggy’s yonda in the road. ”

He shook hands cordially with Morico saying something to him in Frenchwhich made the old man laugh heartily. 

“Why didn’t David come? I thought he said he was coming; that’s theway he does, ” said Fanny complainingly. 

“That’s a po’ compliment to me, Mrs. Hosrma. Can’t you stan’ mycompany for that li’le distance?” returned Grégoire gallantly. “Mr. Hosma had a good deal to do w’en he got back, that’s w’y he sent me. An’ we betta hurry up if we expec’ to git any suppa’ to-night. Like asnot you’ll fine your kitchen cleaned out. ”

Fanny looked her inquiry for his meaning. 

“Why, don’t you know this is ‘Tous-saint’ eve--w’en the dead git outo’ their graves an’ walk about? You wouldn’t ketch a nigga out o’ hiscabin to-night afta dark to save his soul. They all gittin’ ready nowto hustle back to the quartas. ”

“That’s nonsense, ” said Fanny, drawing on her gloves, “you ought tohave more sense than to repeat such things. ”

Grégoire laughed, looking surprised at her unusual energy of speechand manner. Then he turned to Joçint, whose presence he had thus farignored, and asked in a peremptory tone:

“W’at did Woodson say ’bout watchin’ at the mill to-night? Did you askhim like I tole you?”

“Yaas, me ax um: ee’ low ee an’ goin’. Say how Sylveste d’wan’ watchlak alluz. Say ee an’ goin’. Me don’ blem ’im neida, don’ ketch meout de ’ouse night lak dat fu no man. ”

“_Sacré imbécile_, ” muttered Grégoire, between his teeth, andvouchsafed him no other answer, but nodded to Morico and turned away. Fanny followed with a freedom of movement quite unlike that of hercoming. 

Morico went into the house and coming back hastily to the door calledto Joçint:

“Bring back that flask of whisky that you took off the table. ”

“You’re a liar: you know I have no use for whisky. That’s one of yourdamned tricks to make me buy you more. ” And he seated himself on anover-turned tub and with his small black eyes half closed, lookedmoodily out into the solemn darkening woods. The old man showed noresentment at the harshness and disrespect of his son’s speech, beingevidently used to such. He passed his hand slowly over his white longhair and turned bewildered into the house. 

“Is it just this same old thing year in and year out, Grégoire? Don’tany one ever get up a dance, or a card party or anything?”

“Jus’ as you say; the same old thing f’om one yea’s en’ to the otha. Iused to think it was putty lonesome myse’f w’en I firs’ come yere. Then you see they’s no neighbo’s right roun’ yere. In Natchitochesnow; that’s the place to have a right down good time. But see yere; Ididn’ know you was fon’ o’ dancin’ an’ such things. ”

“Why, of course, I just dearly love to dance. But it’s as much as mylife’s worth to say that before David; he’s such a stick; but I guessyou know that by this time, ” with a laugh, as he had never heard fromher before--so unconstrained; at the same time drawing nearer to himand looking merrily into his face. 

“The little lady’s been having a ‘toddy’ at Morico’s, that makes herlively, ” thought Grégoire. But the knowledge did not abash him in theleast. He accommodated himself at once to the situation with thatadaptability common to the American youth, whether of the South, North, East or West. 

“Where abouts did you leave David when you come away?” she asked witha studied indifference. 

“Hol’ on there, Buckskin--w’ere you takin’ us? W’y, I lef’ him at thesto’ mailin’ lettas. ”

“Had the others all got back? Mrs. Laferm? Melicent? did they all stopat the store, too?”

“Who? Aunt Thrérèse? no, she was up at the house w’en I lef’--I reckonMiss Melicent was there too. Talkin’ ’bout fun, --it’s to git into oneo’ them big spring wagons on a moonlight night, like they do inCentaville sometimes; jus’ packed down with young folks--and start outfur a dance up the coast. They ain’t nothin’ to beat it as fah as fungoes. ”

“It must be just jolly. I guess you’re a pretty good dancer, Grégoire?”

“Well--’taint fur me to say. But they ain’t many can out dance me: notin Natchitoches pa’ish, anyway. I can say that much. ”

If such a thing could have been, Fanny would have startled Grégoiremore than once during the drive home. Before its close she hadobtained a promise from him to take her up to Natchitoches for thevery next entertainment, --averring that she didn’t care what Davidsaid. If he wanted to bury himself that was his own look out. And ifMrs. Laferm took people to be angels that they could live in a placelike that, and give up everything and not have any kind of enjoymentout of life, why, she was mistaken and that’s all there was to it. Toall of which freely expressed views Grégoire emphatically assented. 

Hosmer had very soon disembarrassed himself of Torpedo, knowing thatthe animal would unerringly find his way to the corn crib by suppertime. He continued his own way now untrammelled, and at an agreeablespeed which soon brought him to the spring at the road side. Here hefound Thérèse, half seated against a projection of rock, in her hand abunch of ferns which she had evidently dismounted to gather, andholding Beauregard’s bridle while he munched at the cool wet tufts ofgrass that grew everywhere. 

As Hosmer rode up at a rapid pace, he swung himself from his horsealmost before the animal came to a full stop. He removed his hat, mopped his forehead, stamped about a little to relax his limbs andturned to answer the enquiry with which Thérèse met him. 

“Left her at Morico’s. I’ll have to send the buggy back for her. ”

“I can’t forgive myself for such a blunder, ” said Thérèse regretfully, “indeed I had no idea of that miserable beast’s character. I never wason him you know--only the little darkies, and they never complained:they’d as well ride cows as not. ”

“Oh, it’s mainly from her being unaccustomed to riding, I believe. ”

This was the first time that Hosmer and Thérèse had met alone sincehis return from St. Louis. They looked at each other with fullconsciousness of what lay in the other’s mind. Thérèse felt thathowever adroitly another woman might have managed the situation, forherself, it would have been a piece of affectation to completelyignore it at this moment. 

“Mr. Hosmer, perhaps I ought to have said something before this, toyou--about what you’ve done. ”

“Oh, yes, congratulated me--complimented me, ” he replied with apretense at a laugh. 

“Well, the latter, perhaps. I think we all like to have our good andright actions recognized for their worth. ”

He flushed, looked at her with a smile, then laughed out-right--thistime it was no pretense. 

“So I’ve been a good boy; have done as my mistress bade me and now I’mto receive a condescending little pat on the head--and of course mustsay thank you. Do you know, Mrs. Lafirme--and I don’t see why a womanlike you oughtn’t to know it--it’s one of those things to drive a manmad, the sweet complaisance with which women accept situations, orinflict situations that it takes the utmost of a man’s strength toendure. ”

“Well, Mr. Hosmer, ” said Thérèse plainly discomposed, “you mustconcede you decided it was the right thing to do. ”

“I didn’t do it because I thought it was right, but because youthought it was right. But that makes no difference. ”

“Then remember your wife is going to do the right thing herself--sheadmitted as much to me. ”

“Don’t you fool yourself, as Melicent says, about what Mrs. Hosmermeans to do. I take no account of it. But you take it so easily; so asa matter of course. That’s what exasperates me. That you, you, you, shouldn’t have a suspicion of the torture of it; the loathsomeness ofit. But how could you--how could any woman understand it? Oh forgiveme, Thérèse--I wouldn’t want you to. There’s no brute so brutal as aman, ” he cried, seeing the pain in her face and knowing he had causedit. “But you know you promised to help me--oh I’m talking like anidiot. ”

“And I do, ” returned Thérèse, “that is, I want to, I mean to. ”

“Then don’t tell me again that I have done right. Only look at mesometimes a little differently than you do at Hiram or the gate post. Let me once in a while see a look in your face that tells me that youunderstand--if it’s only a little bit. ”

Thérèse thought it best to interrupt the situation; so, pale andsilently she prepared to mount her horse. He came to her assistance ofcourse, and when she was seated she drew off her loose riding gloveand held out her hand to him. He pressed it gratefully, then touchedit with his lips; then turned it and kissed the half open palm. 

She did not leave him this time, but rode at his side in silence witha frown and little line of thought between her blue eyes. 

As they were nearing the store she said diffidently: “Mr. Hosmer, Iwonder if it wouldn’t be best for you to put the mill in some oneelse’s charge--and go away from Place-du-Bois. ”

“I believe you always speak with a purpose, Mrs. Lafirme: you havesomebody’s ultimate good in view, when you say that. Is it your own, or mine or whose is it?”

“Oh! not mine. ”

“I will leave Place-du-Bois, certainly, if you wish it. ”

As she looked at him she was forced to admit that she had never seenhim look as he did now. His face, usually serious, had a wholeunwritten tragedy in it. And she felt altogether sore and puzzled andexasperated over man’s problematic nature. 

“I don’t think it should be left entirely to me to say. Doesn’t yourown reason suggest a proper course in the matter?”

“My reason is utterly unable to determine anything in which you areconcerned. Mrs. Lafirme, ” he said checking his horse and laying arestraining hand on her bridle, “let me speak to you one moment. Iknow you are a woman to whom one may speak the truth. Of course, youremember that you prevailed upon me to go back to my wife. To you itseemed the right thing--to me it seemed certainly hard--but no morenor less than taking up the old unhappy routine of life, where I hadleft it when I quitted her. I reasoned much like a stupid child whothinks the colors in his kaleidoscope may fall twice into the samedesign. In place of the old, I found an entirely new situation--horrid, sickening, requiring such a strain upon my energies to live throughit, that I believe it’s an absurdity to waste so much moral force forso poor an aim--there would be more dignity in putting an end to mylife. It doesn’t make it any the more bearable to feel that the causeof this unlooked for change lies within myself--my altered feelings. But it seems to me that I have the right to ask you not to takeyourself out of my life; your moral support; your bodily atmosphere. Ihope not to give way to the weakness of speaking of these thingsagain: but before you leave me, tell me, do you understand a littlebetter why I need you?”

“Yes, I understand now; and I thank you for talking so openly to me. Don’t go away from Place-du-Bois: it would make me very wretched. ”

She said no more and he was glad of it, for her last words held almostthe force of action for him; as though she had let him feel for aninstant her heart beat against his own with an echoing pain. 

Their ways now diverged. She went in the direction of the house and heto the store where he found Grégoire, whom he sent for his wife. 

VI

One Night. 

“Grégoire was right: do you know those nasty creatures have gone andleft every speck of the supper dishes unwashed? I’ve got half a mindto give them both warning to-morrow morning. ”

Fanny had come in from the kitchen to the sitting-room, and the abovehomily was addressed to her husband who stood lighting his cigar. Hehad lately taken to smoking. 

“You’d better do nothing of the kind; you wouldn’t find it easy toreplace them. Put up a little with their vagaries: this sort of thingonly happens once a year. ”

“How do you know it won’t be something else just as ridiculousto-morrow? And that idiot of a Minervy; what do you suppose she toldme when I insisted on her staying to wash up things? She says, lastwhatever you call it, her husband wanted to act hard-headed and staidout after dark, and when he was crossing the bayou, the spirits jerkedhim off his horse and dragged him up and down in the water, till hewas nearly drowned. I don’t see what you’re laughing at; I guess you’dlike to make out that they’re in the right. ”

Hosmer was perfectly aware that Fanny had had a drink, and he rightlyguessed that Morico had given it to her. But he was at a loss toaccount for the increasing symptoms of intoxication that she showed. He tried to persuade her to go to bed; but his efforts to that endremained unheeded, till she had eased her mind of an accumulation ofgrievances, mostly fancied. He had much difficulty in preventing herfrom going over to give Melicent a piece of her mind about her loftyairs and arrogance in thinking herself better than other people. Andshe was very eager to tell Thérèse that she meant to do as she liked, and would stand no poking of noses in her business. It was a goodwhile before she fell into a heavy sleep, after shedding a few maudlintears over the conviction that he intended to leave her again, andclinging to his neck with beseeching enquiry whether he loved her. 

He went out on the veranda feeling much as if he had been wrestlingwith a strong adversary who had mastered him, and whom he was glad tobe freed of, even at the cost of coming inglorious from the conflict. The night was so dark, so hushed, that if ever the dead had wished tostep from their graves and take a stroll above ground, they could nothave found a more fitting hour. Hosmer walked very long in thesoothing quiet. He would have liked to walk the night through. Thelast three hours had been like an acute physical pain, that was overfor the moment, and that being over, left his mind free to return tothe delicious consciousness, that he had needed to be reminded of, that Thérèse loved him after all. When his measured tread upon theveranda finally ceased to mark the passing hours, a quiet that wasalmost pulseless fell upon the plantation. Place-du-Bois slept. Perhaps the only night in the year that some or other of the negroesdid not lurk in fence corners, or make exchange of nocturnal visits. 

But out in the hills there was no such unearthly stillness reigning. Those restless wood-dwellers, that never sleep, were sending startlinggruesome calls to each other. Bats were flapping and whirling anddarting hither and thither; the gliding serpent making quick rustleamid the dry, crisp leaves, and over all sounded the murmur of thegreat pine trees, telling their mystic secrets to the night. 

A human creature was there too, feeling a close fellowship with thesespirits of night and darkness; with no more fear in his heart than theunheeded serpent crossing his path. Every inch of the ground he knew. He wanted no daylight to guide him. Had his eyes been blinded he wouldno doubt have bent his body close to earth and scented his way alonglike the human hound that he was. Over his shoulder hung the polishedrifle that sent dull and sudden gleamings into the dark. A large tinpail swung from his hand. He was very careful of this pail--or itscontents, for he feared to lose a drop. And when he accidentallystruck an intervening tree and spilled some upon the ground, hemuttered a curse against his own awkwardness. 

Twice since leaving his cabin up in the clearing, he had turned todrive back his yellow skulking dog that followed him. Each time thebrute had fled in abject terror, only to come creeping again into hismaster’s footsteps, when he thought himself forgotten. Here was acompanion whom neither Joçint nor his mission required. Exasperated, he seated himself on a fallen tree and whistled softly. The dog, whohad been holding back, dashed to his side, trembling with eagerness, and striving to twist his head around to lick the hand that pattedhim. Joçint’s other hand glided quickly into his pocket, from which hedrew forth a coil of thin rope that he flung deftly over the animal’shead, drawing it close and tight about the homely, shaggy throat. Soquickly was the action done, that no sound was uttered, and Joçintcontinued his way untroubled by his old and faithful friend, whom heleft hanging to the limb of a tree. 

He was following the same path that he traversed daily to and from themill, and which soon brought him out into the level with its softtufted grass and clumps of squat thorn trees. There was no longer theprotecting wood to screen him; but of such there was no need, for thedarkness hung about him like the magic mantle of story. Nearing themill he grew cautious, creeping along with the tread of a stealthybeast, and halting at intervals to listen for sounds that he wishednot to hear. He knew there was no one on guard tonight. A movement inthe bushes near by, made him fall quick and sprawling to earth. It wasonly Grégoire’s horse munching the soft grass. Joçint drew near andlaid his hand on the horse’s back. It was hot and reeking with sweat. Here was a fact to make him more wary. Horses were not found in suchcondition from quietly grazing of a cool autumn night. He seatedhimself upon the ground, with his hands clasped about his knees, alldoubled up in a little heap, and waited there with the patience of thesavage, letting an hour go by, whilst he made no movement. 

The hour past, he stole towards the mill, and began his work ofsprinkling the contents of his pail here and there along the drytimbers at well calculated distances, with care that no drop should belost. Then, he drew together a great heap of crisp shavings andslathers, plentifully besprinkling it with what remained in the can. When he had struck a match against his rough trousers and placed itcarefully in the midst of this small pyramid, he found that he haddone his work but too surely. The quick flame sprang into life, seizing at once all it could reach. Leaping over intervals; effacingthe darkness that had shrouded him; seeming to mock him as a fool andpoint him out as a target for heaven and earth to hurl destruction atif they would. Where should he hide himself? He only thought now ofhow he might have done the deed differently, and with safety tohimself. He stood with great beams and loose planks surrounding him;quaking with a premonition of evil. He wanted to fly in one direction;then thought it best to follow the opposite; but a force outside ofhimself seemed to hold him fast to one spot. When turning suddenlyabout, he knew it was too late, he felt that all was lost, for therewas Grégoire, not twenty paces away--covering him with the muzzle of apistol and--cursed luck--his own rifle along with the empty pail inthe raging fire. 

Thérèse was passing a restless night. She had lain long awake, dwelling on the insistent thoughts that the day’s happenings had givenrise to. The sleep which finally came to her was troubled bydreams--demoniac--grotesque. Hosmer was in a danger from which she wasstriving with physical effort to rescue him, and when she dragged himpainfully from the peril that menaced him, she turned to see that itwas Fanny whom she had saved--laughing at her derisively, and Hosmerhad been left to perish. The dream was agonizing; like an appallingnightmare. She awoke in a fever of distress, and raised herself in bedto shake off the unnatural impression which such a dream can leave. The curtains were drawn aside from the window that faced her bed, andlooking out she saw a long tongue of flame, reaching far up into thesky--away over the tree tops and the whole Southern horizon a glow. She knew at once that the mill was burning, and it was the affair of amoment with her to spring from her bed and don slippers and wrapper. She knocked on Melicent’s door to acquaint her with the startlingnews; then hurried out into the back yard and rang the plantationbell. 

Next she was at the cottage rousing Hosmer. But the alarm of the bellhad already awakened him, and he was dressed and out on the porchalmost as soon as Thérèse had called. Melicent joined them, highlyagitated, and prepared to contribute her share towards any scene thatmight be going forward. But she found little encouragement for heroicswith Hosmer. In saddling his horse rather hastily he was as unmoved asthough preparing for an uneventful morning canter. He stood at thefoot of the stairs preparing to mount when Grégoire rode up as ifpursued by furies; checking his horse with a quick, violent wrenchthat set it quivering in its taut limbs. 

“Well, ” said Hosmer, “I guess it’s done for. How did it happen? whodid it?”

“Joçint’s work, ” answered Grégoire bitingly. 

“The damned scoundrel, ” muttered Hosmer, “where is he?”

“Don’ botha ’bout Joçint; he ain’t goin’ to set no mo’ mill afire, ”saying which, he turned his horse and the two rode furiously away. 

Melicent grasped Thérèse’s arm convulsively. 

“What does he mean?” she asked in a frightened whisper. 

“I--I don’t know, ” Thérèse faltered. She had clasped her handsspasmodically together, at Grégoire’s words, trembling with horror ofwhat must be their meaning. 

“May be he arrested him, ” suggested the girl. 

“I hope so. Come; let’s go to bed: there’s no use staying out here inthe cold and dark. ”

Hosmer had left the sitting-room door open, and Thérèse entered. Sheapproached Fanny’s door and knocked twice: not brusquely, butsufficiently loud to be heard from within, by any one who was awake. No answer came, and she went away, knowing that Fanny slept. 

The unusual sound of the bell, ringing two hours past midnight--thatvery deadest hour of the night--had roused the whole plantation. Onall sides squads of men and a few venturesome women were hurryingtowards the fire; the dread of supernatural encounters overcome forthe moment by such strong reality and by the confidence lent them ineach other’s company. 

There were many already gathered around the mill, when Grégoire andHosmer reached it. All effort to save anything had been abandoned asuseless. The books and valuables had been removed from the office. Thefew householders--mill-hands--whose homes were close by, had carriedtheir scant belongings to places of safety, but everything else wasgiven over to the devouring flames. 

The heat from this big raging fire was intense, and had driven most ofthe gaping spectators gradually back--almost into the woods. Butthere, to one side, where the fire was rapidly gaining, and makingitself already uncomfortably felt, stood a small awe-stricken grouptalking in whispers; their ignorance and superstition making themirresolute to lay a hand upon the dead Joçint. His body lay amongstthe heavy timbers, across a huge beam, with arms outstretched and headhanging down upon the ground. The glazed eyes were staring up into thered sky, and on his swarthy visage was yet the horror which had comethere, when he looked in the face of death. 

“In God’s name, what are you doing?” cried Hosmer. “Can’t some of youcarry that boy’s body to a place of safety?”

Grégoire had followed, and was looking down indifferently at the dead. “Come, len’ a han’ there; this is gittin’ too durn hot, ” he said, stooping to raise the lifeless form. Hosmer was preparing to help him. But there was some one staggering through the crowd; pushing men toright and left. With now a hand upon the breast of both Hosmer andGrégoire, and thrusting them with such force and violence, as to laythem prone amongst the timbers. It was the father. It was old Morico. He had awakened in the night and missed his boy. He had seen the fire;indeed close enough that he could hear its roaring; and he kneweverything. The whole story was plain to him as if it had been told bya revealing angel. The strength of his youth had come back to speedhim over the ground. 

“Murderers!” he cried looking about him with hate in his face. He didnot know who had done it; no one knew yet, and he saw in every man helooked upon the possible slayer of his child. 

So here he stood over the prostrate figure; his old gray jeans hangingloosely about him; wild eyed--with bare head clasped between hisclaw-like hands, which the white disheveled hair swept over. Hosmerapproached again, offering gently to help him carry his son away. 

“Stand back, ” he hurled at him. But he had understood the offer. Hisboy must not be left to burn like a log of wood. He bent down andstrove to lift the heavy body, but the effort was beyond his strength. Seeing this he stooped again and this time grasped it beneath thearms; then slowly, draggingly, with halting step, began to movebackward. 

The fire claimed no more attention. All eyes were fastened upon thisweird picture; a sight which moved the most callous to offer again andagain assistance, that was each time spurned with an added defiance. 

Hosmer stood looking on, with folded arms; moved by the grandeur andmajesty of the scene. The devouring element, loosed in its awfulrecklessness there in the heart of this lonely forest. The motleygroup of black and white standing out in the great red light, powerless to do more than wait and watch. But more was he stirred tothe depths of his being, by the sight of this human tragedy enactedbefore his eyes. 

Once, the old man stops in his backward journey. Will he give over?has his strength deserted him? is the thought that seizes everyon-looker. But no--with renewed effort he begins again his slowretreat, till at last a sigh of relief comes from the whole watchingmultitude. Morico with his burden has reached a spot of safety. Whatwill he do next? They watch in breathless suspense. But Morico doesnothing. He only stands immovable as a carved image. Suddenly there isa cry that reaches far above the roar of fire and crash of fallingtimbers: “_Mon fils! mon garçon!_” and the old man totters and fallsbackward to earth, still clinging to the lifeless body of his son. Allhasten towards him. Hosmer reaches him first. And when he gently liftsthe dead Joçint, the father this time makes no hinderance, for he toohas gone beyond the knowledge of all earthly happenings. 

VII

Melicent Leaves Place-du-Bois. 

There had been no witness to the killing of Joçint; but there were fewwho did not recognize Grégoire’s hand in the affair. When met with theaccusation, he denied it, or acknowledged it, or evaded the chargewith a jest, as he felt for the moment inclined. It was a deedcharacteristic of any one of the Santien boys, and if not altogetherlaudable--Joçint having been at the time of the shooting unarmed--yetwas it thought in a measure justified by the heinousness of hisoffense, and beyond dispute, a benefit to the community. 

Hosmer reserved the expression of his opinion. The occurrence onceover, with the emotions which it had awakened, he was inclined to lookat it from one of those philosophic stand-points of his friendHomeyer. Heredity and pathology had to be considered in relation withthe slayer’s character. He saw in it one of those interesting problemsof human existence that are ever turning up for man’s contemplation, but hardly for the exercise of man’s individual judgment. He wasconscious of an inward repulsion which this action of Grégoire’sawakened in him, --much the same as a feeling of disgust for an animalwhose instinct drives it to the doing of violent deeds, --yet he madeno difference in his manner towards him. 

Thérèse was deeply distressed over this double tragedy: feeling keenlythe unhappy ending of old Morico. But her chief sorrow came from thecallousness of Grégoire, whom she could not move even to an avowal ofregret. He could not understand that he should receive any thing butpraise for having rid the community of so offensive and dangerous apersonage as Joçint; and seemed utterly blind to the moral aspect ofhis deed. 

An event at once so exciting and dramatic as this conflagration, withthe attendant deaths of Morico and his son, was much discussed amongstthe negroes. They were a good deal of one opinion in regard to Joçinthaving been only properly served in getting “w’at he done ben lookin’fu’ dis long time. ” Grégoire was rather looked upon as a cleverinstrument in the Lord’s service; and the occurrence pointed a moralwhich they were not likely to forget. 

The burning of the mill entailed much work upon Hosmer, to which heturned with a zest--an absorption that for the time excludedeverything else. 

Melicent had shunned Grégoire since the shooting. She had avoidedspeaking with him--even looking at him. During the turmoil whichclosely followed upon the tragic event, this change in the girl hadescaped his notice. On the next day he suspected it only. But thethird day brought him the terrible conviction. He did not know thatshe was making preparations to leave for St. Louis, and quiteaccidentally overheard Hosmer giving an order to one of the unemployedmill hands to call for her baggage on the following morning beforetrain time. 

As much as he had expected her departure, and looked painfully forwardto it, this certainty--that she was leaving on the morrow and withouta word to him--bewildered him. He abandoned at once the work that wasoccupying him. 

“I didn’ know Miss Melicent was goin’ away to-morrow, ” he said in astrange pleading voice to Hosmer. 

“Why, yes, ” Hosmer answered, “I thought you knew. She’s been talkingabout it for a couple of days. ”

“No, I didn’ know nothin’ ’tall ’bout it, ” he said, turning away andreaching for his hat, but with such nerveless hand that he almostdropped it before placing it on his head. 

“If you’re going to the house, ” Hosmer called after him, “tellMelicent that Woodson won’t go for her trunks before morning. Shethought she’d need to have them ready to-night. ”

“Yes, if I go to the house. I don’ know if I’m goin’ to the house ornot, ” he replied, walking listlessly away. 

Hosmer looked after the young man, and thought of him for a moment: ofhis soft voice and gentle manner--perplexed that he should be the samewho had expressed in confidence the single regret that he had not beenable to kill Joçint more than once. 

Grégoire went directly to the house, and approached that end of theveranda on which Melicent’s room opened. A trunk had already beenpacked and fastened and stood outside, just beneath the low-silledwindow that was open. Within the room, and also beneath the window, was another trunk, before which Melicent kneeled, filling it more orless systematically from an abundance of woman’s toggery that lay in acumbrous heap on the floor beside her. Grégoire stopped at the windowto tell her, with a sad attempt at indifference:

“Yo’ brotha says don’t hurry packin’; Woodson ain’t goin’ to come furyour trunks tell mornin’. ”

“All right, thank you, ” glancing towards him for an instant carelesslyand going on with her work. 

“I didn’ know you was goin’ away. ”

“That’s absurd: you knew all along I was going away, ” she returned, with countenance as expressionless as feminine subtlety could make it. 

“W’y don’t you let somebody else do that? Can’t you come out yere aw’ile?”

“No, I prefer doing it myself; and I don’t care to go out. ”

What could he do? what could he say? There were no convenient depthsin his mind from which he might draw at will, apt and telling speechesto taunt her with. His heart was swelling and choking him, at sight ofthe eyes that looked anywhere, but in his own; at sight of the lipsthat he had one time kissed, pressed into an icy silence. She went onwith her task of packing, unmoved. He stood a while longer, silentlywatching her, his hat in his hands that were clasped behind him, and astupor of grief holding him vise-like. Then he walked away. He feltsomewhat as he remembered to have felt oftentimes as a boy, when illand suffering, his mother would put him to bed and send him a cup ofbouillon perhaps, and a little negro to sit beside him. It seemed verycruel to him now that some one should not do something for him--thathe should be left to suffer this way. He walked across the lawn overto the cottage, where he saw Fanny pacing slowly up and down theporch. 

She saw him approach and stood in a patch of sunlight to wait for him. He really had nothing to say to her as he stood grasping two of thebalustrades and looking up at her. He wanted somebody to talk to himabout Melicent. 

“Did you know Miss Melicent was goin’ away?”

Had it been Hosmer or Thérèse asking her the question she would havereplied simply “yes, ” but to Grégoire she said “yes; thank Goodness, ”as frankly as though she had been speaking to Belle Worthington. “Idon’t see what’s kept her down here all this time, anyway. ”

“You don’t like her?” he asked, stupefied at the strange possibilityof any one not loving Melicent to distraction. 

“No. You wouldn’t either, if you knew her as well as I do. If shelikes a person she goes on like a lunatic over them as long as itlasts; then good-bye John! she’ll throw them aside as she would an olddress. ”

“Oh, I believe she thinks a heap of Aunt Thérèse. ”

“All right; you’ll see how much she thinks of Aunt Thérèse. And thepeople she’s been engaged to! There ain’t a worse flirt in the city ofSt. Louis; and always some excuse or other to break it off at the lastminute. I haven’t got any use for her, Lord knows. There ain’t muchlove lost between us. ”

“Well, I reckon she knows they ain’t anybody born, good enough furher?” he said, thinking of those engagements that she had shattered. 

“What was David doing?” Fanny asked abruptly. 

“Writin’ lettas at the sto’. ”

“Did he say when he was coming?”

“No. ”

“Do you guess he’ll come pretty soon?”

“No, I reckon not fur a good w’ile. ”

“Is Melicent with Mrs. Laferm?”

“No; she’s packin’ her things. ”

“I guess I’ll go sit with Mrs. Laferm, d’you think she’ll mind?”

“No, she’ll be glad to have you. ”

Fanny crossed over to go join Thérèse. She liked to be with her whenthere was no danger of interruption from Melicent, and Grégoire wentwandering aimlessly about the plantation. 

He staked great hopes on what the night might bring for him. She wouldmelt, perhaps, to the extent of a smile or one of her old glances. Hewas almost cheerful when he seated himself at table; only he and hisaunt and Melicent. He had never seen her look so handsome as now, in awoolen gown that she had not worn before, of warm rich tint, thatbrought out a certain regal splendor that he had not suspected in her. A something that she seemed to have held in reserve till this finalmoment. But she had nothing for him--nothing. All her conversation wasaddressed to Thérèse; and she hurried away from table at the close ofthe meal, under pretext of completing her arrangements for departure. 

“Doesn’t she mean to speak to me?” he asked fiercely of Thérèse. 

“Oh, Grégoire, I see so much trouble around me; so many sad mistakes, and I feel so powerless to right them; as if my hands were tied. Ican’t help you in this; not now. But let me help you in other ways. Will you listen to me?”

“If you want to help me, Aunt, ” he said stabbing his fork into a pieceof bread before him, “go and ask her if she doesn’t mean to talk tome: if she won’t come out on the gallery a minute. ”

“Grégoire wants to know if you won’t go out and speak to him a moment, Melicent, ” said Thérèse entering the girl’s room. “Do as you wish, ofcourse. But remember you are going away to-morrow; you’ll likely neversee him again. A friendly word from you now, may do more good than youimagine. I believe he’s as unhappy at this moment as a creature canbe!”

Melicent looked at her horrified. “I don’t understand you at all, Mrs. Lafirme. Think what he’s done; murdered a defenseless man! How can youhave him near you--seated at your table? I don’t know what nerves youhave in your bodies, you and David. There’s David, hobnobbing withhim. Even that Fanny talking to him as if he were blameless. Never! Ifhe were dying I wouldn’t go near him. ”

“Haven’t you a spark of humanity in you?” asked Thérèse, flushingviolently. 

“Oh, this is something physical, ” she replied, shivering, “let mealone. ”

Thérèse went out to Grégoire, who stood waiting on the veranda. Sheonly took his hand and pressed it telling him good-night, and he knewthat it was a dismissal. 

There may be lovers, who, under the circumstances, would have feltsufficient pride to refrain from going to the depôt on the followingmorning, but Grégoire was not one of them. He was there. He who only aweek before had thought that nothing but her constant presence couldreconcile him with life, had narrowed down the conditions for hislife’s happiness now to a glance or a kind word. He stood close to thesteps of the Pullman car that she was about to enter, and as shepassed him he held out his hand, saying “Good-bye. ” But he held hishand to no purpose. She was much occupied in taking her valise fromthe conductor who had hoisted her up, and who was now shouting instentorian tones “All aboard, ” though there was not a soul with theslightest intention of boarding the train but herself. 

She leaned forward to wave good-bye to Hosmer, and Fanny, and Thérèse, who were on the platform; then she was gone. 

Grégoire stood looking stupidly at the vanishing train. 

“Are you going back with us?” Hosmer asked him. Fanny and Thérèse hadwalked ahead. 

“No, ” he replied, looking at Hosmer with ashen face, “I got to go finemy hoss. ”

VIII

With Loose Rein. 

“De Lord be praised fu’ de blessin’s dat he showers down ’pon us, ” wasUncle Hiram’s graceful conclusion of his supper, after which he pushedhis empty plate aside regretfully, and addressed Aunt Belindy. “ ’Pears to me, Belindy, as you reached a pint wid dem bacon an’ greensto-night, dat you never tetched befo’. De pint o’ de flavorin’ is w’atI alludes to. ”

“All de same, dat ain’t gwine to fetch no mo’, ” was the rather uncivilreply to this neat compliment to her culinary powers. 

“Dah!” cried the youthful Betsy, who formed one of the trio gatheredtogether in the kitchen at Place-du-Bois. “Jis listen (to) Unc’ Hiurm!Aunt B’lindy neva tetched a han’ to dem bacon an’ greens. She tole meout o’ her own mouf to put’em on de fiar; she warn’t gwine pesta wid’em. ”

“Warn’t gwine pesta wid ’em?” administering a cuff on the ear of thetoo communicative Betsy, that sent her sprawling across the table. “T’inks I’se gwine pesta wid you--does you? Messin’ roun’ heah in dekitchin’ an’ ain’t tu’ned down a bed or drawed a bah, or done a licko’ yo’ night wurk yit. ”

“I is done my night wurk, too, ” returned Betsy whimpering butdefiantly, as she retreated beyond reach of further blows from AuntBelindy’s powerful right hand. 

“Dat harshness o’ yourn, Belindy, is wat’s a sourin’ yo’ tempa, an’ aturnin’ of it intur gall an’ wormwood. Does you know wat de Scripturetells us of de wrathful woman?”

“Whar I got time to go a foolin’ wid Scripture? W’at I wants to know;whar dat Pierson boy, he don’t come. He ben gone time ’nough to walkto Natch’toches an’ back. ”

“Ain’t dat him I years yonda tu de crib?” suggestod Betsy, coming tojoin Aunt Belindy in the open doorway. 

“You heahs mos’ too much fu’ yo’ own good, you does, gal. ”

But Betsy was right. For soon a tall, slim negro, young and coalblack, mounted the stairs and came into the kitchen, where hedeposited a meal bag filled with various necessities that he hadbrought from Centerville. He was one of the dancers who had displayedtheir skill before Melicent and Grégoire. Uncle Hiram at once accostedhim. 

“Well, Pierson, we jest a ben a wonderin’ consarnin’ you. W’at was de’casion o’ dat long delay?”

“De ’casion? W’y man alive, I couldn’t git a dog gone soul in de townto wait on me. ”

“Dat boy kin lie, yas, ” said Aunt Belindy, “God A’mighty knows evertime I ben to Centaville dem sto’ keepas ain’t done a blessed t’ingbut settin’ down. ”

“Settin’ down--Lord! dey warn’t settin’ down to-day; you heah me. ”

“W’at dey doin’ ef dey ain’t settin’ down, Unc’ Pierson?” asked Betsywith amiable curiosity. 

“You jis drap dat ‘uncle, ’ you, ” turning wrathfully upon the girl, “sence w’en you start dat new trick?”

“Lef de chile ’lone, Pierson, lef ’er alone. Come heah, Betsy, an’ setby yo’ Uncle Hiurm. ”

From the encouraging nearness of Uncle Hiram, she ventured to ask“w’at you ’low dey doin’ ef dey ain’t settin’ down?” this time withoutadding the offensive title. 

“Dey flyin’ ’roun’, Lord! dey hidin’ dey sef! dey gittin’ out o’ deway, I tell you. Grégor jis ben a raisin’ ole Cain in Centaville. ”

“I know’d it; could a’ tole you dat mese’f. My Lan’! but dats a piece, dat Grégor, ” Aunt Belindy enunciated between paroxysms of laughter, seating herself with her fat arms resting on her knees, and her wholebearing announcing pleased anticipation. 

“Dat boy neva did have no car’ fur de salvation o’ his soul, ” groanedUncle Hiram. 

“W’at he ben a doin’ yonda?” demanded Aunt Belindy impatiently. 

“Well, ” said Pierson, assuming a declamatory air and position in themiddle of the large kitchen, “he lef’ heah--w’at time he lef heah, Aunt B’lindy?”

“He done lef’ fo’ dinna, ’caze I seed ’im a lopin’ to’ads de riva, time I flung dat Sampson boy out o’ de doo’, bringin’ dem greens inheah ’dout washin’ of ’em. ”

“Dat’s so; it war good dinna time w’en he come a lopin’ in town. Dathoss look like he ben swimmin’ in Cane Riva, he done ride him so hard. He fling he se’f down front o’ Grammont’s sto’ an’ he come a stompin’in, look like gwine hu’t somebody. Ole Grammont tell him, ‘How youcome on, Grégor? Come ova tu de house an’ eat dinna wid us: de ladiesbe pleas tu see you. ’ ”

“Humph, ” muttered Aunt Belindy, “dem Grammont gals be glad to see anyt’ing dat got breeches on; lef ’lone good lookin’ piece like datGrégor. ”

“Grégor, he neva sey, ‘Tank you dog, ’ jis’ fling he big dolla down onde counta an’ ’low ‘don’t want no dinna: gimme some w’iskey. ’ ”

“Yas, yas, Lord, ” from Aunt Belindy. 

“Ole Grammont, he push de bottle to’ads ’im, an’ I ’clar to Goodnessef he didn’ mos fill dat tumbla to de brim, an’ drink it down, nevablink a eye. Den he tu’n an treat ev’y las’ w’ite man stan’in’ roun’;dat ole kiarpenta man; de blacksmif; Marse Verdon. He keep on atreatin’; Grammont, he keep a handin’ out de w’iskey; Grégor he keepon a drinkin’ an a treatin’--Grammont, he keep a handin’ out; don’tmake no odds tu him s’long uz dat bring de money in de draw. I ben astan’in’ out on de gallery, me, a peekin’ in. An’ Grégor, he cuss andswar an’ he kiarry on, an ’low he want play game poka. Den dey allgoes a trompin’ in de back room an’ sets down roun’ de table, an’ Icomes a creepin’ in, me, whar I kin look frough de doo’, an dar deysets an’ plays an Grégor, he drinks w’iskey an’ he wins de money. An’arta w’ile Marse Verdon, he little eyes blinkin’, he ’low’, ‘y’ allhad a shootin’ down tu Place-du-Bois, _hein_ Grégor?’ Grégor, he nevasay nuttin’: he jis’ draw he pistol slow out o’ he pocket an’ lay itdown on de table; an’ he look squar in Marse Verdon eyes. Man! ef youeva seed some pussun tu’n’ w’ite!”

“Reckon dat heifa ‘Milky’ look black side li’le Verdon dat time, ”chuckled Aunt Belindy. 

“Jis’ uz w’ite uz Unc’ Hiurm’s shurt an’ a trimblin’, an’ neva say nomo’ ’bout shootin’. Den ole Grammont, he kine o’ hang back an’ say, ‘You git de jestice de peace, ’hine you, kiarrin’ conceal’ weepons data-way, Grégor. ’ ”

“Dat ole Grammont, he got to git he gab in ef he gwine die fu’ it, ”interrupted Aunt Belindy. 

“Grégor say--‘I don’t ’lows to kiarr no conceal’ weepons, ’ an he drawnudda pistol slow out o’ he udda pocket an’ lay et on de table. By dattime he gittin’ all de money, he crammin’ de money in he pocket; an’dem fellas dey gits up one arta d’udda kine o’ shy-like, an’ sneaksout. Den Grégor, he git up an come out o’ de room, he coat ’crost hearm, an’ de pistols a stickin’ out an him lookin’ sassy tell ev’y bodymake way, same ef he ben Jay Goul’. Ef he look one o’ ’em in de eyedey outs wid, ‘Howdy, Grégor--how you come on, Grégor?’ jis’ uz peliteuz a peacock, an’ him neva take no trouble to yansa ’em. He jis’ hollaout fu’ somebody bring dat hoss tu de steps, an’ him stan’in’ ’s biguz life, waitin’. I gits tu de hoss fus’, me, an’ leads ’im up, an’ hegits top dat hoss stidy like he ain’t tetch a drap, an’ he fling mebig dolla. ”

“Whar de dolla, Mista Pierson?” enquired Betsy. 

“De dolla in my pocket, an’ et gwine stay dah. Didn’ ax you fu’ no‘Mista Pierson. ’ Whar yu’ all tink he went on dat hoss?”

“How you reckon we knows whar he wint; we wasn’t dah, ” replied AuntBelindy. 

“He jis’ went a lopin’ twenty yards down to Chartrand’s sto’. I goeson ’hine ’im see w’at he gwine do. Dah he git down f’um de hoss an’ goa stompin’ in de sto’--eve’ybody stan’in’ back jis’ same like fu’ JayGoul’, an’ he fling bill down on de counta an’ ’low, ‘Fill me up abottle, Chartrand, I’se gwine travelin’. ’ Den he ’lows, ‘You treatseve’y las’ man roun’ heah at my ’spence, black an’ w’ite--nuttin’ fu’me, ’ an’ he fole he arms an’ lean back on de counta, jis’ so. Chartrand, he look skeerd, he say ‘François gwine wait on you. ’ ButGrégor, he ’low he don’t wants no rusty skileton a waitin’ on him w’enhe treat, ‘Wait on de gemmen yo’se’f--step up gemmen. ’ Chartrand ’low, ‘Damn ef nigga gwine drink wid w’ite man in dat sto’, ’ all same hekine git ’hine box tu say dat. ”

“Lord, Lord, de ways o’ de transgressor!” groaned Uncle Hiram. 

“You want to see dem niggas sneaking ’way, ” resumed Pierson, “deyknows Grégor gwine fo’ce ’em drink; dey knows Chartrand gwine make ithot fu’ ’em art’ards ef dey does. Grégor he spie me jis’ I’se tryin’glide frough de doo’ an he call out, ‘Yonda a gemmen f’umPlace-du-Bois; Pierson, come heah; you’se good ’nough tu drink wid anyw’ite man, ’cept me; you come heah, take drink wid Mr. LouisChartrand. ’

“I ’lows don’t wants no drink, much ’bleege, Marse Grégor’. ‘Yis, youwants drink, ’ an’ ’id dat he draws he pistol. ‘Mista Chartrand wantdrink, too. I done owe Mista Chartrand somethin’ dis long time; I’segwine pay ’im wid a treat, ’ he say. Chartrand look like he on fiar, heso red, he so mad, he swell up same like ole bull frog. ”

“Dat make no odd, ” chuckled Aunt Belindy, “he gwine drink wid nigga efGrégor say so. ”

“Yes, he drink, Lord, only he cuss me slow, an’ ’low he gwine break myskull. ”

“Lordy! I knows you was jis’ a trimblin’, Mista Pierson. ”

“Warn’t trimblin’ no mo’ ’en I’se trimblin’ dis minute, an’ you drapdat ‘Mista. ’ Den w’at you reckon? Yonda come Père Antoine; he come an’stan’ in de doo’ an’ he hole up he han’; look like he ain’t ’feard nobody an’ he ’low: ‘Grégor Sanchun, how is you dar’ come in dis heahpeaceful town frowin’ of it into disorda an’ confusion? Ef you isn’t’feard o’ man; hasn’t you got no fear o’ God A’mighty wat punishes?’ ”

“Grégor, he look at ’im an’ he say cool like, ‘Howdy, Père Antoine;how you come on?’ He got he pistol w’at he draw fu’ make Chartranddrink wid dis heah nigga, --he foolin’ wid it an’ a rubbin’ it up anddown he pants, an’ he ’low ‘Dis a gemmen w’at fit to drink wid aSanchun--w’at’ll you have?’ But Père Antoine, he go on makin’ a su’monsame like he make in chu’ch, an’ Grégor, he lean he two arm back on decounta--kine o’ smilin’ like, an’ he say, ‘Chartrand, whar dat bottleI orda you put up?’ Chartrand bring de bottle; Grégor, he put debottle in he coat pocket wat hang on he arm--car’ful. 

"Père Antoine, he go on preachin’, he say, ‘I tell you dis young man, you ’se on de big road w’at leads tu hell. ’

“Den Grégor straight he se’f up an’ walk close to Père Antoine an’ hesay, ‘Hell an’ damnation dar ain’t no sich a place. I reckon she know;w’at you know side o’ her. She say dar ain’t no hell, an’ ef you an’de Archbishop an’ de Angel Gabriel come along an’ ’low dey a hell, youall liars, ’ an’ he say, ‘Make way dah, I’se a gittin’ out o’ heah; disain’t no town fittin’ to hol’ a Sanchun. Make way ef you don’ wants togo to Kingdom come fo’ yo’ time. ’

“Well, I ’lows dey did make way. Only Père Antoine, he look mightysorry an’ down cas’. 

“Grégor go out dat sto’ taking plenty room, an’ walkin’ car’ful like, an’ he swing he se’f on de hoss; den he lean down mos’ flat an’ stickhe spurs in dat hoss an’ he go tar’in’ like de win’ down street, outo’ de town, a firin’ he pistol up in de a’r. ”

Uncle Hiram had listened to the foregoing recital with troubledcountenance, and with many a protesting groan. He now shook his oldwhite head, and heaved a deep sigh. “All dat gwine come hard an’ heavyon de madam. She don’t desarve it--God knows, she don’t desarve it. ”

“How you, ole like you is, kin look fu’ somethin’ diffunt, Unc’Hiurm?” observed Aunt Belindy philosophically. “Don’t you know Grégorgwine be Grégor tell he die? Dat’s all dar is ’bout it. ”

Betsy arose with the sudden recollection that she had let the timepass for bringing in Miss Thérèse’s hot water, and Pierson went to thestove to see what Aunt Belindy had reserved for him in the shape ofsupper. 

IX

The Reason Why. 

Sampson, the young colored boy who had lighted Fanny’s fire on thefirst day of her arrival at Place-du-Bois, and who had made suchinsinuating advances of friendliness towards her, had continued toattract her notice and good will. He it was who lighted her fires onsuch mornings as they were needed. For there had been no winter. Inmid-January, the grass was fresh and green; trees and plants wereputting forth tender shoots, as if in welcome to spring; roses wereblossoming, and it was a veritable atmosphere of Havana rather than ofcentral Louisiana that the dwellers at Place-du-Bois were enjoying. But finally winter made tardy assertion of its rights. One morningbroke raw and black with an icy rain falling, and young Sampsonarriving in the early bleakness to attend to his duties at thecottage, presented a picture of human distress to move the mosthardened to pity. Though dressed comfortably in the clothing withwhich Fanny had apparelled him--he was ashen. Save for the chatteringof his teeth, his body seemed possessed of a paralytic inability tomove. He knelt before the empty fire-place as he had done on thatfirst day, and with deep sighs and groans went about his work. Then heremained long before the warmth that he had kindled; even lying fulllength upon the soft rug, to bask in the generous heat that permeatedand seemed to thaw his stiffened limbs. 

Next, he went quietly into the bedroom to attend to the fire there. Hosmer and Fanny were still sleeping. He approached a decorated basketthat hung against the wall; a receptacle for old newspapers and oddsand ends. He drew something from his rather capacious coat pocket, and, satisfying himself that Hosmer slept, thrust it in the bottom ofthe basket, well covered by the nondescript accumulation that wasthere. 

The house was very warm and cheerful when they arose, and afterbreakfasting Hosmer felt unusually reluctant to quit his fire-side andface the inclement day; for an unaccustomed fatigue hung upon hislimbs and his body was sore, as from the effect of bruises. But hewent, nevertheless, well encased in protective rubber; and as heturned away from the house, Fanny hastened to the hanging basket, andfumbling nervously in its depths, found what the complaisant Sampsonhad left for her. 

The cold rain had gradually changed into a fine mist, that indescending, spread an icy coat upon every object that it touched. WhenHosmer returned at noon, he did not leave the house again. 

During the afternoon Thérèse knocked at Fanny’s door. She wasenveloped in a long hooded cloak, her face glowing from contact withthe sharp moist air, and myriad crystal drops clinging to her fluffyblonde hair that looked very golden under the dark hood that coveredit. She wanted to learn how Fanny accepted this unpleasant change ofatmospheric conditions, intending to bear her company for theremainder of the day if she found her depressed, as was often thecase. 

“Why, I didn’t know you were home, ” she said, a little startled, toHosmer who opened the door to her. “I came over to show Mrs. Hosmersomething pretty that I don’t suppose she ever saw before. ” It was abranch from a rose-tree, bearing two open blossoms and a multitude ofbuds, creamy pink, all encased in an icy transparency that gleamedlike diamonds. “Isn’t it exquisite?” she said, holding the spray upfor Fanny’s admiration. But she saw at a glance that the spirit ofDisorder had descended and settled upon the Hosmer household. 

The usually neat room was in a sad state of confusion. Some of thepictures had been taken from the walls, and were leaning here andthere against chairs and tables. The mantel ornaments had been removedand deposited at random and in groups about the room. On the hearthwas a pail of water in which swam a huge sponge; and Fanny sat besidethe center-table that was piled with her husband’s wearing apparel, holding in her lap a coat which she had evidently been passing underinspection. Her hair had escaped from its fastenings; her collar washooked awry; her face was flushed and her whole bearing indicated hercondition. 

Hosmer took the frozen spray from Thérèse’s hand, and spoke a littleabout the beauty of the trees, especially the young cedars that he hadpassed out in the hills on his way home. 

“It’s all well and good to talk about flowers and things, Mrs. Laferm--sit down please--but when a person’s got the job that I’ve goton my hands, she’s something else to think about. And David heresmoking one cigar after another. He knows all I’ve got to do, and goesand sends those darkies home right after dinner. ”

Thérèse was so shocked that for a while she could say nothing; tillfor Hosmer’s sake she made a quick effort to appear at ease. 

“What have you to do, Mrs. Hosmer? Let me help you, I can give you thewhole afternoon, ” she said with an appearance of being ready for anything that was at hand to be done. 

Fanny turned the coat over in her lap, and looked down helplessly at astain on the collar, that she had been endeavoring to remove; at thesame time pushing aside with patient repetition the wisp of hair thatkept falling over her cheek. 

“Belle Worthington’ll be here before we know it; her and her husbandand that Lucilla of hers. David knows how Belle Worthington is, justas well as I do; there’s no use saying he don’t. If she was to see aspeck of dirt in this house or on David’s clothes, or anything, whywe’d never hear the last of it. I got a letter from her, ” shecontinued, letting the coat fall to the floor, whilst she endeavoredto find her pocket. 

“Is she coming to visit you?” asked Thérèse who had taken up a featherbrush, and was dusting and replacing the various ornaments that werescattered through the room. 

“She’s going down to Muddy Graw (Mardi-Gras) her and her husband andLucilla and she’s going to stop here a while. I had that letter--Iguess I must of left it in the other room. ”

“Never mind, ” Thérèse hastened to say, seeing that her whole energieswere centered on finding the letter. 

“Let me look, ” said Hosmer, making a movement towards the bedroomdoor, but Fanny had arisen and holding out a hand to detain him shewent into the room herself, saying she knew where she’d left it. 

“Is this the reason you’ve kept yourself shut up here in the house sooften?” Thérèse asked of Hosmer, drawing near him. “Never telling me aword of it, ” she went on, “it wasn’t right; it wasn’t kind. ”

“Why should I have put any extra burden on you?” he answered, lookingdown at her, and feeling a joy in her presence there, that seemed likea guilty indulgence in face of his domestic shame. 

“Don’t stay, ” Thérèse said. “Leave me here. Go to your office or overto the house--leave me alone with her. ”

Fanny returned, having found the letter, and spoke with increasedvehemence of the necessity of having the house in perfect trim againstthe arrival of Belle Worthington, from whom they would never hear thelast, and so forth. 

“Well, your husband is going out, and that will give us a chance toget things righted, ” said Thérèse encouragingly. “You know men arealways in the way at such times. ”

“It’s what he ought to done before; and left Suze and Minervy here, ”she replied with grudging acquiescence. 

After repeated visits to the bedroom, under various pretexts, Fannygrew utterly incapable to do more than sit and gaze stupidly atThérèse, who busied herself in bringing the confusion of thesitting-room into some order. 

She continued to talk disjointedly of Belle Worthington and her wellknown tyrannical characteristics in regard to cleanliness; finishingby weeping mildly at the prospect of her own inability to ever reachthe high standard required by her exacting friend. 

It was far in the afternoon--verging upon night, when Thérèsesucceeded in persuading her that she was ill and should go to bed. Shegladly seized upon the suggestion of illness; assuring Thérèse thatshe alone had guessed her affliction: that whatever was thoughtsingular in her behavior must be explained by that sickness which waspast being guessed at--then she went to bed. 

It was late when Hosmer left his office; a rough temporary shanty, puttogether near the ruined mill. 

He started out slowly on his long cold ride. His physical malaise ofthe morning had augmented as the day went on, and he was beginning toadmit to himself that he was “in for it. ”

But the cheerless ride was lightened by a picture that had been withhim through the afternoon, and that moved him in his whole being, asthe moment approached when it might be changed to reality. He knewFanny’s habits; knew that she would be sleeping now. Thérèse would notleave her there alone in the house--of that he was sure. And hepictured Thérèse at this moment seated at his fire-side. He would findher there when he entered. His heart beat tumultuously at the thought. It was a very weak moment with him, possibly, one in which hisunnerved condition stood for some account. But he felt that when hesaw her there, waiting for him, he would cast himself at her feet andkiss them. He would crush her white hands against his bosom. He wouldbury his face in her silken hair. She should know how strong his lovewas, and he would hold her in his arms till she yield back tendernessto his own. But--Thérèse met him on the steps. As he was mountingthem, she was descending; wrapped in her long cloak, her pretty headcovered by the dark hood. 

“Oh, are you going?” he asked. 

She heard the note of entreaty in his voice. 

“Yes, ” she answered, “I shouldn’t have left her before you came; but Iknew you were here; I heard your horse’s tread a moment ago. She’sasleep. Good night. Take courage and have a brave heart, ” she said, pressing his hand a moment in both hers, and was gone. 

The room was as he had pictured it; order restored and the fireblazing brightly. On the table was a pot of hot tea and a temptinglittle supper laid. But he pushed it all aside and buried his facedown upon the table into his folded arms, groaning aloud. Physicalsuffering; thwarted love, and at the same time a feeling ofself-condemnation, made him wish that life were ended for him. 

Fanny awoke close upon morning, not knowing what had aroused her. Shewas for a little while all bewildered and unable to collect herself. She soon learned the cause of her disturbance. Hosmer was tossingabout and his outstretched arm lay across her face, where it hadevidently been flung with some violence. She took his hand to move itaway, and it burned her like a coal of fire. As she touched him hestarted and began to talk incoherently. He evidently fancied himselfdictating a letter to some insurance company, in no pleased terms--ofwhich Fanny caught but snatches. Then:

“That’s too much, Mrs. Lafirme; too much--too much--Don’t let Grégoireburn--take him from the fire, some one. Thirty day’s credit--shipmentmade on tenth, ” he rambled on at intervals in his troubled sleep. 

Fanny trembled with apprehension as she heard him. Surely he has brainfever she thought, and she laid her hand gently on his burningforehead. He covered it with his own, muttering “Thérèse, Thérèse--sogood--let me love you. ”

X

Perplexing Things. 

“Lucilla!”

The pale, drooping girl started guiltily at her mother’s sharpexclamation, and made an effort to throw back her shoulders. Then shebit her nails nervously, but soon desisted, remembering that thatalso, as well as yielding to a relaxed tendency of the spinal column, was a forbidden indulgence. 

“Put on your hat and go on out and get a breath of fresh air; you’reas white as milk-man’s cream. ”

Lucilla rose and obeyed her mother’s order with the precision of asoldier, following the directions of his commander. 

“How submissive and gentle your daughter is, ” remarked Thérèse. 

“Well, she’s got to be, and she knows it. Why, I haven’t got to domore than look at that girl most times for her to understand what Iwant. You didn’t notice, did you, how she straightened up when Icalled ‘Lucilla’ to her? She knows by the tone of my voice what she’sgot to do. ”

“Most mothers can’t boast of having such power over their daughters. ”

“Well, I’m not the woman to stand any shenanigans from a child ofmine. I could name you dead loads of women that are just completelywalked over by their children. It’s a blessing that boy of Fanny’sdied, between you and I; its what I’ve always said. Why, Mrs. Laferm, she couldn’t any more look after a youngster than she could after ababy elephant. By the by, what do you guess is the matter with her, any way?”

“How, the matter?” Thérèse asked; the too ready blood flushing herface and neck as she laid down her work and looked up at Mrs. Worthington. 

“Why, she’s acting mighty queer, that’s all I can say for her. ”

“I haven’t been able to see her for some time, ” Thérèse returned, going back to her sewing, “but I suppose she got a little upset andnervous over her husband; he had a few days of very serious illnessbefore you came. ”

“Oh, I’ve seen her in all sorts of states and conditions, and I’venever seen her like that before. Why, she does nothing in the God’sworld but whine and sniffle, and wish she was dead; it’s enough togive a person the horrors. She can’t make out she’s sick; I never sawher look better in my life. She must of gained ten pounds since shecome down here. ”

“Yes, ” said Thérèse, “she was looking so well, and--and I thoughteverything was going well with her too, but--” and she hesitated to goon. 

“Oh, I know what you want to say. You can’t help that. No usebothering your brains about that--now you just take my advice, ”exclaimed Mrs. Worthington brusquely. 

Then she laughed so loud and suddenly that Thérèse, being alreadynervous, pricked her finger with her needle till the blood came; amishap which decided her to lay aside her work. 

“If you never saw a fish out of water, Mrs. Laferm, do take a peep atMr. Worthington astride that horse; it’s enough to make a cat expire!”

Mrs. Worthington was on the whole rather inclined to take her husbandseriously. As often as he might excite her disapproval, it was seldomthat he aroused her mirth. So it may be gathered that his appearancein this unfamiliar rôle of horseman was of the most mirth-provoking. 

He and Hosmer were dismounting at the cottage, which decided Mrs. Worthington to go and look after them; Fanny for the time being--inher opinion--not having “the gumption to look after a sick kitten. ”

“This is what I call solid comfort, ” she said looking around the wellappointed sitting-room, before quitting it. 

“You ought to be a mighty happy woman, Mrs. Laferm; only I’d thinkyou’d die of lonesomeness, sometimes. ”

Thérèse laughed, and told her not to forget that she expected them allover in the evening. 

“You can depend on me; and I’ll do my best to drag Fanny over;so-long. ”

When left alone, Thérèse at once relapsed into the gloomy train ofreflections that had occupied her since the day she had seen with herbodily eyes something of the wretched life that she had brought uponthe man she loved. And yet that wretchedness in its refinement ofcruelty and immorality she could not guess and was never to know. Still, she had seen enough to cause her to ask herself with a shudder“was I right--was I right?”

She had always thought this lesson of right and wrong a very plainone. So easy of interpretation that the simplest minded might solve itif they would. And here had come for the first time in her life astaggering doubt as to its nature. She did not suspect that she wassubmitting one of those knotty problems to her unpracticed judgmentthat philosophers and theologians delight in disagreeing upon, and herinability to unravel it staggered her. She tried to convince herselfthat a very insistent sting of remorse which she felt, came fromselfishness--from the pain that her own heart suffered in theknowledge of Hosmer’s unhappiness. She was not callous enough to quiether soul with the balm of having intended the best. She continued toask herself only “was I right?” and it was by the answer to thatquestion that she would abide, whether in the stony content ofaccomplished righteousness, or in an enduring remorse that pointed toa goal in whose labyrinthine possibilities her soul lost itself andfainted away. 

Lucilla went out to get a breath of fresh air as her mother hadcommanded, but she did not go far to seek it. Not further than the endof the back veranda, where she stood for some time motionless, beforebeginning to occupy herself in a way which Aunt Belindy, who waswatching her from the kitchen window, considered highly problematical. The negress was wiping a dish and giving it a fine polish in herabsence of mind. When her curiosity could no longer contain itself shecalled out:

“W’ats dat you’se doin’ dah, you li’le gal? Come heah an’ le’ me see. ”Lucilla turned with the startled look which seemed to be usual withher when addressed. 

“Le’ me see, ” repeated Aunt Belindy pleasantly. 

Lucilla approached the window and handed the woman a small square ofstiff writing paper which was stuck with myriad tiny pin-holes; someof which she had been making when interrupted by Aunt Belindy. 

“W’at in God A’Mighty’s name you call dat ’ar?” the darkey askedexamining the paper critically, as though expecting the riddle wouldsolve itself before her eyes. 

“Those are my acts I’ve been counting, ” the girl replied a littlegingerly. 

“Yo’ ax? I don’ see nuttin’ ’cep’ a piece o’ papah plum fill up widholes. W’at you call ax?”

“Acts--acts. Don’t you know what acts are?”

“How you want me know? I neva ben to no school whar you larn all dat. ”

“Why, an act is something you do that you don’t want to do--orsomething you don’t want to do, that you do--I mean that you don’t do. Or if you want to eat something and don’t. Or an aspiration; that’s anact, too. ”

“Go long! W’ats dat--aspiration?”

“Why, to say any kind of little prayer; or if you invoke our Lord, orour Blessed Lady, or one of the saints, that’s an aspiration. You canmake them just as quick as you can think--you can make hundreds andhundreds in a day. ”

“My Lan’! Dat’s w’at you’se studyin’ ’bout w’en you’se steppin’ ’roun’heah like a droopy pullet? An’ I t’ought you was studyin’ ’bout datbeau you lef’ yonda to Sent Lous. ”

“You mustn’t say such things to me; I’m going to be a religious. ”

“How dat gwine henda you have a beau ef you’se religious?”

“The religious never get married, ” turning very red, “and don’t livein the world like others. ”

“Look heah, chile, you t’inks I’se fool? Religion--no religion, wharyou gwine live ef you don’ live in de word? Gwine live up in de moon?”

“You’re a very ignorant person, ” replied Lucilla, highly offended. “Areligious devotes her life to God, and lives in the convent. ”

“Den w’y you neva said ‘convent’? I knows all ’bout convent. W’at yougwine do wid dem ax w’en de papah done all fill up?” handing thesingular tablet back to her. 

“Oh, ” replied Lucilla, “when I have thousands and thousands I gaintwenty-five years’ indulgence. ”

“Is dat so?”

“Yes, ” said the girl; and divining that Aunt Belindy had notunderstood, “twenty-five years that I don’t have to go to purgatory. You see most people have to spend years and years in purgatory, beforethey can get to Heaven. ”

“How you know dat?”

If Aunt Belindy had asked Lucilla how she knew that the sun shone, shecould not have answered with more assurance “because I know” as sheturned and walked rather scornfully away. 

“W’at dat kine o’ fool talk dey larns gals up yonda tu Sent Lous? An’huh ma a putty woman; yas, bless me; all dress up fittin’ to kill. Don’ ’pear like she studyin’ ’bout ax. ”

XI

A Social Evening. 

Mr. And Mrs. Joseph Duplan with their little daughter Ninette, who hadbeen invited to Place-du-Bois for supper, as well as for the evening, were seated with Thérèse in the parlor, awaiting the arrival of thecottage guests. They had left their rather distant plantation, LesChênières, early in the afternoon, wishing as usual to make the mostof these visits, which, though infrequent, were always so muchenjoyed. 

The room was somewhat altered since that summer day when Thérèse hadsat in its cool shadows, hearing the story of David Hosmer’s life. Only with such difference, however, as the change of season calledfor; imparting to it a rich warmth that invited to sociability andfriendly confidences. In the depths of the great chimney glowed with asteady and dignified heat, the huge back-log, whose disposal UncleHiram had superintended in person; and the leaping flames from the dryhickories that surrounded it, lent a very genial light to thegrim-visaged Lafirmes who looked down from their elevation on theinteresting group gathered about the hearth. 

Conversation had never once flagged with these good friends; for, aside from much neighborhood gossip to be told and listened to, therewas the always fertile topic of “crops” to be discussed in all itsbearings, that touched, in its local and restricted sense, the laborquestion, cultivation, freight rates, and the city merchant. 

With Mrs. Duplan there was a good deal to be said about the unusualmortality among “Plymouth-Rocks” owing to an alarming prevalence of“pip, ” which malady, however, that lady found to be gradually yieldingto a heroic treatment introduced into her _basse-cour_ by one Coulon, a piney wood sage of some repute as a mystic healer. 

This was a delicate refined little woman, somewhat old-fashioned andstranded in her incapability to keep pace with the modern conduct oflife; but giving her views with a pretty self-confidence, that showedher a ruler in her peculiar realm. 

The young Ninette had extended herself in an easy chair, in anattitude of graceful abandonment, the earnest brown eyes lookingeagerly out from under a tangle of auburn hair, and resting withabsorbed admiration upon her father, whose words and movements shefollowed with unflagging attentiveness. The fastidious little miss wasclad in a dainty gown that reached scarcely below the knees; revealingthe shapely limbs that were crossed and extended to let the well shodfeet rest upon the polished brass fender. 

Thérèse had given what information lay within her range, concerningthe company which was expected. But her confidences had plainly beeninsufficient to prepare Mrs. Duplan for the startling effect producedby Mrs. Worthington on that little woman in her black silk of aby-gone fashion; so splendid was Mrs. Worthington’s erect and imposingfigure, so blonde her blonde hair, so bright her striking color and socomprehensive the sweep of her blue and scintillating gown. Yet wasMrs. Worthington not at ease, as might be noticed in the unnaturalquaver of her high-pitched voice and the restless motion of her hands, as she seated herself with an arm studiedly resting upon the tablenear by. 

Hosmer had met the Duplans before; on the occasion of a former visitto Place-du-Bois and again at Les Chênières when he had gone to seethe planter on business connected with the lumber trade. 

Fanny was a stranger to them and promised to remain such; for sheacknowledged her presentation with a silent bow and retreated as farfrom the group as a decent concession to sociability would permit. 

Thérèse with her pretty Creole tact was not long in bringing theseseemingly incongruent elements into some degree of harmony. Mr. Duplanin his courteous and rather lordly way was presently imparting to Mrs. Worthington certain reminiscences of a visit to St. Louis twenty-fiveyears before, when he and Mrs. Duplan had rather hastily traversedthat interesting town during their wedding journey. Mr. Duplan’smanner had a singular effect upon Mrs. Worthington, who becamedignified, subdued, and altogether unnatural in her endeavor to adjustherself to it. 

Mr. Worthington seated himself beside Mrs. Duplan and was soon tryingto glean information, in his eager short-sighted way, of psychologicalinterest concerning the negro race; such effort rather bewilderingthat good lady, who could not bring herself to view the negro as aninteresting or suitable theme to be introduced into politeconversation. 

Hosmer sat and talked good-naturedly to the little girls, endeavoringto dispel the shyness with which they seemed inclined to view eachother--and Thérèse crossed the room to join Fanny. 

“I hope you’re feeling better, ” she ventured, “you should have let mehelp you while Mr. Hosmer was ill. ”

Fanny looked away, biting her lip, the sudden tears coming to hereyes. She answered with unsteady voice, “Oh, I was able to look aftermy husband myself, Mrs. Laferm. ”

Thérèse reddened at finding herself so misunderstood. “I meant in yourhousekeeping, Mrs. Hosmer; I could have relieved you of some of thatworry, whilst you were occupied with your husband. ”

Fanny continued to look unhappy; her features taking on that peculiardownward droop which Thérèse had come to know and mistrust. 

“Are you going to New Orleans with Mrs. Worthington?” she asked, “shetold me she meant to try and persuade you. ”

“No; I’m not going. Why?” looking suspiciously in Thérèse’s face. 

“Well, ” laughed Thérèse, “only for the sake of asking, I suppose. Ithought you’d enjoy Mardi-Gras, never having seen it. ”

“I’m not going anywheres unless David goes along, ” she said, with animpertinent ring in her voice, and with a conviction that she wasadministering a stab and a rebuke. She had come prepared to watch herhusband and Mrs. Lafirme, her heart swelling with jealous suspicion asshe looked constantly from one to the other, endeavoring to detectsigns of an understanding between them. Failing to discover such, andloth to be robbed of her morbid feast of misery, she set her failuredown to their pre-determined subtlety. Thérèse was conscious of achange in Fanny’s attitude, and felt herself unable to account for itotherwise than by whim, which she knew played a not unimportant rôlein directing the manner of a large majority of women. Moreover, it wasnot a moment to lose herself in speculation concerning this woman’scapricious behavior. Her guests held the first claim upon herattentions. Indeed, here was Mrs. Worthington even now loudlydemanding a pack of cards. “Here’s a gentleman never heard ofsix-handed euchre. If you’ve got a pack of cards, Mrs. Laferm, I guessI can show him quick enough that it can be done. ”

“Oh, I don’t doubt Mrs. Worthington’s ability to make any startlingand pleasing revelations, ” rejoined the planter good humoredly, andgallantly following Mrs. Worthington who had risen with the view ofputting into immediate effect her scheme of initiating these slowpeople into the unsuspected possibilities of euchre; a game which, however adaptable in other ways, could certainly not be indulged in byseven persons. After each one proffering, as is usual on suchoccasions, his readiness to assume the character of on-looker, Mr. Worthington’s claim to entire indifference, if not inability--confirmedby his wife--was accepted as the most sincere, and that gentleman wasexcluded and excused. 

He watched them as they seated themselves at table, even lendingassistance, in his own awkward way, to range the chairs in place. Thenhe followed the game for a while, standing behind Fanny to note theoutcome of her reckless offer of “five on hearts, ” with only threetrumps in hand, and every indication of little assistance from herpartners, Mr. Duplan and Belle Worthington. 

At one end of the room was a long, low, well-filled book-case. Herehad been the direction of Mr. Worthington’s secret and stolen glancesthe entire evening. And now towards this point he finally transportedhimself by gradual movements which he believed appeared unstudied andindifferent. He was confronted by a good deal of French--to him anunfamiliar language. Here a long row of Balzac; then, the WaverleyNovels in faded red cloth of very old date. Racine, Moliere, Bulwerfollowing in more modern garb; Shakespeare in a compass that promisedvery small type. His quick trained glance sweeping along the shelves, contracted into a little frown of resentment while he sent his handimpetuously through his scant locks, standing them quite on end. 

On the very lowest shelf were five imposing volumes in dignified blackand gold, bearing the simple inscription “Lives of the Saints--Rev. A. Butler. ” Upon one of them, Mr. Worthington seized, opening it athazard. He had fallen upon the history of St. Monica, mother of thegreat St. Austin--a woman whose habits it appears had been so closelyguarded in her childhood by a pious nurse, that even the quenching ofher natural thirst was permitted only within certain well definedbounds. This mentor used to say “you are now for drinking water, butwhen you come to be mistress of the cellar, water will be despised, but the habit of drinking will stick by you. ” Highly interesting, Mr. Worthington thought, as he brushed his hair all down again the rightway and seated himself the better to learn the fortunes of the goodSt. Monica who, curiously enough, notwithstanding those earlyincentives to temperance, “insensibly contracted an inclination towine, ” drinking “whole cups of it with pleasure as it came in herway. ” A “dangerous intemperance” which it finally pleased Heaven tocure through the instrumentality of a maid servant taunting hermistress with being a “wine bibber. ”

Mr. Worthington did not stop with the story of Saint Monica. He losthimself in those details of asceticism, martyrdom, superhumanpossibilities which man is capable of attaining under peculiarconditions of life--something he had not yet “gone into. ”

The voices at the card table would certainly have disturbed a man withless power of mind concentration. For Mrs. Worthington in thisfamiliar employment was herself again--_con fuoco_. Here was Mr. Duplan in high spirits; his wife putting forth little gushes ofbird-like exaltation as the fascinations of the game revealedthemselves to her. Even Hosmer and Thérèse were drawn for the momentfrom their usual preoccupation. Fanny alone was the ghost of thefeast. Her features never relaxed from their settled gloom. She playedat hap-hazard, listlessly throwing down the cards or letting them fallfrom her hands, vaguely asking what were trumps at inopportunemoments; showing that inattentiveness so exasperating to an eagerplayer and which oftener than once drew a sharp rebuke from BelleWorthington. 

“Don’t you wish we could play, ” said Ninette to her companion from hercomfortable perch beside the fire, and looking longingly towards thecard table. 

“Oh, no, ” replied Lucilla briefly, gazing into the fire, with handsfolded in her lap. Thin hands, showing up very white against the dullcolored “convent uniform” that hung in plain, severe folds about herand reached to her very ankles. 

“Oh, don’t you? I play often at home when company comes. And I playcribbage and _vingt-et-un_ with papa and win lots of money from him. ”

“That’s wrong. ”

“No, it isn’t; papa wouldn’t do it if it was wrong, ” she answereddecidedly. “Do you go to the convent?” she asked, looking criticallyat Lucilla and drawing a little nearer, so as to be confidential. “Tell me about it, ” she continued, when the other had repliedaffirmatively. “Is it very dreadful? you know they’re going to send mesoon. ”

“Oh, it’s the best place in the world, ” corrected Lucilla as eagerlyas she could. 

“Well, mamma says she was just as happy as could be there, but you seethat’s so awfully long ago. It must have changed since then. ”

“The convent never changes: it’s always the same. You first go tochapel to mass early in the morning. ”

“Ugh!” shuddered Ninette. 

“Then you have studies, ” continued Lucilla. “Then breakfast, thenrecreation, then classes, and there’s meditation. ”

“Oh, well, ” interrupted Ninette, “I believe anything most would suityou, and mamma when she was little; but if I don’t like it--see here, if I tell you something will you promise never, never, to tell?”

“Is it any thing wrong?”

“Oh, no, not very; it isn’t a real mortal sin. Will you promise?”

“Yes, ” agreed Lucilla; curiosity getting something the better of herpious scruples. 

“Cross your heart?”

Lucilla crossed her heart carefully, though a little reluctantly. 

“Hope you may die?”

“Oh!” exclaimed the little convent girl aghast. 

“Oh, pshaw, ” laughed Ninette, “never mind. But that’s what Pollyalways says when she wants me to believe her: ‘hope I may die, MissNinette. ’ Well, this is it: I’ve been saving up money for the longesttime, oh ever so long. I’ve got eighteen dollars and sixty cents, andwhen they send me to the convent, if I don’t like it, I’m going to runaway. ” This last and startling revelation was told in a tragic whisperin Lucilla’s ear, for Betsy was standing before them with a tray ofchocolate and coffee that she was passing around. 

“I yeard you, ” proclaimed Betsy with mischievous inscrutablecountenance. 

“You didn’t, ” said Ninette defiantly, and taking a cup of coffee. 

“Yas, I did, I yeard you, ” walking away. 

“See here, Betsy, ” cried Ninette recalling the girl, “you’re not goingto tell, are you?”

“Dun know ef I isn’t gwine tell. Dun know ef I isn’t gwine tell MissDuplan dis yere ver’ minute. ”

“Oh Betsy, ” entreated Ninette, “I’ll give you this dress if you don’t. I don’t want it any more. ”

Betsy’s eyes glowed, but she looked down unconcernedly at the prettygown. 

“Don’t spec it fit me. An’ you know Miss T’rèse ain’t gwine let me goflyin’ roun’ wid my laigs stickin’ out dat away. ”

“I’ll let the ruffle down, Betsy, ” eagerly proposed Ninette. 

“Betsy!” called Thérèse a little impatiently. 

“Yas, ’um--I ben waitin’ fu’ de cups. ”

Lucilla had made many an aspiration--many an “act” the while. Thiswhole evening of revelry, and now this last act of wicked conspiracyseemed to have tainted her soul with a breath of sin which she wouldnot feel wholly freed from, till she had cleansed her spirit in thewaters of absolution. 

The party broke up at a late hour, though the Duplans had a longdistance to go, and, moreover, had to cross the high and turbid riverto reach their carriage which had been left on the opposite bank, owing to the difficulty of the crossing. 

Mr. Duplan took occasion of a moment aside to whisper to Hosmer withthe air of a connoisseur, “fine woman that Mrs. Worthington of yours. ”

Hosmer laughed at the jesting implication, whilst disclaiming it, andFanny looked moodily at them both, jealously wondering at the cause oftheir good humor. 

Mrs. Duplan, under the influence of a charming evening passed in suchagreeable and distinguished company, was full of amiable bustle inleaving and had many pleasant parting words to say to each, in herpretty broken English. 

“Oh, yes, ma’am, ” said Mrs. Worthington to that lady, who had takenadmiring notice of the beautiful silver “Holy Angels” medal that hungfrom Lucilla’s neck and rested against the dark gown. “Lucilla takesafter Mr. Worthington as far as religion goes--kind of differentthough, for I must say it ain’t often he darkens the doors of achurch. ”

Mrs. Worthington always spoke of her husband present as of a husbandabsent. A peculiarity which he patiently endured, having no talent forrepartee, that he had at one time thought of cultivating. But thattime was long past. 

The Duplans were the first to leave. Then Thérèse stood for a while onthe veranda in the chill night air watching the others disappearacross the lawn. Mr. And Mrs. Worthington and Lucilla had all shakenhands with her in saying good night. Fanny followed suit limply andgrudgingly. Hosmer buttoned his coat impatiently and only lifted hishat to Thérèse as he helped his wife down the stairs. 

Poor Fanny! she had already taken exception at that hand pressurewhich was to come and for which she watched, and now her whole smallbeing was in a jealous turmoil--because there had been none. 

XII

Tidings That Sting. 

Thérèse felt that the room was growing oppressive. She had beensitting all morning alone before the fire, passing in review a greatheap of household linen that lay piled beside her on the floor, alternating this occupation with occasional careful and tender officesbestowed upon a wee lamb that had been brought to her some hoursbefore, and that now lay wounded and half lifeless upon a pile ofcoffee sacks before the blaze. 

A fire was hardly needed, except to dispel the dampness that had evenmade its insistent way indoors, covering walls and furniture with aclammy film. Outside, the moisture was dripping from the glisteningmagnolia leaves and from the pointed polished leaves of the live-oaks, and the sun that had come out with intense suddenness was drawing itsteaming from the shingled roof-tops. 

When Thérèse, finally aware of the closeness of the room, opened thedoor and went out on the veranda, she saw a man, a stranger, ridingtowards the house and she stood to await his approach. He belonged towhat is rather indiscriminately known in that section of the State asthe “piney-woods” genus. A rawboned fellow, lank and long of leg; asungroomed with his scraggy yellow hair and beard as the scrubby littleTexas pony which he rode. His big soft felt hat had done unreasonableservice as a head-piece; and the “store clothes” that hung upon hislean person could never in their remotest freshness have masqueradedunder the character of “all wool. ” He was in transit, as the bulgingsaddle-bags that hung across his horse indicated, as well as the roughbrown blanket strapped behind him to the animal’s back. He rode upclose to the rail of the veranda near which Thérèse stood, and noddedto her without offering to raise or touch his hat. She was preparedfor the drawl with which he addressed her, and even guessed at whathis first words would be. 

“You’re Mrs. Laferm I ’low?”

Thérèse acknowledged her identity with a bow. 

“My name’s Jimson; Rufe Jimson, ” he went on, settling himself on thepony and folding his long knotty hands over the hickory switch that hecarried in guise of whip. 

“Do you wish to speak to me? won’t you dismount?” Thérèse asked. 

“I hed my dinner down to the store, ” he said taking her proposal as aninvitation to dine, and turning to expectorate a mouth full of tobaccojuice before continuing. “Capital sardines them air, ” passing his handover his mouth and beard in unctuous remembrance of the oily dainties. 

“I’m just from Cornstalk, Texas, on mu way to Grant. An’ them roads asI’ve traversed isn’t what I’d call the best in a fair and squaretalk. ”

His manner bore not the slightest mark of deference. He spoke toThérèse as he might have spoken to one of her black servants, or as hewould have addressed a princess of royal blood if fate had everbrought him into such unlikely contact, so clearly was the sense ofhuman equality native to him. 

Thérèse knew her animal, and waited patiently for his business tounfold itself. 

“I reckon thar hain’t no ford hereabouts?” he asked, looking at herwith a certain challenge. 

“Oh, no; its even difficult crossing in the flat, ” she answered. 

“Wall, I hed calc’lated continooing on this near side. Reckon I couldmake it?” challenging her again to an answer. 

“There’s no road on this side, ” she said, turning away to fasten moresecurely the escaped branches of a rose-bush that twined about acolumn near which she stood. 

Whether there were a road on this side or on the other side, or noroad at all, appeared to be matter of equal indifference to Mr. Jimson, so far as his manner showed. He continued imperturbably “I’lowed to stop here on a little matter o’ business. ’Tis some out o’mu way; more’n I’d calc’lated. You couldn’t tell the ixact distancefrom here to Colfax, could you?”

Thérèse rather impatiently gave him the desired information, andbegged that he would disclose his business with her. 

“Wall, ” he said, “onpleasant news ’ll keep most times tell you’reready fur it. Thet’s my way o’ lookin’ at it. ”

“Unpleasant news for me?” she inquired, startled from her indifferenceand listlessness. 

“Rather onpleasant ez I take it. I hain’t a makin’ no misstatement topersume thet Grégor Sanchun was your nephew?”

“Yes, yes, ” responded Thérèse, now thoroughly alarmed, and approachingas close to Mr. Rufe Jimson as the dividing rail would permit, “Whatof him, please?”

He turned again to discharge an accumulation of tobacco juice into athick border of violets, and resumed. 

“You see a hot-blooded young feller, ez wouldn’t take no more ’an giveno odds, stranger or no stranger in the town, he couldn’t ixpect civiltreatment; leastways not from Colonel Bill Klayton. Ez I said toTozier--”

“Please tell me as quickly as possible what has happened, ” demandedThérèse with trembling eagerness; steadying herself with both hands onthe railing before her. 

“You see it all riz out o’ a little altercation ’twixt him and ColonelKlayton in the colonel’s store. Some says he’d ben drinkin’; othersdenies it. Howsomever they did hev words risin’ out o’ the coloneladdressing your nephew under the title o’ ‘Frenchy’; which most takesez a insufficient cause for rilin’. ”

“He’s dead?” gasped Thérèse, looking at the dispassionate Texan withhorrified eyes. 

“Wall, yes, ” an admission which he seemed not yet willing to leaveunqualified; for he went on “It don’t do to alluz speak out open an’above boards, leastways not thar in Cornstalk. But I’ll ’low to you, it’s my opinion the colonel acted hasty. It’s true ’nough, the youngfeller hed drawed, but ez I said to Tozier, thet’s no reason topersume it was his intention to use his gun. ”

So Grégoire was dead. She understood it all now. The manner of hisdeath was plain to her as if she had seen it, out there in somedisorderly settlement. Killed by the hand of a stranger with whomperhaps the taking of a man’s life counted as little as it had oncecounted with his victim. This flood of sudden and painful intelligencestaggered her, and leaning against the column she covered her eyeswith both hands, for a while forgetting the presence of the man whohad brought the sad tidings. 

But he had never ceased his monotonous unwinding. “Thar hain’t nomanner o’ doubt, marm, ” he was saying, “thet he did hev the sympathyo’ the intire community--ez far ez they was free to expressit--barrin’ a few. Fur he was a likely young chap, that warn’t no twoopinions o’ that. Free with his money--alluz ready to set up fur afriend. Here’s a bit o’ writin’ thet’ll larn you more o’ thepertic’lars, ” drawing a letter from his pocket, “writ by the Catholicpriest, by name of O’Dowd. He ’lowed you mought want proyer meetin’sand sich. ”

“Masses, ” corrected Thérèse, holding out her hand for the letter. Withthe other hand she was wiping away the tears that had gathered thickin her eyes. 

“Thar’s a couple more little tricks thet he sont, ” continued RufeJimson, apparently dislocating his joints to reach the depths of histrouser pocket, from which he drew a battered pocket book wrappedaround with an infinity of string. From the grimy folds of thisreceptacle he took a small paper parcel which he placed in her hand. It was partly unfastened, and as she opened it fully, the pent-uptears came blindingly--for before her lay a few curling rings of softbrown hair, and a pair of scapulars, one of which was pierced by atell-tale bullet hole. 

“Won’t you dismount?” she presently asked again, this time a littlemore kindly. 

“No, marm, ” said the Texan, jerking his hitherto patient pony by thebridle till it performed feats of which an impartial observer couldscarcely have suspected it. 

“Don’t reckon I could make Colfax before dark, do you?”

“Hardly, ” she said, turning away, “I’m much obliged to you, Mr. Jimson, for having taken this trouble--if the flat is on the otherside, you need only call for it. ”

“Wall, good day, marm--I wish you luck, ” he added, with a touch ofgallantry which her tears and sweet feminine presence had inspired. Then turning, he loped his horse rapidly forward, leaning well back inthe saddle and his elbows sawing the air. 

XIII

Melicent Hears the News. 

It was talked about and wept about at Place-du-Bois, that Grégoireshould be dead. It seemed to them all so unbelievable. Yet, whateverhesitancy they had in accepting the fact of his death, was perforceremoved by the convincing proof of Father O’Dowd’s letter. 

None could remember but sweetness and kindness of him. Even Nathan, who had been one day felled to earth by a crowbar in Grégoire’s hand, had come himself to look at that deed as not altogether blamable inlight of the provocation that had called it forth. 

Fanny remembered those bouquets which had been daily offered to herforlornness at her arrival; and the conversations in which they hadunderstood each other so well. The conviction that he was gone awaybeyond the possibility of knowing him further, moved her to tears. Hosmer, too, was grieved and shocked, without being able to view theevent in the light of a calamity. 

No one was left unmoved by the tidings which brought a lowering cloudeven upon the brow of Aunt Belindy, to rest there the whole day. Deepwere the mutterings she hurled at a fate that could have been soshort-sighted as to remove from earth so bright an ornament asGrégoire. Her grief further spent much of itself upon the inoffensiveBetsy, who, for some inscrutable reason was for twenty-four hoursdebarred entrance to the kitchen. 

Thérèse seated at her desk, devoted a morning to the writing ofletters, acquainting various members of the family with the unhappyintelligence. She wrote first to Madame Santien, living now her lazylife in Paris, with eyes closed to the duties that lay before her andheart choked up with an egoism that withered even the motherinstincts. It was very difficult to withhold the reproach which shefelt inclined to deal her; hard to refrain from upbraiding aselfishness which for a life-time had appeared to Thérèse as criminal. 

It was a matter less nice, less difficult, to write to thebrothers--one up on the Red River plantation living as best he could;the other idling on the New Orleans streets. But it was after all ashort and simple story to tell. There was no lingering illness todescribe; no moment even of consciousness in which harrowing lastwords were to be gathered and recorded. Only a hot senseless quarrelto be told about; the speeding of a bullet with very sure aim, and--quick death. 

Of course, masses must be said. Father O’Dowd was properly instructed. Père Antoine in Centerville was addressed on the subject. The Bishopof Natchitoches, respectfully asked to perform this last sad officefor the departed soul. And the good old priest and friend at the NewOrleans Cathedral, was informed of her desires. Not that Thérèse heldvery strongly to this saying of masses for the dead; but it had been acustom holding for generations in the family and which she was notdisposed to abandon now, even if she had thought of it. 

The last letter was sent to Melicent. Thérèse made it purposely shortand pointed, with a bare statement of facts--a dry, unemotionaltelling, that sounded heartless when she read it over; but she let itgo. 

 * * * * *

Melicent was standing in her small, quaint sitting-room, her back tothe fire, and her hands clasped behind her. How handsome was thisMelicent! Pouting now, and with eyes half covered by the dark shadedlids, as they gazed moodily out at the wild snowflakes that werehurrying like crazy things against the warm window pane and meetingtheir end there. A loose tea-gown clung in long folds about her. Adull colored thing, save for the two broad bands of sapphire plushhanging straight before, from throat to toe. Melicent was plainlydejected; not troubled, nor sad, only dejected, and very much bored; acondition that had made her yawn several times while she looked at thefalling snow. 

She was philosophizing a little. Wondering if the world this morningwere really the unpleasant place that it appeared, or if theseconditions of unpleasantness lay not rather within her own mentalvision; a train of thought that might be supposed to have furnishedher some degree of entertainment had she continued in its pursuit. Butshe chose rather to dwell on her causes of unhappiness, and thusconvince herself that that unhappiness was indeed outside of her andaround her and not by any possibility to be avoided or circumvented. There lay now a letter in her desk from David, filled with admonitionsif not reproof which she felt to be not entirely unjust, on thedisagreeable subject of Expenses. Looking around the pretty room sheconceded to herself that here had been temptations which she could notreasonably have been expected to withstand. The temptation to lodgeherself in this charming little flat; furnish it after her own liking;and install that delightful little old poverty-stricken English womanas keeper of Proprieties, with her irresistible white starched capsand her altogether delightful way of inquiring daily after that “poor, dear, kind Mr. Hosmer. ” It had all cost a little more than she hadforeseen. But the worst of it, the very worst of it was, that she hadalready begun to ask herself if, for instance, it were not veryirritating to see every day, that same branching palm, posing by thewindow, in that same yellow jardinière. If those draperies thatconfronted her were not becoming positively offensive in the monotonyof their solemn folds. If the cuteness and quaintness of thepoverty-stricken little English woman were not after all a source ofentertainment that she would willingly forego on occasion. The answerto these questions was a sigh that ended in another yawn. 

Then Melicent threw herself into a low easy chair by the table, tookup her visiting book, and bending lazily with her arms resting on herknees, began to turn over its pages. The names which she saw thererecalled to her mind an entertainment at which she had assisted on theprevious afternoon. A progressive euchre party; and the remembrance ofwhat she had there endured now filled her soul with horror. 

She thought of those hundred cackling women--of course women are nevercackling, it was Melicent’s exaggerated way of expressingherself--packed into those small overheated rooms, around thosetwenty-five little tables; and how by no chance had she once foundherself with a congenial set. And how that Mrs. Van Wycke had cheated!It was plain to Melicent that she had taken advantage of having fatMiss Bloomdale for a partner, who went to euchre parties only to showher hands and rings. And little Mrs. Brinke playing against her. Little Mrs. Brinke! A woman who only the other day had read anoriginal paper entitled: “An Hour with Hegel” before her philosophyclass; who had published that dry mystical affair “Light on theInscrutable in Dante. ” How could such a one by any possibility besupposed to observe the disgusting action of Mrs. Van Wycke inthrowing off on her partner’s trump and swooping down on the lasttrick with her right bower? Melicent would have thought it beneath herto more than look her contempt as Mrs. Van Wycke rose with atriumphant laugh to take her place at a higher table, dragging theplastic Bloomdale with her. But she did mutter to herself now, “nastythief. ”

“Johannah, ” Melicent called to her maid who sat sewing in the nextroom. 

“Yes, Miss. ”

“You know Mrs. Van Wycke?”

“Mrs. Van Wycke, Miss? the lady with the pinted nose that I caughta-feeling of the curtains?”

“Yes, when she calls again I’m not at home. Do you understand? not athome. ”

“Yes, Miss. ”

It was gratifying enough to have thus summarily disposed of Mrs. VanWycke; but it was a source of entertainment which was soon ended. Melicent continued to turn over the pages of her visiting book duringwhich employment she came to the conclusion that these people whom shefrequented were all very tiresome. All, all of them, except Miss Drakewho had been absent in Europe for the past six months. Perhaps Mrs. Manning too, who was so seldom at home when Melicent called. Who whenat home, usually rushed down with her bonnet on, breathless with “Ican only spare you a moment, dear. It’s very sweet of you to come. ”She was always just going to the “Home” where things had got into sucha muddle whilst she was away for a week. Or it was that “Hospital”meeting where she thought certain members were secretly conniving ather removal from the presidency which she had held for so many years. She was always reading minutes at assemblages which Melicent knewnothing about; or introducing distinguished guests to Guild roommeetings. Altogether Melicent saw very little of Mrs. Manning. 

“Johannah, don’t you hear the bell?”

“Yes, Miss, ” said Johannah, coming into the room and depositing a gownon which she had been working, on the back of a chair. “It’s thatpostman, ” she said, as she fastened her needle to the bosom of herdress. “And such a one as he is, thinking that people must fly when heso much as touches the bell, and going off a writing of ‘no answer tobell, ’ and me with my hand on the very door-knob. ”

“I notice that always happens when I’m out, Johannah; he’s ringingagain. ”

It was Thérèse’s letter, and as Melicent turned it about and lookedcritically at the neatly written address, it was not without a hopethat the reading of it might furnish her a moment’s diversion. She didnot faint. The letter did not “fall from her nerveless clasp. ” Sherather held it very steadily. But she grew a shade paler and lookedlong into the fire. When she had read it three times she folded itslowly and carefully and locked it away in her desk. 

“Johannah. ”

“Yes, Miss. ”

“Put that gown away; I shan’t need it. ”

“Yes, Miss; and all the beautiful passmantry that you bought?”

“It makes no difference, I shan’t use it. What’s become of that blackcamel’s-hair that Mrs. Gauche spoiled so last winter?”

“It’s laid away, Miss, the same in the cedar chest as the day it camehome from her hands and no more fit, that I’d be a shame meself and noclaims to a dress-maker. And there’s many a lady that she never wouldhave seen a cent, let alone making herself pay for the spiling of it. ”

“Well, well, Johannah, never mind. Get it out, we’ll see what can bedone with it. I’ve had some painful news, and I shall wear mourningfor a long, long time. ”

“Oh, Miss, it’s not Mr. David! nor yet one of those sweet relations inUtica? leastways not I hope that beautiful Miss Gertrude, with suchhair as I never see for the goldness of it and not dyed, except mecousin that’s a nun, that her mother actually cried when it was cutoff?”

“No, Johannah; only a very dear friend. ”

There were a few social engagements to be cancelled; and regrets to besent out, which she attended to immediately. Then she turned again tolook long into the fire. That crime for which she had scorned him, waswiped out now by expiation. For a long time--how long she could notyet determine--she would wrap herself in garb of mourning and moveabout in sorrowing--giving evasive answer to the curious whoquestioned her. Now might she live again through those summer monthswith Grégoire--those golden afternoons in the pine woods--whose aromaeven now came back to her. She might look again into his loving browneyes; feel beneath her touch the softness of his curls. She recalled aday when he had said, “Neva to see you--my God!” and how he hadtrembled. She recalled--strangely enough and for the first time--thatone kiss, and a little tremor brought the hot color to her cheek. 

Was she in love with Grégoire now that he was dead? Perhaps. At allevents, for the next month, Melicent would not be bored. 

XIV

A Step Too Far. 

Who of us has not known the presence of Misery? Perhaps as thosefortunate ones whom he has but touched as he passed them by. It may bethat we see but a promise of him as we look into the prophetic facesof children; into the eyes of those we love, and the awfulness oflife’s possibilities presses into our souls. Do we fly him? hearinghim gain upon us panting close at our heels, till we turn from thedesperation of uncertainty to grapple with him? In close scuffle wemay vanquish him. Fleeing, we may elude him. But what if he creep intothe sanctuary of our lives, with his subtle omnipresence, that we donot see in all its horror till we are disarmed; thrusting the burdenof his companionship upon us to the end! However we turn he is there. However we shrink he is there. However we come or go, or sleep or wakehe is before us. Till the keen sense grows dull with apathy at lookingon him, and he becomes like the familiar presence of sin. 

Into such callousness had Hosmer fallen. He had ceased to bruise hissoul in restless endeavor of resistance. When the awful presence boretoo closely upon him, he would close his eyes and brave himself toendurance. Yet Fate might have dealt him worse things. 

But a man’s misery is after all his own, to make of it what he will orwhat he can. And shall we be fools, wanting to lighten it with ourplatitudes?

My friend, your trouble I know weighs. That you should be driven byearthly needs to drag the pinioned spirit of your days through rut andmire. But think of the millions who are doing the like. Or is it yourboy, that part of your own self and that other dearer self, who iswalking in evil ways? Why, I know a man whose son was hanged the otherday; hanged on the gibbet; think of it. If you be quivering while thesurgeon cuts away that right arm, remember the poor devil in thehospital yesterday who had both his sawed off. 

Oh, have done, with your mutilated men and your sons on gibbets! Whatare they to me? My hurt is greater than all, because it is my own. Ifit be only that day after day I must look with warm entreaty into eyesthat are cold. Let it be but that peculiar trick of feature which Ihave come to hate, seen each morning across the breakfast table. Thatrecurrent pin-prick: it hurts. The blow that lays the heart in twain:it kills. Let be mine which will; it is the one that counts. 

If Misery kill a man, that ends it. But Misery seldom deals sosummarily with his victims. And while they are spared to earth, wefind them usually sustaining life after the accepted fashion. 

Hosmer was seated at table, having finished his breakfast. He had alsofinished glancing over the contents of a small memorandum book, whichhe replaced in his pocket. He then looked at his wife sitting oppositehim, but turned rather hastily to gaze with a certain entreaty intothe big kind eyes of the great shaggy dog who stood--the shamelessbeggar--at his side. 

“I knew there was something wrong, ” he said abruptly, with his eyesstill fixed on the dog, and his fingers thrust into the animal’smatted wool, “Where’s the mail this morning?”

“I don’t know if that stupid boy’s gone for it or not. I told him. Youcan’t depend on any one in a place like this. ”

Fanny had scarcely touched the breakfast before her, and now pushedaside her cup still half filled with coffee. 

“Why, how’s that? Sampson seems to do the right thing. ”

“Yes, Sampson; but he ain’t here. That boy of Minervy’s been doing hiswork all morning. ”

Minervy’s boy was even now making his appearance, carrying a goodsized bundle of papers and letters, with which he walked boldly up toHosmer, plainly impressed with the importance of this new rôle. 

“Well, colonel; so you’ve taken Sampson’s place?” Hosmer observed, receiving the mail from the boy’s little black paws. 

“My name’s Major, suh. Maje; dats my name. I ain’t tuck Sampson’splace: no, suh. ”

“Oh, he’s having a day off--” Hosmer went on, smiling quizzingly atthe dapper little darkey, and handing him a red apple from the dish offruit standing in the center of the table. Maje received it with avery unmilitary bob of acknowledgment. 

“He yonda home ’cross de riva, suh. He ben too late fu’ kotch deflat’s mornin’ An’ he holla an’ holla. He know dey warn’t gwine crossdat flat ’gin jis’ fu’ Sampson. ”

Hosmer had commenced to open his letters. Fanny with her elbows on thetable, asked the boy--with a certain uneasiness in her voice--“Ain’the coming at all to-day? Don’t he know all the work he’s got to do?His mother ought to make him. ”

“Don’t reckon. Dat away Sampson: he git mad he stay mad, ” with whichassurance Maje vanished through the rear door, towards the region ofthe kitchen, to seek more substantial condiments than the apple whichhe still clutched firmly. 

One of the letters was for Fanny, which her husband handed her. Whenhe had finished reading his own, he seemed disposed to linger, for hetook from the fruit dish the mate to the red apple he had given Maje, and commenced to peel it with his clasp knife. 

“What has our friend Belle Worthington to say for herself?” heinquired good humoredly. “How does she get on with those Creoles downthere?”

“You know as well as I do, Belle Worthington ain’t going to mix withCreoles. She can’t talk French if she wanted to. She says Muddy-Grawdon’t begin to compare with the Veiled Prophets. It’s just what Ithought--with their ‘Muddy-Graw, ’ ” Fanny added, contemptuously. 

“Coming from such high authority, we’ll consider that verdict a finalclincher, ” Hosmer laughed a little provokingly. 

Fanny was looking again through the several sheets of BelleWorthington’s letter. “She says if I’ll agree to go back with her, she’ll pass this way again. ”

“Well, why don’t you? A little change wouldn’t hurt. ”

“ ’Tain’t because I want to stay here, Lord knows. A God-forsakenplace like this. I guess you’d be glad enough, ” she added, with voiceshaking a little at her own boldness. 

He closed his knife, placed it in his pocket, and looked at his wife, completely puzzled. 

The power of speech had come to her, for she went on, in an unnaturaltone, however, and fumbling nervously with the dishes before her. “I’mfool enough about some things, but I ain’t quite such a fool as that. ”

“What are you talking about, Fanny?”

“That woman wouldn’t ask anything better than for me to go to St. Louis. ”

Hosmer was utterly amazed. He leaned his arms on the table, claspinghis hands together and looked at his wife. 

“That woman? Belle Worthington? What _do_ you mean, any way?”

“I don’t mean Belle Worthington, ” she said excitedly, with two deepred spots in her cheeks. “I’m talking about Mrs. Laferm. ”

He thrust his hand into his pockets and leaned back in his chair. Noamazement now, but very pale, and with terrible concentration ofglance. 

“Well, then, don’t talk about Mrs. Lafirme, ” he said very slowly, nottaking his eyes from her face. 

“I will talk about her, too. She ain’t worth talking about, ” sheblurted incoherently. “It’s time for somebody to talk about a womanpassing herself off for a saint, and trying to take other women’shusbands--”

“Shut up!” cried Hosmer maddened with sudden fury, and risingviolently from his chair. 

“I won’t shut up, ” Fanny cried excitedly back at him; rising also. “And what’s more I won’t stay here and have you making love under myvery eyes to a woman that’s no better than she ought to be. ”

She meant to say more, but Hosmer grasped her arm with such a grasp, that had it been her throat she would never have spoken more. Theother hand went to his pocket, with fingers clutching the clasp knifethere. 

“By heaven--I’ll--kill you!” every word weighted with murder, pantedclose in her terrified face. What she would have uttered died upon herpale lips, when her frightened eyes beheld the usually calm face ofher husband distorted by a passion of which she had not dreamed. 

“David, ” she faltered, “let go my arm. ”

Her voice broke the spell that held him, and brought him again to hissenses. His fingers slowly relaxed their tense hold. A sigh that wassomething between a moan and a gasp came with his deliverance andshook him. All the horror now was in his own face as he seized his hatand hurried speechless away. 

Fanny remained for a little while dazed. Hers was not the fine naturethat would stay cruelly stunned after such a scene. Her immediateterror being past, the strongest resultant emotion was one ofself-satisfaction at having spoken out her mind. 

But there was a stronger feeling yet, moving and possessing her;crowding out every other. A pressing want that only Sampson’s comingwould relieve, and which bade fair to drive her to any extremity if itwere not appeased. 

XV

A Fateful Solution. 

Hosmer passed the day with a great pain at his heart. His hasty andviolent passion of the morning had added another weight for his spiritto drag about, and which he could not cast off. No feeling ofresentment remained with him; only wonder at his wife’s misshapenknowledge and keen self-rebuke of his own momentary forgetfulness. Even knowing Fanny as he did, he could not rid himself of the hauntingdread of having wounded her nature cruelly. He felt much as a man whoin a moment of anger inflicts an irreparable hurt upon some small, weak, irresponsible creature, and must bear regret for his madness. The only reparation that lay within his power--true, one that seemedinadequate--was an open and manly apology and confession of wrong. Hewould feel better when it was made. He would perhaps find relief indiscovering that the wound he had inflicted was not so deep--sodangerous as he feared. 

With such end in view he came home early in the afternoon. His wifewas not there. The house was deserted. Even the servants haddisappeared. It took but a moment for him to search the various roomsand find them one after the other, unoccupied. He went out on theporch and looked around. The raw air chilled him. The wind was blowingviolently, bringing dashes of rain along with it from massed cloudsthat hung leaden between sky and earth. Could she have gone over tothe house? It was unlikely, for he knew her to have avoided Mrs. Lafirme of late, with a persistence that had puzzled him to seek itscause, which had only fully revealed itself in the morning Yet, whereelse could she be? An undefined terror was laying hold of him. Hissensitive nature, in exaggerating its own heartlessness, was blindlyoverestimating the delicacy of hers. To what may he not have drivenher? What hitherto untouched chord may he not have started intopainful quivering? Was it for him to gauge the endurance of a woman’sspirit? Fanny was not now the wife whom he hated; his own act of themorning had changed her into the human being, the weak creature whomhe had wronged. 

In quitting the house she must have gone unprepared for the inclementweather, for there hung her heavy wrap in its accustomed place, withher umbrella beside it. He seized both and buttoning his own greatcoat about him, hurried away and over to Mrs. Lafirme’s. He found thatlady in the sitting-room. 

“Isn’t Fanny here?” he asked abruptly, with no word of greeting. 

“No, ” she answered looking up at him, and seeing the evidentuneasiness in his face. “Isn’t she at home? Is anything wrong?”

“Oh, everything is wrong, ” he returned desperately, “But the immediatewrong is that she has disappeared--I must find her. ”

Thérèse arose at once and called to Betsy who was occupied on thefront veranda. 

“Yas, um, ” the girl answered to her mistress’ enquiry. “I seed ma’amHosma goin’ to’ads de riva good hour ’go. She mus’ crost w’en Nathantuck dat load ova. I yain’t seed ’er comin’ back yit. ”

Hosmer left the house hastily, hardly reassured by Betsy’sinformation. Thérèse’s glance--speculating and uneasy--followed hishurrying figure till it disappeared from sight. 

The crossing was an affair of extreme difficulty, and which Nathan wasreluctant to undertake until he should have gathered a “load” thatwould justify him in making it. In his estimation, Hosmer did not meetsuch requirement, even taken in company with the solitary individualwho had been sitting on his horse with Egyptian patience for longunheeded moments, the rain beating down upon his back, while he waitedthe ferryman’s pleasure. But Nathan’s determination was not proofagainst the substantial inducements which Hosmer held out to him; andsoon they were launched, all hands assisting in the toilsome passage. 

The water, in rising to an unaccustomed height, had taken on an addedand tremendous swiftness. The red turbid stream was eddying andbulging and hurrying with terrific swiftness between its shallowbanks, striking with an immensity of power against the projection ofland on which stood Marie Louise’s cabin, and rebounding in greatcircling waves that spread and lost themselves in the seethingturmoil. The cable used in crossing the unwieldly flat had long beensubmerged and the posts which held it wrenched from their fastenings. The three men, each with his long heavy oar in hand began to pull upstream, using a force that brought the swelling veins like irontracings upon their foreheads where the sweat had gathered as if theday were midsummer. They made their toilsome way by slow inches, thatfinally landed them breathless and exhausted on the opposite side. 

What could have been the inducement to call Fanny out on such a dayand such a venture? The answer came only too readily from Hosmer’sreproaching conscience. And now, where to seek her? There was nothingto guide him; to indicate the course she might have taken. The rainwas falling heavily and in gusts and through it he looked about at thesmall cabins standing dreary in their dismantled fields. MarieLouise’s was the nearest at hand and towards it he directed his steps. 

The big good-natured negress had seen his approach from the window, for she opened the door to him before he had time to knock, andentering he saw Fanny seated before the fire holding a pair of verywet smoking feet to dry. His first sensation was one of relief atfinding her safe and housed. His next, one of uncertainty as to thekind and degree of resentment which he felt confident must now showitself. But this last was soon dispelled, for turning, she greeted himwith a laugh. He would have rather a blow. That laugh said so manythings--too many things. True, it removed the dread which had beenhaunting him all day, but it shattered what seemed to have been nowhis last illusion regarding this woman. That unsounded chord which hefeared he had touched was after all but one in harmony with the restof her common nature. He saw too at a glance that her dominant passionhad been leading and now controlled her. And by one of those rapidtrains of thought in which odd and detached fancies, facts, impressions and observations form themselves into an orderly sequenceleading to a final conviction--all was made plain to him that beforehad puzzled him. She need not have told him her reason for crossingthe river, he knew it. He dismissed at once the attitude with which hehad thought to approach her. Here was no forgiveness to be asked ofdulled senses. No bending in expiation of faults committed. He washere as master. 

“Fanny, what does this mean?” he asked in cold anger; with no heatnow, no passion. 

“Yaas, me tell madame, she goin’ fur ketch cole si she don’ mine out. Dat not fur play dat kine wedder, no. Teck chair, M’sieur; dryyou’se’f leet beet. Me mek you one cup coffee. ”

Hosmer declined the good Marie Louise’s kind proffer of coffee, but heseated himself and waited for Fanny to speak. 

“You know if you want a thing done in this place, you’ve got to do ityourself. I’ve heard you say it myself, time and time again aboutthose people at the mill, ” she said. 

“Could it have been so urgent as to call you out on a day like this, and with such a perilous crossing? Couldn’t you have found some oneelse to come for you?”

“Who? I’d like to know. Just tell me who? It’s nothing to you if we’rewithout servants, but I’m not going to stand it. I ain’t going to letSamp_son_ act like that without knowing what he means, ” said Fannysharply. 

“Dat Samp_son_, he one leet dev’, ” proffered Marie Louise, withlaudable design of shifting blame upon the easy shoulders of Sampson, in event of the domestic jar which she anticipated. “No use try donuttin’ ’id Sampson, M’sieur. ”

“I had to know something, one way or the other, ” Fanny said in a tonewhich carried apology, rather by courtesy than by what she considereddue. 

Hosmer walked to the window where he looked out upon the dreary, desolate scene, little calculated to cheer him. The river was justbelow; and from this window he could gaze down upon the rushingcurrent as it swept around the bend further up and came strikingagainst this projection with a force all its own. The rain was fallingstill; steadily, blindingly, with wild clatter against the shingledroof so close above their heads. It coursed in little swift rivuletsdown the furrows of the almost perpendicular banks. It mingled in ademon dance with the dull, red water. There was something inviting toHosmer in the scene. He wanted to be outside there making a part ofit. He wanted to feel that rain and wind beating upon him. Within, itwas stifling, maddening; with his wife’s presence there, charging theroom with an atmosphere of hate that was possessing him and beginningto course through his veins as it had never done before. 

“Do you want to go home?” he asked bluntly, turning half around. 

“You must be crazy, ” she replied, with a slow, upward glance out thewindow, then down at her feet that were still poised on the low stoolthat Marie Louise had placed for her. 

“You’d better come. ” He could not have said what moved him, unless itwere recklessness and defiance. 

“I guess you’re dreaming, or something, David. You go on home if youwant. Nobody asked you to come after me any way. I’m able to take careof myself, I guess. Ain’t you going to take the umbrella?” she added, seeing him start for the door empty handed. 

“Oh, it doesn’t matter about the rain, ” he answered without a lookback as he went out and slammed the door after him. 

“M’sieur look lak he not please, ” said Marie Louise, with plain regretat the turn of affairs. “You see he no lak you go out in dat kinewedder, me know dat. ”

“Oh, bother, ” was Fanny’s careless reply. “This suits me well enough;I don’t care how long it lasts. ”

She was in Marie Louise’s big rocker, balancing comfortably back andforth with a swing that had become automatic. She felt “good, ” as shewould have termed it herself; her visit to Sampson’s hut having notbeen without results tending to that condition. The warmth of the roomwas very agreeable in contrast to the bleakness of out-doors. She feltfree and moved to exercise a looseness of tongue with the amiable oldnegress which was not common with her. The occurrences of the morningwere gradually withdrawing themselves into a distant perspective thatleft her in the attitude of a spectator rather than that of an actor. And she laughed and talked with Marie Louise, and rocked, and rockedherself on into drowsiness. 

Hosmer had no intention of returning home without his wife. He onlywanted to be out under the sky; he wanted to breathe, to use hismuscles again. He would go and help cross the flat if need be; anoccupation that promised him relief in physical effort. He joinedNathan, whom he found standing under a big live-oak, disputing with anold colored woman who wanted to cross to get back to her family beforesupper time. 

“You didn’ have no call to come ova in de fus’ place, ” he was sayingto her, “you womens is alluz runnin’ back’ards and for’ards likeskeard rabbit in de co’n fiel’. ”

“I don’ stan’ no sich talk is dat f’om you. Ef you kiant tin’ to yo’business o’ totin’ folks w’en dey wants, you betta quit. You donecheat Mose out o’ de job, anyways; we all knows dat. ”

“Mine out, woman, you gwine git hu’t. Jis’ le’me see Mose han’le dat’ar flat onct: Jis’ le’me. He lan’ you down to de Mouf ’fo’ you knowsit. ”

“Let me tell you, Nathan, ” said Hosmer, looking at his watch, “say youwait a quarter of an hour and if no one else comes, we’ll cross AuntAgnes anyway. ”

“Dat ’nudda t’ing ef you wants to go back, suh. ”

Aunt Agnes was grumbling now at Hosmer’s proposal that promised tokeep her another quarter of an hour from her expectant family, when abig lumbering creaking wagon drove up, with its load of baled cottonall covered with tarpaulins. 

“Dah!” exclaimed Nathan at sight of the wagon, “ef I’d ’a listened toyo’ jawin’--what?”

“Ef you’d listen to me, you’d ’tin’ to yo’ business betta ’an youdoes, ” replied Aunt Agnes, raising a very battered umbrella over hergrotesquely apparelled figure, as she stepped from under the shelterof the tree to take her place in the flat. 

But she still met with obstacles, for the wagon must needs go first. When it had rolled heavily into place with much loud and needlessswearing on the part of the driver who, being a white man, consideredHosmer’s presence no hindrance, they let go the chain, and once againpulled out. The crossing was even more difficult now, owing to theextra weight of the wagon. 

“I guess you earn your money, Nathan, ” said Hosmer bending andquivering with the efforts he put forth. 

“Yas, suh, I does; an’ dis job’s wuf mo’ ’an I gits fu’ it. ”

“All de same you done lef’ off wurking crap sence you start it, ”mumbled Aunt Agnes. 

“You gwine git hu’t, woman; I done tole you dat; don’ wan’ listen, ”returned Nathan with halting breath. 

“Who gwine hu’t me?”

Whether from tardy gallantry or from pre-occupation with his arduouswork, Nathan offered no reply to this challenge, and his silence leftAunt Agnes in possession of the field. 

They were in full mid-stream. Hosmer and the teamster were in the foreend of the boat; Nathan in the rear, and Aunt Agnes standing in thecenter between the wagon and the protecting railing, against which sheleaned her clasped hands that still upheld the semblance of umbrella. 

The ill-mated horses stood motionless, letting fall their dejectedheads with apathetic droop. The rain was dripping from theirglistening coats, and making a great patter as it fell upon thetarpaulins covering the cotton bales. 

Suddenly came an exclamation: “Gret God!” from Aunt Agnes, so genuinein its amazement and dismay, that the three men with one accord lookedquickly up at her, then at the point on which her terrified gaze wasfixed. Almost on the instant of the woman’s cry, was heard a shrill, piercing, feminine scream. 

What they saw was the section of land on which stood Marie Louise’scabin, undermined--broken away from the main body and graduallygliding into the water. It must have sunk with a first abrupt wrench, for the brick chimney was shaken from its foundation, the smokeissuing in dense clouds from its shattered sides, the house topplingand the roof caving. For a moment Hosmer lost his senses. He could butlook, as if at some awful apparition that must soon pass from sightand leave him again in possession of his reason. The leaning house washalf submerged when Fanny appeared at the door, like a figure in adream; seeming a natural part of the awfulness of it. He only gazedon. The two negroes uttered loud lamentations. 

“Pull with the current!” cried the teamster, first to regain hispresence of mind. It had needed but this, to awaken Hosmer to thesituation. 

“Leave off, ” he cried at Nathan, who was wringing his hands. “Takehold that oar or I’ll throw you overboard. ” The trembling ashen negroobeyed on the instant. 

“Hold fast--for God’s sake--hold fast!” he shouted to Fanny, who wasclinging with swaying figure to the door post. Of Marie Louise therewas no sign. 

The caved bank now remained fixed; but Hosmer knew that at any instantit was liable to disappear before his riveted gaze. 

How heavy the flat was! And the horses had caught the contagion ofterror and were plunging madly. 

“Whip those horses and their load into the river, ” called Hosmer, “we’ve got to lighten at any price. ”

“Them horses an’ cotton’s worth money, ” interposed the alarmedteamster. 

“Force them into the river, I say; I’ll pay you twice their value. ”

“You ’low to pay fur the cotton, too?”

“Into the river with them or I’ll brain you!” he cried, maddened atthe weight and delay that were holding them back. 

The frightened animals seemed to ask nothing more than to plunge intothe troubled water; dragging their load with them. 

They were speeding rapidly towards the scene of catastrophe; but toHosmer they crawled--the moments were hours. “Hold on! hold fast!” hecalled again and again to his wife. But even as he cried out, thedetached section of earth swayed, lurched to one side--plunged to theother, and the whole mass was submerged--leaving the water above it inwild agitation. 

A cry of horror went up from the spectators--all but Hosmer. He castaside his oar--threw off his coat and hat; worked an instant withoutavail at his wet clinging boots, and with a leap was in the water, swimming towards the spot where the cabin had gone down. The currentbore him on without much effort of his own. The flat was close up withhim; but he could think of it no longer as a means of rescue. Detachedpieces of timber from the ruined house were beginning to rise to thesurface. Then something floating softly on the water: a woman’s dress, but too far for him to reach it. 

When Fanny appeared again, Hosmer was close beside her. His left armwas quickly thrown about her. She was insensible, and he rememberedthat it was best so, for had she been in possession of her reason, shemight have struggled and impeded his movements. He held herfast--close to him and turned to regain the shore. Another horrifiedshriek went up from the occupants of the flat-boat not far away, andHosmer knew no more--for a great plunging beam struck him full uponthe forehead. 

When consciousness came back to him, he found that he lay extended inthe flat, which was fastened to the shore. The confused sound of manyvoices mingled with a ringing din that filled his ears. A warm streamwas trickling down over his cheek. Another body lay beside him. Nowthey were lifting him. Thérèse’s face was somewhere--very near, he sawit dimly and that it was white--and he fell again into insensibility. 

XVI

To Him Who Waits. 

The air was filled with the spring and all its promises. Full with thesound of it, the smell of it, the deliciousness of it. Such sweet air;soft and strong, like the touch of a brave woman’s hand. The air of anearly March day in New Orleans. It was folly to shut it out from nookor cranny. Worse than folly the lady thought who was making futileendeavors to open the car window near which she sat. Her face hadgrown pink with the effort. She had bit firmly into her red netherlip, making it all the redder; and then sat down from theunaccomplished feat to look ruefully at the smirched finger tips ofher Parisian gloves. This flavor of Paris was well about her; in thefolds of her graceful wrap that set to her fine shoulders. It wasplainly a part of the little black velvet toque that rested on herblonde hair. Even the umbrella and one small valise which she had justlaid on the seat opposite her, had Paris written plain upon them. 

These were impressions which the little grey-garbed conventionalfigure, some seats removed, had been noting since the striking ladyhad entered the car. Points likely to have escaped a man, who--unlessa minutely observant one, --would only have seen that she was handsomeand worthy of an admiration that he might easily fancy rising todevotion. 

Beside herself and the little grey-garbed figure was an interestingfamily group at the far end of the car. A husband, but doubly afather, surrounded and sat upon by a small band of offspring. Awife--presumably a mother--absorbed with the view of the outside worldand the elaborate gold chain that hung around her neck. 

The presence of a large valise, an overcoat, a cane and an umbrelladisposed on another seat, bespoke a further occupant, likely to be atpresent in the smoking car. 

The train pushed out from the depôt. The porter finally made tardyhaste to the assistance of the lady who had been attempting to openthe window, and when the fresh morning air came blowing in upon herThérèse leaned back in her seat with a sigh of content. 

There was a full day’s journey before her. She would not reachPlace-du-Bois before dark, but she did not shrink from those hoursthat were to be passed alone. She rather welcomed the quiet of themafter a visit to New Orleans full of pleasant disturbances. She waseager to be home again. She loved Place-du-Bois with a love that wasreal; that had grown deep since it was the one place in the worldwhich she could connect with the presence of David Hosmer. She hadoften wondered--indeed was wondering now--if the memory of thosehappenings to which he belonged would ever grow strange and far awayto her. It was a trick of memory with which she indulged herself onoccasion, this one of retrospection. Beginning with that June day whenshe had sat in the hall and watched the course of a white sunshadeover the tops of the bending corn. 

Such idle thoughts they were with their mingling of bitter andsweet--leading nowhere. But she clung to them and held to them as ifto a refuge which she might again and again return to. 

The picture of that one terrible day of Fanny’s death, stood out insharp prominent lines; a touch of the old agony always coming back asshe remembered how she had believed Hosmer dead too--lying so pale andbleeding before her. Then the parting which had held not so much ofsorrow as of awe and bewilderment in it: when sick, wounded and brokenhe had gone away at once with the dead body of his wife; when the twohad clasped hands without words that dared be uttered. 

But that was a year ago. And Thérèse thought many things might comeabout in a year. Anyhow, might not such length of time be hoped to rubthe edge off a pain that was not by its nature lasting?

That time of acute trouble seemed to have thrown Hosmer back upon hisold diffidence. The letter he wrote her after a painful illness whichprostrated him on his arrival in St. Louis, was stiff and formal, asmen’s letters are apt to be, though it had breathed an untold story ofloyalty which she had felt at the time, and still cherished. Otherletters--a few--had gone back and forth between them, till Hosmer hadgone away to the sea-shore with Melicent, to recuperate, and Junecoming, Thérèse had sailed from New Orleans for Paris, whither she hadpassed six months. 

Things had not gone well at Place-du-Bois during her absence, theimpecunious old kinsman whom she had left in charge, having a decidedpreference for hunting the _Gros-Bec_ and catching trout in the laketo supervising the methods of a troublesome body of blacks. So Thérèsehad had much to engage her thoughts from the morbid channel into whichthose of a more idle woman might have drifted. 

She went occasionally enough to the mill. There at least she wasalways sure to hear Hosmer’s name--and what a charm the sound of ithad for her. And what a delight it was to her eyes when she caughtsight of an envelope lying somewhere on desk or table of the office, addressed in his handwriting. That was a weakness which she could notpardon herself; but which staid with her, seeing that the sametrifling cause never failed to awaken the same unmeasured delight. Shehad even trumped up an excuse one day for carrying off one of Hosmer’sbusiness letters--indeed of the dryest in substance, and which, whenhalf-way home, she had torn into the smallest bits and scattered tothe winds, so overcome was she by a sense of her own absurdity. 

Thérèse had undergone the ordeal of having her ticket scrutinized, commented upon and properly punched by the suave conductor. The littleconventional figure had given over the contemplation of Parisianstyles and betaken herself to the absorbing pages of a novel which sheread through smoked glasses. The husband and father had peeled anddistributed his second outlay of bananas amongst his family. It was atthis moment that Thérèse, looking towards the door, saw Hosmer enterthe car. 

She must have felt his presence somewhere near; his being there andcoming towards her was so much a part of her thoughts. She held outher hand to him and made place beside her, as if he had left her but ahalf hour before. All the astonishment was his. But he pressed herhand and took the seat she offered him. 

“You knew I was on the train?” he asked. 

“Oh, no, how should I?”

Then naturally followed question and answer. 

Yes, he was going to Place-du-Bois. 

No, the mill did not require his presence; it had been very wellmanaged during his absence. 

Yes, she had been to New Orleans. Had had a very agreeable visit. Beautiful weather for city dwellers. But such dryness. So disastrousto the planters. 

Yes--quite likely there would be rain next month: there usually was inApril. But indeed there was need of more than April showers for thatstiff land--that strip along the bayou, if he remembered? Oh, heremembered quite well, but for all that he did not know what she wastalking about. She did not know herself. Then they grew silent; notfrom any feeling of the absurdity of such speech between them, foreach had but listened to the other’s voice. They became silentlyabsorbed by the consciousness of each other’s nearness. She waslooking at his hand that rested on his knee, and thinking it fullerthan she remembered it before. She was aware of some change in himwhich she had not the opportunity to define; but this firmness andfullness of the hand was part of it. She looked up into his face then, to find the same change there, together with a new content. But whatshe noted beside was the dull scar on his forehead, coming out like ared letter when his eyes looked into her own. The sight of it was likea hurt. She had forgotten it might be there, telling its story of painthrough the rest of his life. 

“Thérèse, ” Hosmer said finally, “won’t you look at me?”

She was looking from the window. She did not turn her head, but herhand went out and met his that was on the seat close beside her. Heheld it firmly; but soon with an impatient movement drew down theloose wristlet of her glove and clasped his fingers around her warmwrist. 

“Thérèse, ” he said again; but more unsteadily, “look at me. ”

“Not here, ” she answered him, “not now, I mean. ” And presently shedrew her hand away from him and held it for a moment pressed firmlyover her eyes. Then she looked at him with brave loving glance. 

“It’s been so long, ” she said, with the suspicion of a sigh. 

“Too long, ” he returned, “I couldn’t have borne it but for you--thethought of you always present with me; helping me to take myself outof the past. That was why I waited--till I could come to you free. Have you an idea, I wonder, how you have been a promise, and can bethe fulfillment of every good that life may give to a man?”

“No, I don’t know, ” she said a little hopelessly, taking his handagain, “I have seen myself at fault in following what seemed the onlyright. I feel as if there were no way to turn for the truth. Oldsupports appear to be giving way beneath me. They were so securebefore. It commenced, you remember--oh, you know when it must havebegun. But do you think, David, that it’s right we should find ourhappiness out of that past of pain and sin and trouble?”

“Thérèse, ” said Hosmer firmly, “the truth in its entirety isn’t givento man to know--such knowledge, no doubt, would be beyond humanendurance. But we make a step towards it, when we learn that there isrottenness and evil in the world, masquerading as right andmorality--when we learn to know the living spirit from the deadletter. I have not cared to stop in this struggle of life to question. You, perhaps, wouldn’t dare to alone. Together, dear one, we will workit out. Be sure there is a way--we may not find it in the end, but wewill at least have tried. ”

XVII

Conclusion. 

One month after their meeting on the train, Hosmer and Thérèse hadgone together to Centerville where they had been made one, as thesaying goes, by the good Père Antoine; and without more ado, haddriven back to Place-du-Bois: Mr. And Mrs. Hosmer. The event hadcaused more than the proverbial nine days’ talk. Indeed, now, twomonths after, it was still the absorbing theme that occupied thedwellers of the parish: and such it promised to remain till supplantedby something of sufficient dignity and importance to usurp its place. 

But of the opinions, favorable and other, that were being exchangedregarding them and their marriage, Hosmer and Thérèse heard little andwould have cared less, so absorbed were they in the overmasteringhappiness that was holding them in thralldom. They could not yet bringthemselves to look at it calmly--this happiness. Even the intoxicationof it seemed a thing that promised to hold. Through love they hadsought each other, and now the fulfillment of that love had broughtmore than tenfold its promise to both. It was a royal love; a generouslove and a rich one in its revelation. It was a magician that hadtouched life for them and changed it into a glory. In giving them toeach other, it was moving them to the fullness of their owncapabilities. Much to do in two little months; but what cannot lovedo?

“Could it give a woman more than this?” Thérèse was saying softly toherself. Her hands were clasped as in prayer and pressed togetheragainst her bosom. Her head bowed and her lips touching theintertwined fingers. She spoke of her own emotion; of a certain sweetturmoil that was stirring within her, as she stood out in the softJune twilight waiting for her husband to come. Waiting to hear the newring in his voice that was like a song of joy. Waiting to see that newstrength and courage in his face, of whose significance she lostnothing. To see the new light that had come in his eyes withhappiness. All gifts which love had given her. 

“Well, at last, ” she said, going to the top of the steps to meet himwhen he came. Her welcome was in her eyes. 

“At last, ” he echoed, with a sigh of relief; pressing her hand whichshe held out to him and raising it to his lips. 

He did not let it go, but passed it through his arm, and together theyturned to walk up and down the veranda. 

“You didn’t expect me at noon, did you?” he asked, looking down ather. 

“No; you said you’d be likely not to come; but I hoped for you all thesame. I thought you’d manage it some way. ”

“No, ” he answered her, laughing, “my efforts failed. I used evenstrategy. Held out the temptation of your delightful Creole dishes andall that. Nothing was of any avail. They were all business and I hadto be all business too, the whole day long. It was horribly stupid. ”

She pressed his arm significantly. 

“And do you think they will put all that money into the mill, David?Into the business?”

“No doubt of it, dear. But they’re shrewd fellows: didn’t committhemselves in any way. Yet I could see they were impressed. We rodefor hours through the woods this morning and they didn’t leave a stickof timber unscrutinized. We were out on the lake, too, and they werelike ferrets into every cranny of the mill. ”

“But won’t that give you more to do?”

“No, it will give me less: division of labor, don’t you see? It willgive me more time to be with you. ”

“And to help with the plantation, ” his wife suggested. 

“No, no, Madame Thérèse, ” he laughed, “I’ll not rob you of youroccupation. I’ll put no bungling hand into your concerns. I know asound piece of timber when I see it; but I should hardly be able totell a sample of Sea Island cotton from the veriest low middling. ”

“Oh, that’s absurd, David. Do you know you’re getting to talk suchnonsense since we’re married; you remind me sometimes of Melicent. ”

“Of Melicent? Heaven forbid! Why, I have a letter from her, ” he said, feeling in his breast pocket. “The size and substance of it haveactually weighted my pocket the whole day. ”

“Melicent talking weighty things? That’s something new, ” said Thérèseinterested. 

“Is Melicent ever anything else than new?” he enquired. 

They went and sat together on the bench at the corner of the veranda, where the fading Western light came over their shoulders. A quizzicalsmile came into his eyes as he unfolded his sister’s letter--withThérèse still holding his arm and sitting very close to him. 

“Well, ” he said, glancing over the first few pages--his wifefollowing--“she’s given up her charming little flat and her quaintlittle English woman: concludes I was right about the expense, etc. , etc. But here comes the gist of the matter, ” he said, reading from theletter--“ ‘I know you won’t object to the trip, David, I have my heartso set on it. The expense will be trifling, seeing there are four ofus to divide carriage hire, restaurant and all that: and it counts. 

“ ‘If you only knew Mrs. Griesmann I’d feel confident of your consent. You’d be perfectly fascinated with her. She’s one of those highlygifted women who knows everything. She’s very much interested in me. Thinks to have found that I have a quick comprehensive intellectualism(she calls it) that has been misdirected. I think there is somethingin that, David; you know yourself I never did care really for society. She says it’s impossible to ever come to a true knowledge of life asit is--which should be every one’s aim--without studying certainfundamental truths and things. ’ ”

“Oh, ” breathed Thérèse, overawed. 

“But wait--but listen, ” said Hosmer, “ ‘Natural History and allthat--and we’re going to take that magnificent trip through theWest--the Yosemite and so forth. It appears the flora of California isespecially interesting and we’re to carry those delicious little tinboxes strapped over our shoulders to hold specimens. Her son anddaughter are both, in their way, striking. He isn’t handsome; ratherthe contrary; but so serene and collected--so intensely bitter--hismother tells me he’s a pessimist. And the daughter really puts me toshame, child as she is, with the amount of her knowledge. She labelsall her mother’s specimens in Latin. Oh, I feel there’s so much to belearned. Mrs. Griesmann thinks I ought to wear glasses during thetrip. Says we often require them without knowing it ourselves--thatthey are so restful. She has some theory about it. I’m trying a pair, and see a great deal better through them than I expected to. Only theydon’t hold on very well, especially when I laugh. 

“ ‘Who do you suppose seized on to me in Vandervoort’s the other day, but that impertinent Mrs. Belle Worthington! Positively took me by thecoat and commenced to gush about dear sister Thérèse. She said: “Itell you what, my dear--” called me my dear at the highest pitch, andthat odious Mrs. Van Wycke behind us listening and pretending toexamine a lace handkerchief. “That Mrs. Lafirme’s a trump, ” shesaid--“too good for most any man. Hope you won’t take offense, but Imust say, your brother David’s a perfect stick--it’s what I alwayssaid. ” Can you conceive of such shocking impertinence?’

“Well; Belle Worthington does possess the virtue of candor, ” saidHosmer amused and folding the letter. “That’s about all there is, except a piece of scandal concerning people you don’t know; thatwouldn’t interest you. ”

“But it would interest me, ” Thérèse insisted, with a little wifelyresentment that her husband should have a knowledge of people thatexcluded her. 

“Then you shall hear it, ” he said, turning to the letter again. “Let’ssee--‘conceive--shocking impertinence--’ oh, here it is. 

“ ‘Don’t know if you have learned the horrible scandal; too dreadfulto talk about. I shall send you the paper. I always knew that LouDawson was a perfidious creature--and Bert Rodney! You never did likehim, David; but he was always so much the gentleman in hismanners--you must admit that. Who could have dreamed it of him. PoorMrs. Rodney is after all the one to be pitied. She is utterlyprostrated. Refuses to see even her most intimate friends. It all cameof those two vile wretches thinking Jack Dawson out of town when hewasn’t; for he was right there following them around in theirperambulations. And the outcome is that Mr. Rodney has his beautyspoiled they say forever; the shot came very near being fatal. Butpoor, poor Mrs. Rodney!

“ ‘Well, good-bye, you dearest David mine. How I wish you both knewMrs. Griesmann. Give that sweet sister Thérèse as many kisses as shewill stand for me. 

 Melicent. ’ ”

This time Hosmer put the letter into his pocket, and Thérèse askedwith a little puzzled air: “What do you suppose is going to become ofMelicent, anyway, David?”

“I don’t know, love, unless she marries my friend Homeyer. ”

“Now, David, you are trying to mystify me. I believe there’s a streakof perversity in you after all. ”

“Of course there is; and here comes Mandy to say that ‘suppa’s gittin’cole. ’ ”

“Aunt B’lindy ’low suppa on de table gittin’ cole, ” said Mandy, retreating at once from the fire of their merriment. 

Thérèse arose and held her two hands out to her husband. 

He took them but did not rise; only leaned further back on the scatand looked up at her. 

“Oh, supper’s a bore; don’t you think so?” he asked. 

“No, I don’t, ” she replied. “I’m hungry, and so are you. Come, David. ”

“But look, Thérèse, just when the moon has climbed over the top ofthat live-oak? We can’t go now. And then Melicent’s request; we mustthink about that. ”

“Oh, surely not, David, ” she said, drawing back. 

“Then let me tell you something, ” and he drew her head down andwhispered something in her pink ear that he just brushed with hislips. It made Thérèse laugh and turn very rosy in the moonlight. 

Can that be Hosmer? Is this Thérèse? Fie, fie. It is time we wereleaving them.