by Kate Chopin
XIV
A Step Too Far.
Who of us has not known the presence of Misery? Perhaps as thosefortunate ones whom he has but touched as he passed them by. It may bethat we see but a promise of him as we look into the prophetic facesof children; into the eyes of those we love, and the awfulness oflife's possibilities presses into our souls. Do we fly him? hearinghim gain upon us panting close at our heels, till we turn from thedesperation of uncertainty to grapple with him? In close scuffle wemay vanquish him. Fleeing, we may elude him. But what if he creep intothe sanctuary of our lives, with his subtle omnipresence, that we donot see in all its horror till we are disarmed; thrusting the burdenof his companionship upon us to the end! However we turn he is there.However we shrink he is there. However we come or go, or sleep or wakehe is before us. Till the keen sense grows dull with apathy at lookingon him, and he becomes like the familiar presence of sin.
Into such callousness had Hosmer fallen. He had ceased to bruise hissoul in restless endeavor of resistance. When the awful presence boretoo closely upon him, he would close his eyes and brave himself toendurance. Yet Fate might have dealt him worse things.
But a man's misery is after all his own, to make of it what he will orwhat he can. And shall we be fools, wanting to lighten it with ourplatitudes?
My friend, your trouble I know weighs. That you should be driven byearthly needs to drag the pinioned spirit of your days through rut andmire. But think of the millions who are doing the like. Or is it yourboy, that part of your own self and that other dearer self, who iswalking in evil ways? Why, I know a man whose son was hanged the otherday; hanged on the gibbet; think of it. If you be quivering while thesurgeon cuts away that right arm, remember the poor devil in thehospital yesterday who had both his sawed off.
Oh, have done, with your mutilated men and your sons on gibbets! Whatare they to me? My hurt is greater than all, because it is my own. Ifit be only that day after day I must look with warm entreaty into eyesthat are cold. Let it be but that peculiar trick of feature which Ihave come to hate, seen each morning across the breakfast table. Thatrecurrent pin-prick: it hurts. The blow that lays the heart in twain:it kills. Let be mine which will; it is the one that counts.
If Misery kill a man, that ends it. But Misery seldom deals sosummarily with his victims. And while they are spared to earth, wefind them usually sustaining life after the accepted fashion.
Hosmer was seated at table, having finished his breakfast. He had alsofinished glancing over the contents of a small memorandum book, whichhe replaced in his pocket. He then looked at his wife sitting oppositehim, but turned rather hastily to gaze with a certain entreaty intothe big kind eyes of the great shaggy dog who stood--the shamelessbeggar--at his side.
"I knew there was something wrong," he said abruptly, with his eyesstill fixed on the dog, and his fingers thrust into the animal'smatted wool, "Where's the mail this morning?"
"I don't know if that stupid boy's gone for it or not. I told him. Youcan't depend on any one in a place like this."
Fanny had scarcely touched the breakfast before her, and now pushedaside her cup still half filled with coffee.
"Why, how's that? Sampson seems to do the right thing."
"Yes, Sampson; but he ain't here. That boy of Minervy's been doing hiswork all morning."
Minervy's boy was even now making his appearance, carrying a goodsized bundle of papers and letters, with which he walked boldly up toHosmer, plainly impressed with the importance of this new role.
"Well, colonel; so you've taken Sampson's place?" Hosmer observed,receiving the mail from the boy's little black paws.
"My name's Major, suh. Maje; dats my name. I ain't tuck Sampson'splace: no, suh."
"Oh, he's having a day off--" Hosmer went on, smiling quizzingly atthe dapper little darkey, and handing him a red apple from the dish offruit standing in the center of the table. Maje received it with avery unmilitary bob of acknowledgment.
"He yonda home 'cross de riva, suh. He ben too late fu' kotch deflat's mornin' An' he holla an' holla. He know dey warn't gwine crossdat flat 'gin jis' fu' Sampson."
Hosmer had commenced to open his letters. Fanny with her elbows on thetable, asked the boy--with a certain uneasiness in her voice--"Ain'the coming at all to-day? Don't he know all the work he's got to do?His mother ought to make him."
"Don't reckon. Dat away Sampson: he git mad he stay mad," with whichassurance Maje vanished through the rear door, towards the region ofthe kitchen, to seek more substantial condiments than the apple whichhe still clutched firmly.
One of the letters was for Fanny, which her husband handed her. Whenhe had finished reading his own, he seemed disposed to linger, for hetook from the fruit dish the mate to the red apple he had given Maje,and commenced to peel it with his clasp knife.
"What has our friend Belle Worthington to say for herself?" heinquired good humoredly. "How does she get on with those Creoles downthere?"
"You know as well as I do, Belle Worthington ain't going to mix withCreoles. She can't talk French if she wanted to. She says Muddy-Grawdon't begin to compare with the Veiled Prophets. It's just what Ithought--with their 'Muddy-Graw,' " Fanny added, contemptuously.
"Coming from such high authority, we'll consider that verdict a finalclincher," Hosmer laughed a little provokingly.
Fanny was looking again through the several sheets of BelleWorthington's letter. "She says if I'll agree to go back with her,she'll pass this way again."
"Well, why don't you? A little change wouldn't hurt."
" 'Tain't because I want to stay here, Lord knows. A God-forsakenplace like this. I guess you'd be glad enough," she added, with voiceshaking a little at her own boldness.
He closed his knife, placed it in his pocket, and looked at his wife,completely puzzled.
The power of speech had come to her, for she went on, in an unnaturaltone, however, and fumbling nervously with the dishes before her. "I'mfool enough about some things, but I ain't quite such a fool as that."
"What are you talking about, Fanny?"
"That woman wouldn't ask anything better than for me to go to St.Louis."
Hosmer was utterly amazed. He leaned his arms on the table, claspinghis hands together and looked at his wife.
"That woman? Belle Worthington? What _do_ you mean, any way?"
"I don't mean Belle Worthington," she said excitedly, with two deepred spots in her cheeks. "I'm talking about Mrs. Laferm."
He thrust his hand into his pockets and leaned back in his chair. Noamazement now, but very pale, and with terrible concentration ofglance.
"Well, then, don't talk about Mrs. Lafirme," he said very slowly, nottaking his eyes from her face.
"I will talk about her, too. She ain't worth talking about," sheblurted incoherently. "It's time for somebody to talk about a womanpassing herself off for a saint, and trying to take other women'shusbands--"
"Shut up!" cried Hosmer maddened with sudden fury, and risingviolently from his chair.
"I won't shut up," Fanny cried excitedly back at him; rising also."And what's more I won't stay here and have you making love under myvery eyes to a woman that's no better than she ought to be."
She meant to say more, but Hosmer grasped her arm with such a grasp,that had it been her throat she would never have spoken more. Theother hand went to his pocket, with fingers clutching the clasp knifethere.
"By heaven--I'll--kill you!" every word weighted with murder, pantedclose in her terrified face. What she would have uttered died upon herpale lips, when her frightened eyes beheld the usually calm face ofher husband distorted by a passion of which she had not dreamed.
"David," she faltered, "let go my arm."
Her voice broke the spell that held him, and brought him again to hissenses. His fingers slowly relaxed their tense hold. A sigh that wassomething between a moan and a gasp came with his deliverance andshook him. All the horror now was in his own face as he seized his hatand hurried speechless away.
Fanny remained for a little while dazed. Hers was not the fine naturethat would stay cruelly stunned after such a scene. Her immediateterror being past, the strongest resultant emotion was one ofself-satisfaction at having spoken out her mind.
But there was a stronger feeling yet, moving and possessing her;crowding out every other. A pressing want that only Sampson's comingwould relieve, and which bade fair to drive her to any extremity if itwere not appeased.