by Kate Chopin
XII
Tidings That Sting.
Therese felt that the room was growing oppressive. She had beensitting all morning alone before the fire, passing in review a greatheap of household linen that lay piled beside her on the floor,alternating this occupation with occasional careful and tender officesbestowed upon a wee lamb that had been brought to her some hoursbefore, and that now lay wounded and half lifeless upon a pile ofcoffee sacks before the blaze.
A fire was hardly needed, except to dispel the dampness that had evenmade its insistent way indoors, covering walls and furniture with aclammy film. Outside, the moisture was dripping from the glisteningmagnolia leaves and from the pointed polished leaves of the live-oaks,and the sun that had come out with intense suddenness was drawing itsteaming from the shingled roof-tops.
When Therese, finally aware of the closeness of the room, opened thedoor and went out on the veranda, she saw a man, a stranger, ridingtowards the house and she stood to await his approach. He belonged towhat is rather indiscriminately known in that section of the State asthe "piney-woods" genus. A rawboned fellow, lank and long of leg; asungroomed with his scraggy yellow hair and beard as the scrubby littleTexas pony which he rode. His big soft felt hat had done unreasonableservice as a head-piece; and the "store clothes" that hung upon hislean person could never in their remotest freshness have masqueradedunder the character of "all wool." He was in transit, as the bulgingsaddle-bags that hung across his horse indicated, as well as the roughbrown blanket strapped behind him to the animal's back. He rode upclose to the rail of the veranda near which Therese stood, and noddedto her without offering to raise or touch his hat. She was preparedfor the drawl with which he addressed her, and even guessed at whathis first words would be.
"You're Mrs. Laferm I 'low?"
Therese acknowledged her identity with a bow.
"My name's Jimson; Rufe Jimson," he went on, settling himself on thepony and folding his long knotty hands over the hickory switch that hecarried in guise of whip.
"Do you wish to speak to me? won't you dismount?" Therese asked.
"I hed my dinner down to the store," he said taking her proposal as aninvitation to dine, and turning to expectorate a mouth full of tobaccojuice before continuing. "Capital sardines them air," passing his handover his mouth and beard in unctuous remembrance of the oily dainties.
"I'm just from Cornstalk, Texas, on mu way to Grant. An' them roads asI've traversed isn't what I'd call the best in a fair and squaretalk."
His manner bore not the slightest mark of deference. He spoke toTherese as he might have spoken to one of her black servants, or as hewould have addressed a princess of royal blood if fate had everbrought him into such unlikely contact, so clearly was the sense ofhuman equality native to him.
Therese knew her animal, and waited patiently for his business tounfold itself.
"I reckon thar hain't no ford hereabouts?" he asked, looking at herwith a certain challenge.
"Oh, no; its even difficult crossing in the flat," she answered.
"Wall, I hed calc'lated continooing on this near side. Reckon I couldmake it?" challenging her again to an answer.
"There's no road on this side," she said, turning away to fasten moresecurely the escaped branches of a rose-bush that twined about acolumn near which she stood.
Whether there were a road on this side or on the other side, or noroad at all, appeared to be matter of equal indifference to Mr.Jimson, so far as his manner showed. He continued imperturbably "I'lowed to stop here on a little matter o' business. 'Tis some out o'mu way; more'n I'd calc'lated. You couldn't tell the ixact distancefrom here to Colfax, could you?"
Therese rather impatiently gave him the desired information, andbegged that he would disclose his business with her.
"Wall," he said, "onpleasant news 'll keep most times tell you'reready fur it. Thet's my way o' lookin' at it."
"Unpleasant news for me?" she inquired, startled from her indifferenceand listlessness.
"Rather onpleasant ez I take it. I hain't a makin' no misstatement topersume thet Gregor Sanchun was your nephew?"
"Yes, yes," responded Therese, now thoroughly alarmed, and approachingas close to Mr. Rufe Jimson as the dividing rail would permit, "Whatof him, please?"
He turned again to discharge an accumulation of tobacco juice into athick border of violets, and resumed.
"You see a hot-blooded young feller, ez wouldn't take no more 'an giveno odds, stranger or no stranger in the town, he couldn't ixpect civiltreatment; leastways not from Colonel Bill Klayton. Ez I said toTozier--"
"Please tell me as quickly as possible what has happened," demandedTherese with trembling eagerness; steadying herself with both hands onthe railing before her.
"You see it all riz out o' a little altercation 'twixt him and ColonelKlayton in the colonel's store. Some says he'd ben drinkin'; othersdenies it. Howsomever they did hev words risin' out o' the coloneladdressing your nephew under the title o' 'Frenchy'; which most takesez a insufficient cause for rilin'."
"He's dead?" gasped Therese, looking at the dispassionate Texan withhorrified eyes.
"Wall, yes," an admission which he seemed not yet willing to leaveunqualified; for he went on "It don't do to alluz speak out open an'above boards, leastways not thar in Cornstalk. But I'll 'low to you,it's my opinion the colonel acted hasty. It's true 'nough, the youngfeller hed drawed, but ez I said to Tozier, thet's no reason topersume it was his intention to use his gun."
So Gregoire was dead. She understood it all now. The manner of hisdeath was plain to her as if she had seen it, out there in somedisorderly settlement. Killed by the hand of a stranger with whomperhaps the taking of a man's life counted as little as it had oncecounted with his victim. This flood of sudden and painful intelligencestaggered her, and leaning against the column she covered her eyeswith both hands, for a while forgetting the presence of the man whohad brought the sad tidings.
But he had never ceased his monotonous unwinding. "Thar hain't nomanner o' doubt, marm," he was saying, "thet he did hev the sympathyo' the intire community--ez far ez they was free to expressit--barrin' a few. Fur he was a likely young chap, that warn't no twoopinions o' that. Free with his money--alluz ready to set up fur afriend. Here's a bit o' writin' thet'll larn you more o' thepertic'lars," drawing a letter from his pocket, "writ by the Catholicpriest, by name of O'Dowd. He 'lowed you mought want proyer meetin'sand sich."
"Masses," corrected Therese, holding out her hand for the letter. Withthe other hand she was wiping away the tears that had gathered thickin her eyes.
"Thar's a couple more little tricks thet he sont," continued RufeJimson, apparently dislocating his joints to reach the depths of histrouser pocket, from which he drew a battered pocket book wrappedaround with an infinity of string. From the grimy folds of thisreceptacle he took a small paper parcel which he placed in her hand.It was partly unfastened, and as she opened it fully, the pent-uptears came blindingly--for before her lay a few curling rings of softbrown hair, and a pair of scapulars, one of which was pierced by atell-tale bullet hole.
"Won't you dismount?" she presently asked again, this time a littlemore kindly.
"No, marm," said the Texan, jerking his hitherto patient pony by thebridle till it performed feats of which an impartial observer couldscarcely have suspected it.
"Don't reckon I could make Colfax before dark, do you?"
"Hardly," she said, turning away, "I'm much obliged to you, Mr.Jimson, for having taken this trouble--if the flat is on the otherside, you need only call for it."
"Wall, good day, marm--I wish you luck," he added, with a touch ofgallantry which her tears and sweet feminine presence had inspired.Then turning, he loped his horse rapidly forward, leaning well back inthe saddle and his elbows sawing the air.