by Kate Chopin
VI
Melicent Talks.
"David Hosmer, you are the most supremely unsatisfactory manexisting."
Hosmer had come in from his ride, and seating himself in the largewicker chair that stood in the center of the room, became at onceabsorbed in reflections. Being addressed, he looked up at his sister,who sat sidewards on the edge of a table slightly removed, swaying adainty slippered foot to and fro in evident impatience.
"What crime have I committed now, Melicent, against your code?" heasked, not fully aroused from his reverie.
"You've committed nothing; your sin is one of omission. I absolutelybelieve you go through the world with your eyes, to all practicalpurposes, closed. Don't you notice anything; any change?"
"To be sure I do," said Hosmer, relying on a knowledge lent him byprevious similar experiences, and taking in the clinging artisticdrapery that enfolded her tall spare figure, "you've a new gown on. Ididn't think to mention it, but I noticed it all the same."
This admission of a discernment that he had failed to make evident,aroused Melicent's uncontrolled mirth.
"A new gown!" and she laughed heartily. "A threadbare remnant! A thingthat holds by shreds and tatters."
She went behind her brother's chair, taking his face between herhands, and turning it upward, kissed him on the forehead. With hishead in such position, he could not fail to observe the brilliantfolds of muslin that were arranged across the ceiling to simulate thecanopy of a tent. Still holding his face, she moved it sidewards, sothat his eyes, knowing now what office was expected of them, followedthe line of decorations about the room.
"It's immense, Mel; perfectly immense. When did you do it all?"
"This afternoon, with Gregoire's help," she answered, looking proudlyat her work. "And my poor hands are in such condition! But really,Dave," she continued, seating herself on the side of his chair, withan arm about his neck, and he leaning his head back on the improvisedcushion, "I wonder that you ever got on in business, observing thingsas little as you do."
"Oh, that's different."
"Well, I don't believe you see half that you ought to," addingnaively, "How did you and Mrs. Lafirme happen to come home togetherthis evening?"
The bright lamp-light made the flush quite evident that arose to hisface under her near gaze.
"We met in the woods; she was coming from Morico's."
"David, do you know that woman is an angel. She's simply the mostperfect creature I ever knew."
Melicent's emphasis of speech was a thing so recurrent, so singularlyher own, as to startle an unaccustomed hearer.
"That opinion might carry some weight, Mel, if I hadn't heard itscores of times from you, and of as many different women."
"Indeed you have not. Mrs. Lafirme is exceptional. Really, when shestands at the end of the veranda, giving orders to those darkies, herface a little flushed, she's positively a queen."
"As far as queenliness may be compatible with the angelic state,"replied Hosmer, but not ill pleased with Melicent's exaggerated praiseof Therese.
Neither had heard a noiseless step approaching, and they only becameaware of an added human presence, when Mandy's small voice was heardto issue from Mandy's small body which stood in the mingled light andshadow of the door-way.
"Aunt B'lindy 'low supper on de table gittin' cole."
"Come here, Mandy," cried Melicent, springing after the child. ButMandy was flying back through the darkness. She was afraid ofMelicent.
Laughing heartily, the girl disappeared into her bedroom, to make someneeded additions to her toilet; and Hosmer, waiting for her, returnedto his interrupted reflections. The words which he had spoken during amoment of emotion to Therese, out in the piny woods, had served adouble purpose with him. They had shown him more plainly than he hadquite been certain of, the depth of his feeling for her; and also hadthey settled his determination. He was not versed in the reading of awoman's nature, and he found himself at a loss to interpret Therese'sactions. He recalled how she had looked away from him when he hadspoken the few tender words that were yet whirling in his memory; howshe had impetuously ridden ahead,--leaving him to follow alone; andher incessant speech that had forced him into silence. All of whichmight or might not be symptoms in his favor. He remembered her kindsolicitude for his comfort and happiness during the past year; but heas readily recalled that he had not been the only recipient of suchfavors. His reflections led to no certainty, except that he loved herand meant to tell her so.
Therese's door being closed, and moreover locked, Aunt Belindy, thestout negress who had superintended the laying of supper, felt free togive low speech to her wrath as she went back and forth betweendining-room and kitchen.
"Suppa gittin' dat cole 'tain' gwine be fittin' fu' de dogs te' tech.Believe half de time w'ite folks ain't got no feelin's, no how. If deyspeck I'se gwine stan' up heah on my two feet all night, dey's foolin'dey sef. I ain't gwine do it. Git out dat doo' you Mandy! you want medash dis heah coffee pot at you--blockin' up de doo's dat away? W'ardat good fu' nuttin Betsy? Look yonda, how she done flung dem dereknife an forks on de table. Jis let Miss T'rese kotch'er. Good GodA'mighty, Miss T'rese mus' done gone asleep. G'long dar an' see."
There was no one on the plantation who would have felt at liberty toenter Therese's bedroom without permission, the door being closed; yetshe had taken the needless precaution of bringing lock and bolt to thedouble security of her moment of solitude. The first announcement ofsupper had found her still in her riding habit, with head thrown backupon the cushion of her lounging chair, and her mind steeped in asemi-stupor that it would be injustice to her brighter moments to callreflection.
Therese was a warm-hearted woman, and a woman of clear mental vision;a combination not found so often together as to make it ordinary.Being a woman of warm heart, she had loved her husband with thedevotion which good husbands deserve; but being a clear-headed woman,she was not disposed to rebel against the changes which Time brings,when so disposed, to the human sensibilities. She was not steeped inthat agony of remorse which many might consider becoming in a widow offive years' standing at the discovery that her heart which had fittedwell the holding of a treasure, was not narrowed to the holding of amemory,--the treasure being gone.
Mandy's feeble knock at the door was answered by her mistress inperson who had now banished all traces of her ride and its resultantcogitations.
The two women, with Hosmer and Gregoire, sat out on the veranda aftersupper as their custom was during these warm summer evenings. Therewas no attempt at sustained conversation; they talked by snatches toand at one another, of the day's small events; Melicent and Gregoirehaving by far the most to say. The girl was half reclining in thehammock which she kept in a slow, unceasing motion by the impetus ofher slender foot; he sitting some distance removed on the steps.Hosmer was noticeably silent; even Jocint as a theme failing to rousehim to more than a few words of dismissal. His will and tenacity werecontrolling him to one bent. He had made up his mind that he hadsomething to say to Mrs. Lafirme, and he was impatient at any enforceddelay in the telling.
Gregoire slept now in the office of the mill, as a measure ofprecaution. To-night, Hosmer had received certain late telegrams thatnecessitated a return to the mill, and his iron-grey was standingoutside in the lane with Gregoire's horse, awaiting the pleasure ofhis rider. When Gregoire quitted the group to go and throw the saddlesacross the patient animals, Melicent, who contemplated an additionalhour's chat with Therese, crossed over to the cottage to procure alight wrap for her sensitive shoulders against the chill night air.Hosmer, who had started to the assistance of Gregoire, seeing thatTherese had remained alone, standing at the top of the stairs,approached her. Remaining a few steps below her, and looking up intoher face, he held out his hand to say good-night, which was an unusualproceeding, for they had not shaken hands since his return toPlace-du-Bois three months before. She gave him her soft hand to holdand as the warm, moist palm met his, it acted like a charged electricbattery tur
ning its subtle force upon his sensitive nerves.
"Will you let me talk to you to-morrow?" he asked.
"Yes, perhaps; if I have time."
"Oh, you will make the time. I can't let the day go by without tellingyou many things that you ought to have known long ago." The batterywas still doing its work. "And I can't let the night go by withouttelling you that I love you."
Gregoire called out that the horses were ready. Melicent wasapproaching in her diaphanous envelope, and Hosmer reluctantly letdrop Therese's hand and left her.
As the men rode away, the two women stood silently following theirdiminishing outlines into the darkness and listening to the creakingof the saddles and the dull regular thud of the horses' feet upon thesoft earth, until the sounds grew inaudible, when they turned to theinner shelter of the veranda. Melicent once more possessed herself ofthe hammock in which she now reclined fully, and Therese sat nearenough beside her to intertwine her fingers between the tense cords.
"What a great difference in age there must be between you and yourbrother," she said, breaking the silence.
"Yes--though he is younger and I older than you perhaps think. He wasfifteen and the only child when I was born. I am twenty-four, so he ofcourse is thirty-nine."
"I certainly thought him older."
"Just imagine, Mrs. Lafirme, I was only ten when both my parents died.We had no kindred living in the West, and I positively rebelledagainst being separated from David; so you see he's had the care of mefor a good many years."
"He appears very fond of you."
"Oh, not only that, but you've no idea how splendidly he's done for mein every way. Looked after my interest and all that, so that I'mperfectly independent. Poor Dave," she continued, heaving a profoundsigh, "he's had more than his share of trouble, if ever a man had. Iwonder when his day of compensation will come."
"Don't you think," ventured Therese, "that we make too much of ourindividual trials. We are all so prone to believe our own burdenheavier than our neighbor's."
"Perhaps--but there can be no question about the weight of David's.I'm not a bit selfish about him though; poor fellow, I only wish he'dmarry again."
Melicent's last words stung Therese like an insult. Her native priderebelled against the reticence of this man who had shared herconfidence while keeping her in ignorance of so important a feature ofhis own life. But her dignity would not permit a show of disturbance;she only asked:--
"How long has his wife been dead?"
"Oh," cried Melicent, in dismay. "I thought you knew of course;why--she isn't dead at all--they were divorced two years ago."
The girl felt intuitively that she had yielded to an indiscretion ofspeech. She could not know David's will in the matter, but since hehad all along left Mrs. Lafirme in ignorance of his domestic trials,she concluded it was not for her to enlighten that lady further. Hernext remark was to call Therese's attention to the unusual number ofglow-worms that were flashing through the darkness, and to ask thesign of it, adding "every thing seems to be the sign of something downhere."
"Aunt Belindy might tell you," replied Therese, "I only know that Ifeel the signs of being very sleepy after that ride through the woodsto-day. Don't mind if I say good night?"
"Certainly not. Good night, dear Mrs. Lafirme. Let me stay here tillDavid comes back; I should die of fright, to go to the cottage alone."