by Kate Chopin
V
One Afternoon.
Whatever may have been Torpedo's characteristics in days gone by, atthis advanced period in his history he possessed none so striking as astoical inaptitude for being moved. Another of his distinguishingtraits was a propensity for grazing which he was prone to indulge atinopportune moments. Such points taken in conjunction with a gaitclosely resembling that of the camel in the desert, might give muchcause to wonder at Therese's motive in recommending him as a suitablemount for the unfortunate Fanny, were it not for his wide-spreadreputation of angelic inoffensiveness.
The ride which Melicent had arranged and in which she held out suchpromises of a "lark" proved after all but a desultory affair. For withFanny making but a sorry equestrian debut and Hosmer creeping along ather side; Therese unable to hold Beauregard within conventionallimits, and Melicent and Gregoire 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 movedthe proverbial stone.
"I think if you change horses with me, Fanny, you'll find it morecomfortable, and we'll turn about and go home."
"I wouldn't get on that horse's back, David Hosmer, if I had to dieright here in the woods, I wouldn't."
"Do you think you could manage to walk back that distance then? I canlead the horses," he suggested as a _pis aller_.
"I guess I'll haf to; but goodness knows if I'll ever get therealive."
They were far up on the hill, which spot they had reached by painfullyslow and labored stages, each refraining from mention of a discomfortthat might interfere with the supposed enjoyment of the other, tillFanny's note of protest.
Hosmer cast about him for some expedient that might lighten theunpleasantness of the situation, when a happy thought occurred to him.
"If you'll try to bear up, a few yards further, you can dismount atold Morico's cabin and I'll hurry back and get the buggy. It can bedriven this far anyway: and it's only a short walk from here throughthe woods."
So Hosmer set her down before Morico's door: her long riding skirt,borrowed for the occasion, twisting awkwardly around her legs, andevery joint in her body aching.
Partly by pantomimic signs interwoven with a few French words which hehad picked up within the last year, Hosmer succeeded in making himselfunderstood to the old man, and rode away leaving Fanny in his care.
Morico fussily preceded her into the house and placed a great clumsyhome-made rocker at her disposal, into which she cast herself withevery appearance of bodily distress. He then busied himself in tidyingup the room out of deference to his guest; gathering up the scissors,waxen thread and turkey feathers which had fallen from his lap in hisdisturbance, and laying them on the table. He knocked the ashes fromhis corn-cob pipe which he now rested on a projection of the brickchimney that extended into the room and that served as mantel-piece.All the while he cast snatched glances at Fanny, who sat pale andtired. Her appearance seemed to move him to make an effort towardsrelieving it. He took a key from his pocket and unlocking a side ofthe _garde manger_, drew forth a small flask of whisky. Fanny hadclosed her eyes and was not aware of his action, till she heard him ather elbow saying in his feeble quavering voice:--
"_Tenez madame; goutez un peu: ca va vous faire du bien,_" and openingher 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 areptile that menaced her with its sting.
Morico looked nonplussed and a little abashed: but he had much faithin the healing qualities of his remedy and urged it on her anew. Shetrembled a little, and looked away with rather excited eyes.
"_Je vous assure madame, ca ne peut pas vous faire du mal._"
Fanny took the glass from his hand, and rising went and placed it onthe table, then walked to the open door and looked eagerly out, asthough 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 inspectionbringing 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 toseize the glass of "toddy" which she unhesitatingly put to her lipsand drained at a draught. All uneasiness and fatigue seemed to leaveher on the instant as though by magic. She went back to her chair andreseated herself composedly. Her eyes now rested on her old host witha certain quizzical curiosity strange to them.
He was plainly demoralized by her presence, and still made pretense ofoccupying himself with the arrangement of the room.
Presently she said to him: "Your remedy did me more good than I'dexpected," but not understanding her, he only smiled and looked at herblankly.
She laughed good-humoredly back at him, then went to the table andpoured from the flask which he had left standing there, liquor to thedepth of two fingers, this time drinking it more deliberately. Afterthat she tried to talk to Morico and thought it very amusing that hecould not understand her.
Presently Jocint came home and accepted her presence there veryindifferently. He went to the _garde manger_ to stay his hunger, muchas he had done on the occasion of Therese's visit; talked in grumabrupt utterances to his father, and disappeared into the adjoiningroom where Fanny could hear him and occasionally see him polishing andoiling his cherished rifle.
Morico, more accustomed to foreign sounds in the woods than she, wasthe first to detect the approach of Gregoire, whom he went outhurriedly to meet, glad of the relief from the supposed necessity ofentertaining his puzzling visitor. When he was fairly out of the room,she arose quickly, approached the table and reaching for the flask ofliquor, thrust it hastily into her pocket, then went to join him. Atthe moment that Gregoire came up, Jocint issued from a side door andstood looking at the group.
"Well, Mrs. Hosma, yere I am. I reckon you was tired waitin'. Thebuggy's yonda in the road."
He shook hands cordially with Morico saying something to him in Frenchwhich made the old man laugh heartily.
"Why didn't David come? I thought he said he was coming; that's theway he does," said Fanny complainingly.
"That's a po' compliment to me, Mrs. Hosrma. Can't you stan' mycompany for that li'le distance?" returned Gregoire 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 asnot 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 outo' their graves an' walk about? You wouldn't ketch a nigga out o' hiscabin to-night afta dark to save his soul. They all gittin' ready nowto hustle back to the quartas."
"That's nonsense," said Fanny, drawing on her gloves, "you ought tohave more sense than to repeat such things."
Gregoire laughed, looking surprised at her unusual energy of speechand manner. Then he turned to Jocint, whose presence he had thus farignored, and asked in a peremptory tone:
"W'at did Woodson say 'bout watchin' at the mill to-night? Did you askhim like I tole you?"
"Yaas, me ax um: ee' low ee an' goin'. Say how Sylveste d'wan' watchlak alluz. Say ee an' goin'. Me don' blem 'im neida, don' ketch meout de 'ouse night lak dat fu no man."
"_Sacre imbecile_," muttered Gregoire, between his teeth, andvouchsafed him no other answer, but nodded to Morico and turned away.Fanny followed with a freedom of movement quite unlike that of hercoming.
Morico went into the house and coming back hastily to the door calledto Jocint:
"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 yourdamned tricks to make me buy you more." And he seated himself on anover-turned tub and with his small black eyes half closed, lookedmoodily out into the solemn darkening woods. The old m
an showed noresentment at the harshness and disrespect of his son's speech, beingevidently used to such. He passed his hand slowly over his white longhair and turned bewildered into the house.
"Is it just this same old thing year in and year out, Gregoire? Don'tany 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. Iused 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 Natchitochesnow; that's the place to have a right down good time. But see yere; Ididn' know you was fon' o' dancin' an' such things."
"Why, of course, I just dearly love to dance. But it's as much as mylife's worth to say that before David; he's such a stick; but I guessyou know that by this time," with a laugh, as he had never heard fromher before--so unconstrained; at the same time drawing nearer to himand looking merrily into his face.
"The little lady's been having a 'toddy' at Morico's, that makes herlively," thought Gregoire. But the knowledge did not abash him in theleast. He accommodated himself at once to the situation with thatadaptability 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 witha studied indifference.
"Hol' on there, Buckskin--w'ere you takin' us? W'y, I lef' him at thesto' mailin' lettas."
"Had the others all got back? Mrs. Laferm? Melicent? did they all stopat the store, too?"
"Who? Aunt Threrese? no, she was up at the house w'en I lef'--I reckonMiss Melicent was there too. Talkin' 'bout fun,--it's to git into oneo' them big spring wagons on a moonlight night, like they do inCentaville sometimes; jus' packed down with young folks--and start outfur a dance up the coast. They ain't nothin' to beat it as fah as fungoes."
"It must be just jolly. I guess you're a pretty good dancer,Gregoire?"
"Well--'taint fur me to say. But they ain't many can out dance me: notin Natchitoches pa'ish, anyway. I can say that much."
If such a thing could have been, Fanny would have startled Gregoiremore than once during the drive home. Before its close she hadobtained a promise from him to take her up to Natchitoches for thevery next entertainment,--averring that she didn't care what Davidsaid. If he wanted to bury himself that was his own look out. And ifMrs. Laferm took people to be angels that they could live in a placelike that, and give up everything and not have any kind of enjoymentout of life, why, she was mistaken and that's all there was to it. Toall of which freely expressed views Gregoire emphatically assented.
Hosmer had very soon disembarrassed himself of Torpedo, knowing thatthe animal would unerringly find his way to the corn crib by suppertime. He continued his own way now untrammelled, and at an agreeablespeed which soon brought him to the spring at the road side. Here hefound Therese, half seated against a projection of rock, in her hand abunch of ferns which she had evidently dismounted to gather, andholding Beauregard's bridle while he munched at the cool wet tufts ofgrass that grew everywhere.
As Hosmer rode up at a rapid pace, he swung himself from his horsealmost before the animal came to a full stop. He removed his hat,mopped his forehead, stamped about a little to relax his limbs andturned to answer the enquiry with which Therese met him.
"Left her at Morico's. I'll have to send the buggy back for her."
"I can't forgive myself for such a blunder," said Therese regretfully,"indeed I had no idea of that miserable beast's character. I never wason him you know--only the little darkies, and they never complained:they'd as well ride cows as not."
"Oh, it's mainly from her being unaccustomed to riding, I believe."
This was the first time that Hosmer and Therese had met alone sincehis return from St. Louis. They looked at each other with fullconsciousness of what lay in the other's mind. Therese felt thathowever adroitly another woman might have managed the situation, forherself, it would have been a piece of affectation to completelyignore it at this moment.
"Mr. Hosmer, perhaps I ought to have said something before this, toyou--about what you've done."
"Oh, yes, congratulated me--complimented me," he replied with apretense at a laugh.
"Well, the latter, perhaps. I think we all like to have our good andright actions recognized for their worth."
He flushed, looked at her with a smile, then laughed out-right--thistime it was no pretense.
"So I've been a good boy; have done as my mistress bade me and now I'mto receive a condescending little pat on the head--and of course mustsay thank you. Do you know, Mrs. Lafirme--and I don't see why a womanlike you oughtn't to know it--it's one of those things to drive a manmad, the sweet complaisance with which women accept situations, orinflict situations that it takes the utmost of a man's strength toendure."
"Well, Mr. Hosmer," said Therese plainly discomposed, "you mustconcede you decided it was the right thing to do."
"I didn't do it because I thought it was right, but because youthought it was right. But that makes no difference."
"Then remember your wife is going to do the right thing herself--sheadmitted as much to me."
"Don't you fool yourself, as Melicent says, about what Mrs. Hosmermeans to do. I take no account of it. But you take it so easily; so asa matter of course. That's what exasperates me. That you, you, you,shouldn't have a suspicion of the torture of it; the loathsomeness ofit. But how could you--how could any woman understand it? Oh forgiveme, Therese--I wouldn't want you to. There's no brute so brutal as aman," he cried, seeing the pain in her face and knowing he had causedit. "But you know you promised to help me--oh I'm talking like anidiot."
"And I do," returned Therese, "that is, I want to, I mean to."
"Then don't tell me again that I have done right. Only look at mesometimes a little differently than you do at Hiram or the gate post.Let me once in a while see a look in your face that tells me that youunderstand--if it's only a little bit."
Therese thought it best to interrupt the situation; so, pale andsilently she prepared to mount her horse. He came to her assistance ofcourse, and when she was seated she drew off her loose riding gloveand held out her hand to him. He pressed it gratefully, then touchedit with his lips; then turned it and kissed the half open palm.
She did not leave him this time, but rode at his side in silence witha frown and little line of thought between her blue eyes.
As they were nearing the store she said diffidently: "Mr. Hosmer, Iwonder if it wouldn't be best for you to put the mill in some oneelse's charge--and go away from Place-du-Bois."
"I believe you always speak with a purpose, Mrs. Lafirme: you havesomebody's ultimate good in view, when you say that. Is it your own,or mine or whose is it?"
"Oh! not mine."
"I will leave Place-du-Bois, certainly, if you wish it."
As she looked at him she was forced to admit that she had never seenhim look as he did now. His face, usually serious, had a wholeunwritten tragedy in it. And she felt altogether sore and puzzled andexasperated over man's problematic nature.
"I don't think it should be left entirely to me to say. Doesn't yourown reason suggest a proper course in the matter?"
"My reason is utterly unable to determine anything in which you areconcerned. Mrs. Lafirme," he said checking his horse and laying arestraining hand on her bridle, "let me speak to you one moment. Iknow you are a woman to whom one may speak the truth. Of course, youremember that you prevailed upon me to go back to my wife. To you itseemed the right thing--to me it seemed certainly hard--but no morenor less than taking up the old unhappy routine of life, where I hadleft it when I quitted her. I reasoned much like a stupid child whothinks the colors in his kaleidoscope may fall twice into the samedesign. In place of the old, I found an entirely new situation--horrid,sickening, requiring such a strain upon my energies to live throughit, that I believe it's an absurdity to waste so much moral force forso poor an aim--there would be more dignity in putting an end to mylife. It doesn't make it any the more bearable to feel that the
causeof this unlooked for change lies within myself--my altered feelings.But it seems to me that I have the right to ask you not to takeyourself out of my life; your moral support; your bodily atmosphere. Ihope not to give way to the weakness of speaking of these thingsagain: but before you leave me, tell me, do you understand a littlebetter why I need you?"
"Yes, I understand now; and I thank you for talking so openly to me.Don't go away from Place-du-Bois: it would make me very wretched."
She said no more and he was glad of it, for her last words held almostthe force of action for him; as though she had let him feel for aninstant her heart beat against his own with an echoing pain.
Their ways now diverged. She went in the direction of the house and heto the store where he found Gregoire, whom he sent for his wife.