PART II

I

Fanny’s First Night at Place-du-Bois.

The journey South had not been without attractions for Fanny. She had

that consciousness so pleasing to the feminine mind of being well

dressed; for her husband had been exceedingly liberal in furnishing

her the means to satisfy her fancy in that regard. Moreover the change

holding out a promise of novelty, irritated her to a feeble

expectancy. The air, that came to her in puffs through the car window,

was deliciously soft and mild; steeped with the rich languor of the

Indian summer, that had already touched the tree tops, the sloping

hill-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 half

expressed wishes. Was there some mysterious power that had so soon

taught the man such methods to a woman’s heart, or was he not rather

on guard and schooling himself for the rôle which was to be acted out

to the end? But as the day was approaching its close, Fanny became

tired and languid; a certain mistrust was creeping into her heart with

the nearing darkness. It had grown sultry and close, and the view from

the car window was no longer cheerful, as they whirled through

forests, gloomy with trailing moss, or sped over an unfamiliar country

whose features were strange and held no promise of a welcome for her.

They were nearing Place-du-Bois, and Hosmer’s spirits had risen almost

to the point of gaiety as he began to recognize the faces of those who

loitered about the stations at which they stopped. At the Centerville

station, five miles before reaching their own, he had even gone out on

the platform to shake hands with the rather mystified agent who had

not known of his absence. And he had waved a salute to the little

French priest of Centerville who stood out in the open beside his

horse, booted, spurred and all equipped for bad weather, waiting for

certain consignments which were to come with the train, and who

answered Hosmer’s greeting with a sober and uncompromising sweep of

the hand. When the whistle sounded for Place-du-Bois, it was nearly

dark. Hosmer hurried Fanny on to the platform, where stood Henry, his

clerk. There were a great many negroes loitering about, some of whom

offered him a cordial “how’dy Mr. Hosma,” and pushing through was

Grégoire, meeting them with the ease of a courtier, and acknowledging

Hosmer’s introduction of his wife, with a friendly hand shake.

“Aunt Thérèse sent the buggy down fur you,” he said, “we had rain this

mornin’ and the road’s putty heavy. Come this way. Mine out fur that

ba’el, Mrs. Hosma, it’s got molasses in. Hiurm bring that buggy ova

yere.”

“What’s the news, Grégoire?” asked Hosmer, as they waited for Hiram to

turn the horses about.

“Jus’ about the same’s ev’a. Miss Melicent wasn’t ver’ well a few days

back; but she’s some betta. I reckon you’re all plum wore out,” he

added, taking in Fanny’s listless attitude, and thinking her very

pretty as far as he could discover in the dim light.

They drove directly to the cottage, and on the porch Thérèse was

waiting for them. She took Fanny’s two hands and pressed them warmly

between her own; then led her into the house with an arm passed about

her waist. She shook hands with Hosmer, and stood for a while in

cheerful conversation, before leaving them.

The cottage was fully equipped for their reception, with Minervy in

possession of the kitchen and the formerly reluctant Suze as

housemaid: though Thérèse had been silent as to the methods which she

had employed to prevail with these unwilling damsels.

Hosmer then went out to look after their baggage, and when he

returned, Fanny sat with her head pillowed on the sofa, sobbing

bitterly. He knelt beside her, putting his arm around her, and asked

the 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, and

tasting 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 or

two. Come now, don’t be a baby--take courage. It will all seem quite

different by and by, when the sun shines.”

A knock at the door was followed by the entrance of a young colored

boy 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, drying

her eyes, turned to watch him at his work.

He went very deliberately about it, tearing off thin slathers from the

fat pine, and arranging them into a light frame-work, beneath a

topping of kindling and logs that he placed on the massive brass

andirons. He crawled about on hands and knees, picking up the stray

bits 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 blaze

which he had kindled and scratched his nose with a splinter of pine

wood. When Hosmer presently left the room, he rolled his big black

eyes towards Fanny, without turning his head, and remarked in a tone

plainly inviting conversation “yo’ all come f’om way yonda?”

He was intensely black, and if Fanny had been a woman with the

slightest sense of humor, she could not but have been amused at the

picture which he presented in the revealing fire-light with his elfish

and ape like body much too small to fill out the tattered and

ill-fitting garments that hung about it. But she only wondered at him

and his rags, and at his motive for addressing her.

“We’re come from St. Louis,” she replied, taking him with a

seriousness which in no wise daunted him.

“Yo’ all brung de rain,” he went on sociably, leaving off the

scratching of his nose, to pass his black yellow-palmed hand slowly

through the now raging fire, a feat which filled her with

consternation. After prevailing upon him to desist from this

salamander like exhibition, she was moved to ask if he were not very

poor to be thus shabbily clad.

“No ’um,” he laughed, “I got some sto’ close yonda home. Dis yere coat

w’at Mista Grégor gi’me,” looking critically down at its length, which

swept the floor as he remained on his knees. “He done all to’e tu

pieces time he gi’ him tu me, whar he scuffle wid Joçint yonda tu de

mill. Mammy ’low she gwine mek him de same like new w’en she kin kotch

de time.”

The entrance of Minervy bearing a tray temptingly arranged with a

dainty supper, served to silence the boy, who at seeing her, threw

himself upon all fours and appeared to be busy with the fire. The

woman, a big raw-boned field hand, set her burden awkwardly down on a

table, and after staring comprehensively around, addressed the boy in

a low rich voice, “Dar ain’t no mo’ call to bodda wid dat fiar, you

Sampson; 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 utmost

self-depreciation.

Hosmer and Fanny took tea together before the cheerful fire and he

told her something of methods on the plantation, and made her further

acquainted 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 the

servant problem. Mrs. Lafirme, during their short conversation, had

deplored her inability to procure more than two servants for her; and

Fanny could not understand why it should require so many to do the

work which at home was accomplished by one. But she was tired--very

tired, and early sought her bed, and Hosmer went in quest of his

sister whom he had not yet seen.

Melicent had been told of his marriage some days previously, and had

been thrown into such a state of nerves by the intelligence, as to

seriously alarm those who surrounded her and whose experience with

hysterical girls had been inadequate.

Poor Grégoire had betaken himself with the speed of the wind to the

store to procure bromide, valerian, and whatever else should be

thought available in prevailing with a malady of this distressing

nature. But she was “some betta,” as he told Hosmer, who found her

walking in the darkness of one of the long verandas, all enveloped in

filmy white wool. He was a little prepared for a cool reception from

her, and ten minutes before she might have received him with a studied

indifference. But her mood had veered about and touched the point

which moved her to fall upon his neck, and in a manner, condole with

him; 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 for

me, I expect more. I want you to be good to her, and patient, and show

yourself 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,” he

said, 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. She

could not have told whether she had been awakened by the long, wailing

cry of a traveler across the narrow river, vainly trying to rouse the

ferryman; or the creaking of a heavy wagon that labored slowly by in

the road and moved Hector to noisy enquiry. Was it not rather the

pattering rain that the wind was driving against the window panes? The

lamp burned dimly upon the high old-fashioned mantel-piece and her

husband had thoughtfully placed an improvised screen before it, to

protect 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 her

bare 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 a

fitful light by which she discovered her husband seated and bowed like

a man who has been stricken. Uncomprehending, she stood a moment

speechless, then crept back noiselessly to bed.

II

“Neva to See You!”

Thérèse judged it best to leave Fanny a good deal to herself during

her first days on the plantation, without relinquishing a certain

watchful supervision of her comfort, and looking in on her for a few

moments each day. The rain which had come with them continued fitfully

and Fanny remained in doors, clad in a warm handsome gown, her small

slippered feet cushioned before the fire, and reading the latest novel

of one of those prolific female writers who turn out their unwholesome

intellectual sweets so tirelessly, to be devoured by the girls and

women of the age.

Melicent, who always did the unexpected, crossed over early on the

morning after Fanny’s arrival; penetrated to her sleeping room and

embraced her effusively, even as she lay in bed, calling her “poor

dear Fanny” and cautioning her against getting up on such a morning.

The tears which had come to Fanny on arriving, and which had dried on

her cheek when she turned to gaze into the cheer of the great wood

fire, did not return. Everybody seemed to be making much of her, which

was a new experience in her life; she having always felt herself as of

little consequence, and in a manner, overlooked. The negroes were

overawed at the splendor of her toilettes and showed a respect for her

in proportion to the money value which these toilettes reflected. Each

morning Grégoire left at her door his compliments with a huge bouquet

of brilliant and many colored crysanthemums, and enquiry if he could

serve 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, but

in talk that invited her to friendly response.

With Thérèse, she was at first shy and diffident, and over watchful of

herself. She did not forget that Hosmer had told her “The lady knows

why I have come” and she resented that knowledge which Thérèse

possessed of her past intimate married life.

Melicent’s attentions did not last in their ultra-effusiveness, but

she found Fanny less objectionable since removed from her St. Louis

surroundings; and the evident consideration with which she had been

accepted at Place-du-Bois seemed to throw about her a halo of

sufficient distinction to impel the girl to view her from a new and

different stand-point.

But the charm of plantation life was letting go its hold upon

Melicent. Grégoire’s adoration alone, and her feeble response to it

were all that kept her.

“I neva felt anything like this befo’,” he said, as they stood

together and their hands touched in reaching for a splendid rose that

hung invitingly from its tall latticed support out in mid lawn. The

sun had come again and dried the last drop of lingering moisture on

grass 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 at

me. Th’ otha day, down at the gin,” he continued, “I was figurin’ on

some weights an’ wasn’t thinkin’ about you at all, an’ all at once I

remember’d the one time I’d kissed you. Goodness! I couldn’t see the

figures 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 was

goin’ to faint fur a minute.”

“That’s very unwise, Grégoire,” she said, taking the roses that he

handed her to add to the already large bunch. “You must learn to think

of me calmly: our love must be something like a sacred memory--a sweet

recollection 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--my

God!” he gasped, paling and crushing between his nervous fingers the

flower 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 daintily

with one hand and passing the other through his arm--the hand which

held the flowers, whose peculiar perfume ever afterwards made Grégoire

shiver through a moment of pain that touched very close upon rapture.

He was more occupied than he liked during those busy days of

harvesting and ginning, that left him only brief and snatched

intervals of Melicent’s society. If he could have rested in the

comfort of being sure of her, such moments of separation would have

had their compensation in reflective anticipation. But with his

undisciplined desires and hot-blooded eagerness, her half-hearted

acknowledgments and inadequate concessions, closed her about with a

chilling barrier that staggered him with its problematic nature.

Feeling himself her equal in the aristocracy of blood, and her master

in the knowledge and strength of loving, he resented those half

understood reasons which removed him from the possibility of being

anything to her. And more, he was angry with himself for acquiescing

in that self understood agreement. But it was only in her absence that

these thoughts disturbed him. When he was with her, his whole being

rejoiced in her existence and there was no room for doubt or dread.

He felt himself regenerated through love, and as having no part in

that other Grégoire whom he only thought of to dismiss with

unrecognition.

The time came when he could ill conceal his passion from others.

Thérèse became conscious of it, through an unguarded glance. The

unhappiness of the situation was plain to her; but to what degree she

could not guess. It was certainly so deplorable that it would have

been worth while to have averted it. Yet, she felt great faith in the

power of time and absence to heal such wounds even to the extent of

leaving no tell-tale scar.

“Grégoire, my boy,” she said to him, speaking in French, and laying

her hand on his, when they were alone together. “I hope that your

heart 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 not

know how much longer she will remain here, but taking any possibility

for granted, let me advise you to leave the place for a while; go back

to 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 not

do that, aunt. There will be plenty time for that in the rest of my

life,” he said, trying to speak calmly and forcing his voice to a

harshness 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 assert

than to question.

“No, she does not. No matter what she says--she does not. I can feel

that here,” he answered, striking his breast. “Oh aunt, it is terrible

to think of her going away; forever, perhaps; of never seeing her. I

could not stand it.” And he stood the strain no longer, but sobbed and

wept 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 been

otherwise, she would not have hesitated to beg the girl to desist from

this 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 had

weighted her at coming. Not by any determined effort of the will, nor

by any resolve to make the best of things. Outside influences meeting

half-way the workings of unconscious inward forces, were the agents

that by degrees were gently ridding her of the acute pressure of

dissatisfaction, which up to the present, she had stolidly borne

without any personal effort to cast it off.

Thérèse affected her forcibly. This woman so wholesome, so fair and

strong; so un-American as to be not ashamed to show tenderness and

sympathy with eye and lip, moved Fanny like a new and pleasing

experience. When Thérèse touched her caressingly, or gently stroked

her limp hand, she started guiltily, and looked furtively around to

make sure that none had witnessed an exhibition of tenderness that

made her flush, and the first time found her unresponsive. A second

time, she awkwardly returned the hand pressure, and later, these

mildly 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 I

guess David’s told you just what suited him about me. You got to

remember there’s always two sides to a story.”

She had been to the poultry yard with Thérèse, who had introduced her

to its feathery tenants, making her acquainted with stately Brahmas

and sleek Plymouth-Rocks and hardy little “Creole chickens”--not much

to look at, but very palatable when converted into _fricassée_.

Returning, they seated themselves on the bench that encircled a

massive cedar--spreading and conical. Hector, who had trotted

attendance upon them during their visit of inspection, cast himself

heavily down at his mistress’ feet and after glancing knowingly up

into her face, looked placidly forth at Sampson, gathering garden

greens on the other side of a low dividing fence.

“You see if David’d always been like he is now, I don’t know but

things’d been different. Do you suppose he ever went any wheres with

me, or even so much as talked to me when he came home? There was

always that everlasting newspaper in his pocket, and he’d haul it out

the first thing. Then I used to read the paper too sometimes, and when

I’d go to talk to him about what I read, he’d never even looked at the

same things. Goodness knows what he read in the paper, I never could

find out; but here’d be the edges all covered over with figuring. I

believe it’s the only thing he ever thought or dreamt about; that

eternal figuring on every bit of paper he could lay hold of, till I

was tired picking them up all over the house. Belle Worthington used

to say it’d of took an angel to stand him. I mean his throwing papers

around that way. For as far as his never talking went, she couldn’t

find any fault with that; Mr. Worthington was just as bad, if he

wasn’t worse. But Belle’s not like me; I don’t believe she’d let poor

Mr. Worthington talk in the house if he wanted to.”

She gradually drifted away from her starting point, and like most

people who have usually little to say, became very voluble, when once

she passed into the humor of talking. Thérèse let her talk unchecked.

It seemed to do her good to chatter about Belle and Lou, and Jack

Dawson, and about her home life, of which she unknowingly made such a

pitiable 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 had

laid all the blame of the rupture on her shoulders.

“You’re mistaken, Mrs. Hosmer. It was a knowledge of his own

short-comings that prompted your husband to go back and ask your

forgiveness. You must grant, there’s nothing in his conduct now that

you could reproach him with. And,” she added, laying her hand gently

on Fanny’s arm, “I know you’ll be strong, and do your share in this

reconciliation--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 up

my 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 thought

that--”

“Never mind,” returned Thérèse kindly, “I know all about it. Don’t

worry 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 which

she had set herself. “He’s got no faults to give up. David never did

have any faults. He’s a true, honest man; and I was a coward to say

those things about him.”

Melicent and Grégoire were coming across the lawn to join the two, and

Fanny, seeing them approach, suddenly chilled and wrapt herself about

in her mantle of reserve.

“I guess I better go,” she said, offering to rise, but Thérèse held

out a detaining hand.

“You don’t want to go and sit alone in the cottage; stay here with me

till Mr. Hosmer comes back from the mill.”

Grégoire’s face was a study. Melicent, who did what she wanted with

him, had chosen this afternoon, for some inscrutable reason, to make

him happy. He carried her shawl and parasol; she herself bearing a

veritable armful of flowers, leaves, red berried sprigs, a tangle of

richest color. They had been in the woods and she had bedecked him

with garlands and festoons of autumn leaves, till he looked a very

Satyr; a character which his flushed, swarthy cheeks, and glittering

animal eyes did not belie.

They were laughing immoderately, and their whole bearing still

reflected their exuberant gaiety as they joined Thérèse and Fanny.

“What a ‘Mater Dolorosa’ Fanny looks!” exclaimed Melicent, throwing

herself into a picturesque attitude on the bench beside Thérèse, and

resting her feet on Hector’s broad back.

Fanny offered no reply, but to look helplessly resigned; an expression

which Melicent knew of old, and which had always the effect of

irritating her. Not now, however, for the curve of the bench around

the great cedar tree removed her from the possibility of contemplating

Fanny’s doleful visage, unless she made an effort to that end, which

she was certainly not inclined to do.

“No, Grégoire,” she said, flinging a rose into his face when he would

have seated himself beside her, “go sit by Fanny and do something to

make her laugh; only don’t tickle her; David mightn’t like it. And

here’s Mrs. Lafirme looking almost as glum. Now, if David would only

join 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 back

at her,” said Thérèse, reflecting something of the girl’s gaiety.

“As in a looking-glass, well isn’t that square?” she returned, falling

into slang, in her recklessness of spirit.

Endeavoring to guard her treasure of flowers from Thérèse, who was

without ceremony making a critical selection among them of what

pleased her, Melicent slid around the bench, bringing herself close to

Grégoire and begging his protection against the Vandalism of his aunt.

She looked into his eyes for an instant as though asking him for love

instead of so slight a favor and he grasped her arm, pressing it till

she cried out from the pain: which act, on his side, served to drive

her 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 to

administer,” thrusting a crumpled handful of rose leaves down the neck

of Thérèse’s dress, and laughing joyously in her scuffle to accomplish

the punishment.

“No, madam; I don’t go to Bedlam; I drive others there. Ask Grégoire

what 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?” asked

Thérèse.

“Certainly. W’y you could ride ole Torpedo, Mrs. Hosma, if you nova

saw a hoss in yo’ life. A li’l chile could manage him.”

Fanny turned to Thérèse for further assurance and found all that she

looked for.

“We’ll go up on the hill and see that dear old Morico, and I shall

take along a comb, and comb out that exquisite white hair of his and

then I shall focus him, seated in his low chair and making one of

those cute turkey fans.”

“Ole Morico ain’t goin’ to let you try no monkeyshines on him; I tell

you that befo’ han’,” said Grégoire, rising and coming to Melicent to

rid him of his sylvan ornamentations, for it was time for him to leave

them. When he turned away, Melicent rose and flung all her flowery

wealth 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 over

her shoulder; the sinking sun lighting her handsome mischievous face.

Thérèse proceeded to arrange the flowers with some regard to graceful

symmetry; and Fanny did not regain her talkative spirit that

Melicent’s coming had put to flight, but sat looking silent and

listlessly into the distance.

As Thérèse glanced casually up into her face she saw it warmed by a

sudden faint glow--an unusual animation, and following her gaze, she

saw that Hosmer had returned and was entering the cottage.

“I guess I better be going,” said Fanny rising, and this time Thérèse

no longer detained her.

IV

Thérèse Crosses the River.

To shirk any serious duties of life would have been entirely foreign

to Thérèse’s methods or even instincts. But there did come to her

moments of rebellion--or repulsion, against the small demands that

presented themselves with an unfailing recurrence; and from such, she

at times indulged herself with the privilege of running away. When

Fanny left her alone--a pathetic little droop took possession of the

corners of her mouth that might not have come there if she had not

been alone. She laid the flowers, only half arranged, on the bench

beside her, as a child would put aside a toy that no longer interested

it. She looked towards the house and could see the servants going back

and forth. She knew if she entered, she would be met by appeals from

one and the other. The overseer would soon be along, with his crib

keys, and stable keys; his account of the day’s doings and

consultations for to-morrow’s work, and for the moment, she would have

none of it.

“Come, Hector--come, old boy,” she said rising abruptly; and crossing

the 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 and

sluggishly between its red banks.

Tied to the landing was a huge flat-boat, that was managed by the aid

of a stout cable reaching quite across the river; and beside it

nestled a small light skiff. In this Thérèse seated herself, and

proceeded to row across the stream, Hector plunging into the water and

swimming in advance of her.

The banks on the opposite shore were almost perpendicular; and their

summit to be reached only by the artificial road that had been cut

into them: broad and of easy ascent. This river front was a standing

worry to Thérèse, for when the water was high and rapid, the banks

caved constantly, carrying away great sections from the land. Almost

every year, the fences in places had to be moved back, not only for

security, but to allow a margin for the road that on this side

followed the course of the small river.

High up and perilously near the edge, stood a small cabin. It had once

been far removed from the river, which had now, however, eaten its way

close up to it--leaving no space for the road-way. The house was

somewhat more pretentious than others of its class, being fashioned of

planed painted boards, and having a brick chimney that stood fully

exposed at one end. A great rose tree climbed and spread generously

over one side, and the big red roses grew by hundreds amid the dark

green setting of their leaves.

At the gate of this cabin Thérèse stopped, calling out, “_Grosse

tante!--oh, Grosse tante!_”

The sound of her voice brought to the door a negress--coal black and

so enormously fat that she moved about with evident difficulty. She

was dressed in a loosely hanging purple calico garment of the mother

Hubbard type--known as a _volante_ amongst Louisiana Creoles; and on

her head was knotted and fantastically twisted a bright _tignon_. Her

glistening good-natured countenance illumined at the sight of Thérèse.

“_Quo faire to pas woulez rentrer, Tite maîtresse?_” and Thérèse

answered in the same Creole dialect: “Not now, _Grosse tante_--I shall

be back in half an hour to drink a cup of coffee with you.” No English

words can convey the soft music of that speech, seemingly made for

tenderness and endearment.

As Thérèse turned away from the gate, the black woman re-entered the

house, and as briskly as her cumbersome size would permit, began

preparations for her mistress’ visit. Milk and butter were taken from

the safe; eggs, from the India rush basket that hung against the wall;

and flour, from the half barrel that stood in convenient readiness in

the corner: for _Tite maîtresse_ was to be treated to a dish of

_croquignoles_. Coffee was always an accomplished fact at hand in the

chimney corner.

_Grosse tante_, or more properly, Marie Louise, was a Creole--Thérèse’s

nurse and attendant from infancy, and the only one of the family

servants who had come with her mistress from New Orleans to

Place-du-Bois at that lady’s marriage with Jérôme Lafirme. But her

ever increasing weight had long since removed her from the possibility

of usefulness, otherwise than in supervising her small farm yard. She

had little use for “_ces néges Américains_,” as she called the

plantation hands--a restless lot forever shifting about and changing

quarters.

It was seldom now that she crossed the river; only two occasions being

considered of sufficient importance to induce her to such effort. One

was in the event of her mistress’ illness, when she would install

herself at her bedside as a fixture, not to be dislodged by any less

inducement than Thérèse’s full recovery. The other was when a dinner

of 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 the

State; her instructor having been no less a personage than old Lucien

Santien--a _gourmet_ famed for his ultra Parisian tastes.

Seated at the base of a great China-berry on whose gnarled protruding

roots she rested an arm languidly, Thérèse looked out over the river

and gave herself up to doubts and misgivings. She first took exception

with herself for that constant interference in the concerns of other

people. Might not this propensity be carried too far at times? Did the

good accruing counterbalance the personal discomfort into which she

was often driven by her own agency? What reason had she to know that a

policy of non-interference in the affairs of others might not after

all 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 painful

revelation to her. Yet could she have expected other, and should she

have hoped for less, than that Fanny should love her husband and he in

turn should come to love his wife?

Had she married Hosmer herself! Here she smiled to think of the storm

of indignation that such a marriage would have roused in the parish.

Yet, even facing the impossibility of such contingency, it pleased her

to indulge in a short dream of what might have been.

If it were her right instead of another’s to watch for his coming and

rejoice at it! Hers to call him husband and lavish on him the love

that awoke so strongly when she permitted herself, as she was doing

now, to invoke it! She felt what capability lay within her of rousing

the man to new interests in life. She pictured the dawn of an

unsuspected happiness coming to him: broadening; illuminating; growing

in him to answer to her own big-heartedness.

Were Fanny, and her own prejudices, worth the sacrifice which she and

Hosmer had made? This was the doubt that bade fair to unsettle her;

that called for a sharp, strong out-putting of the will before she

could bring herself to face the situation without its accessions of

personalities. Such communing with herself could not be condemned as a

weakness with Thérèse, for the effect which it left upon her strong

nature was one of added courage and determination.

When she reached Marie Louise’s cabin again, twilight, which is so

brief in the South, was giving place to the night.

Within the cabin, the lamp had already been lighted, and Marie Louise

was growing restless at Thérèse’s long delay.

“Ah _Grosse tante_, I’m so tired,” she said, falling into a chair near

the door; not relishing the warmth of the room after her quick walk,

and wishing to delay as long as possible the necessity of sitting at

table. 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 going

this way and that way; on horseback, on foot--through the house. Make

those lazy niggers work more. You spoil them. I tell you if it was old

mistress that had to deal with them, they would see something

different.”

She had taken all the pins from Thérèse’s hair which fell in a

gleaming, heavy mass; and with her big soft hands she was stroking her

head as gently as if those hands had been of the whitest and most

delicate.

“I know that look in your eyes, it means headache. It’s time for me to

make 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 to

insist on having your cabin moved back; it is silly to be so stubborn

about such a small matter. Some day you will find yourself out in the

middle of the river--and what am I going to do then?--no one to nurse

me 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’t

only Marie Louise. But no. You must remember the last time poor

Monsieur Jérôme moved me, and said with a laugh that I can never

forget, ‘well, _Grosse tante_, I know we have got you far enough this

time out of danger,’ away back in Dumont’s field you recollect? I said

then, Marie Louise will move no more; she’s too old. If the good God

does 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 trouble

on his own shoulders,” Thérèse answered humoring the woman, in her

conception of the Deity. “He wants us to do our share, too.”

“Well, I have done my share. Nothing is going to harm Marie Louise. I

thought about all that, do not fret. So the last time Père Antoine

passed in the road--going down to see that poor Pierre Pardou at the

Mouth--I called him in, and he blessed the whole house inside and out,

with holy water--notice how the roses have bloomed since then--and

gave 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 come

live with me. Old Hatton has wanted work at Place-du-Bois, the longest

time. We will have him build you a room wherever you choose, a pretty

little house like those in the city.”

“_Non--non, Tite maîtresse, Marie Louise ’prè créver icite avé tous

son butin, si faut_” (no, no, _Tite maîtresse_, Marie Louise will die

here with all her belongings if it must be).

The servants were instructed that when their mistress was not at home

at a given hour, her absence should cause no delay in the household

arrangements. She did not choose that her humor or her movements be

hampered by a necessity of regularity which she owed to no one. When

she reached home supper had long been over.

Nearing the house she heard the scraping of Nathan’s violin, the noise

of shuffling feet and unconstrained laughter. These festive sounds

came from the back veranda. She entered the dining-room, and from its

obscurity looked out on a curious scene. The veranda was lighted by a

lamp suspended from one of its pillars. In a corner sat Nathan;

serious, dignified, scraping out a monotonous but rhythmic minor

strain to which two young negroes from the lower quarters--famous

dancers--were keeping time in marvelous shuffling and pigeon-wings;

twisting their supple joints into astonishing contortions and the

sweat rolling from their black visages. A crowd of darkies stood at a

respectful distance an appreciative and encouraging audience. And

seated 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 on

his aunt’s bosom?

Thérèse turning away from the scene, the doubt assailed her whether it

were after all worth while to strive against the sorrows of life that

can be so readily put aside.

V

One Afternoon.

Whatever may have been Torpedo’s characteristics in days gone by, at

this advanced period in his history he possessed none so striking as a

stoical inaptitude for being moved. Another of his distinguishing

traits was a propensity for grazing which he was prone to indulge at

inopportune moments. Such points taken in conjunction with a gait

closely resembling that of the camel in the desert, might give much

cause to wonder at Thérèse’s motive in recommending him as a suitable

mount for the unfortunate Fanny, were it not for his wide-spread

reputation of angelic inoffensiveness.

The ride which Melicent had arranged and in which she held out such

promises of a “lark” proved after all but a desultory affair. For with

Fanny making but a sorry equestrian debut and Hosmer creeping along at

her side; Thérèse unable to hold Beauregard within conventional

limits, 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 moved

the proverbial stone.

“I think if you change horses with me, Fanny, you’ll find it more

comfortable, and we’ll turn about and go home.”

“I wouldn’t get on that horse’s back, David Hosmer, if I had to die

right here in the woods, I wouldn’t.”

“Do you think you could manage to walk back that distance then? I can

lead the horses,” he suggested as a _pis aller_.

“I guess I’ll haf to; but goodness knows if I’ll ever get there

alive.”

They were far up on the hill, which spot they had reached by painfully

slow and labored stages, each refraining from mention of a discomfort

that might interfere with the supposed enjoyment of the other, till

Fanny’s note of protest.

Hosmer cast about him for some expedient that might lighten the

unpleasantness of the situation, when a happy thought occurred to him.

“If you’ll try to bear up, a few yards further, you can dismount at

old Morico’s cabin and I’ll hurry back and get the buggy. It can be

driven this far anyway: and it’s only a short walk from here through

the woods.”

So Hosmer set her down before Morico’s door: her long riding skirt,

borrowed for the occasion, twisting awkwardly around her legs, and

every joint in her body aching.

Partly by pantomimic signs interwoven with a few French words which he

had picked up within the last year, Hosmer succeeded in making himself

understood to the old man, and rode away leaving Fanny in his care.

Morico fussily preceded her into the house and placed a great clumsy

home-made rocker at her disposal, into which she cast herself with

every appearance of bodily distress. He then busied himself in tidying

up the room out of deference to his guest; gathering up the scissors,

waxen thread and turkey feathers which had fallen from his lap in his

disturbance, and laying them on the table. He knocked the ashes from

his corn-cob pipe which he now rested on a projection of the brick

chimney that extended into the room and that served as mantel-piece.

All the while he cast snatched glances at Fanny, who sat pale and

tired. Her appearance seemed to move him to make an effort towards

relieving it. He took a key from his pocket and unlocking a side of

the _garde manger_, drew forth a small flask of whisky. Fanny had

closed her eyes and was not aware of his action, till she heard him at

her elbow saying in his feeble quavering voice:--

“_Tenez madame; goutez un peu: ça va vous faire du bien,_” and opening

her 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 a

reptile that menaced her with its sting.

Morico looked nonplussed and a little abashed: but he had much faith

in the healing qualities of his remedy and urged it on her anew. She

trembled 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 on

the table, then walked to the open door and looked eagerly out, as

though 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 inspection

bringing 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 to

seize the glass of “toddy” which she unhesitatingly put to her lips

and drained at a draught. All uneasiness and fatigue seemed to leave

her on the instant as though by magic. She went back to her chair and

reseated herself composedly. Her eyes now rested on her old host with

a certain quizzical curiosity strange to them.

He was plainly demoralized by her presence, and still made pretense of

occupying himself with the arrangement of the room.

Presently she said to him: “Your remedy did me more good than I’d

expected,” but not understanding her, he only smiled and looked at her

blankly.

She laughed good-humoredly back at him, then went to the table and

poured from the flask which he had left standing there, liquor to the

depth of two fingers, this time drinking it more deliberately. After

that she tried to talk to Morico and thought it very amusing that he

could not understand her.

Presently Joçint came home and accepted her presence there very

indifferently. He went to the _garde manger_ to stay his hunger, much

as he had done on the occasion of Thérèse’s visit; talked in grum

abrupt utterances to his father, and disappeared into the adjoining

room where Fanny could hear him and occasionally see him polishing and

oiling his cherished rifle.

Morico, more accustomed to foreign sounds in the woods than she, was

the first to detect the approach of Grégoire, whom he went out

hurriedly to meet, glad of the relief from the supposed necessity of

entertaining his puzzling visitor. When he was fairly out of the room,

she arose quickly, approached the table and reaching for the flask of

liquor, thrust it hastily into her pocket, then went to join him. At

the moment that Grégoire came up, Joçint issued from a side door and

stood looking at the group.

“Well, Mrs. Hosma, yere I am. I reckon you was tired waitin’. The

buggy’s yonda in the road.”

He shook hands cordially with Morico saying something to him in French

which made the old man laugh heartily.

“Why didn’t David come? I thought he said he was coming; that’s the

way he does,” said Fanny complainingly.

“That’s a po’ compliment to me, Mrs. Hosrma. Can’t you stan’ my

company 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 as

not 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 out

o’ their graves an’ walk about? You wouldn’t ketch a nigga out o’ his

cabin to-night afta dark to save his soul. They all gittin’ ready now

to hustle back to the quartas.”

“That’s nonsense,” said Fanny, drawing on her gloves, “you ought to

have more sense than to repeat such things.”

Grégoire laughed, looking surprised at her unusual energy of speech

and manner. Then he turned to Joçint, whose presence he had thus far

ignored, and asked in a peremptory tone:

“W’at did Woodson say ’bout watchin’ at the mill to-night? Did you ask

him like I tole you?”

“Yaas, me ax um: ee’ low ee an’ goin’. Say how Sylveste d’wan’ watch

lak alluz. Say ee an’ goin’. Me don’ blem ’im neida, don’ ketch me

out de ’ouse night lak dat fu no man.”

“_Sacré imbécile_,” muttered Grégoire, between his teeth, and

vouchsafed him no other answer, but nodded to Morico and turned away.

Fanny followed with a freedom of movement quite unlike that of her

coming.

Morico went into the house and coming back hastily to the door called

to 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 your

damned tricks to make me buy you more.” And he seated himself on an

over-turned tub and with his small black eyes half closed, looked

moodily out into the solemn darkening woods. The old man showed no

resentment at the harshness and disrespect of his son’s speech, being

evidently used to such. He passed his hand slowly over his white long

hair and turned bewildered into the house.

“Is it just this same old thing year in and year out, Grégoire? Don’t

any 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. I

used 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 Natchitoches

now; that’s the place to have a right down good time. But see yere; I

didn’ know you was fon’ o’ dancin’ an’ such things.”

“Why, of course, I just dearly love to dance. But it’s as much as my

life’s worth to say that before David; he’s such a stick; but I guess

you know that by this time,” with a laugh, as he had never heard from

her before--so unconstrained; at the same time drawing nearer to him

and looking merrily into his face.

“The little lady’s been having a ‘toddy’ at Morico’s, that makes her

lively,” thought Grégoire. But the knowledge did not abash him in the

least. He accommodated himself at once to the situation with that

adaptability 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 with

a studied indifference.

“Hol’ on there, Buckskin--w’ere you takin’ us? W’y, I lef’ him at the

sto’ mailin’ lettas.”

“Had the others all got back? Mrs. Laferm? Melicent? did they all stop

at the store, too?”

“Who? Aunt Thrérèse? no, she was up at the house w’en I lef’--I reckon

Miss Melicent was there too. Talkin’ ’bout fun,--it’s to git into one

o’ them big spring wagons on a moonlight night, like they do in

Centaville sometimes; jus’ packed down with young folks--and start out

fur a dance up the coast. They ain’t nothin’ to beat it as fah as fun

goes.”

“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: not

in Natchitoches pa’ish, anyway. I can say that much.”

If such a thing could have been, Fanny would have startled Grégoire

more than once during the drive home. Before its close she had

obtained a promise from him to take her up to Natchitoches for the

very next entertainment,--averring that she didn’t care what David

said. If he wanted to bury himself that was his own look out. And if

Mrs. Laferm took people to be angels that they could live in a place

like that, and give up everything and not have any kind of enjoyment

out of life, why, she was mistaken and that’s all there was to it. To

all of which freely expressed views Grégoire emphatically assented.

Hosmer had very soon disembarrassed himself of Torpedo, knowing that

the animal would unerringly find his way to the corn crib by supper

time. He continued his own way now untrammelled, and at an agreeable

speed which soon brought him to the spring at the road side. Here he

found Thérèse, half seated against a projection of rock, in her hand a

bunch of ferns which she had evidently dismounted to gather, and

holding Beauregard’s bridle while he munched at the cool wet tufts of

grass that grew everywhere.

As Hosmer rode up at a rapid pace, he swung himself from his horse

almost before the animal came to a full stop. He removed his hat,

mopped his forehead, stamped about a little to relax his limbs and

turned 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 was

on 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 since

his return from St. Louis. They looked at each other with full

consciousness of what lay in the other’s mind. Thérèse felt that

however adroitly another woman might have managed the situation, for

herself, it would have been a piece of affectation to completely

ignore it at this moment.

“Mr. Hosmer, perhaps I ought to have said something before this, to

you--about what you’ve done.”

“Oh, yes, congratulated me--complimented me,” he replied with a

pretense at a laugh.

“Well, the latter, perhaps. I think we all like to have our good and

right actions recognized for their worth.”

He flushed, looked at her with a smile, then laughed out-right--this

time it was no pretense.

“So I’ve been a good boy; have done as my mistress bade me and now I’m

to receive a condescending little pat on the head--and of course must

say thank you. Do you know, Mrs. Lafirme--and I don’t see why a woman

like you oughtn’t to know it--it’s one of those things to drive a man

mad, the sweet complaisance with which women accept situations, or

inflict situations that it takes the utmost of a man’s strength to

endure.”

“Well, Mr. Hosmer,” said Thérèse plainly discomposed, “you must

concede you decided it was the right thing to do.”

“I didn’t do it because I thought it was right, but because you

thought it was right. But that makes no difference.”

“Then remember your wife is going to do the right thing herself--she

admitted as much to me.”

“Don’t you fool yourself, as Melicent says, about what Mrs. Hosmer

means to do. I take no account of it. But you take it so easily; so as

a matter of course. That’s what exasperates me. That you, you, you,

shouldn’t have a suspicion of the torture of it; the loathsomeness of

it. But how could you--how could any woman understand it? Oh forgive

me, Thérèse--I wouldn’t want you to. There’s no brute so brutal as a

man,” he cried, seeing the pain in her face and knowing he had caused

it. “But you know you promised to help me--oh I’m talking like an

idiot.”

“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 me

sometimes 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 you

understand--if it’s only a little bit.”

Thérèse thought it best to interrupt the situation; so, pale and

silently she prepared to mount her horse. He came to her assistance of

course, and when she was seated she drew off her loose riding glove

and held out her hand to him. He pressed it gratefully, then touched

it 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 with

a frown and little line of thought between her blue eyes.

As they were nearing the store she said diffidently: “Mr. Hosmer, I

wonder if it wouldn’t be best for you to put the mill in some one

else’s charge--and go away from Place-du-Bois.”

“I believe you always speak with a purpose, Mrs. Lafirme: you have

somebody’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 seen

him look as he did now. His face, usually serious, had a whole

unwritten tragedy in it. And she felt altogether sore and puzzled and

exasperated over man’s problematic nature.

“I don’t think it should be left entirely to me to say. Doesn’t your

own reason suggest a proper course in the matter?”

“My reason is utterly unable to determine anything in which you are

concerned. Mrs. Lafirme,” he said checking his horse and laying a

restraining hand on her bridle, “let me speak to you one moment. I

know you are a woman to whom one may speak the truth. Of course, you

remember that you prevailed upon me to go back to my wife. To you it

seemed the right thing--to me it seemed certainly hard--but no more

nor less than taking up the old unhappy routine of life, where I had

left it when I quitted her. I reasoned much like a stupid child who

thinks the colors in his kaleidoscope may fall twice into the same

design. In place of the old, I found an entirely new situation--horrid,

sickening, requiring such a strain upon my energies to live through

it, that I believe it’s an absurdity to waste so much moral force for

so poor an aim--there would be more dignity in putting an end to my

life. It doesn’t make it any the more bearable to feel that the cause

of 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 take

yourself out of my life; your moral support; your bodily atmosphere. I

hope not to give way to the weakness of speaking of these things

again: but before you leave me, tell me, do you understand a little

better 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 almost

the force of action for him; as though she had let him feel for an

instant her heart beat against his own with an echoing pain.

Their ways now diverged. She went in the direction of the house and he

to 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 and

left every speck of the supper dishes unwashed? I’ve got half a mind

to give them both warning to-morrow morning.”

Fanny had come in from the kitchen to the sitting-room, and the above

homily was addressed to her husband who stood lighting his cigar. He

had lately taken to smoking.

“You’d better do nothing of the kind; you wouldn’t find it easy to

replace them. Put up a little with their vagaries: this sort of thing

only happens once a year.”

“How do you know it won’t be something else just as ridiculous

to-morrow? And that idiot of a Minervy; what do you suppose she told

me when I insisted on her staying to wash up things? She says, last

whatever you call it, her husband wanted to act hard-headed and staid

out after dark, and when he was crossing the bayou, the spirits jerked

him off his horse and dragged him up and down in the water, till he

was nearly drowned. I don’t see what you’re laughing at; I guess you’d

like to make out that they’re in the right.”

Hosmer was perfectly aware that Fanny had had a drink, and he rightly

guessed that Morico had given it to her. But he was at a loss to

account for the increasing symptoms of intoxication that she showed.

He tried to persuade her to go to bed; but his efforts to that end

remained unheeded, till she had eased her mind of an accumulation of

grievances, mostly fancied. He had much difficulty in preventing her

from going over to give Melicent a piece of her mind about her lofty

airs and arrogance in thinking herself better than other people. And

she 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 good

while before she fell into a heavy sleep, after shedding a few maudlin

tears over the conviction that he intended to leave her again, and

clinging to his neck with beseeching enquiry whether he loved her.

He went out on the veranda feeling much as if he had been wrestling

with a strong adversary who had mastered him, and whom he was glad to

be 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 to

step from their graves and take a stroll above ground, they could not

have found a more fitting hour. Hosmer walked very long in the

soothing quiet. He would have liked to walk the night through. The

last three hours had been like an acute physical pain, that was over

for the moment, and that being over, left his mind free to return to

the delicious consciousness, that he had needed to be reminded of,

that Thérèse loved him after all. When his measured tread upon the

veranda finally ceased to mark the passing hours, a quiet that was

almost pulseless fell upon the plantation. Place-du-Bois slept.

Perhaps the only night in the year that some or other of the negroes

did 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 startling

gruesome calls to each other. Bats were flapping and whirling and

darting hither and thither; the gliding serpent making quick rustle

amid the dry, crisp leaves, and over all sounded the murmur of the

great pine trees, telling their mystic secrets to the night.

A human creature was there too, feeling a close fellowship with these

spirits of night and darkness; with no more fear in his heart than the

unheeded serpent crossing his path. Every inch of the ground he knew.

He wanted no daylight to guide him. Had his eyes been blinded he would

no doubt have bent his body close to earth and scented his way along

like the human hound that he was. Over his shoulder hung the polished

rifle that sent dull and sudden gleamings into the dark. A large tin

pail swung from his hand. He was very careful of this pail--or its

contents, for he feared to lose a drop. And when he accidentally

struck an intervening tree and spilled some upon the ground, he

muttered a curse against his own awkwardness.

Twice since leaving his cabin up in the clearing, he had turned to

drive back his yellow skulking dog that followed him. Each time the

brute had fled in abject terror, only to come creeping again into his

master’s footsteps, when he thought himself forgotten. Here was a

companion whom neither Joçint nor his mission required. Exasperated,

he seated himself on a fallen tree and whistled softly. The dog, who

had been holding back, dashed to his side, trembling with eagerness,

and striving to twist his head around to lick the hand that patted

him. Joçint’s other hand glided quickly into his pocket, from which he

drew forth a coil of thin rope that he flung deftly over the animal’s

head, drawing it close and tight about the homely, shaggy throat. So

quickly was the action done, that no sound was uttered, and Joçint

continued his way untroubled by his old and faithful friend, whom he

left hanging to the limb of a tree.

He was following the same path that he traversed daily to and from the

mill, and which soon brought him out into the level with its soft

tufted grass and clumps of squat thorn trees. There was no longer the

protecting wood to screen him; but of such there was no need, for the

darkness hung about him like the magic mantle of story. Nearing the

mill he grew cautious, creeping along with the tread of a stealthy

beast, and halting at intervals to listen for sounds that he wished

not to hear. He knew there was no one on guard tonight. A movement in

the bushes near by, made him fall quick and sprawling to earth. It was

only Grégoire’s horse munching the soft grass. Joçint drew near and

laid 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 such

condition from quietly grazing of a cool autumn night. He seated

himself upon the ground, with his hands clasped about his knees, all

doubled up in a little heap, and waited there with the patience of the

savage, letting an hour go by, whilst he made no movement.

The hour past, he stole towards the mill, and began his work of

sprinkling the contents of his pail here and there along the dry

timbers at well calculated distances, with care that no drop should be

lost. Then, he drew together a great heap of crisp shavings and

slathers, plentifully besprinkling it with what remained in the can.

When he had struck a match against his rough trousers and placed it

carefully in the midst of this small pyramid, he found that he had

done his work but too surely. The quick flame sprang into life,

seizing at once all it could reach. Leaping over intervals; effacing

the darkness that had shrouded him; seeming to mock him as a fool and

point him out as a target for heaven and earth to hurl destruction at

if they would. Where should he hide himself? He only thought now of

how he might have done the deed differently, and with safety to

himself. 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 of

himself seemed to hold him fast to one spot. When turning suddenly

about, he knew it was too late, he felt that all was lost, for there

was Grégoire, not twenty paces away--covering him with the muzzle of a

pistol and--cursed luck--his own rifle along with the empty pail in

the raging fire.

Thérèse was passing a restless night. She had lain long awake,

dwelling on the insistent thoughts that the day’s happenings had given

rise to. The sleep which finally came to her was troubled by

dreams--demoniac--grotesque. Hosmer was in a danger from which she was

striving with physical effort to rescue him, and when she dragged him

painfully from the peril that menaced him, she turned to see that it

was Fanny whom she had saved--laughing at her derisively, and Hosmer

had been left to perish. The dream was agonizing; like an appalling

nightmare. She awoke in a fever of distress, and raised herself in bed

to shake off the unnatural impression which such a dream can leave.

The curtains were drawn aside from the window that faced her bed, and

looking out she saw a long tongue of flame, reaching far up into the

sky--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 a

moment with her to spring from her bed and don slippers and wrapper.

She knocked on Melicent’s door to acquaint her with the startling

news; then hurried out into the back yard and rang the plantation

bell.

Next she was at the cottage rousing Hosmer. But the alarm of the bell

had already awakened him, and he was dressed and out on the porch

almost as soon as Thérèse had called. Melicent joined them, highly

agitated, and prepared to contribute her share towards any scene that

might be going forward. But she found little encouragement for heroics

with Hosmer. In saddling his horse rather hastily he was as unmoved as

though preparing for an uneventful morning canter. He stood at the

foot of the stairs preparing to mount when Grégoire rode up as if

pursued by furies; checking his horse with a quick, violent wrench

that set it quivering in its taut limbs.

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

did 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 hands

spasmodically together, at Grégoire’s words, trembling with horror of

what 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 in

the cold and dark.”

Hosmer had left the sitting-room door open, and Thérèse entered. She

approached Fanny’s door and knocked twice: not brusquely, but

sufficiently 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--that

very deadest hour of the night--had roused the whole plantation. On

all sides squads of men and a few venturesome women were hurrying

towards the fire; the dread of supernatural encounters overcome for

the moment by such strong reality and by the confidence lent them in

each other’s company.

There were many already gathered around the mill, when Grégoire and

Hosmer reached it. All effort to save anything had been abandoned as

useless. The books and valuables had been removed from the office. The

few householders--mill-hands--whose homes were close by, had carried

their scant belongings to places of safety, but everything else was

given over to the devouring flames.

The heat from this big raging fire was intense, and had driven most of

the gaping spectators gradually back--almost into the woods. But

there, to one side, where the fire was rapidly gaining, and making

itself already uncomfortably felt, stood a small awe-stricken group

talking in whispers; their ignorance and superstition making them

irresolute to lay a hand upon the dead Joçint. His body lay amongst

the heavy timbers, across a huge beam, with arms outstretched and head

hanging down upon the ground. The glazed eyes were staring up into the

red sky, and on his swarthy visage was yet the horror which had come

there, when he looked in the face of death.

“In God’s name, what are you doing?” cried Hosmer. “Can’t some of you

carry 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 to

right and left. With now a hand upon the breast of both Hosmer and

Grégoire, and thrusting them with such force and violence, as to lay

them 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 knew

everything. The whole story was plain to him as if it had been told by

a revealing angel. The strength of his youth had come back to speed

him over the ground.

“Murderers!” he cried looking about him with hate in his face. He did

not know who had done it; no one knew yet, and he saw in every man he

looked upon the possible slayer of his child.

So here he stood over the prostrate figure; his old gray jeans hanging

loosely about him; wild eyed--with bare head clasped between his

claw-like hands, which the white disheveled hair swept over. Hosmer

approached again, offering gently to help him carry his son away.

“Stand back,” he hurled at him. But he had understood the offer. His

boy must not be left to burn like a log of wood. He bent down and

strove to lift the heavy body, but the effort was beyond his strength.

Seeing this he stooped again and this time grasped it beneath the

arms; then slowly, draggingly, with halting step, began to move

backward.

The fire claimed no more attention. All eyes were fastened upon this

weird picture; a sight which moved the most callous to offer again and

again assistance, that was each time spurned with an added defiance.

Hosmer stood looking on, with folded arms; moved by the grandeur and

majesty of the scene. The devouring element, loosed in its awful

recklessness there in the heart of this lonely forest. The motley

group of black and white standing out in the great red light,

powerless to do more than wait and watch. But more was he stirred to

the depths of his being, by the sight of this human tragedy enacted

before 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 every

on-looker. But no--with renewed effort he begins again his slow

retreat, till at last a sigh of relief comes from the whole watching

multitude. Morico with his burden has reached a spot of safety. What

will he do next? They watch in breathless suspense. But Morico does

nothing. He only stands immovable as a carved image. Suddenly there is

a cry that reaches far above the roar of fire and crash of falling

timbers: “_Mon fils! mon garçon!_” and the old man totters and falls

backward to earth, still clinging to the lifeless body of his son. All

hasten towards him. Hosmer reaches him first. And when he gently lifts

the dead Joçint, the father this time makes no hinderance, for he too

has 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 few

who did not recognize Grégoire’s hand in the affair. When met with the

accusation, he denied it, or acknowledged it, or evaded the charge

with a jest, as he felt for the moment inclined. It was a deed

characteristic of any one of the Santien boys, and if not altogether

laudable--Joçint having been at the time of the shooting unarmed--yet

was it thought in a measure justified by the heinousness of his

offense, and beyond dispute, a benefit to the community.

Hosmer reserved the expression of his opinion. The occurrence once

over, with the emotions which it had awakened, he was inclined to look

at it from one of those philosophic stand-points of his friend

Homeyer. Heredity and pathology had to be considered in relation with

the slayer’s character. He saw in it one of those interesting problems

of human existence that are ever turning up for man’s contemplation,

but hardly for the exercise of man’s individual judgment. He was

conscious of an inward repulsion which this action of Grégoire’s

awakened in him,--much the same as a feeling of disgust for an animal

whose instinct drives it to the doing of violent deeds,--yet he made

no difference in his manner towards him.

Thérèse was deeply distressed over this double tragedy: feeling keenly

the unhappy ending of old Morico. But her chief sorrow came from the

callousness of Grégoire, whom she could not move even to an avowal of

regret. He could not understand that he should receive any thing but

praise for having rid the community of so offensive and dangerous a

personage as Joçint; and seemed utterly blind to the moral aspect of

his deed.

An event at once so exciting and dramatic as this conflagration, with

the attendant deaths of Morico and his son, was much discussed amongst

the negroes. They were a good deal of one opinion in regard to Joçint

having been only properly served in getting “w’at he done ben lookin’

fu’ dis long time.” Grégoire was rather looked upon as a clever

instrument in the Lord’s service; and the occurrence pointed a moral

which they were not likely to forget.

The burning of the mill entailed much work upon Hosmer, to which he

turned with a zest--an absorption that for the time excluded

everything else.

Melicent had shunned Grégoire since the shooting. She had avoided

speaking with him--even looking at him. During the turmoil which

closely followed upon the tragic event, this change in the girl had

escaped his notice. On the next day he suspected it only. But the

third day brought him the terrible conviction. He did not know that

she was making preparations to leave for St. Louis, and quite

accidentally overheard Hosmer giving an order to one of the unemployed

mill hands to call for her baggage on the following morning before

train time.

As much as he had expected her departure, and looked painfully forward

to it, this certainty--that she was leaving on the morrow and without

a word to him--bewildered him. He abandoned at once the work that was

occupying him.

“I didn’ know Miss Melicent was goin’ away to-morrow,” he said in a

strange pleading voice to Hosmer.

“Why, yes,” Hosmer answered, “I thought you knew. She’s been talking

about it for a couple of days.”

“No, I didn’ know nothin’ ’tall ’bout it,” he said, turning away and

reaching for his hat, but with such nerveless hand that he almost

dropped it before placing it on his head.

“If you’re going to the house,” Hosmer called after him, “tell

Melicent that Woodson won’t go for her trunks before morning. She

thought 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 or

not,” he replied, walking listlessly away.

Hosmer looked after the young man, and thought of him for a moment: of

his soft voice and gentle manner--perplexed that he should be the same

who had expressed in confidence the single regret that he had not been

able to kill Joçint more than once.

Grégoire went directly to the house, and approached that end of the

veranda on which Melicent’s room opened. A trunk had already been

packed and fastened and stood outside, just beneath the low-silled

window that was open. Within the room, and also beneath the window,

was another trunk, before which Melicent kneeled, filling it more or

less systematically from an abundance of woman’s toggery that lay in a

cumbrous heap on the floor beside her. Grégoire stopped at the window

to tell her, with a sad attempt at indifference:

“Yo’ brotha says don’t hurry packin’; Woodson ain’t goin’ to come fur

your trunks tell mornin’.”

“All right, thank you,” glancing towards him for an instant carelessly

and 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 a

w’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 depths

in his mind from which he might draw at will, apt and telling speeches

to taunt her with. His heart was swelling and choking him, at sight of

the eyes that looked anywhere, but in his own; at sight of the lips

that he had one time kissed, pressed into an icy silence. She went on

with her task of packing, unmoved. He stood a while longer, silently

watching her, his hat in his hands that were clasped behind him, and a

stupor of grief holding him vise-like. Then he walked away. He felt

somewhat as he remembered to have felt oftentimes as a boy, when ill

and suffering, his mother would put him to bed and send him a cup of

bouillon perhaps, and a little negro to sit beside him. It seemed very

cruel to him now that some one should not do something for him--that

he should be left to suffer this way. He walked across the lawn over

to the cottage, where he saw Fanny pacing slowly up and down the

porch.

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 the

balustrades and looking up at her. He wanted somebody to talk to him

about Melicent.

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

Had it been Hosmer or Thérèse asking her the question she would have

replied simply “yes,” but to Grégoire she said “yes; thank Goodness,”

as frankly as though she had been speaking to Belle Worthington. “I

don’t see what’s kept her down here all this time, anyway.”

“You don’t like her?” he asked, stupefied at the strange possibility

of any one not loving Melicent to distraction.

“No. You wouldn’t either, if you knew her as well as I do. If she

likes a person she goes on like a lunatic over them as long as it

lasts; then good-bye John! she’ll throw them aside as she would an old

dress.”

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

“All right; you’ll see how much she thinks of Aunt Thérèse. And the

people she’s been engaged to! There ain’t a worse flirt in the city of

St. Louis; and always some excuse or other to break it off at the last

minute. I haven’t got any use for her, Lord knows. There ain’t much

love lost between us.”

“Well, I reckon she knows they ain’t anybody born, good enough fur

her?” 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 when

there was no danger of interruption from Melicent, and Grégoire went

wandering aimlessly about the plantation.

He staked great hopes on what the night might bring for him. She would

melt, perhaps, to the extent of a smile or one of her old glances. He

was almost cheerful when he seated himself at table; only he and his

aunt and Melicent. He had never seen her look so handsome as now, in a

woolen gown that she had not worn before, of warm rich tint, that

brought out a certain regal splendor that he had not suspected in her.

A something that she seemed to have held in reserve till this final

moment. But she had nothing for him--nothing. All her conversation was

addressed to Thérèse; and she hurried away from table at the close of

the 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. I

can’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 piece

of bread before him, “go and ask her if she doesn’t mean to talk to

me: 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, of

course. But remember you are going away to-morrow; you’ll likely never

see him again. A friendly word from you now, may do more good than you

imagine. I believe he’s as unhappy at this moment as a creature can

be!”

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 you

have him near you--seated at your table? I don’t know what nerves you

have in your bodies, you and David. There’s David, hobnobbing with

him. Even that Fanny talking to him as if he were blameless. Never! If

he were dying I wouldn’t go near him.”

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

violently.

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

alone.”

Thérèse went out to Grégoire, who stood waiting on the veranda. She

only took his hand and pressed it telling him good-night, and he knew

that it was a dismissal.

There may be lovers, who, under the circumstances, would have felt

sufficient pride to refrain from going to the depôt on the following

morning, but Grégoire was not one of them. He was there. He who only a

week before had thought that nothing but her constant presence could

reconcile him with life, had narrowed down the conditions for his

life’s happiness now to a glance or a kind word. He stood close to the

steps of the Pullman car that she was about to enter, and as she

passed him he held out his hand, saying “Good-bye.” But he held his

hand to no purpose. She was much occupied in taking her valise from

the conductor who had hoisted her up, and who was now shouting in

stentorian tones “All aboard,” though there was not a soul with the

slightest 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 had

walked ahead.

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

my hoss.”

VIII

With Loose Rein.

“De Lord be praised fu’ de blessin’s dat he showers down ’pon us,” was

Uncle Hiram’s graceful conclusion of his supper, after which he pushed

his empty plate aside regretfully, and addressed Aunt Belindy.

“ ’Pears to me, Belindy, as you reached a pint wid dem bacon an’ greens

to-night, dat you never tetched befo’. De pint o’ de flavorin’ is w’at

I alludes to.”

“All de same, dat ain’t gwine to fetch no mo’,” was the rather uncivil

reply to this neat compliment to her culinary powers.

“Dah!” cried the youthful Betsy, who formed one of the trio gathered

together 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 me

out 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 the

too communicative Betsy, that sent her sprawling across the table.

“T’inks I’se gwine pesta wid you--does you? Messin’ roun’ heah in de

kitchin’ an’ ain’t tu’ned down a bed or drawed a bah, or done a lick

o’ yo’ night wurk yit.”

“I is done my night wurk, too,” returned Betsy whimpering but

defiantly, as she retreated beyond reach of further blows from Aunt

Belindy’s powerful right hand.

“Dat harshness o’ yourn, Belindy, is wat’s a sourin’ yo’ tempa, an’ a

turnin’ of it intur gall an’ wormwood. Does you know wat de Scripture

tells 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 walk

to Natch’toches an’ back.”

“Ain’t dat him I years yonda tu de crib?” suggestod Betsy, coming to

join 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 coal

black, mounted the stairs and came into the kitchen, where he

deposited a meal bag filled with various necessities that he had

brought from Centerville. He was one of the dancers who had displayed

their skill before Melicent and Grégoire. Uncle Hiram at once accosted

him.

“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 town

to wait on me.”

“Dat boy kin lie, yas,” said Aunt Belindy, “God A’mighty knows ever

time I ben to Centaville dem sto’ keepas ain’t done a blessed t’ing

but 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 Betsy

with 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’ set

by 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 without

adding the offensive title.

“Dey flyin’ ’roun’, Lord! dey hidin’ dey sef! dey gittin’ out o’ de

way, 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 whole

bearing announcing pleased anticipation.

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

Uncle Hiram.

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

“Well,” said Pierson, assuming a declamatory air and position in the

middle 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 in

heah ’dout washin’ of ’em.”

“Dat’s so; it war good dinna time w’en he come a lopin’ in town. Dat

hoss 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 you

come on, Grégor? Come ova tu de house an’ eat dinna wid us: de ladies

be pleas tu see you.’ ”

“Humph,” muttered Aunt Belindy, “dem Grammont gals be glad to see any

t’ing dat got breeches on; lef ’lone good lookin’ piece like dat

Grégor.”

“Grégor, he neva sey, ‘Tank you dog,’ jis’ fling he big dolla down on

de 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 Goodness

ef he didn’ mos fill dat tumbla to de brim, an’ drink it down, neva

blink 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 a

treatin’; Grammont, he keep a handin’ out de w’iskey; Grégor he keep

on a drinkin’ an a treatin’--Grammont, he keep a handin’ out; don’t

make no odds tu him s’long uz dat bring de money in de draw. I ben a

stan’in’ out on de gallery, me, a peekin’ in. An’ Grégor, he cuss and

swar an’ he kiarry on, an ’low he want play game poka. Den dey all

goes a trompin’ in de back room an’ sets down roun’ de table, an’ I

comes a creepin’ in, me, whar I kin look frough de doo’, an dar dey

sets 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’ all

had a shootin’ down tu Place-du-Bois, _hein_ Grégor?’ Grégor, he neva

say nuttin’: he jis’ draw he pistol slow out o’ he pocket an’ lay it

down on de table; an’ he look squar in Marse Verdon eyes. Man! ef you

eva 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 no

mo’ ’bout shootin’. Den ole Grammont, he kine o’ hang back an’ say,

‘You git de jestice de peace, ’hine you, kiarrin’ conceal’ weepons dat

a-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 draw

nudda pistol slow out o’ he udda pocket an’ lay et on de table. By dat

time 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’ sneaks

out. Den Grégor, he git up an come out o’ de room, he coat ’crost he

arm, an’ de pistols a stickin’ out an him lookin’ sassy tell ev’y body

make way, same ef he ben Jay Goul’. Ef he look one o’ ’em in de eye

dey outs wid, ‘Howdy, Grégor--how you come on, Grégor?’ jis’ uz pelite

uz a peacock, an’ him neva take no trouble to yansa ’em. He jis’ holla

out fu’ somebody bring dat hoss tu de steps, an’ him stan’in’ ’s big

uz life, waitin’. I gits tu de hoss fus’, me, an’ leads ’im up, an’ he

gits top dat hoss stidy like he ain’t tetch a drap, an’ he fling me

big 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 Aunt

Belindy.

“He jis’ went a lopin’ twenty yards down to Chartrand’s sto’. I goes

on ’hine ’im see w’at he gwine do. Dah he git down f’um de hoss an’ go

a stompin’ in de sto’--eve’ybody stan’in’ back jis’ same like fu’ Jay

Goul’, an’ he fling bill down on de counta an’ ’low, ‘Fill me up a

bottle, Chartrand, I’se gwine travelin’.’ Den he ’lows, ‘You treats

eve’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.’ But

Grégor, he ’low he don’t wants no rusty skileton a waitin’ on him w’en

he 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 he

kine 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, “dey

knows Grégor gwine fo’ce ’em drink; dey knows Chartrand gwine make it

hot 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’um

Place-du-Bois; Pierson, come heah; you’se good ’nough tu drink wid any

w’ite man, ’cept me; you come heah, take drink wid Mr. Louis

Chartrand.’

“I ’lows don’t wants no drink, much ’bleege, Marse Grégor’. ‘Yis, you

wants drink,’ an’ ’id dat he draws he pistol. ‘Mista Chartrand want

drink, too. I done owe Mista Chartrand somethin’ dis long time; I’se

gwine pay ’im wid a treat,’ he say. Chartrand look like he on fiar, he

so red, he so mad, he swell up same like ole bull frog.”

“Dat make no odd,” chuckled Aunt Belindy, “he gwine drink wid nigga ef

Grégor say so.”

“Yes, he drink, Lord, only he cuss me slow, an’ ’low he gwine break my

skull.”

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

“Warn’t trimblin’ no mo’ ’en I’se trimblin’ dis minute, an’ you drap

dat ‘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 no

body an’ he ’low: ‘Grégor Sanchun, how is you dar’ come in dis heah

peaceful 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 Chartrand

drink wid dis heah nigga,--he foolin’ wid it an’ a rubbin’ it up and

down he pants, an’ he ’low ‘Dis a gemmen w’at fit to drink wid a

Sanchun--w’at’ll you have?’ But Père Antoine, he go on makin’ a su’mon

same like he make in chu’ch, an’ Grégor, he lean he two arm back on de

counta--kine o’ smilin’ like, an’ he say, ‘Chartrand, whar dat bottle

I orda you put up?’ Chartrand bring de bottle; Grégor, he put de

bottle 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’ he

say, ‘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, you

all liars,’ an’ he say, ‘Make way dah, I’se a gittin’ out o’ heah; dis

ain’t no town fittin’ to hol’ a Sanchun. Make way ef you don’ wants to

go to Kingdom come fo’ yo’ time.’

“Well, I ’lows dey did make way. Only Père Antoine, he look mighty

sorry 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’ stick

he spurs in dat hoss an’ he go tar’in’ like de win’ down street, out

o’ de town, a firin’ he pistol up in de a’r.”

Uncle Hiram had listened to the foregoing recital with troubled

countenance, and with many a protesting groan. He now shook his old

white head, and heaved a deep sigh. “All dat gwine come hard an’ heavy

on 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 Grégor

gwine be Grégor tell he die? Dat’s all dar is ’bout it.”

Betsy arose with the sudden recollection that she had let the time

pass for bringing in Miss Thérèse’s hot water, and Pierson went to the

stove to see what Aunt Belindy had reserved for him in the shape of

supper.

IX

The Reason Why.

Sampson, the young colored boy who had lighted Fanny’s fire on the

first day of her arrival at Place-du-Bois, and who had made such

insinuating advances of friendliness towards her, had continued to

attract her notice and good will. He it was who lighted her fires on

such mornings as they were needed. For there had been no winter. In

mid-January, the grass was fresh and green; trees and plants were

putting forth tender shoots, as if in welcome to spring; roses were

blossoming, and it was a veritable atmosphere of Havana rather than of

central Louisiana that the dwellers at Place-du-Bois were enjoying.

But finally winter made tardy assertion of its rights. One morning

broke raw and black with an icy rain falling, and young Sampson

arriving in the early bleakness to attend to his duties at the

cottage, presented a picture of human distress to move the most

hardened to pity. Though dressed comfortably in the clothing with

which Fanny had apparelled him--he was ashen. Save for the chattering

of his teeth, his body seemed possessed of a paralytic inability to

move. He knelt before the empty fire-place as he had done on that

first day, and with deep sighs and groans went about his work. Then he

remained long before the warmth that he had kindled; even lying full

length upon the soft rug, to bask in the generous heat that permeated

and 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 basket

that hung against the wall; a receptacle for old newspapers and odds

and ends. He drew something from his rather capacious coat pocket,

and, satisfying himself that Hosmer slept, thrust it in the bottom of

the basket, well covered by the nondescript accumulation that was

there.

The house was very warm and cheerful when they arose, and after

breakfasting Hosmer felt unusually reluctant to quit his fire-side and

face the inclement day; for an unaccustomed fatigue hung upon his

limbs and his body was sore, as from the effect of bruises. But he

went, nevertheless, well encased in protective rubber; and as he

turned away from the house, Fanny hastened to the hanging basket, and

fumbling nervously in its depths, found what the complaisant Sampson

had left for her.

The cold rain had gradually changed into a fine mist, that in

descending, spread an icy coat upon every object that it touched. When

Hosmer returned at noon, he did not leave the house again.

During the afternoon Thérèse knocked at Fanny’s door. She was

enveloped in a long hooded cloak, her face glowing from contact with

the sharp moist air, and myriad crystal drops clinging to her fluffy

blonde hair that looked very golden under the dark hood that covered

it. She wanted to learn how Fanny accepted this unpleasant change of

atmospheric conditions, intending to bear her company for the

remainder of the day if she found her depressed, as was often the

case.

“Why, I didn’t know you were home,” she said, a little startled, to

Hosmer who opened the door to her. “I came over to show Mrs. Hosmer

something pretty that I don’t suppose she ever saw before.” It was a

branch from a rose-tree, bearing two open blossoms and a multitude of

buds, creamy pink, all encased in an icy transparency that gleamed

like diamonds. “Isn’t it exquisite?” she said, holding the spray up

for Fanny’s admiration. But she saw at a glance that the spirit of

Disorder had descended and settled upon the Hosmer household.

The usually neat room was in a sad state of confusion. Some of the

pictures had been taken from the walls, and were leaning here and

there against chairs and tables. The mantel ornaments had been removed

and deposited at random and in groups about the room. On the hearth

was a pail of water in which swam a huge sponge; and Fanny sat beside

the center-table that was piled with her husband’s wearing apparel,

holding in her lap a coat which she had evidently been passing under

inspection. Her hair had escaped from its fastenings; her collar was

hooked awry; her face was flushed and her whole bearing indicated her

condition.

Hosmer took the frozen spray from Thérèse’s hand, and spoke a little

about the beauty of the trees, especially the young cedars that he had

passed 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 got

on my hands, she’s something else to think about. And David here

smoking one cigar after another. He knows all I’ve got to do, and goes

and sends those darkies home right after dinner.”

Thérèse was so shocked that for a while she could say nothing; till

for 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 the

whole afternoon,” she said with an appearance of being ready for any

thing that was at hand to be done.

Fanny turned the coat over in her lap, and looked down helplessly at a

stain on the collar, that she had been endeavoring to remove; at the

same time pushing aside with patient repetition the wisp of hair that

kept falling over her cheek.