At Fault (22 page)

The crossing was an affair of extreme difficulty, and which Nathan was
reluctant to undertake until he should have gathered a "load" that
would justify him in making it. In his estimation, Hosmer did not meet
such requirement, even taken in company with the solitary individual
who had been sitting on his horse with Egyptian patience for long
unheeded moments, the rain beating down upon his back, while he waited
the ferryman's pleasure. But Nathan's determination was not proof
against the substantial inducements which Hosmer held out to him; and
soon they were launched, all hands assisting in the toilsome passage.

The water, in rising to an unaccustomed height, had taken on an added
and tremendous swiftness. The red turbid stream was eddying and
bulging and hurrying with terrific swiftness between its shallow
banks, striking with an immensity of power against the projection of
land on which stood Marie Louise's cabin, and rebounding in great
circling waves that spread and lost themselves in the seething
turmoil. The cable used in crossing the unwieldly flat had long been
submerged and the posts which held it wrenched from their fastenings.
The three men, each with his long heavy oar in hand began to pull up
stream, using a force that brought the swelling veins like iron
tracings upon their foreheads where the sweat had gathered as if the
day were midsummer. They made their toilsome way by slow inches, that
finally landed them breathless and exhausted on the opposite side.

What could have been the inducement to call Fanny out on such a day
and such a venture? The answer came only too readily from Hosmer's
reproaching conscience. And now, where to seek her? There was nothing
to guide him; to indicate the course she might have taken. The rain
was falling heavily and in gusts and through it he looked about at the
small cabins standing dreary in their dismantled fields. Marie
Louise's was the nearest at hand and towards it he directed his steps.

The big good-natured negress had seen his approach from the window,
for she opened the door to him before he had time to knock, and
entering he saw Fanny seated before the fire holding a pair of very
wet smoking feet to dry. His first sensation was one of relief at
finding her safe and housed. His next, one of uncertainty as to the
kind and degree of resentment which he felt confident must now show
itself. But this last was soon dispelled, for turning, she greeted him
with a laugh. He would have rather a blow. That laugh said so many
things—too many things. True, it removed the dread which had been
haunting him all day, but it shattered what seemed to have been now
his last illusion regarding this woman. That unsounded chord which he
feared he had touched was after all but one in harmony with the rest
of her common nature. He saw too at a glance that her dominant passion
had been leading and now controlled her. And by one of those rapid
trains of thought in which odd and detached fancies, facts,
impressions and observations form themselves into an orderly sequence
leading to a final conviction—all was made plain to him that before
had puzzled him. She need not have told him her reason for crossing
the river, he knew it. He dismissed at once the attitude with which he
had thought to approach her. Here was no forgiveness to be asked of
dulled senses. No bending in expiation of faults committed. He was
here as master.

"Fanny, what does this mean?" he asked in cold anger; with no heat
now, no passion.

"Yaas, me tell madame, she goin' fur ketch cole si she don' mine out.
Dat not fur play dat kine wedder, no. Teck chair, M'sieur; dry
you'se'f leet beet. Me mek you one cup coffee."

Hosmer declined the good Marie Louise's kind proffer of coffee, but he
seated himself and waited for Fanny to speak.

"You know if you want a thing done in this place, you've got to do it
yourself. I've heard you say it myself, time and time again about
those people at the mill," she said.

"Could it have been so urgent as to call you out on a day like this,
and with such a perilous crossing? Couldn't you have found some one
else to come for you?"

"Who? I'd like to know. Just tell me who? It's nothing to you if we're
without servants, but I'm not going to stand it. I ain't going to let
Samp
son
act like that without knowing what he means," said Fanny
sharply.

"Dat Samp
son
, he one leet dev'," proffered Marie Louise, with
laudable design of shifting blame upon the easy shoulders of Sampson,
in event of the domestic jar which she anticipated. "No use try do
nuttin' 'id Sampson, M'sieur."

"I had to know something, one way or the other," Fanny said in a tone
which carried apology, rather by courtesy than by what she considered
due.

Hosmer walked to the window where he looked out upon the dreary,
desolate scene, little calculated to cheer him. The river was just
below; and from this window he could gaze down upon the rushing
current as it swept around the bend further up and came striking
against this projection with a force all its own. The rain was falling
still; steadily, blindingly, with wild clatter against the shingled
roof so close above their heads. It coursed in little swift rivulets
down the furrows of the almost perpendicular banks. It mingled in a
demon dance with the dull, red water. There was something inviting to
Hosmer in the scene. He wanted to be outside there making a part of
it. He wanted to feel that rain and wind beating upon him. Within, it
was stifling, maddening; with his wife's presence there, charging the
room with an atmosphere of hate that was possessing him and beginning
to course through his veins as it had never done before.

"Do you want to go home?" he asked bluntly, turning half around.

"You must be crazy," she replied, with a slow, upward glance out the
window, then down at her feet that were still poised on the low stool
that Marie Louise had placed for her.

"You'd better come." He could not have said what moved him, unless it
were recklessness and defiance.

"I guess you're dreaming, or something, David. You go on home if you
want. Nobody asked you to come after me any way. I'm able to take care
of myself, I guess. Ain't you going to take the umbrella?" she added,
seeing him start for the door empty handed.

"Oh, it doesn't matter about the rain," he answered without a look
back as he went out and slammed the door after him.

"M'sieur look lak he not please," said Marie Louise, with plain regret
at the turn of affairs. "You see he no lak you go out in dat kine
wedder, me know dat."

"Oh, bother," was Fanny's careless reply. "This suits me well enough;
I don't care how long it lasts."

She was in Marie Louise's big rocker, balancing comfortably back and
forth with a swing that had become automatic. She felt "good," as she
would have termed it herself; her visit to Sampson's hut having not
been without results tending to that condition. The warmth of the room
was very agreeable in contrast to the bleakness of out-doors. She felt
free and moved to exercise a looseness of tongue with the amiable old
negress which was not common with her. The occurrences of the morning
were gradually withdrawing themselves into a distant perspective that
left her in the attitude of a spectator rather than that of an actor.
And she laughed and talked with Marie Louise, and rocked, and rocked
herself on into drowsiness.

Hosmer had no intention of returning home without his wife. He only
wanted to be out under the sky; he wanted to breathe, to use his
muscles again. He would go and help cross the flat if need be; an
occupation that promised him relief in physical effort. He joined
Nathan, whom he found standing under a big live-oak, disputing with an
old colored woman who wanted to cross to get back to her family before
supper time.

"You didn' have no call to come ova in de fus' place," he was saying
to her, "you womens is alluz runnin' back'ards and for'ards like
skeard rabbit in de co'n fiel'."

"I don' stan' no sich talk is dat f'om you. Ef you kiant tin' to yo'
business o' totin' folks w'en dey wants, you betta quit. You done
cheat Mose out o' de job, anyways; we all knows dat."

"Mine out, woman, you gwine git hu't. Jis' le'me see Mose han'le dat
'ar flat onct: Jis' le'me. He lan' you down to de Mouf 'fo' you knows
it."

"Let me tell you, Nathan," said Hosmer, looking at his watch, "say you
wait a quarter of an hour and if no one else comes, we'll cross Aunt
Agnes anyway."

"Dat 'nudda t'ing ef you wants to go back, suh."

Aunt Agnes was grumbling now at Hosmer's proposal that promised to
keep her another quarter of an hour from her expectant family, when a
big lumbering creaking wagon drove up, with its load of baled cotton
all covered with tarpaulins.

"Dah!" exclaimed Nathan at sight of the wagon, "ef I'd 'a listened to
yo' jawin'—what?"

"Ef you'd listen to me, you'd 'tin' to yo' business betta 'an you
does," replied Aunt Agnes, raising a very battered umbrella over her
grotesquely apparelled figure, as she stepped from under the shelter
of the tree to take her place in the flat.

But she still met with obstacles, for the wagon must needs go first.
When it had rolled heavily into place with much loud and needless
swearing on the part of the driver who, being a white man, considered
Hosmer's presence no hindrance, they let go the chain, and once again
pulled out. The crossing was even more difficult now, owing to the
extra weight of the wagon.

"I guess you earn your money, Nathan," said Hosmer bending and
quivering with the efforts he put forth.

"Yas, suh, I does; an' dis job's wuf mo' 'an I gits fu' it."

"All de same you done lef' off wurking crap sence you start it,"
mumbled Aunt Agnes.

"You gwine git hu't, woman; I done tole you dat; don' wan' listen,"
returned Nathan with halting breath.

"Who gwine hu't me?"

Whether from tardy gallantry or from pre-occupation with his arduous
work, Nathan offered no reply to this challenge, and his silence left
Aunt Agnes in possession of the field.

They were in full mid-stream. Hosmer and the teamster were in the fore
end of the boat; Nathan in the rear, and Aunt Agnes standing in the
center between the wagon and the protecting railing, against which she
leaned her clasped hands that still upheld the semblance of umbrella.

The ill-mated horses stood motionless, letting fall their dejected
heads with apathetic droop. The rain was dripping from their
glistening coats, and making a great patter as it fell upon the
tarpaulins covering the cotton bales.

Suddenly came an exclamation: "Gret God!" from Aunt Agnes, so genuine
in its amazement and dismay, that the three men with one accord looked
quickly up at her, then at the point on which her terrified gaze was
fixed. Almost on the instant of the woman's cry, was heard a shrill,
piercing, feminine scream.

What they saw was the section of land on which stood Marie Louise's
cabin, undermined—broken away from the main body and gradually
gliding into the water. It must have sunk with a first abrupt wrench,
for the brick chimney was shaken from its foundation, the smoke
issuing in dense clouds from its shattered sides, the house toppling
and the roof caving. For a moment Hosmer lost his senses. He could but
look, as if at some awful apparition that must soon pass from sight
and leave him again in possession of his reason. The leaning house was
half submerged when Fanny appeared at the door, like a figure in a
dream; seeming a natural part of the awfulness of it. He only gazed
on. The two negroes uttered loud lamentations.

"Pull with the current!" cried the teamster, first to regain his
presence of mind. It had needed but this, to awaken Hosmer to the
situation.

"Leave off," he cried at Nathan, who was wringing his hands. "Take
hold that oar or I'll throw you overboard." The trembling ashen negro
obeyed on the instant.

"Hold fast—for God's sake—hold fast!" he shouted to Fanny, who was
clinging with swaying figure to the door post. Of Marie Louise there
was no sign.

The caved bank now remained fixed; but Hosmer knew that at any instant
it was liable to disappear before his riveted gaze.

How heavy the flat was! And the horses had caught the contagion of
terror and were plunging madly.

"Whip those horses and their load into the river," called Hosmer,
"we've got to lighten at any price."

"Them horses an' cotton's worth money," interposed the alarmed
teamster.

"Force them into the river, I say; I'll pay you twice their value."

"You 'low to pay fur the cotton, too?"

"Into the river with them or I'll brain you!" he cried, maddened at
the weight and delay that were holding them back.

The frightened animals seemed to ask nothing more than to plunge into
the troubled water; dragging their load with them.

They were speeding rapidly towards the scene of catastrophe; but to
Hosmer they crawled—the moments were hours. "Hold on! hold fast!" he
called again and again to his wife. But even as he cried out, the
detached section of earth swayed, lurched to one side—plunged to the
other, and the whole mass was submerged—leaving the water above it in
wild agitation.

A cry of horror went up from the spectators—all but Hosmer. He cast
aside his oar—threw off his coat and hat; worked an instant without
avail at his wet clinging boots, and with a leap was in the water,
swimming towards the spot where the cabin had gone down. The current
bore him on without much effort of his own. The flat was close up with
him; but he could think of it no longer as a means of rescue. Detached
pieces of timber from the ruined house were beginning to rise to the
surface. Then something floating softly on the water: a woman's dress,
but too far for him to reach it.

When Fanny appeared again, Hosmer was close beside her. His left arm
was quickly thrown about her. She was insensible, and he remembered
that it was best so, for had she been in possession of her reason, she
might have struggled and impeded his movements. He held her
fast—close to him and turned to regain the shore. Another horrified
shriek went up from the occupants of the flat-boat not far away, and
Hosmer knew no more—for a great plunging beam struck him full upon
the forehead.