I
The Mistress of Place-du-Bois.
When Jérôme Lafirme died, his neighbors awaited the results of his
sudden taking off with indolent watchfulness. It was a matter of
unusual interest to them that a plantation of four thousand acres had
been left unincumbered to the disposal of a handsome, inconsolable,
childless Creole widow of thirty. A _bêtise_ of some sort might safely
be looked for. But time passing, the anticipated folly failed to
reveal itself; and the only wonder was that Thérèse Lafirme so
successfully followed the methods of her departed husband.
Of course Thérèse had wanted to die with her Jérôme, feeling that life
without him held nothing that could reconcile her to its further
endurance. For days she lived alone with her grief; shutting out the
appeals that came to her from the demoralized “hands,” and unmindful
of the disorder that gathered about her. Till Uncle Hiram came one day
with a respectful tender of sympathy, offered in the guise of a
reckless misquoting of Scripture--and with a grievance.
“Mistuss,” he said, “I ’lowed ’twar best to come to de house an’ tell
you; fur Massa he alluz did say ‘Hi’urm, I counts on you to keep a eye
open endurin’ my appersunce;’ you ricollic, marm?” addressing an
expanse of black bordered cambric that veiled the features of his
mistress. “Things is a goin’ wrong; dat dey is. I don’t wants to name
no names ’doubt I’se ’bleeged to; but dey done start a kiarrin’ de
cotton seed off de place, and dats how.”
If Hiram’s information had confined itself to the bare statement of
things “goin’ wrong,” such intimation, of its nature vague and
susceptible of uncertain interpretation, might have failed to rouse
Thérèse from her lethargy of grief. But that wrong doing presented as
a tangible abuse and defiance of authority, served to move her to
action. She felt at once the weight and sacredness of a trust, whose
acceptance brought consolation and awakened unsuspected powers of
doing.
In spite of Uncle Hiram’s parting prediction “de cotton ’ll be a goin’
naxt” no more seed was hauled under cover of darkness from
Place-du-Bois.
The short length of this Louisiana plantation stretched along Cane
River, meeting the water when that stream was at its highest, with a
thick growth of cotton-wood trees; save where a narrow convenient
opening had been cut into their midst, and where further down the pine
hills started in abrupt prominence from the water and the dead level
of land on either side of them. These hills extended in a long line of
gradual descent far back to the wooded borders of Lac du Bois; and
within the circuit which they formed on the one side, and the
irregular half circle of a sluggish bayou on the other, lay the
cultivated open ground of the plantation--rich in its exhaustless
powers of reproduction.
Among changes which the railroad brought soon after Jérôme Lafirme’s
death, and which were viewed by many as of questionable benefit, was
one which drove Thérèse to seek another domicile. The old homestead
that nestled to the hill side and close to the water’s edge, had been
abandoned to the inroads of progressive civilization; and Mrs. Lafirme
had rebuilt many rods away from the river and beyond sight of the
mutilated dwelling, converted now into a section house. In building,
she avoided the temptations offered by modern architectural
innovations, and clung to the simplicity of large rooms and broad
verandas: a style whose merits had stood the test of easy-going and
comfort-loving generations.
The negro quarters were scattered at wide intervals over the land,
breaking with picturesque irregularity into the systematic division of
field from field; and in the early spring-time gleaming in their new
coat of whitewash against the tender green of the sprouting cotton and
corn.
Thérèse loved to walk the length of the wide verandas, armed with her
field-glass, and to view her surrounding possessions with comfortable
satisfaction. Then her gaze swept from cabin to cabin; from patch to
patch; up to the pine-capped hills, and down to the station which
squatted a brown and ugly intruder within her fair domain.
She had made pouting resistance to this change at first, opposing it
step by step with a conservatism that yielded only to the resistless.
She pictured a visionary troop of evils coming in the wake of the
railroad, which, in her eyes no conceivable benefits could mitigate.
The occasional tramp, she foresaw as an army; and the travelers whom
chance deposited at the store that adjoined the station, she dreaded
as an endless procession of intruders forcing themselves upon her
privacy.
Grégoire, the young nephew of Mrs. Lafirme, whose duty on the
plantation was comprehended in doing as he was bid, qualified by a
propensity for doing as he liked, rode up from the store one day in
the reckless fashion peculiar to Southern youth, breathless with the
information that a stranger was there wishing audience with her.
Thérèse at once bristled with objections. Here was a confirmation of
her worst dread. But encouraged by Grégoire’s reiteration “he ’pear to
me like a nice sort o’ person,” she yielded a grudging assent to the
interview.
She sat within the wide hall-way beyond the glare and heat that were
beating mercilessly down upon the world out of doors, engaged in a
light work not so exacting as to keep her thoughts and glance from
wandering. Looking through the wide open back doors, the picture which
she saw was a section of the perfect lawn that encircled the house for
an acre around, and from which Hiram was slowly raking the leaves cast
from a clump of tall magnolias. Beneath the spreading shade of an
umbrella-China tree, lay the burly Hector, but half awake to the
possible nearness of tramps; and Betsy, a piece of youthful ebony in
blue cottonade, was crossing leisurely on her way to the poultry yard;
unheeding the scorching sun-rays that she thought were sufficiently
parried by the pan of chick feed that she balanced adroitly on her
bushy black head.
At the front, the view at certain seasons would have been clear and
unbroken: to the station, the store, and out-lying hills. But now she
could see beyond the lawn only a quivering curtain of rich green which
the growing corn spread before the level landscape, and above whose
swaying heads appeared occasionally the top of an advancing white
sun-shade.
Thérèse was of a roundness of figure suggesting a future of excessive
fullness if not judiciously guarded; and she was fair, with a warm
whiteness that a passing thought could deepen into color. The waving
blonde hair, gathered in an abundant coil on top of her head, grew
away with a pretty sweep from the temples, the low forehead and nape
of the white neck that showed above a frill of soft lace. Her eyes
were 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 cheek
like the blush in a shell.
He was a tall individual of perhaps forty; thin and sallow. His black
hair was streaked abundantly with grey, and his face marked with
premature lines; left there by care, no doubt, and, by a too close
attention 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 man
who has never learned to laugh or who has forgotten how.” Though
plainly feeling the effects of the heat, he did not seem to appreciate
the relief offered by the grateful change into this shadowy, sweet
smelling, cool retreat; used as he was to ignore the comforting things
of life when presented to him as irrelevant to that dominant main
chance. He accepted under protest a glass of ice water from the
wide-eyed Betsy, and suffered a fan to be thrust into his hand,
seemingly to save his time or his timidity by its possibly unheeded
rejection.
“Lor’-zee folks,” exclaimed the observant Betsy on re-entering the
kitchen, “dey’se a man in yonda, look like he gwine eat somebody up. I
was fur gittin’ ’way quick me.”
It can be readily imagined that Hosmer lost little time in preliminary
small talk. He introduced himself vaguely as from the West; then
perceiving the need of being more specific as from Saint Louis. She
had guessed he was no Southerner. He had come to Mrs. Lafirme on the
part of himself and others with a moneyed offer for the privilege of
cutting timber from her land for a given number of years. The amount
named was alluring, but here was proposed another change and she felt
plainly called on for resistance.
The company which he represented had in view the erection of a sawmill
some two miles back in the woods, close beside the bayou and at a
convenient distance from the lake. He was not wordy, nor was he eager
in urging his plans; only in a quiet way insistent in showing points
to be considered in her own favor which she would be likely herself to
overlook.
Mrs. Lafirme, a clever enough business woman, was moved by no undue
haste to give her answer. She begged for time to think the matter
over, which Hosmer readily agreed to; expressing a hope that a
favorable answer be sent to him at Natchitoches, where he would await
her convenience. Then resisting rather than declining all further
hospitality, 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 pine
board. So small a place, that with his desk and his clerk’s desk, a
narrow bed in one corner, and two chairs, there was scant room for a
man to more than turn himself comfortably about. He had just
dispatched his clerk with the daily bundle of letters to the
post-office, two miles away in the Lafirme store, and he now turned
with the air of a man who had well earned his moment of leisure, to
the questionable relaxation of adding columns and columns of figures.
The mill’s unceasing buzz made pleasant music to his ears and stirred
reflections of a most agreeable nature. A year had gone by since Mrs.
Lafirme had consented to Hosmer’s proposal; and already the business
more than gave promise of justifying the venture. Orders came in from
the North and West more rapidly than they could be filled. That
“Cypresse Funerall” which stands in grim majesty through the dense
forests of Louisiana had already won its just recognition; and
Hosmer’s appreciation of a successful business venture was showing
itself in a little more pronounced stoop of shoulder, a deepening of
pre-occupation and a few additional lines about mouth and forehead.
Hardly had the clerk gone with his letters than a light footstep
sounded on the narrow porch; the quick tap of a parasol was heard on
the door-sill; a pleasant voice asking, “Any admission except on
business?” and Thérèse crossed the small room and seated herself
beside Hosmer’s desk before giving him time to arise.
She laid her hand and arm,--bare to the elbow--across his work, and
said, looking at him reproachfully:--
“Is this the way you keep a promise?”
“A promise?” he questioned, smiling awkwardly and looking furtively at
the 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 leaving
it undisturbed beneath the fair weight that was pressing it down. “My
work 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 leaned
back, fanning leisurely, whilst he proceeded to throw the contents of
his desk into hopeless disorder by pretended efforts at arrangement.
“My husband used sometimes to say, and no doubt with reason,” she
continued, “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 pens
and pencils and rulers, so he turned towards Thérèse, rested an arm on
the desk, pulled absently at his black moustache, and crossing his
knee, gazed with deep concern at the toe of his boot, and set of his
trouser about the ankle.
“You are not what my friend Homeyer would call an individualist,” he
ventured, “since you don’t grant a man the right to follow the
promptings of his character.”
“No, I’m no individualist, if to be one is to permit men to fall into
hurtful habits without offering protest against it. I’m losing faith
in that friend Homeyer, who I strongly suspect is a mythical apology
for your own short-comings.”
“Indeed he’s no myth; but a friend who is fond of going into such
things and allows me the benefit of his deeper perceptions.”
“You having no time, well understood. But if his influence has had the
merit of drawing your thoughts from business once in a while we won’t
quarrel with it.”
“Mrs. Lafirme,” said Hosmer, seeming moved to pursue the subject, and
addressing the spray of white blossoms that adorned Thérèse’s black
hat, “you admit, I suppose, that in urging your views upon me, you
have in mind the advancement of my happiness?”
“Well understood.”
“Then why wish to substitute some other form of enjoyment for the one
which I find in following my inclinations?”
“Because there is an unsuspected selfishness in your inclinations that
works 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 be
materially 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’s
society loses, when pursuing one object in life, he grows insensible
to every other. But I’ll not scold any more. I’ve made myself
troublesome enough for one day. You haven’t asked about Melicent. It’s
true,” she laughed, “I haven’t given you much chance. She’s out on the
lake with Grégoire.”
“Ah?”
“Yes, in the pirogue. A dangerous little craft, I’m afraid; but she
tells 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 after
herself; and it must be granted that the young lady fully justified
his 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 one
too in guarding herself against a somber influence that I know,” with
a meaning glance at Hosmer, who was preparing to close his desk.
She suddenly perceived the picture of a handsome boy, far back in one
of the pigeon-holes, and with the familiarity born of country
intercourse, she looked intently at it, remarking upon the boy’s
beauty.
“A child whom I loved very much,” said Hosmer. “He’s dead,” and he
closed the desk, turning the key in the lock with a sharp click which
seemed to add--“and buried.”
Thérèse then approached the open door, leaned her back against its
casing, and turned her pretty profile towards Hosmer, who, it need not
be supposed, was averse to looking at it--only to being caught in the
act.
“I want to look in at the mill before work closes,” she said; and not
waiting for an answer she went on to ask--moved by some association of
ideas:--
“How is Joçint doing?”
“Always unruly, the foreman tells me. I don’t believe we shall be able
to keep him.”
Hosmer then spoke a few words through the telephone which connected
with the agent’s desk at the station, put on his great slouch hat, and
thrusting keys and hands into his pocket, joined Thérèse in the
door-way.
Quitting the office and making a sharp turn to the left, they came in
direct sight of the great mill. She quickly made her way past the huge
piles of sawed timber, not waiting for her companion, who loitered at
each step of the way, with observant watchfulness. Then mounting the
steep stairs that led to the upper portions of the mill, she went at
once to her favorite spot, quite on the edge of the open platform that
overhung the dam. Here she watched with fascinated delight the great
logs hauled dripping from the water, following each till it had
changed to the clean symmetry of sawed planks. The unending work made
her giddy. For no one was there a moment of rest, and she could well
understand the open revolt of the surly Joçint; for he rode the day
long on that narrow car, back and forth, back and forth, with his
heart in the pine hills and knowing that his little Creole pony was
roaming the woods in vicious idleness and his rifle gathering an
unsightly rust on the cabin wall at home.
The boy gave but ugly acknowledgment to Thérèse’s amiable nod; for he
thought she was one upon whom partly rested the fault of this
intrusive Industry which had come to fire the souls of indolent
fathers with a greedy ambition for gain, at the sore expense of
revolting youth.
III
In the Pirogue.
“You got to set mighty still in this pirogue,” said Grégoire, as with
a long oar-stroke he pulled out into mid stream.
“Yes, I know,” answered Melicent complacently, arranging herself
opposite him in the long narrow boat: all sense of danger which the
situation might arouse being dulled by the attractiveness of a new
experience.
Her resemblance to Hosmer ended with height and slenderness of figure,
olive tinted skin, and eyes and hair which were of that dark brown
often miscalled black; but unlike his, her face was awake with an
eagerness to know and test the novelty and depth of unaccustomed
sensation. She had thus far lived an unstable existence, free from the
weight of responsibilities, with a notion lying somewhere deep in her
consciousness that the world must one day be taken seriously; but that
contingency was yet too far away to disturb the harmony of her days.
She had eagerly responded to her brother’s suggestion of spending a
summer with him in Louisiana. Hitherto, having passed her summers
North, West, or East as alternating caprice prompted, she was ready at
a word to fit her humor to the novelty of a season at the South. She
enjoyed in advance the startling effect which her announced intention
produced upon her intimate circle at home; thinking that her whim
deserved the distinction of eccentricity with which they chose to
invest it. But Melicent was chiefly moved by the prospect of an
uninterrupted sojourn with her brother, whom she loved blindly, and to
whom she attributed qualities of mind and heart which she thought the
world 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 uncertain
expectancy.
“Laughing at you, Grégoire; how can I help it?” laughing again.
“Betta wait tell I do somethin’ funny, I reckon. Ain’t this a putty
sight?” he added, referring to the dense canopy of an overarching
tree, beneath which they were gliding, and whose extreme branches
dipped quite into the slow moving water.
The scene had not attracted Melicent. For she had been engaged in
observing her companion rather closely; his personality holding her
with 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 white
as those of certain office bred young men of her acquaintance, yet
they were not coarsened by undue toil: it being somewhat an axiom with
him to do nothing that an available “nigger” might do for him.
Close fitting, high-heeled boots of fine quality incased his feet, in
whose shapeliness he felt a pardonable pride; for a young man’s
excellence was often measured in the circle which he had frequented,
by the possession of such a foot. A peculiar grace in the dance and a
talent for bold repartee were further characteristics which had made
Grégoire’s departure keenly felt among certain belles of upper Red
River. His features were handsome, of sharp and refined cut; and his
eyes black and brilliant as eyes of an alert and intelligent animal
sometimes are. Melicent could not reconcile his voice to her liking;
it was too softly low and feminine, and carried a note of pleading or
pathos, unless he argued with his horse, his dog, or a “nigger,” at
which times, though not unduly raised, it acquired a biting quality
that served the purpose of relieving him from further form of
insistence.
He pulled rapidly and in silence down the bayou, that was now so
entirely sheltered from the open light of the sky by the meeting
branches above, as to seem a dim leafy tunnel fashioned by man’s
ingenuity. There were no perceptible banks, for the water spread out
on either side of them, further than they could follow its flashings
through the rank underbrush. The dull plash of some object falling
into the water, or the wild call of a lonely bird were the only sounds
that broke upon the stillness, beside the monotonous dipping of the
oars and the occasional low undertones of their own voices. When
Grégoire called the girl’s attention to an object near by, she fancied
it was the protruding stump of a decaying tree; but reaching for his
revolver and taking quiet aim, he drove a ball into the black upturned
nozzle 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 at
word of command--the air was filled with the doleful hum of a gray
swarm of mosquitoes, which attacked them fiercely.
“You didn’t tell me the bayou was the refuge of such savage
creatures,” 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 know
everything.” After a short interval he added, “you betta take yo’ veil
off.”
She was amused at Grégoire’s authoritative tone and she said to him
laughing, 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; and
because I like to look at you,” which he was doing, with the innocent
boldness 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 closely
above that they often needed to lower their heads to avoid the blow of
some drooping branch. Then a sudden and unlooked for turn in the bayou
carried them out upon the far-spreading waters of the lake, with the
broad canopy of the open sky above them.
“Oh,” cried Melicent, in surprise. Her exclamation was like a sigh of
relief which comes at the removal of some pressure from body or brain.
The wildness of the scene caught upon her erratic fancy, speeding it
for a quick moment into the realms of romance. She was an Indian
maiden of the far past, fleeing and seeking with her dusky lover some
wild and solitary retreat on the borders of this lake, which offered
them no seeming foot-hold save such as they would hew themselves with
axe or tomahawk. Here and there, a grim cypress lifted its head above
the water, and spread wide its moss covered arms inviting refuge to
the great black-winged buzzards that circled over and about it in
mid-air. Nameless voices--weird sounds that awake in a Southern forest
at twilight’s approach,--were crying a sinister welcome to the
settling 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. “I
wouldn’t want to be yere alone, not fur any money.”
“It is an awful place,” replied Melicent with a little appreciative
shudder; adding “do you consider me a bodily protection?” and feebly
smiling into his face.
“Oh; I ain’t ’fraid o’ any thing I can see an on’erstan’. I can han’le
mos’ any thing thet’s got a body. But they do tell some mighty queer
tales ’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 fur
the niggas he’s killed.”
“Gracious! and who was old McFarlane?”
“The meanest w’ite man thet ever lived, seems like. Used to own this
place long befo’ the Lafirmes got it. They say he’s the person that
Mrs. 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’s
grave.”
They had retraced their course and again entered the bayou, from which
the light had now nearly vanished, making it needful that they watch
carefully to escape the hewn logs that floated in numbers upon the
water.
“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’en
I was real lonesome. ’Tain’t so bad sence you come. But times w’en I
git to thinkin’ ’bout home, I’m boun’ to cry--seems like I can’t he’p
it.”
“Why did you ever leave home?” she asked sympathetically.
“You see w’en father died, fo’ year ago, mother she went back to
France, t’her folks there; she never could stan’ this country--an’
lef’ us boys to manage the place. Hec, he took charge the firs’ year
an’ run it in debt. Placide an’ me did’n’ have no betta luck the naxt
year. 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 in
the 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 the
man to take nothin’ from nobody. Never ’lowed any of us to come down
yere. I was in Texas, goin’ to the devil I reckon, w’en she sent for
me, 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’en
you do like she wants. See ’em yonda waitin’ fur us? Reckon they
thought we was drowned.”
IV
A Small Interruption.
When Melicent came to visit her brother, Mrs. Lafirme persuaded him to
abandon his uncomfortable quarters at the mill and take up his
residence in the cottage, which stood just beyond the lawn of the big
house. This cottage had been furnished _de pied en cap_ many years
before, in readiness against an excess of visitors, which in days gone
by was not of infrequent occurrence at Place-du-Bois. It was
Melicent’s delighted intention to keep house here. And she foresaw no
obstacle in the way of procuring the needed domestic aid in a place
which 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 not
of doubt, that “de Lord willin’ ” she would “be on han’ Monday, time
to make de mornin’ coffee.” Which assurance had afforded Melicent a
Sunday free of disturbing doubts concerning the future of her
undertaking. But who may know what the morrow will bring forth? Cynthy
had been “tuck sick in de night.” So ran the statement of the wee
pickaninny who appeared at Melicent’s gate many hours later than
morning coffee time: delivering his message in a high voice of
complaint, and disappearing like a vision without further word.
Uncle Hiram, then called to the breach, had staked his patriarchal
honor on the appearance of his niece Suze on Tuesday. Melicent and
Thérèse meeting Suze some days later in a field path, asked the cause
of her bad faith. The girl showed them all the white teeth which
nature had lavished on her, saying with the best natured laugh in the
world: “I don’ know how come I didn’ git dere Chewsday like I
promise.”
If the ladies were not disposed to consider that an all-sufficient
reason, so much the worse, for Suze had no other to offer.
From Mose’s wife, Minervy, better things might have been expected. But
after a solemn engagement to take charge of Melicent’s kitchen on
Wednesday, 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 brief
role of housekeeper had used her powers, persuasive and authoritative,
to procure servants for her, but without avail. She herself was not
without an abundance of them, from the white-haired Hiram, whose
position on the place had long been a sinecure, down to the little
brown legged tot Mandy, much given to falling asleep in the sun, when
not chasing venturesome poultry off forbidden ground, or stirring
gentle breezes with an enormous palm leaf fan about her mistress
during that lady’s after dinner nap.
When pressed to give a reason for this apparent disinclination of the
negroes to work for the Hosmers, Nathan, who was at the moment being
interviewed on the front veranda by Thérèse and Melicent, spoke out.
“Dey ’low ’roun’ yere, dat you’s mean to de black folks, ma’am: dat
what 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--I
don’ know me.”
“Do you suppose, Nathan,” said Thérèse attempting but poorly to hide
her amusement at Melicent’s look of dismay, “that Miss Hosmer would
bother 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 day
playfully seized one of the small Mandy’s bristling plaits, daintily
between finger and thumb, threatening to cut them all away with the
scissors which she carried. Yet she could not but believe that there
was some deeper motive underlying this systematic reluctance of the
negroes to give their work in exchange for the very good pay which she
offered. Thérèse soon enlightened her with the information that the
negroes were very averse to working for Northern people whose speech,
manners, and attitude towards themselves were unfamiliar. She was
given the consoling assurance of not being the only victim of this
boycott, as Thérèse recalled many examples of strangers whom she knew
to 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 generous
hospitality; and one of that lady’s many supernumeraries was detailed
each morning to “do up” Miss Melicent’s rooms, but not without the
previous understanding that the work formed part of Miss T’rèse’s
system.
Nothing which had happened during the year of his residence at
Place-du-Bois had furnished Hosmer such amusement as these
misadventures of his sister Melicent, he having had no like experience
with his mill hands.
It is not unlikely that his good humor was partly due to the
acceptable 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 the
world than his Aunt Thérèse, “W’en you do like she wants,” the
statement was so incomplete as to leave one in uncomfortable doubt of
the expediency of venturing within the influence of so exacting a
nature. True, Thérèse required certain conduct from others, but she
was willing to further its accomplishment by personal efforts, even
sacrifices--that could leave no doubt of the pure unselfishness of her
motive. There was hardly a soul at Place-du-Bois who had not felt the
force of her will and yielded to its gentle influence.
The picture of Joçint as she had last seen him, stayed with her, till
it gave form to a troubled desire moving her to see him again and
speak with him. He had always been an unruly subject, inclined to a
surreptitious defiance of authority. Repeatedly had he been given work
on the plantation and as many times dismissed for various causes.
Thérèse would have long since removed him had it not been for his old
father Morico, whose long life spent on the place had established a
claim upon her tolerance.
In the late afternoon, when the shadows of the magnolias were
stretching in grotesque lengths across the lawn, Thérèse stood waiting
for Uncle Hiram to bring her sleek bay Beauregard around to the front.
The dark close fitting habit which she wore lent brilliancy to her
soft blonde coloring; and there was no mark of years about her face or
figure, save the settling of a thoughtful shadow upon the eyes, which
joys and sorrows that were past and gone had left there.
As she rode by the cottage, Melicent came out on the porch to wave a
laughing good-bye. The girl was engaged in effacing the simplicity of
her rooms with certain bizarre decorations that seemed the promptings
of a disordered imagination. Yards of fantastic calico had been
brought up from the store, which Grégoire with hammer and tacks was
amiably forming into impossible designs at the prompting of the girl.
The little darkies had been enlisted to bring their contributions of
palm branches, pine cones, ferns, and bright hued bird wings--and a
row of those small recruits stood on the porch, gaping in wide-mouthed
admiration at a sight that stirred within their breasts such remnant
of savage instinct as past generations had left there in dormant
survival.
One of the small audience permitted her attention to be drawn for a
moment from the gorgeous in-door spectacle, to follow the movements of
her mistress.
“Jis’ look Miss T’rèse how she go a lopin’ down de lane. Dere she
go--dere she go--now she gone,” and she again became contemplative.
Thérèse, after crossing the railroad, for a space kept to the brow of
the hill where stretched a well defined road, which by almost
imperceptible degrees led deeper and always higher into the woods.
Presently, leaving this road and turning into a bridle path where an
unpracticed eye would have discovered no sign of travel, she rode on
until reaching a small clearing among the pines, in the center of
which stood a very old and weather beaten cabin.
Here she dismounted, before Morico knew of her presence, for he sat
with his back partly turned to the open door. As she entered and
greeted him, he arose from his chair, all trembling with excitement at
her visit; the long white locks, straggling and unkept, falling about
his brown visage that had grown old and weather beaten with his cabin.
Sinking down into his seat--the hide covered chair that had been worn
smooth by years of usefulness--he gazed well pleased at Thérèse, who
seated herself beside him.
“Ah, this is quite the handsomest you have made yet, Morico,” she said
addressing him in French, and taking up the fan that he was curiously
fashioning of turkey feathers.
“I am taking extra pains with it,” he answered, looking complacently
at his handiwork and smoothing down the glossy feathers with the ends
of his withered old fingers. “I thought the American lady down at the
house might want to buy it.”
Thérèse could safely assure him of Melicent’s willingness to seize on
the 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 with
displeasure and his hand trembled so that he was at some pains to
place the feather which he was at the moment adding to the widening
fan.
“Joçint is a bad son, madame, when even you have been able to do
nothing with him. The trouble that boy has given me no one knows; but
let him not think I am too old to give him a sound drubbing.”
Joçint meanwhile had returned from the mill and seeing Thérèse’s horse
fastened before his door, was at first inclined to skulk back into the
woods; but an impulse of defiance moved him to enter, and gave to his
ugly countenance a look that was far from agreeable as he mumbled a
greeting to Thérèse. His father he did not address. The old man looked
from son to visitor with feeble expectancy of some good to come from
her presence there.
Joçint’s straight and coarse black hair hung in a heavy mop over his
low retreating forehead, almost meeting the ill-defined line of
eyebrow that straggled above small dusky black eyes, that with the
rest of his physique was an inheritance from his Indian mother.
Approaching the safe or _garde manger_, which was the most prominent
piece of furniture in the room, he cut a wedge from the round loaf of
heavy 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), he
answered purposely in English, to annoy his father who did not
understand the language.
“But you are earning enough to buy him something better; and you know
there 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 replied
deliberately, after washing down the scant repast with a long draught
from the tin bucket which he had replenished at the cistern before
entering. He swallowed the water regardless of the “wiggles” whose
presence 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, and
strode out the back door; his gun on his shoulder and a yellow cur
following close at his heels.
Thérèse remained a while longer with the old man, hearing
sympathetically the long drawn story of his troubles, and cheering him
as 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 at
Morico’s door. Hosmer was making a tour of inspection that afternoon
through the woods, and when he came suddenly upon Thérèse some moments
after she had quitted the cabin, the meeting was not so wholly
accidental as that lady fancied it was.
If there could be a situation in which Hosmer felt more than in
another at ease in Thérèse’s company, it was the one in which he found
himself. There was no need to seek occupation for his hands, those
members being sufficiently engaged with the management of his horse.
His eyes found legitimate direction in following the various details
which a rider is presumed to observe; and his manner freed from the
necessity of self direction took upon itself an ease which was
occasional 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 caused
him to lose his temper and forget his dignity during the afternoon.
“In what way?” asked Thérèse. “It would be better to dismiss him than
to 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 of
letting the logs roll off the carriage, causing a good deal of
annoyance and delay in replacing them. I was willing enough to believe
it might be accidental, until I caught him today in the very act. I am
thankful not to have knocked him down.”
Hosmer felt exhilarated. The excitement of his encounter with Joçint
had not yet died away; this softly delicious atmosphere; the subtle
aroma of the pines; his unlooked for meeting with Thérèse--all
combined to stir him with unusual emotions.
“What a splendid creature Beauregard is,” he said, smoothing the
animal’s glossy mane with the end of his riding whip. The horses were
walking slowly in step, and close together.
“Of course he is,” said Thérèse proudly, patting the arched neck of
her favorite. “Beauregard is a blooded animal, remember. He quite
throws poor Nelson in the shade,” looking pityingly at Hosmer’s
heavily built iron-grey.
“Don’t cast any slurs on Nelson, Mrs. Lafirme. He’s done me service
that’s worthy of praise--worthy of better treatment than he gets.”
“I know. He deserves the best, poor fellow. When you go away you
should 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 some
unchangeable laws.”
“Like the planets in their orbits? No, there is no absolute need of my
going; the business which would have called me away can be done as
readily by letter. If I heed my inclination it certainly holds me
here.”
“I don’t understand that. It’s natural enough that I should be fond of
the country; but you--I don’t believe you’ve been away for three
months, have you? and city life certainly has its attractions.”
“It’s beastly,” he answered decidedly. “I greatly prefer the
country--this country; though I can imagine a condition under which it
would be less agreeable; insupportable, in fact.”
He was looking fixedly at Thérèse, who let her eyes rest for an
instant in the unaccustomed light of his, while she asked “and the
condition?”
“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 which
his glance invited her. At a slight and imperceptible motion of the
bridle, well understood by Beauregard, the horse sprang forward into a
quick canter, leaving Nelson and his rider to follow as they could.
Hosmer overtook her when she stopped to let her horse drink at the
side of the hill where the sparkling spring water came trickling from
the moist rocks, and emptied into the long out-scooped trunk of a
cypress, that served as trough. The two horses plunged their heads
deep in the clear water; the proud Beauregard quivering with
satisfaction, as arching his neck and shaking off the clinging
moisture, he waited for his more deliberate companion.
“Doesn’t it give one a sympathetic pleasure,” said Thérèse, “to see
the relish with which they drink?”
“I never thought of it,” replied Hosmer, cynically. His face was
unusually flushed, and diffidence was plainly seizing him again.
Thérèse was now completely mistress of herself, and during the
remainder of the ride she talked incessantly, giving him no chance for
more than the briefest answers.
VI
Melicent Talks.
“David Hosmer, you are the most supremely unsatisfactory man
existing.”
Hosmer had come in from his ride, and seating himself in the large
wicker chair that stood in the center of the room, became at once
absorbed in reflections. Being addressed, he looked up at his sister,
who sat sidewards on the edge of a table slightly removed, swaying a
dainty slippered foot to and fro in evident impatience.
“What crime have I committed now, Melicent, against your code?” he
asked, not fully aroused from his reverie.
“You’ve committed nothing; your sin is one of omission. I absolutely
believe you go through the world with your eyes, to all practical
purposes, closed. Don’t you notice anything; any change?”
“To be sure I do,” said Hosmer, relying on a knowledge lent him by
previous similar experiences, and taking in the clinging artistic
drapery that enfolded her tall spare figure, “you’ve a new gown on. I
didn’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 thing
that holds by shreds and tatters.”
She went behind her brother’s chair, taking his face between her
hands, and turning it upward, kissed him on the forehead. With his
head in such position, he could not fail to observe the brilliant
folds of muslin that were arranged across the ceiling to simulate the
canopy of a tent. Still holding his face, she moved it sidewards, so
that his eyes, knowing now what office was expected of them, followed
the 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 proudly
at her work. “And my poor hands are in such condition! But really,
Dave,” she continued, seating herself on the side of his chair, with
an arm about his neck, and he leaning his head back on the improvised
cushion, “I wonder that you ever got on in business, observing things
as little as you do.”
“Oh, that’s different.”
“Well, I don’t believe you see half that you ought to,” adding
naively, “How did you and Mrs. Lafirme happen to come home together
this evening?”
The bright lamp-light made the flush quite evident that arose to his
face 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 most
perfect creature I ever knew.”
Melicent’s emphasis of speech was a thing so recurrent, so singularly
her own, as to startle an unaccustomed hearer.
“That opinion might carry some weight, Mel, if I hadn’t heard it
scores of times from you, and of as many different women.”
“Indeed you have not. Mrs. Lafirme is exceptional. Really, when she
stands at the end of the veranda, giving orders to those darkies, her
face 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 praise
of Thérèse.
Neither had heard a noiseless step approaching, and they only became
aware of an added human presence, when Mandy’s small voice was heard
to issue from Mandy’s small body which stood in the mingled light and
shadow of the door-way.
“Aunt B’lindy ’low supper on de table gittin’ cole.”
“Come here, Mandy,” cried Melicent, springing after the child. But
Mandy was flying back through the darkness. She was afraid of
Melicent.
Laughing heartily, the girl disappeared into her bedroom, to make some
needed additions to her toilet; and Hosmer, waiting for her, returned
to his interrupted reflections. The words which he had spoken during a
moment of emotion to Thérèse, out in the piny woods, had served a
double purpose with him. They had shown him more plainly than he had
quite been certain of, the depth of his feeling for her; and also had
they settled his determination. He was not versed in the reading of a
woman’s nature, and he found himself at a loss to interpret Thérèse’s
actions. He recalled how she had looked away from him when he had
spoken the few tender words that were yet whirling in his memory; how
she had impetuously ridden ahead,--leaving him to follow alone; and
her incessant speech that had forced him into silence. All of which
might or might not be symptoms in his favor. He remembered her kind
solicitude for his comfort and happiness during the past year; but he
as readily recalled that he had not been the only recipient of such
favors. His reflections led to no certainty, except that he loved her
and meant to tell her so.
Thérèse’s door being closed, and moreover locked, Aunt Belindy, the
stout negress who had superintended the laying of supper, felt free to
give low speech to her wrath as she went back and forth between
dining-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 dey
speck 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 me
dash dis heah coffee pot at you--blockin’ up de doo’s dat away? W’ar
dat good fu’ nuttin Betsy? Look yonda, how she done flung dem dere
knife an forks on de table. Jis let Miss T’rèse kotch’er. Good God
A’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 to
enter Thérèse’s bedroom without permission, the door being closed; yet
she had taken the needless precaution of bringing lock and bolt to the
double security of her moment of solitude. The first announcement of
supper had found her still in her riding habit, with head thrown back
upon the cushion of her lounging chair, and her mind steeped in a
semi-stupor that it would be injustice to her brighter moments to call
reflection.
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 the
devotion 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 in
that agony of remorse which many might consider becoming in a widow of
five years’ standing at the discovery that her heart which had fitted
well the holding of a treasure, was not narrowed to the holding of a
memory,--the treasure being gone.
Mandy’s feeble knock at the door was answered by her mistress in
person who had now banished all traces of her ride and its resultant
cogitations.
The two women, with Hosmer and Grégoire, sat out on the veranda after
supper as their custom was during these warm summer evenings. There
was no attempt at sustained conversation; they talked by snatches to
and at one another, of the day’s small events; Melicent and Grégoire
having by far the most to say. The girl was half reclining in the
hammock which she kept in a slow, unceasing motion by the impetus of
her slender foot; he sitting some distance removed on the steps.
Hosmer was noticeably silent; even Joçint as a theme failing to rouse
him to more than a few words of dismissal. His will and tenacity were
controlling him to one bent. He had made up his mind that he had
something to say to Mrs. Lafirme, and he was impatient at any enforced
delay in the telling.
Grégoire slept now in the office of the mill, as a measure of
precaution. To-night, Hosmer had received certain late telegrams that
necessitated a return to the mill, and his iron-grey was standing
outside in the lane with Grégoire’s horse, awaiting the pleasure of
his rider. When Grégoire quitted the group to go and throw the saddles
across the patient animals, Melicent, who contemplated an additional
hour’s chat with Thérèse, crossed over to the cottage to procure a
light wrap for her sensitive shoulders against the chill night air.
Hosmer, who had started to the assistance of Grégoire, seeing that
Thérèse had remained alone, standing at the top of the stairs,
approached her. Remaining a few steps below her, and looking up into
her face, he held out his hand to say good-night, which was an unusual
proceeding, for they had not shaken hands since his return to
Place-du-Bois three months before. She gave him her soft hand to hold
and as the warm, moist palm met his, it acted like a charged electric
battery 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 telling
you many things that you ought to have known long ago.” The battery
was still doing its work. “And I can’t let the night go by without
telling you that I love you.”
Grégoire called out that the horses were ready. Melicent was
approaching in her diaphanous envelope, and Hosmer reluctantly let
drop Thérèse’s hand and left her.
As the men rode away, the two women stood silently following their
diminishing outlines into the darkness and listening to the creaking
of the saddles and the dull regular thud of the horses’ feet upon the
soft earth, until the sounds grew inaudible, when they turned to the
inner shelter of the veranda. Melicent once more possessed herself of
the hammock in which she now reclined fully, and Thérèse sat near
enough beside her to intertwine her fingers between the tense cords.
“What a great difference in age there must be between you and your
brother,” she said, breaking the silence.
“Yes--though he is younger and I older than you perhaps think. He was
fifteen and the only child when I was born. I am twenty-four, so he of
course 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 rebelled
against being separated from David; so you see he’s had the care of me
for 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 me
in every way. Looked after my interest and all that, so that I’m
perfectly independent. Poor Dave,” she continued, heaving a profound
sigh, “he’s had more than his share of trouble, if ever a man had. I
wonder when his day of compensation will come.”
“Don’t you think,” ventured Thérèse, “that we make too much of our
individual trials. We are all so prone to believe our own burden
heavier 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’d
marry again.”
Melicent’s last words stung Thérèse like an insult. Her native pride
rebelled against the reticence of this man who had shared her
confidence while keeping her in ignorance of so important a feature of
his 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 of
speech. She could not know David’s will in the matter, but since he
had all along left Mrs. Lafirme in ignorance of his domestic trials,
she concluded it was not for her to enlighten that lady further. Her
next remark was to call Thérèse’s attention to the unusual number of
glow-worms that were flashing through the darkness, and to ask the
sign of it, adding “every thing seems to be the sign of something down
here.”
“Aunt Belindy might tell you,” replied Thérèse, “I only know that I
feel the signs of being very sleepy after that ride through the woods
to-day. Don’t mind if I say good night?”
“Certainly not. Good night, dear Mrs. Lafirme. Let me stay here till
David comes back; I should die of fright, to go to the cottage alone.”
VII
Painful Disclosures.
Thérèse possessed an independence of thought exceptional enough when
considered in relation to her life and its surrounding conditions. But
as a woman who lived in close contact with her fellow-beings she was
little given to the consideration of abstract ideas, except in so far
as they touched the individual man. If ever asked to give her opinion
of divorce, she might have replied that the question being one which
did not immediately concern her, its remoteness had removed it from
the range of her inquiry. She felt vaguely that in many cases it might
be a blessing; conceding that it must not infrequently be a necessity,
to be appealed to however only in an extremity beyond which endurance
could scarcely hold. With the prejudices of her Catholic education
coloring her sentiment, she instinctively shrank when the theme
confronted her as one having even a remote reference to her own clean
existence. There was no question with her of dwelling upon the matter;
it was simply a thing to be summarily dismissed and as far as possible
effaced from her remembrance.
Thérèse had not reached the age of thirty-five without learning that
life presents many insurmountable obstacles which must be accepted,
whether with the callousness of philosophy, the revolt of weakness or
the dignity of self-respect. The following morning, the only sign
which she gave of her mental disturbance, was an appearance that might
have succeeded a night of unrefreshing sleep.
Hosmer had decided that his interview with Mrs. Lafirme should not be
left further to the caprice of accident. An hour or more before noon
he rode up from the mill knowing it to be a time when he would likely
find her alone. Not seeing her he proceeded to make inquiry of the
servants; 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’um
yonda to old Morico wid de light bread an’ truck,” replied the verbose
Betsy. “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 crap
like people, stid o’ ’pendin’ on yeda folks.”
Mandy, who had been a silent listener, divining that she had perhaps
better make known certain information that was exclusively her own
piped 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 Thérèse
had supposed herself secure from intrusion, Hosmer at once seated
himself beside her.
This was a room kept for the most part closed during the summer days
when the family lived chiefly on the verandas or in the wide open hall
There lingered about it the foreign scent of cool clean matting,
mingled with a faint odor of rose which came from a curious Japanese
jar that stood on the ample hearth. Through the green half-closed
shutters the air came in gentle ripples, sweeping the filmy curtains
back and forth in irregular undulations. A few tasteful pictures hung
upon the walls, alternating with family portraits, for the most part
stiff and unhandsome, except in the case of such as were of so remote
date that age gave them a claim upon the interest and admiration of a
far removed generation.
It was not entirely clear to the darkies whether this room were not a
sort of holy sanctuary, where one should scarce be permitted to
breathe, except under compulsion of a driving necessity.
“Mrs. Lafirme,” began Hosmer, “Melicent tells me that she made you
acquainted last night with the matter which I wished to talk to you
about to-day.”
“Yes,” Thérèse replied, closing the book which she had made a pretense
of reading, and laying it down upon the window-sill near which she
sat; adding very simply, “Why did you not tell me long ago, Mr.
Hosmer?”
“God knows,” he replied; the sharp conviction breaking upon him, that
this disclosure had some how changed the aspect of life for him.
“Natural reluctance to speak of a thing so painful--native
reticence--I don’t know what. I hope you forgive me; that you will let
it 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--of
what you told me last night.”
Hosmer had feared it. He made no protest in words; his revolt was
inward and showed itself only in an added pallor and increased
rigidity of face lines. He arose and went to a near window, peering
for a while aimlessly out between the partly open slats.
“I hadn’t thought of your being a Catholic,” he said, finally turning
towards her with folded arms.
“Because you have never seen any outward signs of it. But I can’t
leave you under a false impression: religion doesn’t influence my
reason in this.”
“Do you think then that a man who has had such misfortune, should be
debarred the happiness which a second marriage could give him?”
“No, nor a woman either, if it suit her moral principle, which I hold
to be something peculiarly one’s own.”
“That seems to me to be a prejudice,” he replied. “Prejudices may be
set 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 of
happiness. Please say no more about it, think no more of it.”
He seated himself again, facing her; and looking at him all her
sympathetic nature was moved at sight of his evident trouble.
“Tell me about it. I would like to know every thing in your life,” she
said, feelingly.
“It’s very good of you,” he said, holding a hand for a moment over his
closed eyes. Then looking up abruptly, “It was a painful enough
experience, but I never dreamed that it could have had this last blow
in reserve for me.”
“When did you marry?” she asked, wishing to start him with the story
which she fancied he would feel better for the telling.
“Ten years ago. I am a poor hand to analyze character: my own or
another’s. My reasons for doing certain things have never been quite
clear to me; or I have never schooled myself to inquiry into my own
motives for action. I have been always thoroughly the business man. I
don’t make a boast of it, but I have no reason to be ashamed of the
admission. 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 was
nearly 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 feeling
unwell--I really can’t remember. But at all events I met a friend who
introduced me early in the day to a young girl--Fanny Larimore. She
was a pretty little thing, not more than twenty, all pink and white
and merry blue eyes and stylish clothes. Whatever it was, there was
something about her that kept me at her side all day. Every word and
movement of hers had an exaggerated importance for me. I fancied such
things had never been said or done quite in the same way before.”
“You were in love,” sighed Thérèse. Why the sigh she could not have
told.