by Kate Chopin
XIII
Melicent Hears the News.
It was talked about and wept about at Place-du-Bois, that Gregoireshould be dead. It seemed to them all so unbelievable. Yet, whateverhesitancy they had in accepting the fact of his death, was perforceremoved by the convincing proof of Father O'Dowd's letter.
None could remember but sweetness and kindness of him. Even Nathan,who had been one day felled to earth by a crowbar in Gregoire's hand,had come himself to look at that deed as not altogether blamable inlight of the provocation that had called it forth.
Fanny remembered those bouquets which had been daily offered to herforlornness at her arrival; and the conversations in which they hadunderstood each other so well. The conviction that he was gone awaybeyond the possibility of knowing him further, moved her to tears.Hosmer, too, was grieved and shocked, without being able to view theevent in the light of a calamity.
No one was left unmoved by the tidings which brought a lowering cloudeven upon the brow of Aunt Belindy, to rest there the whole day. Deepwere the mutterings she hurled at a fate that could have been soshort-sighted as to remove from earth so bright an ornament asGregoire. Her grief further spent much of itself upon the inoffensiveBetsy, who, for some inscrutable reason was for twenty-four hoursdebarred entrance to the kitchen.
Therese seated at her desk, devoted a morning to the writing ofletters, acquainting various members of the family with the unhappyintelligence. She wrote first to Madame Santien, living now her lazylife in Paris, with eyes closed to the duties that lay before her andheart choked up with an egoism that withered even the motherinstincts. It was very difficult to withhold the reproach which shefelt inclined to deal her; hard to refrain from upbraiding aselfishness which for a life-time had appeared to Therese as criminal.
It was a matter less nice, less difficult, to write to thebrothers--one up on the Red River plantation living as best he could;the other idling on the New Orleans streets. But it was after all ashort and simple story to tell. There was no lingering illness todescribe; no moment even of consciousness in which harrowing lastwords were to be gathered and recorded. Only a hot senseless quarrelto be told about; the speeding of a bullet with very sure aim,and--quick death.
Of course, masses must be said. Father O'Dowd was properly instructed.Pere Antoine in Centerville was addressed on the subject. The Bishopof Natchitoches, respectfully asked to perform this last sad officefor the departed soul. And the good old priest and friend at the NewOrleans Cathedral, was informed of her desires. Not that Therese heldvery strongly to this saying of masses for the dead; but it had been acustom holding for generations in the family and which she was notdisposed to abandon now, even if she had thought of it.
The last letter was sent to Melicent. Therese made it purposely shortand pointed, with a bare statement of facts--a dry, unemotionaltelling, that sounded heartless when she read it over; but she let itgo.
* * * * *
Melicent was standing in her small, quaint sitting-room, her back tothe fire, and her hands clasped behind her. How handsome was thisMelicent! Pouting now, and with eyes half covered by the dark shadedlids, as they gazed moodily out at the wild snowflakes that werehurrying like crazy things against the warm window pane and meetingtheir end there. A loose tea-gown clung in long folds about her. Adull colored thing, save for the two broad bands of sapphire plushhanging straight before, from throat to toe. Melicent was plainlydejected; not troubled, nor sad, only dejected, and very much bored; acondition that had made her yawn several times while she looked at thefalling snow.
She was philosophizing a little. Wondering if the world this morningwere really the unpleasant place that it appeared, or if theseconditions of unpleasantness lay not rather within her own mentalvision; a train of thought that might be supposed to have furnishedher some degree of entertainment had she continued in its pursuit. Butshe chose rather to dwell on her causes of unhappiness, and thusconvince herself that that unhappiness was indeed outside of her andaround her and not by any possibility to be avoided or circumvented.There lay now a letter in her desk from David, filled with admonitionsif not reproof which she felt to be not entirely unjust, on thedisagreeable subject of Expenses. Looking around the pretty room sheconceded to herself that here had been temptations which she could notreasonably have been expected to withstand. The temptation to lodgeherself in this charming little flat; furnish it after her own liking;and install that delightful little old poverty-stricken English womanas keeper of Proprieties, with her irresistible white starched capsand her altogether delightful way of inquiring daily after that "poor,dear, kind Mr. Hosmer." It had all cost a little more than she hadforeseen. But the worst of it, the very worst of it was, that she hadalready begun to ask herself if, for instance, it were not veryirritating to see every day, that same branching palm, posing by thewindow, in that same yellow jardiniere. If those draperies thatconfronted her were not becoming positively offensive in the monotonyof their solemn folds. If the cuteness and quaintness of thepoverty-stricken little English woman were not after all a source ofentertainment that she would willingly forego on occasion. The answerto these questions was a sigh that ended in another yawn.
Then Melicent threw herself into a low easy chair by the table, tookup her visiting book, and bending lazily with her arms resting on herknees, began to turn over its pages. The names which she saw thererecalled to her mind an entertainment at which she had assisted on theprevious afternoon. A progressive euchre party; and the remembrance ofwhat she had there endured now filled her soul with horror.
She thought of those hundred cackling women--of course women are nevercackling, it was Melicent's exaggerated way of expressingherself--packed into those small overheated rooms, around thosetwenty-five little tables; and how by no chance had she once foundherself with a congenial set. And how that Mrs. Van Wycke had cheated!It was plain to Melicent that she had taken advantage of having fatMiss Bloomdale for a partner, who went to euchre parties only to showher hands and rings. And little Mrs. Brinke playing against her.Little Mrs. Brinke! A woman who only the other day had read anoriginal paper entitled: "An Hour with Hegel" before her philosophyclass; who had published that dry mystical affair "Light on theInscrutable in Dante." How could such a one by any possibility besupposed to observe the disgusting action of Mrs. Van Wycke inthrowing off on her partner's trump and swooping down on the lasttrick with her right bower? Melicent would have thought it beneath herto more than look her contempt as Mrs. Van Wycke rose with atriumphant laugh to take her place at a higher table, dragging theplastic Bloomdale with her. But she did mutter to herself now, "nastythief."
"Johannah," Melicent called to her maid who sat sewing in the nextroom.
"Yes, Miss."
"You know Mrs. Van Wycke?"
"Mrs. Van Wycke, Miss? the lady with the pinted nose that I caughta-feeling of the curtains?"
"Yes, when she calls again I'm not at home. Do you understand? not athome."
"Yes, Miss."
It was gratifying enough to have thus summarily disposed of Mrs. VanWycke; but it was a source of entertainment which was soon ended.Melicent continued to turn over the pages of her visiting book duringwhich employment she came to the conclusion that these people whom shefrequented were all very tiresome. All, all of them, except Miss Drakewho had been absent in Europe for the past six months. Perhaps Mrs.Manning too, who was so seldom at home when Melicent called. Who whenat home, usually rushed down with her bonnet on, breathless with "Ican only spare you a moment, dear. It's very sweet of you to come."She was always just going to the "Home" where things had got into sucha muddle whilst she was away for a week. Or it was that "Hospital"meeting where she thought certain members were secretly conniving ather removal from the presidency which she had held for so many years.She was always reading minutes at assemblages which Melicent knewnothing about; or introducing distinguished guests to Guild roommeetings. Altogether Melicent saw very little of Mrs. Manning.
"Johannah, don't you hear the bell?"
"Yes, Miss," said Johannah, coming into the room and depositing a gownon which she had been working, on the back of a chair. "It's thatpostman," she said, as she fastened her needle to the bosom of herdress. "And such a one as he is, thinking that people must fly when heso much as touches the bell, and going off a writing of 'no answer tobell,' and me with my hand on the very door-knob."
"I notice that always happens when I'm out, Johannah; he's ringingagain."
It was Therese's letter, and as Melicent turned it about and lookedcritically at the neatly written address, it was not without a hopethat the reading of it might furnish her a moment's diversion. She didnot faint. The letter did not "fall from her nerveless clasp." Sherather held it very steadily. But she grew a shade paler and lookedlong into the fire. When she had read it three times she folded itslowly and carefully and locked it away in her desk.
"Johannah."
"Yes, Miss."
"Put that gown away; I shan't need it."
"Yes, Miss; and all the beautiful passmantry that you bought?"
"It makes no difference, I shan't use it. What's become of that blackcamel's-hair that Mrs. Gauche spoiled so last winter?"
"It's laid away, Miss, the same in the cedar chest as the day it camehome from her hands and no more fit, that I'd be a shame meself and noclaims to a dress-maker. And there's many a lady that she never wouldhave seen a cent, let alone making herself pay for the spiling of it."
"Well, well, Johannah, never mind. Get it out, we'll see what can bedone with it. I've had some painful news, and I shall wear mourningfor a long, long time."
"Oh, Miss, it's not Mr. David! nor yet one of those sweet relations inUtica? leastways not I hope that beautiful Miss Gertrude, with suchhair as I never see for the goldness of it and not dyed, except mecousin that's a nun, that her mother actually cried when it was cutoff?"
"No, Johannah; only a very dear friend."
There were a few social engagements to be cancelled; and regrets to besent out, which she attended to immediately. Then she turned again tolook long into the fire. That crime for which she had scorned him, waswiped out now by expiation. For a long time--how long she could notyet determine--she would wrap herself in garb of mourning and moveabout in sorrowing--giving evasive answer to the curious whoquestioned her. Now might she live again through those summer monthswith Gregoire--those golden afternoons in the pine woods--whose aromaeven now came back to her. She might look again into his loving browneyes; feel beneath her touch the softness of his curls. She recalled aday when he had said, "Neva to see you--my God!" and how he hadtrembled. She recalled--strangely enough and for the first time--thatone kiss, and a little tremor brought the hot color to her cheek.
Was she in love with Gregoire now that he was dead? Perhaps. At allevents, for the next month, Melicent would not be bored.