The spring came early in Orville, and so subtly that no one could tell
exactly when it began. But one morning the roses were so luscious in
Placide's sunny parterres, the peas and bean-vines and borders of
strawberries so rank in his trim vegetable patches, that he called out
lustily, "No mo' winta, Judge!" to the staid Judge Blount, who went
ambling by on his gray pony.
"There's right smart o' folks don't know it, Santien," responded the
judge, with occult meaning that might be applied to certain indebted
clients back on the bayou who had not broken land yet. Ten minutes
later the judge observed sententiously, and apropos of nothing, to a
group that stood waiting for the post-office to open:--
"I see Santien's got that noo fence o' his painted. And a pretty piece
o' work it is," he added reflectively.
"Look lack Placide goin' pent mo' 'an de fence," sagaciously snickered
'Tit-Edouard, a strolling _maigre-échine_ of indefinite occupation.
"I seen 'im, me, pesterin' wid all kine o' pent on a piece o' bo'd
yistiday."
"I knows he gwine paint mo' 'an de fence," emphatically announced Uncle
Abner, in a tone that carried conviction.
"He gwine paint de house; dat what he gwine do. Did n' Marse Luke
Williams orda de paints? An' did n' I done kyar' 'em up dah myse'f?"
Seeing the deference with which this positive piece of knowledge was
received, the judge coolly changed the subject by announcing that Luke
Williams's Durham bull had broken a leg the night before in Luke's
new pasture ditch,--a piece of news that fell among his hearers with
telling, if paralytic effect.
But most people wanted to see for themselves these astonishing things
that Placide was doing. And the young ladies of the village strolled
slowly by of afternoons in couples and arm in arm. If Placide happened
to see them, he would leave his work to hand them a fine rose or a
bunch of geraniums over the dazzling white fence. But if it chanced to
be 'Tit-Edouard or Luke Williams, or any of the young men of Orville,
he pretended not to see them, or to hear the ingratiating cough that
accompanied their lingering footsteps.
In his eagerness to have his home sweet and attractive for Euphrasie's
coming, Placide had gone less frequently than ever before up to
Natchitoches. He worked and whistled and sang until the yearning for
the girl's presence became a driving need; then he would put away his
tools and mount his horse as the day was closing, and away he would
go across bayous and hills and fields until he was with her again. She
had never seemed to Placide so lovable as she was then. She had grown
more womanly and thoughtful. Her cheek had lost much of its color, and
the light in her eyes flashed less often. But her manner had gained a
something of pathetic tenderness toward her lover that moved him with
an intoxicating happiness. He could hardly wait with patience for that
day in early April which would see the fulfillment of his lifelong
hopes.
After Euphrasie's departure from New Orleans, Offdean told himself
honestly that he loved the girl. But being yet unsettled in life, he
felt it was no time to think of marrying, and, like the worldly-wise
young gentleman that he was, resolved to forget the little Natchitoches
girl. He knew it would be an affair of some difficulty, but not an
impossible thing, so he set about forgetting her.
The effort made him singularly irascible. At the office he was gloomy
and taciturn; at the club he was a bear. A few young ladies whom he
called upon were astonished and distressed at the cynical views of life
which he had so suddenly adopted.
When he had endured a week or more of such humor, and inflicted it
upon others, he abruptly changed his tactics. He decided not to fight
against his love for Euphrasie. He would not marry her,--certainly not;
but he would let himself love her to his heart's bent, until that love
should die a natural death, and not a violent one as he had designed.
He abandoned himself completely to his passion, and dreamed of the girl
by day and thought of her by night. How delicious had been the scent
of her hair, the warmth of her breath, the nearness of her body, that
rainy day when they stood close together upon the veranda! He recalled
the glance of her honest, beautiful eyes, that told him things which
made his heart beat fast now when he thought of them. And then her
voice! Was there another like it when she laughed or when she talked!
Was there another woman in the world possessed of so alluring a charm
as this one he loved!
He was not bearish now, with these sweet thoughts crowding his brain
and thrilling his blood; but he sighed deeply, and worked languidly,
and enjoyed himself listlessly.
One day he sat in his room puffing the air thick with sighs and smoke,
when a thought came suddenly to him--an inspiration, a very message
from heaven, to judge from the cry of joy with which he greeted it. He
sent his cigar whirling through the window, over the stone paving of
the street, and he let his head fall down upon his arms, folded upon
the table.
It had happened to him, as it does to many, that the solution of a
vexed question flashed upon him when he was hoping least for it. He
positively laughed aloud, and somewhat hysterically. In the space of a
moment he saw the whole delicious future which a kind fate had mapped
out for him: those rich acres upon the Red River his own, bought and
embellished with his inheritance; and Euphrasie, whom he loved, his
wife and companion throughout a life such as he knew now he had craved
for,--a life that, imposing bodily activity, admits the intellectual
repose in which thought unfolds.
Wallace Offdean was like one to whom a divinity had revealed his
vocation in life,--no less a divinity because it was love. If doubts
assailed him of Euphrasie's consent, they were soon stilled. For had
they not spoken over and over to each other the mute and subtile
language of reciprocal love--out under the forest trees, and in the
quiet night-time on the plantation when the stars shone? And never so
plainly as in the stately old drawing-room down on, Esplanade Street.
Surely no other speech was needed then, save such as their eyes told.
Oh, he knew that she loved him; he was sure of it! The knowledge made
him all the more eager now to hasten to her, to tell her that he wanted
her for his very own.