by Kate Chopin
It was one of the occasions when she regretted that her father was not a more talkative man. His silences gave her no opportunity to defend herself. When he rode away and left her there she noticed that he did not hold his chin in the air with his glance directed across the fields as usual, but looked meditatively between his horse’s ears. Then she knew that he was perplexed again.
Charlie just wished that Miss Melvern with her rules and regulations was back in Pennsylvania where she came from. What was the use of learning tasks one week only to forget them the next? What was the use of hammering a lot of dates and figures into her head beclouding her intelligence and imagination? Wasn’t it enough to have six well educated daughters!
But troubled thoughts, doubts, misgivings found no refuge in Charlie’s bosom and they glanced away from her as lightly as winged messengers. Her father was plainly hurt and had not invited her to join him as he sometimes did. Miss Melvern had declined to entertain her apologies and, she knew, would not admit her into the class room. Anyway she felt that God must have intended people to be out of doors on a day like that, or why should he have given it to them? Like many older and more intelligent than herself, Charlie sometimes aspired to a knowledge of God’s ways.
Far down the lane on the edge of a field was the Bichous’ cabin — the parents of Aurendele, from whom Charlie had that morning purchased the chickens. Youngsters were swarming to their noontide meal and the odor within of frying bacon made Charlie sensible of the fact that she was hungry. She rode into the enclosure with an air of proprietorship which no one ever dreamed of resenting, and informed the Bichou family that she had come to dine with them.
“I thought you was so busy, Miss Charlie,” remarked Aurendele with fine sarcasm.
“You mustn’t think so hard, Aurendele. That’s what Tinette’s baby died of last week.”
Aurendele had obtained the yard of “cross-bar” and was cutting out the sun bonnet for Nannouche who happened to have a good complexion which her relatives thought it expedient to preserve.
“Tinette’s baby died o’ the measles!” screamed Nannouche who knew everything.
“That’s what I said. If she had only thought she didn’t have the measles instead of thinking so hard that she did, she wouldn’t have died. That’s a new religion; but you haven’t got sense enough to understand it. You haven’t an idea above corn bread and molasses.”
Charlie seemed not to have many ideas above corn bread and molasses herself when she sat down to dine with the Bichous. She shared the children’s couche couche in the homely little yellow bowl like the rest of them — and did not disdain to partake of a goodly share of salt pork and greens with which Father Bichou regaled himself. His wife stood up at the head of the table serving every one with her long bare arms that had a tremendous reach.
Charlie made herself exceedingly entertaining by furnishing a condensed chronicle of the news in the great world, colored by her own lively imagination. They had a way of believing everything she said — which was a powerful temptation that many a sterner spirit would have found difficult to resist.
She was on the most intimate and friendly terms with the children and it was Xenophore who procured a fine hickory stick for her when, after dinner she expressed a desire to have one. She trimmed it down to her liking, seated on the porch rail.
“There are lots of bears where I’m going; maybe tigers,” she threw off indifferently as she whittled away.
“W’ere you goin’?” demanded Xenophore with round eyed credulity.
“Yonder in the woods.”
“I never yeared they any tigers in the wood. Bears, yes. Mr. Gail killed one w’en I been a baby.”
“When you ‘been a baby,’ what do you call yourself now? But tigers or bears, it’s all the same to me. I haven’t killed quite as many tigers; but tigers die harder. And then if the stick goes back on me, why, I have my diamond ring.”
“Yo’ diamon’ ring!” echoed Xenophore fixing his eyes solemnly on a shining cluster that adorned Charlie’s middle finger.
“You see if I find myself in a tight place all I have to do is to turn the ring three times, repeat a Latin verse, and presto! I disappear like smoke. A tiger wouldn’t know me from a hickory sapling.”
She got down off the rail, brandished the stick around to test its quality, buckled her belt a bit tighter and announced that she would be off. She asked the Bichous to look after her wheel.
“And don’t you attempt to ride it, Aurendele,” she cautioned. “You might break your head and you’d be sure to break the wheel.”
“I got plenty to do, me, let alone ridin’ yo’ bicyc’,” retorted the girl with lofty indifference.
“It wouldn’t matter so much about the head — there are plenty to spare around here — but there isn’t another wheel like that in America; and I reckon you heard about Ruben’s bride.”
“W’at about Ruben’s bride?”
“Well, never mind about what, but you keep off that wheel.”
Charlie started off down the lane with a brisk step.
“W’ere she goin’?” demanded Mother Bichou looking after her. “My! my! she’s a piece, that Charlie! W’ere she goin’?”
“She goin’ yonder in the wood,” replied Xenophore from the abundance of his knowledge. Ma’me Bichou still gazed after the retreating figure of the girl.
“You better go ‘long behine her, you, Xenophore.”
Xenophore did not wait to be told twice. In three seconds he was off, after Charlie; his little blue-jeaned legs and brown feet moving rapidly beneath the shade thrown by the circle of his enormous straw hat.
The strip of wood toward which Charlie was directing her steps was by no means of the wild and gloomy character of other woods further away. It was hardly more than a breathing spot, a solemn, shady grove inviting dreams and repose. Along its edge there was a road which led to the station. Charlie had reached the wood before she perceived that Xenophore was at her heels. She turned and seized the youngster by the shoulder giving him a vigorous shake.
“What do you mean by following me? If I was anxious for your company I would have invited you, or I could have stayed at the cabin and enjoyed your society. Speak up, why are you tagging along after me like this?”
“Maman sen’ me, it’s her sen’ me behine you.”
“Oh, I see; for an escort, a protector. But tell the truth, Xenophore, you came to see me kill the tigers and bears; own up. And just to punish you I’m not going to disturb them. I’m not even going in the direction where they stay.”
Xenophore’s face clouded, but he continued to follow, confident that despite her disappointing resolutions in regard to the wild beasts, Charlie would furnish diversion of some sort or other. They walked on for a while in silence and when they came to a fallen tree, Charlie sat herself down and Xenophore flopped himself beside her, his brown little hands folded over the blue jeans, and peeping up at her from under the brim of his enormous hat.
“I tell you what it is Xenophore, usually, when I come in the woods, after slaying a panther or so, I sit down and write a poem or two. That’s why I came out here to day — to write a poem. There are lots of things troubling me, and nothing comforts me like that. But Tennyson himself couldn’t write poetry with a little impish ‘Cadian staring at him like this. I tell you what let’s do, Xenophore,” and she pulled a pad of paper from some depths of her trouserlets. “I think I’ll practise my shooting; I’m getting a little rusty; only hit nine alligators out of ten last week in bayou Bonfils.”
“It’s pretty good, nine out o’ ten,” proclaimed Xenophore with an appreciative bob.
“Do you think so?” in amazement, “why I never think about the nine, only about the one I missed,” and she proceeded to tear into little squares portions of the tablet Miss Melvern had sent her by Blossom in the morning. Handing a slip to Xenophore:
“Go stick this to that big tree yonder, as high as you can reach, and come back here.” The youngs
ter obeyed with alacrity. Charlie, taking from her back pocket a small pistol which no one on earth knew she possessed except her sister Irene, began to shoot at the mark, keeping Xenophore trotting back and forth to report results. Some of the shots were wide of the mark, and it was with the utmost reluctance that Xenophore admitted these failures.
There was a sudden loud, peremptory cry uttered near at hand.
“Stop that shooting, you idiots!” A young man came stalking through the bushes as if he had popped out of the ground.
“You young scamp! I’ll thrash the life out of you,” he exclaimed, mistaking Charlie for a boy at first. “Oh! I beg pardon. This is great sport for a girl, I must say. Don’t you know you might have killed me? That last ball passed so near that — that— “
“That it hit you!” cried Charlie perceiving with her quick and practised glance a red blotch on the sleeve of his white shirt, above the elbow. He had been walking briskly and carried his coat across his arm. At her exclamation he looked down, turned pale, and then foolishly laughed at the idea of being wounded and not knowing it, or else in appreciation of his deliverance from an untimely death.
“It’s no laughing matter,” she said with a proffered motion to be of some assistance.
“It might have been worse,” he cheerfully admitted, reaching for his handkerchief. With Charlie’s help he bound the ugly gash, for the ball had plowed pretty deep into the flesh.
The girl was conscience stricken and too embarrassed to say much. But she invited the victim of her folly to accompany her to Les Palmiers.
That was precisely his original destination, he was pleased to tell her. He was on a business mission from a New Orleans firm. The beauty of the day had tempted him to take a short cut through the woods.
His name was Walton — Firman Walton, which information, together with his business card he conveyed to Charlie as they walked along. Xenophore kept well abreast, his little heart fluttering with excitement over the stirring adventure.
Charlie glanced absently at the card, as though it had nothing to do with the situation, and proceeded to roll it into a narrow cylinder while a troubled look spread over her face.
“I’m dreadfully sorry,” she said. “I’m always getting into trouble, no matter what I do. I don’t know what father’ll say this time — about the gun, and hitting you and all that. He won’t forgive me this time!” Her expression was one of abject wretchedness. He glanced down at her with amused astonishment.
“The hurt wasn’t anything,” he said. “I shall say nothing about it — absolutely nothing; and we’ll give this young man a quarter to hold his tongue.” She shook her head hopelessly.
“It’ll have to be dressed and looked after.”
“Please don’t think of it,” he entreated, “and say nothing more about it.”
At half past one the family assembled at dinner. It was always Julia who presided at table. She looked very womanly with her long braid of light-brown hair wound round and round till it formed a coil as large as a dessert plate. Her father sat at the opposite end of the table and the children, the governess and Madame Philomel were dispersed on either side. There were always a few extra places set for unexpected guests. Uncle Ruben, in a white linen apron served the soup and carved the meats at a side table while the plates and dishes were passed around by Demins and a young mulatto girl.
The dining room was on the ground floor and opened upon the false gallery where Charlie had spent a portion of her morning in composition. The absence of that young person from her accustomed place at table was immediately observed and commented upon by her father.
“Where’s Charlie” he asked, of everybody — of nobody in particular.
Julia looked a little helpless, the others nonplussed, while Pauline picked her fingers in painful embarrassment. Madame Philomel, who was fat and old fashioned, thought that the new bicycle would easily account for her absence.
“If Charlotte appears befo’ sundown, it will be a subjec’ of astonishment,” she said with an air of conviction and irresponsibility. Every one assumed an air of irresponsibility in regard to Charlie which was annoying to Mr. Laborde as it implied that the whole burden of responsibility lay upon his own shoulders, and he was conscious of not bearing it gracefully. He had spent the half hour before dinner in consultation with Miss Melvern, who prided herself upon her firmness — as if firmness were heaven’s first law. Mr. Laborde was in a position to convey to her Charlie’s latest resolutions, in which Miss Melvern placed but a small degree of faith. Mr. Laborde himself believed firmly in the ultimate integrity of his daughter’s intentions. Miss Melvern’s strongest point of objection was the pernicious example which Charlie furnished to her well-meaning sisters, and the interruptions occasioned by her misdirected impulses. Her tardiness of the morning, though not a great fault in itself, was the culmination of a long line of offenses. It might in fact be said that it was the last straw but one. Miss Melvern was inclined to think it was the last straw. But as hers was not the back which bore the brunt of the burden, she was not wholly qualified to judge. Mr. Laborde began to perceive that there might be a last straw.
Blossom, who assumed the role of a privileged character — the velvet footed Blossom stepped softly into the dining room and spoke, while her glance revolved and fixed itself upon the ceiling.
“Yonder Miss Charlie comin’ ‘long de fiel’ road wid a young gent’man. Nary one ain’t ridin’ de bicycle — des steppin’ out slow a-shovin’ it ‘long. ‘Tain’t Mr. Gus an’ ‘tain’t Mr. Joe Slocum. ‘Tain’t nobody we all knows.” Whereupon Blossom withdrew, being less anxious to witness the effect of her announcement than to assist at the arrival of Charlie, the gentleman and the bicycle.
Though accustomed to face situations, this young gentleman exhibited some natural trepidation at being ushered unexpectedly into the bosom of a dining family. He was good looking, intelligent looking. His appearance in itself was a guarantee of his respectability.
“This is Mr. Walton, dad,” announced Charlie without preliminary, “he was coming to see you anyhow. He took a short cut through the woods and — and I shot him by mistake in the arm. Better have some antiseptic and stuff on it before he sits down. I had my dinner with the Bichous.”
III
There seemed to be a universal, tacit understanding that Charlie was in disgrace, that she herself had deposited the last straw and that there would be results. The silence and outward calm with which her father had met this latest offense were ominous. She was made to stand and deliver her firearm together with her ammunition.
“Take care, father, it’s loaded,” she cautioned as she placed it upon his writing table.
She was informed that she would not be expected to join the others in the class room and was instructed to go and get her wardrobe in order and to discard her trouserlets as soon as possible.
Mr. Walton was not taken into the family confidence, but he realized that his coming was in the nature of a catastrophe. Having dispatched the business which brought him he would have continued on his way, but the scratch on his arm was rather painful, and that night he had some fever. Mr. Laborde insisted upon his remaining a few days. He knew the young man’s people in New Orleans and did business with the firm which he represented.
To young Walton the place seemed charming — like a young ladies’ Seminary. And well it might. Madame Philomel taught the girls music and drawing; accomplishments which she had herself acquired at the Ursulines in her youth. During the afternoon hour there was nearly always to be heard the sound of the piano: exercises and scales, interspersed with variations upon the Operas.
“Who is playing the piano?” asked Walton. He leaned against a pillar of the portico, his arm in a sling, and caressing a big dog with the other hand. Charlie sat dejectedly on the step. She still wore the trouserlets, having been unable to procure at so short notice anything that she considered suitable.
“The piano?” she echoed, looking up. “Fidelia, I suppos
e. It all sounds alike to me except that Fidelia plays the loudest. She’s so clumsy and heavy-handed.”
Fidelia in fact was thickwaisted and breathed hard. She was given over to afflictions of the throat and made to take exercise which, being lazy, she did not like to do.
“What a lot of you there are,” said the young fellow. “Your eldest sister is beautiful, isn’t she! It seems to me she’s the most beautiful girl I almost ever saw.”
“She has a right to be beautiful. She looks like dad and has a character like Aunt Clementine. Aunt Clementine is a perfect angel. If ever there was a saint on earth — Hi, Pitts! catch ‘im! catch ‘im Pitts!” The dog bounded away after a pig that had mysteriously escaped from its pen and made its way around to the front, prospecting.
Julia, with Amanda and Irene had driven away a while before in the ample barouche. Nothing could have been daintier than Julia in a soft blue “jaconette” that brightened her color and brought out the blue of her eyes.
“Why didn’t you go along driving?” asked Walton when the dog had darted away and he seated himself beside Charlie on the step.
“They’re going over to Colimarts to take a dancing lesson.”
“Don’t you like to dance?”
“I haven’t time. Maybe if I liked to, I’d find time. Madame Philomel made a row about me not taking dancing and music and all that, and Dad said I might do as I liked about it. So Ma’me Philo stopped interfering. ‘I ‘ave nothing to say!’ that’s her attitude now towards poor me.”
“I’m awfully sorry,” said the young man earnestly.
“Sorry! about the dancing? pshaw! what difference— “
“No — no, sorry about the accident of the other day. I’m afraid, perhaps it’s going to get you into trouble.”
“It’ll get me into trouble all right; I see it coming.”
“I hope you’ll forgive me,” he asked persistently, as though he had been the offender.