If Offdean had stopped in Natchitoches on his way to the plantation,
he would have heard something there to astonish him, to say the very
least; for the whole town was talking of Euphrasie's wedding, which
was to take place in a few days. But he did not linger. After securing
a horse at the stable, he pushed on with all the speed of which the
animal was capable, and only in such company as his eager thoughts
afforded him.
The plantation was very quiet, with that stillness which broods over
broad, clean acres that furnish no refuge for so much as a bird that
sings. The negroes were scattered about the fields at work, with hoe
and plow, under the sun, and old Pierre, on his horse, was far off in
the midst of them.
Placide had arrived in the morning, after traveling all night, and had
gone to his room for an hour or two of rest. He had drawn the lounge
close up to the window to get what air he might through the closed
shutters. He was just beginning to doze when he heard Euphrasie's light
footsteps approaching. She stopped and seated herself so near that he
could have touched her if he had but reached out his hand. Her nearness
banished all desire to sleep, and he lay there content to rest his
limbs and think of her.
The portion of the gallery on which Euphrasie sat was facing the river,
and away from the road by which Offdean had reached the house. After
fastening his horse, he mounted the steps, and traversed the broad hall
that intersected the house from end to end, and that was open wide. He
found Euphrasie engaged upon a piece of sewing. She was hardly aware of
his presence before he had seated himself beside her.
She could not spesik. She only looked at him with frightened eyes, as
if his presence were that of some disembodied spirit.
"Are you not glad that I have come?" he asked her. "Have I made a
mistake in coming?" He was gazing into her eyes, seeking to read the
meaning of their new, and strange expression.
"Am I glad?" she faltered. "I don' know. W'at has that to do? You've
come to see the work, of co'se. It's--it's only half done, Mr. Offdean.
They would n' listen to me or to papa, an' you did n' seem to care."
"I have n't come to see the work," he said, with a smile of love and
confidence. "I am here only to see you,--to say how much I want you,
and need you--to tell you how I love you."
She rose, half choking with words she could not utter. But he seized
her hands and held her there.
"The plantation is mine, Euphrasie,--or it will be when you say that
you will be my wife," he went on excitedly. "I know that you love me"--
"I do not!" she exclaimed wildly. "W'at do you mean? How do you dare,"
she gasped, "to say such things w'en you know that in two days I shall
be married to Placide" The last was said in a whisper; it was like a
wail.
"Married to Placide!" he echoed, as if striving to understand,--to
grasp some part of his own stupendous folly and blindness. "I knew
nothing of it," he said hoarsely. "Married to Placide! I would never
have spoken to you as I did, if I had known. You believe me, I hope?
Please say that you forgive me."
He spoke with long silences between his utterances.
"Oh, there is n' anything to fo'give. You've only made a mistake.
Please leave me, Mr. Offdean. Papa is out in the fiel', I think, if you
would like to speak with him. Placide is somew'ere on the place."
"I shall mount my horse and go see what work has been done," said
Offdean, rising. An unusual pallor had overspread his face, and his
mouth was drawn with suppressed pain. "I must turn my fool's errand to
some practical good," he added, with a sad attempt at playfulness; and
with no further word he walked quickly away.
She listened to his going. Then all the wretchedness of the past
months, together with the sharp distress of the moment, voiced itself
in a sob: "O God--O my God, he'p me!"
But she could not stay out there in the broad day for any chance comer
to look upon her uncovered sorrow.
Placide heard her rise and goto her room. When he had heard the key
turn in the lock, he got up, and with quiet deliberation prepared to
go out. He drew on his boots, then his coat. He took his pistol from
the dressing-bureau, where he had placed it a while before, and after
examining its chambers carefully, thrust it into his pocket. He had
certain work to do with the weapon before night. But for Euphrasie's
presence he might have accomplished it very surely a moment ago, when
the hound--as he called him--stood outside his window. He did not wish
her to know anything of his movements, and he left his room as quietly
as possible, and mounted his horse, as Offdean had done.
"La Chatte," called Placide to the old woman, who stood in her yard at
the wash-tub, "w'ich way did that man go?"
"W'at man dat? I is n' studyin' 'bout no mans; I got 'nough to do wid
dis heah washin'. 'Fo' God, I don' know w'at man you's talkin' 'bout"--
"La Chatte, w'ich way did that man go? Quick, now!" with the
deliberate tone and glance that had always quelled her.
"Ef you 's talkin' 'bout dat Noo Orleans man, I could 'a' tole you dat.
He done tuck de road to de cocoa-patch," plunging her black arms into
the tub with unnecessary energy and disturbance.
"That's enough. I know now he's gone into the woods. You always was a
liar, La Chatte."
"Dat his own lookout, de smoove-tongue' raskil," soliloquized the woman
a moment later. "I done said he did n' have no call to come heah,
caperin' roun' Miss 'Phrasie."
Placide was possessed by only one thought, which was a want as
well,--to put an end to this man who had come between him and his love.
It was the same brute passion that drives the beast to slay when he
sees the object of his own desire laid hold of by another.
He had heard Euphrasie tell the man she did not love him, but what of
that? Had he not heard her sobs, and guessed what her distress was? It
needed no very flexible mind to guess as much, when a hundred signs
besides, unheeded before, came surging to his memory. Jealousy held
him, and rage and despair.
Offdean, as he rode along under the trees in apathetic despondency,
heard some one approaching him on horseback, and turned aside to make
room in the narrow pathway.
It was not a moment for punctilious scruples, and Placide had not been
hindered by such from sending a bullet into the back of his rival. The
only thing that stayed him was that Offdean must know why he had to die.
"Mr. Offdean," Placide said, reining his horse with one hand, while he
held his pistol openly in the other, "I was in my room 'w'ile ago, and
yeared w'at you said to Euphrasie. I would 'a' killed you then if she
had n' been 'longside o' you. I could 'a' killed you jus' now w'en I
come up behine you."
"Well, why did n't you?" asked Offdean, meanwhile gathering his
faculties to think how he had best deal with this madman.
"Because I wanted you to know who done it, an' w'at he done it for."
"Mr. Santien, I suppose to a person in your frame of mind it will make
no difference to know that I'm unarmed. But if you make any attempt
upon my life, I shall certainly defend myself as best I can."
"Defen' yo'se'f, then."
"You must be mad," said Offdean, quickly, and looking straight into
Placide's eyes, "to want to soil your happiness with murder. I thought
a creole knew better than that how to love a woman."
"By----! are you goin' to learn me how to love a woman?"
"No, Placide," said Offdean eagerly, as they rode slowly along; "your
own honor is going to tell you that. The way to love a woman is to
think first of her happiness. If you love Euphrasie, you must go to her
clean. I love her myself enough to want you to do that. I shall leave
this place to-morrow; you will never see me again if I can help it. Is
n't that enough for you? I'm going to turn here and leave you. Shoot me
in the back if you like; but I know you won't." And Offdean held out
his hand.
"I don' want to shake han's with you," said Placide sulkily. "Go 'way
f'om me." He stayed motionless watching Offdean ride away. He looked at
the pistol in his hand, and replaced it slowly in his pocket; then he
removed the broad felt hat which he wore, and wiped away the moisture
that had gathered upon his forehead.
Offdean's words had touched some chord within him and made it vibrant;
but they made him hate the man no less.
"The way to love a woman is to think firs' of her happiness," he
muttered reflectively. "He thought a creole knew how to love. Does he
reckon he's goin' to learn a creole how to love?"
His face was white and set with despair now. The rage had all left it
as he rode deeper on into the wood.