by Kate Chopin
VII
Melicent Leaves Place-du-Bois.
There had been no witness to the killing of Jocint; but there were fewwho did not recognize Gregoire's hand in the affair. When met with theaccusation, he denied it, or acknowledged it, or evaded the chargewith a jest, as he felt for the moment inclined. It was a deedcharacteristic of any one of the Santien boys, and if not altogetherlaudable--Jocint having been at the time of the shooting unarmed--yetwas it thought in a measure justified by the heinousness of hisoffense, and beyond dispute, a benefit to the community.
Hosmer reserved the expression of his opinion. The occurrence onceover, with the emotions which it had awakened, he was inclined to lookat it from one of those philosophic stand-points of his friendHomeyer. Heredity and pathology had to be considered in relation withthe slayer's character. He saw in it one of those interesting problemsof human existence that are ever turning up for man's contemplation,but hardly for the exercise of man's individual judgment. He wasconscious of an inward repulsion which this action of Gregoire'sawakened in him,--much the same as a feeling of disgust for an animalwhose instinct drives it to the doing of violent deeds,--yet he madeno difference in his manner towards him.
Therese was deeply distressed over this double tragedy: feeling keenlythe unhappy ending of old Morico. But her chief sorrow came from thecallousness of Gregoire, whom she could not move even to an avowal ofregret. He could not understand that he should receive any thing butpraise for having rid the community of so offensive and dangerous apersonage as Jocint; and seemed utterly blind to the moral aspect ofhis deed.
An event at once so exciting and dramatic as this conflagration, withthe attendant deaths of Morico and his son, was much discussed amongstthe negroes. They were a good deal of one opinion in regard to Jocinthaving been only properly served in getting "w'at he done ben lookin'fu' dis long time." Gregoire was rather looked upon as a cleverinstrument in the Lord's service; and the occurrence pointed a moralwhich they were not likely to forget.
The burning of the mill entailed much work upon Hosmer, to which heturned with a zest--an absorption that for the time excludedeverything else.
Melicent had shunned Gregoire since the shooting. She had avoidedspeaking with him--even looking at him. During the turmoil whichclosely followed upon the tragic event, this change in the girl hadescaped his notice. On the next day he suspected it only. But thethird day brought him the terrible conviction. He did not know thatshe was making preparations to leave for St. Louis, and quiteaccidentally overheard Hosmer giving an order to one of the unemployedmill hands to call for her baggage on the following morning beforetrain time.
As much as he had expected her departure, and looked painfully forwardto it, this certainty--that she was leaving on the morrow and withouta word to him--bewildered him. He abandoned at once the work that wasoccupying him.
"I didn' know Miss Melicent was goin' away to-morrow," he said in astrange pleading voice to Hosmer.
"Why, yes," Hosmer answered, "I thought you knew. She's been talkingabout it for a couple of days."
"No, I didn' know nothin' 'tall 'bout it," he said, turning away andreaching for his hat, but with such nerveless hand that he almostdropped it before placing it on his head.
"If you're going to the house," Hosmer called after him, "tellMelicent that Woodson won't go for her trunks before morning. Shethought she'd need to have them ready to-night."
"Yes, if I go to the house. I don' know if I'm goin' to the house ornot," he replied, walking listlessly away.
Hosmer looked after the young man, and thought of him for a moment: ofhis soft voice and gentle manner--perplexed that he should be the samewho had expressed in confidence the single regret that he had not beenable to kill Jocint more than once.
Gregoire went directly to the house, and approached that end of theveranda on which Melicent's room opened. A trunk had already beenpacked and fastened and stood outside, just beneath the low-silledwindow that was open. Within the room, and also beneath the window,was another trunk, before which Melicent kneeled, filling it more orless systematically from an abundance of woman's toggery that lay in acumbrous heap on the floor beside her. Gregoire stopped at the windowto tell her, with a sad attempt at indifference:
"Yo' brotha says don't hurry packin'; Woodson ain't goin' to come furyour trunks tell mornin'."
"All right, thank you," glancing towards him for an instant carelesslyand going on with her work.
"I didn' know you was goin' away."
"That's absurd: you knew all along I was going away," she returned,with countenance as expressionless as feminine subtlety could make it.
"W'y don't you let somebody else do that? Can't you come out yere aw'ile?"
"No, I prefer doing it myself; and I don't care to go out."
What could he do? what could he say? There were no convenient depthsin his mind from which he might draw at will, apt and telling speechesto taunt her with. His heart was swelling and choking him, at sight ofthe eyes that looked anywhere, but in his own; at sight of the lipsthat he had one time kissed, pressed into an icy silence. She went onwith her task of packing, unmoved. He stood a while longer, silentlywatching her, his hat in his hands that were clasped behind him, and astupor of grief holding him vise-like. Then he walked away. He feltsomewhat as he remembered to have felt oftentimes as a boy, when illand suffering, his mother would put him to bed and send him a cup ofbouillon perhaps, and a little negro to sit beside him. It seemed verycruel to him now that some one should not do something for him--thathe should be left to suffer this way. He walked across the lawn overto the cottage, where he saw Fanny pacing slowly up and down theporch.
She saw him approach and stood in a patch of sunlight to wait for him.He really had nothing to say to her as he stood grasping two of thebalustrades and looking up at her. He wanted somebody to talk to himabout Melicent.
"Did you know Miss Melicent was goin' away?"
Had it been Hosmer or Therese asking her the question she would havereplied simply "yes," but to Gregoire she said "yes; thank Goodness,"as frankly as though she had been speaking to Belle Worthington. "Idon't see what's kept her down here all this time, anyway."
"You don't like her?" he asked, stupefied at the strange possibilityof any one not loving Melicent to distraction.
"No. You wouldn't either, if you knew her as well as I do. If shelikes a person she goes on like a lunatic over them as long as itlasts; then good-bye John! she'll throw them aside as she would an olddress."
"Oh, I believe she thinks a heap of Aunt Therese."
"All right; you'll see how much she thinks of Aunt Therese. And thepeople she's been engaged to! There ain't a worse flirt in the city ofSt. Louis; and always some excuse or other to break it off at the lastminute. I haven't got any use for her, Lord knows. There ain't muchlove lost between us."
"Well, I reckon she knows they ain't anybody born, good enough furher?" he said, thinking of those engagements that she had shattered.
"What was David doing?" Fanny asked abruptly.
"Writin' lettas at the sto'."
"Did he say when he was coming?"
"No."
"Do you guess he'll come pretty soon?"
"No, I reckon not fur a good w'ile."
"Is Melicent with Mrs. Laferm?"
"No; she's packin' her things."
"I guess I'll go sit with Mrs. Laferm, d'you think she'll mind?"
"No, she'll be glad to have you."
Fanny crossed over to go join Therese. She liked to be with her whenthere was no danger of interruption from Melicent, and Gregoire wentwandering aimlessly about the plantation.
He staked great hopes on what the night might bring for him. She wouldmelt, perhaps, to the extent of a smile or one of her old glances. Hewas almost cheerful when he seated himself at table; only he and hisaunt and Melicent. He had never seen her look so handsome as now, in awoolen gown that she had not worn before, of warm rich tint, thatbrought out a certain regal splendor
that he had not suspected in her.A something that she seemed to have held in reserve till this finalmoment. But she had nothing for him--nothing. All her conversation wasaddressed to Therese; and she hurried away from table at the close ofthe meal, under pretext of completing her arrangements for departure.
"Doesn't she mean to speak to me?" he asked fiercely of Therese.
"Oh, Gregoire, I see so much trouble around me; so many sad mistakes,and I feel so powerless to right them; as if my hands were tied. Ican't help you in this; not now. But let me help you in other ways.Will you listen to me?"
"If you want to help me, Aunt," he said stabbing his fork into a pieceof bread before him, "go and ask her if she doesn't mean to talk tome: if she won't come out on the gallery a minute."
"Gregoire wants to know if you won't go out and speak to him a moment,Melicent," said Therese entering the girl's room. "Do as you wish, ofcourse. But remember you are going away to-morrow; you'll likely neversee him again. A friendly word from you now, may do more good than youimagine. I believe he's as unhappy at this moment as a creature canbe!"
Melicent looked at her horrified. "I don't understand you at all, Mrs.Lafirme. Think what he's done; murdered a defenseless man! How can youhave him near you--seated at your table? I don't know what nerves youhave in your bodies, you and David. There's David, hobnobbing withhim. Even that Fanny talking to him as if he were blameless. Never! Ifhe were dying I wouldn't go near him."
"Haven't you a spark of humanity in you?" asked Therese, flushingviolently.
"Oh, this is something physical," she replied, shivering, "let mealone."
Therese went out to Gregoire, who stood waiting on the veranda. Sheonly took his hand and pressed it telling him good-night, and he knewthat it was a dismissal.
There may be lovers, who, under the circumstances, would have feltsufficient pride to refrain from going to the depot on the followingmorning, but Gregoire was not one of them. He was there. He who only aweek before had thought that nothing but her constant presence couldreconcile him with life, had narrowed down the conditions for hislife's happiness now to a glance or a kind word. He stood close to thesteps of the Pullman car that she was about to enter, and as shepassed him he held out his hand, saying "Good-bye." But he held hishand to no purpose. She was much occupied in taking her valise fromthe conductor who had hoisted her up, and who was now shouting instentorian tones "All aboard," though there was not a soul with theslightest intention of boarding the train but herself.
She leaned forward to wave good-bye to Hosmer, and Fanny, and Therese,who were on the platform; then she was gone.
Gregoire stood looking stupidly at the vanishing train.
"Are you going back with us?" Hosmer asked him. Fanny and Therese hadwalked ahead.
"No," he replied, looking at Hosmer with ashen face, "I got to go finemy hoss."