When two weeks had passed, Offdean felt very much at home with old
Pierre and his daughter, and found the business that had called him
to the country so engrossing that he had given no thought to those
personal questions he had hoped to solve in going there.
The old man had driven him around in the no-top buggy to show him how
dismantled the fences and barns were. He could see for himself that the
house was a constant menace to human life. In the evenings the three
would sit out on the gallery and talk of the land and its strong points
and its weak ones, till he came to know it as if it had been his own.
Of the rickety condition of the cabins he got a fair notion, for he
and Euphrasie passed them almost daily on horseback, on their way to
the woods. It was seldom that their appearance together did not rouse
comment among the darkies who happened to be loitering about.
La Chatte, a broad black woman with ends of white wool sticking out
from under her _tignon_, stood with arms _akimbo_ watching them as they
disappeared one day. Then she turned and said to a young woman who sat
in the cabin door:--
"Dat young man, ef he want to listen to me, he gwine quit dat ar
caperin' roun' Miss 'Phrasie."
The young woman in the doorway laughed, and showed her white teeth, and
tossed her head, and fingered the blue beads at her throat, in a way to
indicate that she was in hearty sympathy with any question that touched
upon gallantry.
"Law! La Chatte, you ain' gwine hinder a gemman f'om payin' intentions
to a young lady w'en he a mine to."
"Dat all I got to say," returned La Chatte, seating herself lazily and
heavily on the doorstep. "Nobody don' know dem Sanchun boys bettah 'an
I does. Did n' I done part raise 'em? W'at you reckon my ha'r all tu'n
plumb w'ite dat-a-way ef it warn't dat Placide w'at done it?"
"How come he make yo' ha'r tu'n w'ite, La Chatte?"
"Dev'ment, pu' dev'ment, Rose. Did n' he come in dat same cabin one
day, w'en he warn't no bigga 'an dat Pres'dent Hayes w'at you sees
gwine 'long de road wid dat cotton sack 'crost 'im? He come an' sets
down by de do', on dat same t'ree-laigged stool w'at you's a-settin'
on now, wid his gun in his ban', an' he say: 'La Chatte, I wants some
croquignoles, an' I wants 'em quick, too.' I 'low: 'G' 'way f'om dah,
boy. Don' you see I's flutin' yo' ma's petticoat?' He say: 'La Chatte,
put 'side dat ar flutin'i'on an' dat ar petticoat;' an' he cock dat gun
an' p'int it to my head. 'Dar de ba'el,' he say; 'git out dat flour,
git out dat butta an' dat aigs; step roun' dah, ole 'oman. Dis heah
gun don' quit yo' head tell dem croquignoles is on de table, wid a
w'ite table-clof an' a cup o' coffee.' Ef I goes to de ba'el, de gun's
a-p'intin'. Ef I goes to de fiah, de gun's ar-p'intin'. W'en I rolls
out de dough, de gun's a-p'intin'; an' him neva say nuttin', an' me
a-trim'lin' like ole Uncle Noah w'en de mis'ry strike 'im."
"Lordy! w'at you reckon he do ef he tu'n roun' an' git mad wid dat
young gemman f'om de city?"
"I don' reckon nuttin'; I knows w'at he gwine do,--same w'at his pa
done."
"W'at his pa done, La Chatte?"
"G' 'long 'bout yo' business; you's axin' too many questions." And La
Chatte arose slowly and went to gather her party-colored wash that hung
drying on the jagged and irregular points of a dilapidated picket-fence.
But the darkies were mistaken in supposing that Offdean was paying
attention to Euphrasie. Those little jaunts in the wood were purely of
a business character. Offdean had made a contract with a neighboring
mill for fencing, in exchange for a certain amount of uncut timber. He
had made it his work--with the assistance of Euphrasie--to decide upon
what trees he wanted felled, and to mark such for the woodman's axe.
If they sometimes forgot what they had gone into the woods for, it was
because there was so much to talk about and to laugh about. Often, when
Offdean had blazed a tree with the sharp hatchet which he carried at
his pommel, and had further discharged his duty by calling it "a fine
piece of timber," they would sit upon some fallen and decaying trunk,
maybe to listen to a chorus of mocking-birds above their heads, or to
exchange confidences, as young people will.
Euphrasie thought she had never heard any one talk quite so pleasantly
as Offdean did. She could not decide whether it was his manner or the
tone of his voice, or the earnest glance of his dark and deep-set blue
eyes, that gave such meaning to everything he said; for she found
herself afterward thinking of his every word.
One afternoon it rained in torrents, and Rose was forced to drag
buckets and tubs into Offdean's room to catch the streams that
threatened to flood it. Euphrasie said she was glad of it; now he could
see for himself.
And when he had seen for himself, he went to join her out on a corner
of the gallery, where she stood with a cloak around her, close up
against the house. He leaned against the house, too, and they stood
thus together, gazing upon as desolate a scene as it is easy to imagine.
The whole landscape was gray, seen through the driving rain. Far away
the dreary cabins seemed to sink and sink to earth in abject misery.
Above their heads the live-oak branches were beating with sad monotony
against the blackened roof. Great pools of water had formed in the
yard, which was deserted by every living thing; for the little darkies
had scampered away to their cabins, the dogs had run to their kennels,
and the hens were puffing big with wretchedness under the scanty
shelter of a fallen wagon-body.
Certainly a situation to make a young man groan with ennui, if he is
used to his daily stroll on Canal Street, and pleasant afternoons at
the club. But Offdean thought it delightful. He only wondered that he
had never known, or some one had never told him, how charming a place
an old, dismantled plantation can be--when it rains. But as well as he
liked it, he could not linger there forever. Business called him back
to New Orleans, and after a few days he went away.
The interest which he felt in the improvement of this plantation was
of so deep a nature, however, that he found himself thinking of it
constantly. He wondered if the timber had all been felled, and how the
fencing was coming on. So great was his desire to know such things
that much correspondence was required between himself and Euphrasie,
and he watched eagerly for those letters that told him of her trials
and vexations with carpenters, bricklayers, and shingle--bearers. But
in the midst of it, Offdean suddenly lost interest in the progress of
work on the plantation. Singularly enough, it happened simultaneously
with the arrival of a letter from Euphrasie which announced in a modest
postscript that she was going down to the city with the Duplans for
Mardi Gras.