HE ASKS HER AGAIN.
Claude and his father left the next day,--Saturday. Only the author of
the A. of U. I. knew whither they were gone. As they were going he
said very privately to Claude:
"I'll be with you day after to-morrow. You can't be ready for me
before then, and you and your father can take Sunday to look around,
and kind o' see the city. But don't go into the down-town part; you'll
not like it; nothing but narrow streets and old buildings with
histories to 'em, and gardens hid away inside of 'em, and damp
archways, and pagan-looking females who can't talk English, peeping
out over balconies that offer to drop down on you, and then don't keep
their word; every thing old-timey, and Frenchy, and Spanishy;
unprogressive--you wouldn't like it. Go up-town. That's American. It's
new and fresh. There you'll find beautiful mansions, mostly frame,
it's true, but made to look like stone, you know. There you'll see
wealth! There you'll get the broad daylight--
'The merry, merry sunshine, that makes the heart so gay.'
See? Yes, and Monday we'll meet at Jones's, 17 Tchoupitoulas Street;
all right; I'll be on hand. But to-day and to-morrow--'Alabama'--'here
I rest.' I feel constrained"--he laid his hand upon his heart, closed
one eye, and whispered--"to stay. I would fain spend the sabbath in
sweet Vermilionville. You get my idea?"
The sabbath afternoon, beyond the town, where Mr. Tarbox strolled, was
lovelier than can be told. Yet he was troubled. Zoséphine had not thus
far given him a moment alone. I suppose, when a hundred generations
more have succeeded us on the earth, lovers will still be blind to the
fact that women do not do things our way. How can they? That would be
capitulation at once, and even we should find the whole business as
stupid as shooting barnyard fowls.
Zoséphine had walked out earlier than Tarbox. He had seen her go, but
dared not follow. He read "thou shalt not" as plain as print on her
back as she walked quietly away; that same little peremptory back
that once in her father's calèche used to hold itself stiff when
'Thanase rode up behind. The occasional townsman that lifted his
slouch hat in deep deference to her silent bow, did not read unusual
care on her fair brow; yet she, too, was troubled.
Marguerite! she was the trouble. Zoséphine knew her child could never
come back to these old surroundings and be content. The mother was not
willing she should. She looked at a photograph that her daughter had
lately sent her. What a change from the child that had left her! It
was like the change from a leaf to a flower. There was but one thing
to do: follow her. So Zoséphine had resolved to sell the inn. She was
gone, now, to talk with the old ex-governor about finding a purchaser.
Her route was not by the avenue of oaks, but around by a northern and
then eastern circuit. She knew Mr. Tarbox must have seen her go; had a
genuine fear that he would guess whither she was bound, and yet,
deeper down in her heart than woman ever lets soliloquy go, was
willing he should. For she had another trouble. We shall come to that
presently.
Her suitor walked in the avenue of oaks.
"She's gone," he reckoned to himself, "to consult the governor about
something, and she'll come back this way." He loitered out across
fields, but not too far off or out of sight; and by and by there she
came, with just the slightest haste in her walk. She received him with
kindly reserve, and they went more slowly, together.
She told where she had been, and that the governor approved a
decision she had made.
"Yass; I goin' sell my hotel."
"He's right!" exclaimed her companion, with joy; "and you're right!"
"Well, 'tain't sold yet," she responded. She did not smile as she
looked at him. He read trouble; some trouble apart from the subject,
in her quiet, intense eyes.
"You know sombodie want buy dat?" she asked.
"I'll find some one," he promptly replied. Then they talked a little
about the proper price for it, and then were very still until Mr.
Tarbox said:
"I walked out here hoping to meet you."
Madame Beausoleil looked slightly startled, and then bowed gravely.
"Yes; I want your advice. It's only business, but it's important, and
it's a point where a woman's instinct is better than a man's
judgment."
There was some melancholy satire in her responding smile; but it
passed away, and Mr. Tarbox went on:
"You never liked my line of business"--
Zoséphine interrupted with kind resentment:
"Ah!"
"No; I know you didn't. You're one of the few women whose subscription
I've sought in vain. Till then I loved my business. I've never loved
it since. I've decided to sell out and quit. I'm going into another
business, one that you'll admire. I don't say any thing about the man
going into it,--
'Honor and shame from no condition rise:
Act well your part; there all the honor lies,'--
but I want your advice about the party I think of going in with. It's
Claude St. Pierre."
Zoséphine turned upon the speaker a look of steady penetration. He met
it with a glance of perfect confiding. "She sees me," he said, at the
same time, far within himself.
It was as natural to Mr. Tarbox to spin a web as it is for a spider.
To manoeuvre was the profoundest instinct of his unprofound nature.
Zoséphine felt the slender threads weaving around her. But in her
heart of hearts there was a certain pleasure in being snared. It could
not, to her, seem wholly bad for Tarbox to play spider, provided he
should play the harmless spider. Mr. Tarbox spoke again, and she
listened amiably.
"Claude is talented. He has what I haven't; I have what he hasn't, and
together we could make each other's fortunes, if he's only the square,
high-style fellow I think he is. I'm a student of human nature, and I
think I've made him out. I think he'll do to tie to. But will he? You
can tell me. You read people by instinct. I ask you just as a matter
of business advice and in business confidence. What do you think? Will
you trust me and tell me--as my one only trusted friend--freely and
fully--as I would tell you?"
Madame Beausoleil felt the odds against her, but she looked into her
companion's face with bright, frank eyes and said: "Yass, I t'ink
yass; I t'ink _'tis_ so."
"Thanks!" said her friend, with unnecessary fervor and tenderness.
"Then Claude will be my partner, unless--my dear friend, shall you be
so kind--I might almost say confiding--to me, and me not tell you
something I think you'd ought to know? For I hope we are always to be
friends; don't you?"
"Yass," she said, very sadly and sweetly.
"Thanks! And if Claude and I become partners that will naturally bring
him into our circle, as it were; see?"
The little madame looked up with a sudden austere exaltation of frame
and intensity of face, but her companion rushed on with--"And I'm
going to tell you, let the risk to me be what it may, that it may
result in great unhappiness to Claude; for he loves your daughter,
who, I know, you must think too good for him!"
Madame Beausoleil blushed as though she herself were Marguerite and
Tarbox were Claude.
"Ah! love Marguerite! Naw, naw! He dawn't love noboddie but hees papa!
Hees papa tell me dat! Ah! naw, 'tis _not_ so!"
Mr. Tarbox stopped still; and when Zoséphine saw they were in the
shadow of the trees while all about them was brightened by the
momentary Southern twilight, she, too, stopped, and he spoke.
"What brought Claude back here when by right he should have gone
straight to the city? You might have guessed it when you saw him." He
paused to let her revolve the thought, and added in his own mind--"If
you had disliked the idea, you'd 'a' suspected him quick enough"--and
was pleased. He spoke again. "But I didn't stop with guessing."
Zoséphine looked up to his face from the little foot that edgewise
was writing nothings in the dust.
"No," continued her companion: "I walked with him two evenings ago in
this avenue, and right where we stand now, without his ever knowing
it--then or now--he as good as told me. Yes, Josephine, he dares to
love your beautiful and accomplished daughter! The thought may offend
you, but--was I not right to tell you?"
She nodded and began to move slowly on, he following.
"I'm not betraying anyone's confidence," persisted he; "and I can't
help but have a care for you. Not that you need it, or anybody's. You
can take care of yourself if any man or woman can. Every time your
foot touches the ground it says so as plain as words. That's what
first caught my fancy. You haven't got to have somebody to take care
of you. O Josephine! that's just why I want to take care of you so
bad! I can take care of myself, and I used to like to do it; I was
just that selfish and small; but love's widened me. I can take care of
myself; but, oh! what satisfaction is there in it? Is there any? Now,
I ask you! It may do for you, for you're worth taking care of; but I
want to take care of something I needn't be ashamed to love!" He
softly stole her hand as they went. She let it stay, yet looked away
from him, up through the darkling branches, and distressfully shook
her head.
"Don't, Josephine!--don't do that. I want you to take care of me. You
could do better, I know, if love wasn't the count; but when it comes
to loving you, I'm the edition deloox! I know you've an aspiring
nature, but so have I; and I believe with you to love and you loving
me, and counselling and guiding me, I could climb high. O Josephine!
it isn't this poor Tarbox I'm asking you to give yourself to; it's the
Tarbox that is to be; it's the coming Tarbox! Why, it's even a good
business move! If it wasn't I wouldn't say a word! You know I can, and
will take the very best care of every thing you've got; and I know
you'll take the same of mine. It's a good move, every way. Why, here's
every thing just fixed for it! Listen to the mocking-bird! See him
yonder, just at the right of the stile. See! O Josephine! don't you
see he isn't
'Still singing where the weeping willow waves'?
he's on the myrtle; the myrtle, Josephine, and the crape-myrtle at
that!--widowhood unwidowed!--Now he's on the fence--but he'll not stay
there,--and you mustn't either!" The suitor smiled at his own
ludicrousness, yet for all that looked beseechingly in earnest. He
stood still again, continuing to hold her hand. She stole a furtive
glance here and there for possible spectators. He smiled again.
"You don't see anybody; the world waives its claim." But there was
such distress in her face that his smile passed away, and he made a
new effort to accommodate his suit to her mood. "Josephine, there's no
eye on us except it's overhead. Tell me this; if he that was yours
until ten years ago was looking down now and could speak to us, don't
you believe he'd say yes?"
"Oh! I dunno. Not to-day! Not _dis_ day!" The widow's eyes met his
gaze of tender inquiry and then sank to the ground. She shook her head
mournfully. "Naw, naw; not dis day. 'Tis to-day 'Thanase was kill'!"
Mr. Tarbox relaxed his grasp and Zoséphine's hand escaped. She never
had betrayed to him so much distress as filled her face now. "De man
what kill' him git away! You t'ink I git marrie' while dat man alive?
Ho-o-o! You t'ink I let Marguerite see me do dat! Ah! naw!" She waved
him away and turned to leave the spot, but he pressed after, and she
paused once more. A new possibility lighted his eyes. He said eagerly:
"Describe the man to me. Describe him. How tall was he? How old would
he be now? Did they try to catch him? Did you hear me talking
yesterday about a man? Is there any picture of him? Have you got one?
Yes, you have; it's in your pocket now with your hand on it. Let me
see it."
"Ah! I di'n' want you to see dat!"
"No, I don't suppose, as far as you know yourself, you did." He
received it from her, and with his eyes still on her, continued: "No,
but you knew that if I got a ghost of a chance, I'd see you alone. You
knew what I'd ask you;--yes, you did, Josephine, and you put this
thing into your pocket to make it easier to say no."
"Hah! easier! Hah! easier! I need somethin' to _help_ me do dat? Hah!
'Tis _not_ so!" But the weakness of the wordy denial was itself almost
a confession.
They moved on. A few steps brought them into better light. Mr. Tarbox
looked at the picture. Zoséphine saw a slight flash of recognition. He
handed it back in silence, and they walked on, saying not a word until
they reached the stile. But there, putting his foot upon it to bar the
way, he said:
"Josephine, the devil never bid so high for me before in his life as
he's bidding for me now. And there's only one thing in the way; he's
bid too late."
Her eyes flashed with injured resentment. "Ah, you! you dawn't know
not'n'--" But he interrupted:
"Stop, I don't mean more than just what I say. Six years ago--six and
a half--I met a man of a kind I'd never met, to know it, before. You
know who' I mean, don't you?"
"Bonaventure?"
"Yes. That meeting made a turning-point in my life. You've told me
that whatever is best in you, you owe to him. Well, knowing him as I
do, I can believe it; and if it's true, then it's the same with me;
for first he, and then you, have made another man out of me."
"Ah, naw! Bonaventure, may_be_; but not me; ah, naw!"
"But I tell you, yes! you, Josephine! I'm poor sort enough yet; but I
could have done things once that I can't do now. There was a time when
if some miserable outlaw stood, or even seemed, maybe, to stand
between me and my chances for happiness, I could have handed him over
to human justice, so called, as easy as wink; but now? No, never any
more! Josephine, I know that man whose picture I've just looked at. I
could see you avenged. I could lay my hands, and the hands of the law,
on him inside of twenty-four hours. You say you can't marry till the
law has laid its penalties on him, or at least while he lives and
escapes them. Is that right?"
Zoséphine had set her face to oppose his words only with unyielding
silence, but the answer escaped her:
"Yass, _'tis_ so. 'Tis ri-ght!"
"No, Josephine. I know you _feel_ as if it were; but you don't _think_
so. No, you don't; I know you better in this matter than you know
yourself, and you don't think it's right. You know justice belongs to
the State, and that when you talk to yourself about what _you_ owe to
justice, it means something else that you're too sweet and good to
give the right name to, and still want it. You don't want it; you
don't want revenge, and here's the proof; for, Josephine, you know,
and I know, that if I--even without speaking--with no more than one
look of the eye--should offer to buy your favor at that price, even
ever so lawfully, you'd thank me for one minute, and then loathe me to
the end of your days."
Zoséphine's face had lost its hardness. It was drawn with distress.
With a gesture of repulsion and pain she exclaimed:
"I di'n' mean--I di'n' mean--Ah!"
"What? private revenge? No, of course you didn't! But what else would
it be? O Josephine! don't I know you didn't mean it? Didn't I tell
you so? But I want you to go farther. I want you to put away forever
the _feeling_. I want to move and stand between you and it, and
say--whatever it costs me to say it--'God forbid!' I do say it; I say
it now. I can't say more; I can't say less; and somehow,--I don't know
how--wherever you learned it--I've learned it from you."
Zoséphine opened her lips to refuse; but they closed and tightened
upon each other, her narrowed eyes sent short flashes out upon his,
and her breath came and went long and deep without sound. But at his
last words she saw--the strangest thing--to be where she saw it--a
tear--_tears_--standing in his eyes; saw them a moment, and then could
see them no more for her own. Her lips relaxed, her form drooped, she
lifted her face to reply, but her mouth twitched; she could not speak.
"I'm not so foolish as I look," he said, trying to smile away his
emotion. "If the State chooses to hunt him out and put him to trial
and punishment, I don't say I'd stand in the way; that's the State's
business; that's for the public safety. But it's too late--you and
Bonnyventure have made it too late--for me to help any one, least of
all the one I love, to be revenged." He saw his words were prevailing
and followed them up. "Oh! you don't need it any more than you really
want it, Josephine. You mustn't ever look toward it again. I throw
myself and my love across the path. Don't walk over us. Take my hand;
give me yours; come another way; and if you'll let such a poor excuse
for a teacher and guide help you, I'll help you all I can, to learn to
say 'forgive us our trespasses.' You can begin, now, by forgiving me.
I may have thrown away my last chance with you, but I can't help it;
it's my love that spoke. And if I have spoiled all and if I've got to
pay for the tears you're shedding with the greatest disappointment of
my life, still I've had the glory and the sanctification of loving
you. If I must say, I can say,
''Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.'
Must I? Are you going to make me say that?"
Zoséphine, still in tears, silently and with drooping head pushed her
way across the stile and left him standing on the other side. He sent
one pleading word after her:
"Isn't it most too late to go the rest of the way alone?"
She turned, lifted her eyes to his for an instant, and nodded. In a
twinkling he was at her side. She glanced at him again and said quite
contentedly:
"Yass; _'tis_ so," and they went the short remnant of the way
together.