Complete Works of Kate Chopin Page 10

  The look which she had surprised in Fanny’s face had been a painful revelation to her. Yet could she have expected other, and should she have hoped for less, than that Fanny should love her husband and he in turn should come to love his wife?

  Had she married Hosmer herself! Here she smiled to think of the storm of indignation that such a marriage would have roused in the parish. Yet, even facing the impossibility of such contingency, it pleased her to indulge in a short dream of what might have been.

  If it were her right instead of another’s to watch for his coming and rejoice at it! Hers to call him husband and lavish on him the love that awoke so strongly when she permitted herself, as she was doing now, to invoke it! She felt what capability lay within her of rousing the man to new interests in life. She pictured the dawn of an unsuspected happiness coming to him: broadening; illuminating; growing in him to answer to her own big-heartedness.

  Were Fanny, and her own prejudices, worth the sacrifice which she and Hosmer had made? This was the doubt that bade fair to unsettle her; that called for a sharp, strong out-putting of the will before she could bring herself to face the situation without its accessions of personalities. Such communing with herself could not be condemned as a weakness with Thérèse, for the effect which it left upon her strong nature was one of added courage and determination.

  When she reached Marie Louise’s cabin again, twilight, which is so brief in the South, was giving place to the night.

  Within the cabin, the lamp had already been lighted, and Marie Louise was growing restless at Thérèse’s long delay.

  “Ah Grosse tante, I’m so tired,” she said, falling into a chair near the door; not relishing the warmth of the room after her quick walk, and wishing to delay as long as possible the necessity of sitting at table. At another time she might have found the dish of golden brown croquignoles very tempting with its accessory of fragrant coffee; but not to-day.

  “Why do you run about so much, Tite maîtresse? You are always going this way and that way; on horseback, on foot — through the house. Make those lazy niggers work more. You spoil them. I tell you if it was old mistress that had to deal with them, they would see something different.”

  She had taken all the pins from Thérèse’s hair which fell in a gleaming, heavy mass; and with her big soft hands she was stroking her head as gently as if those hands had been of the whitest and most delicate.

  “I know that look in your eyes, it means headache. It’s time for me to make you some more eau sédative — I am sure you haven’t any more; you’ve given it away as you give away every thing.”

  “Grosse tante,” said Thérèse seated at table and sipping her coffee; Grosse tante also drinking her cup — but seated apart, “I am going to insist on having your cabin moved back; it is silly to be so stubborn about such a small matter. Some day you will find yourself out in the middle of the river — and what am I going to do then? — no one to nurse me when I am sick — no one to scold me — nobody to love me.”

  “Don’t say that, Tite maîtresse, all the world loves you — it isn’t only Marie Louise. But no. You must remember the last time poor Monsieur Jérôme moved me, and said with a laugh that I can never forget, ‘well, Grosse tante, I know we have got you far enough this time out of danger,’ away back in Dumont’s field you recollect? I said then, Marie Louise will move no more; she’s too old. If the good God does not want to take care of me, then it’s time for me to go.”

  “Ah but, Grosse tante, remember — God does not want all the trouble on his own shoulders,” Thérèse answered humoring the woman, in her conception of the Deity. “He wants us to do our share, too.”

  “Well, I have done my share. Nothing is going to harm Marie Louise. I thought about all that, do not fret. So the last time Père Antoine passed in the road — going down to see that poor Pierre Pardou at the Mouth — I called him in, and he blessed the whole house inside and out, with holy water — notice how the roses have bloomed since then — and gave me medals of the holy Virgin to hang about. Look over the door, Tite maîtresse, how it shines, like a silver star.”

  “If you will not have your cabin removed, Grosse tante, then come live with me. Old Hatton has wanted work at Place-du-Bois, the longest time. We will have him build you a room wherever you choose, a pretty little house like those in the city.”

  “Non — non, Tite maîtresse, Marie Louise ‘prè créver icite avé tous son butin, si faut” (no, no, Tite maîtresse, Marie Louise will die here with all her belongings if it must be).

  The servants were instructed that when their mistress was not at home at a given hour, her absence should cause no delay in the household arrangements. She did not choose that her humor or her movements be hampered by a necessity of regularity which she owed to no one. When she reached home supper had long been over.

  Nearing the house she heard the scraping of Nathan’s violin, the noise of shuffling feet and unconstrained laughter. These festive sounds came from the back veranda. She entered the dining-room, and from its obscurity looked out on a curious scene. The veranda was lighted by a lamp suspended from one of its pillars. In a corner sat Nathan; serious, dignified, scraping out a monotonous but rhythmic minor strain to which two young negroes from the lower quarters — famous dancers — were keeping time in marvelous shuffling and pigeon-wings; twisting their supple joints into astonishing contortions and the sweat rolling from their black visages. A crowd of darkies stood at a respectful distance an appreciative and encouraging audience. And seated on the broad rail of the veranda were Melicent and Grégoire, patting Juba and singing a loud accompaniment to the breakdown.

  Was this the Grégoire who had only yesterday wept such bitter tears on his aunt’s bosom?

  Thérèse turning away from the scene, the doubt assailed her whether it were after all worth while to strive against the sorrows of life that can be so readily put aside.

  V. One Afternoon.

  Whatever may have been Torpedo’s characteristics in days gone by, at this advanced period in his history he possessed none so striking as a stoical inaptitude for being moved. Another of his distinguishing traits was a propensity for grazing which he was prone to indulge at inopportune moments. Such points taken in conjunction with a gait closely resembling that of the camel in the desert, might give much cause to wonder at Thérèse’s motive in recommending him as a suitable mount for the unfortunate Fanny, were it not for his wide-spread reputation of angelic inoffensiveness.

  The ride which Melicent had arranged and in which she held out such promises of a “lark” proved after all but a desultory affair. For with Fanny making but a sorry equestrian debut and Hosmer creeping along at her side; Thérèse unable to hold Beauregard within conventional limits, and Melicent and Grégoire vanishing utterly from the scene, sociability was a feature entirely lacking to the excursion.

  “David, I can’t go another step: I just can’t, so that settles it.”

  The look of unhappiness in Fanny’s face and attitude, would have moved the proverbial stone.

  “I think if you change horses with me, Fanny, you’ll find it more comfortable, and we’ll turn about and go home.”

  “I wouldn’t get on that horse’s back, David Hosmer, if I had to die right here in the woods, I wouldn’t.”

  “Do you think you could manage to walk back that distance then? I can lead the horses,” he suggested as a pis aller.

  “I guess I’ll haf to; but goodness knows if I’ll ever get there alive.”

  They were far up on the hill, which spot they had reached by painfully slow and labored stages, each refraining from mention of a discomfort that might interfere with the supposed enjoyment of the other, till Fanny’s note of protest.

  Hosmer cast about him for some expedient that might lighten the unpleasantness of the situation, when a happy thought occurred to him.

  “If you’ll try to bear up, a few yards further, you can dismount at old Morico’s cabin and I’ll hurry back and get the bug
gy. It can be driven this far anyway: and it’s only a short walk from here through the woods.”

  So Hosmer set her down before Morico’s door: her long riding skirt, borrowed for the occasion, twisting awkwardly around her legs, and every joint in her body aching.

  Partly by pantomimic signs interwoven with a few French words which he had picked up within the last year, Hosmer succeeded in making himself understood to the old man, and rode away leaving Fanny in his care.

  Morico fussily preceded her into the house and placed a great clumsy home-made rocker at her disposal, into which she cast herself with every appearance of bodily distress. He then busied himself in tidying up the room out of deference to his guest; gathering up the scissors, waxen thread and turkey feathers which had fallen from his lap in his disturbance, and laying them on the table. He knocked the ashes from his corn-cob pipe which he now rested on a projection of the brick chimney that extended into the room and that served as mantel-piece. All the while he cast snatched glances at Fanny, who sat pale and tired. Her appearance seemed to move him to make an effort towards relieving it. He took a key from his pocket and unlocking a side of the garde manger, drew forth a small flask of whisky. Fanny had closed her eyes and was not aware of his action, till she heard him at her elbow saying in his feeble quavering voice: —

  “Tenez madame; goutez un peu: ça va vous faire du bien,” and opening her eyes she saw that he held a glass half filled with strong “toddy” for her acceptance.

  She thrust out her hand to ward it away as though it had been a reptile that menaced her with its sting.

  Morico looked nonplussed and a little abashed: but he had much faith in the healing qualities of his remedy and urged it on her anew. She trembled a little, and looked away with rather excited eyes.

  “Je vous assure madame, ça ne peut pas vous faire du mal.”

  Fanny took the glass from his hand, and rising went and placed it on the table, then walked to the open door and looked eagerly out, as though hoping for the impossibility of her husband’s return.

  She did not seat herself again, but walked restlessly about the room, intently examining its meager details. The circuit of inspection bringing her again to the table, she picked up Morico’s turkey fan, looking at it long and critically. When she laid it down, it was to seize the glass of “toddy” which she unhesitatingly put to her lips and drained at a draught. All uneasiness and fatigue seemed to leave her on the instant as though by magic. She went back to her chair and reseated herself composedly. Her eyes now rested on her old host with a certain quizzical curiosity strange to them.

  He was plainly demoralized by her presence, and still made pretense of occupying himself with the arrangement of the room.

  Presently she said to him: “Your remedy did me more good than I’d expected,” but not understanding her, he only smiled and looked at her blankly.

  She laughed good-humoredly back at him, then went to the table and poured from the flask which he had left standing there, liquor to the depth of two fingers, this time drinking it more deliberately. After that she tried to talk to Morico and thought it very amusing that he could not understand her.

  Presently Joçint came home and accepted her presence there very indifferently. He went to the garde manger to stay his hunger, much as he had done on the occasion of Thérèse’s visit; talked in grum abrupt utterances to his father, and disappeared into the adjoining room where Fanny could hear him and occasionally see him polishing and oiling his cherished rifle.

  Morico, more accustomed to foreign sounds in the woods than she, was the first to detect the approach of Grégoire, whom he went out hurriedly to meet, glad of the relief from the supposed necessity of entertaining his puzzling visitor. When he was fairly out of the room, she arose quickly, approached the table and reaching for the flask of liquor, thrust it hastily into her pocket, then went to join him. At the moment that Grégoire came up, Joçint issued from a side door and stood looking at the group.

  “Well, Mrs. Hosma, yere I am. I reckon you was tired waitin’. The buggy’s yonda in the road.”

  He shook hands cordially with Morico saying something to him in French which made the old man laugh heartily.

  “Why didn’t David come? I thought he said he was coming; that’s the way he does,” said Fanny complainingly.

  “That’s a po’ compliment to me, Mrs. Hosrma. Can’t you stan’ my company for that li’le distance?” returned Grégoire gallantly. “Mr. Hosma had a good deal to do w’en he got back, that’s w’y he sent me. An’ we betta hurry up if we expec’ to git any suppa’ to-night. Like as not you’ll fine your kitchen cleaned out.”

  Fanny looked her inquiry for his meaning.

  “Why, don’t you know this is ‘Tous-saint’ eve — w’en the dead git out o’ their graves an’ walk about? You wouldn’t ketch a nigga out o’ his cabin to-night afta dark to save his soul. They all gittin’ ready now to hustle back to the quartas.”

  “That’s nonsense,” said Fanny, drawing on her gloves, “you ought to have more sense than to repeat such things.”

  Grégoire laughed, looking surprised at her unusual energy of speech and manner. Then he turned to Joçint, whose presence he had thus far ignored, and asked in a peremptory tone:

  “W’at did Woodson say ‘bout watchin’ at the mill to-night? Did you ask him like I tole you?”

  “Yaas, me ax um: ee’ low ee an’ goin’. Say how Sylveste d’wan’ watch lak alluz. Say ee an’ goin’. Me don’ blem ‘im neida, don’ ketch me out de ‘ouse night lak dat fu no man.”

  “Sacré imbécile,” muttered Grégoire, between his teeth, and vouchsafed him no other answer, but nodded to Morico and turned away. Fanny followed with a freedom of movement quite unlike that of her coming.

  Morico went into the house and coming back hastily to the door called to Joçint:

  “Bring back that flask of whisky that you took off the table.”

  “You’re a liar: you know I have no use for whisky. That’s one of your damned tricks to make me buy you more.” And he seated himself on an over-turned tub and with his small black eyes half closed, looked moodily out into the solemn darkening woods. The old man showed no resentment at the harshness and disrespect of his son’s speech, being evidently used to such. He passed his hand slowly over his white long hair and turned bewildered into the house.

  “Is it just this same old thing year in and year out, Grégoire? Don’t any one ever get up a dance, or a card party or anything?”

  “Jus’ as you say; the same old thing f’om one yea’s en’ to the otha. I used to think it was putty lonesome myse’f w’en I firs’ come yere. Then you see they’s no neighbo’s right roun’ yere. In Natchitoches now; that’s the place to have a right down good time. But see yere; I didn’ know you was fon’ o’ dancin’ an’ such things.”

  “Why, of course, I just dearly love to dance. But it’s as much as my life’s worth to say that before David; he’s such a stick; but I guess you know that by this time,” with a laugh, as he had never heard from her before — so unconstrained; at the same time drawing nearer to him and looking merrily into his face.

  “The little lady’s been having a ‘toddy’ at Morico’s, that makes her lively,” thought Grégoire. But the knowledge did not abash him in the least. He accommodated himself at once to the situation with that adaptability common to the American youth, whether of the South, North, East or West.

  “Where abouts did you leave David when you come away?” she asked with a studied indifference.

  “Hol’ on there, Buckskin — w’ere you takin’ us? W’y, I lef’ him at the sto’ mailin’ lettas.”

  “Had the others all got back? Mrs. Laferm? Melicent? did they all stop at the store, too?”

  “Who? Aunt Thrérèse? no, she was up at the house w’en I lef’ — I reckon Miss Melicent was there too. Talkin’ ‘bout fun, — it’s to git into one o’ them big spring wagons on a moonlight night, like they do in Centaville sometimes; jus�
�� packed down with young folks — and start out fur a dance up the coast. They ain’t nothin’ to beat it as fah as fun goes.”

  “It must be just jolly. I guess you’re a pretty good dancer, Grégoire?”

  “Well— ‘taint fur me to say. But they ain’t many can out dance me: not in Natchitoches pa’ish, anyway. I can say that much.”

  If such a thing could have been, Fanny would have startled Grégoire more than once during the drive home. Before its close she had obtained a promise from him to take her up to Natchitoches for the very next entertainment, — averring that she didn’t care what David said. If he wanted to bury himself that was his own look out. And if Mrs. Laferm took people to be angels that they could live in a place like that, and give up everything and not have any kind of enjoyment out of life, why, she was mistaken and that’s all there was to it. To all of which freely expressed views Grégoire emphatically assented.

  Hosmer had very soon disembarrassed himself of Torpedo, knowing that the animal would unerringly find his way to the corn crib by supper time. He continued his own way now untrammelled, and at an agreeable speed which soon brought him to the spring at the road side. Here he found Thérèse, half seated against a projection of rock, in her hand a bunch of ferns which she had evidently dismounted to gather, and holding Beauregard’s bridle while he munched at the cool wet tufts of grass that grew everywhere.

  As Hosmer rode up at a rapid pace, he swung himself from his horse almost before the animal came to a full stop. He removed his hat, mopped his forehead, stamped about a little to relax his limbs and turned to answer the enquiry with which Thérèse met him.