At Fault (11 page)

"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.

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.

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.