by Kate Chopin
XVI
To Him Who Waits.
The air was filled with the spring and all its promises. Full with thesound of it, the smell of it, the deliciousness of it. Such sweet air;soft and strong, like the touch of a brave woman's hand. The air of anearly March day in New Orleans. It was folly to shut it out from nookor cranny. Worse than folly the lady thought who was making futileendeavors to open the car window near which she sat. Her face hadgrown pink with the effort. She had bit firmly into her red netherlip, making it all the redder; and then sat down from theunaccomplished feat to look ruefully at the smirched finger tips ofher Parisian gloves. This flavor of Paris was well about her; in thefolds of her graceful wrap that set to her fine shoulders. It wasplainly a part of the little black velvet toque that rested on herblonde hair. Even the umbrella and one small valise which she had justlaid on the seat opposite her, had Paris written plain upon them.
These were impressions which the little grey-garbed conventionalfigure, some seats removed, had been noting since the striking ladyhad entered the car. Points likely to have escaped a man, who--unlessa minutely observant one,--would only have seen that she was handsomeand worthy of an admiration that he might easily fancy rising todevotion.
Beside herself and the little grey-garbed figure was an interestingfamily group at the far end of the car. A husband, but doubly afather, surrounded and sat upon by a small band of offspring. Awife--presumably a mother--absorbed with the view of the outside worldand the elaborate gold chain that hung around her neck.
The presence of a large valise, an overcoat, a cane and an umbrelladisposed on another seat, bespoke a further occupant, likely to be atpresent in the smoking car.
The train pushed out from the depot. The porter finally made tardyhaste to the assistance of the lady who had been attempting to openthe window, and when the fresh morning air came blowing in upon herTherese leaned back in her seat with a sigh of content.
There was a full day's journey before her. She would not reachPlace-du-Bois before dark, but she did not shrink from those hoursthat were to be passed alone. She rather welcomed the quiet of themafter a visit to New Orleans full of pleasant disturbances. She waseager to be home again. She loved Place-du-Bois with a love that wasreal; that had grown deep since it was the one place in the worldwhich she could connect with the presence of David Hosmer. She hadoften wondered--indeed was wondering now--if the memory of thosehappenings to which he belonged would ever grow strange and far awayto her. It was a trick of memory with which she indulged herself onoccasion, this one of retrospection. Beginning with that June day whenshe had sat in the hall and watched the course of a white sunshadeover the tops of the bending corn.
Such idle thoughts they were with their mingling of bitter andsweet--leading nowhere. But she clung to them and held to them as ifto a refuge which she might again and again return to.
The picture of that one terrible day of Fanny's death, stood out insharp prominent lines; a touch of the old agony always coming back asshe remembered how she had believed Hosmer dead too--lying so pale andbleeding before her. Then the parting which had held not so much ofsorrow as of awe and bewilderment in it: when sick, wounded and brokenhe had gone away at once with the dead body of his wife; when the twohad clasped hands without words that dared be uttered.
But that was a year ago. And Therese thought many things might comeabout in a year. Anyhow, might not such length of time be hoped to rubthe edge off a pain that was not by its nature lasting?
That time of acute trouble seemed to have thrown Hosmer back upon hisold diffidence. The letter he wrote her after a painful illness whichprostrated him on his arrival in St. Louis, was stiff and formal, asmen's letters are apt to be, though it had breathed an untold story ofloyalty which she had felt at the time, and still cherished. Otherletters--a few--had gone back and forth between them, till Hosmer hadgone away to the sea-shore with Melicent, to recuperate, and Junecoming, Therese had sailed from New Orleans for Paris, whither she hadpassed six months.
Things had not gone well at Place-du-Bois during her absence, theimpecunious old kinsman whom she had left in charge, having a decidedpreference for hunting the _Gros-Bec_ and catching trout in the laketo supervising the methods of a troublesome body of blacks. So Theresehad had much to engage her thoughts from the morbid channel into whichthose of a more idle woman might have drifted.
She went occasionally enough to the mill. There at least she wasalways sure to hear Hosmer's name--and what a charm the sound of ithad for her. And what a delight it was to her eyes when she caughtsight of an envelope lying somewhere on desk or table of the office,addressed in his handwriting. That was a weakness which she could notpardon herself; but which staid with her, seeing that the sametrifling cause never failed to awaken the same unmeasured delight. Shehad even trumped up an excuse one day for carrying off one of Hosmer'sbusiness letters--indeed of the dryest in substance, and which, whenhalf-way home, she had torn into the smallest bits and scattered tothe winds, so overcome was she by a sense of her own absurdity.
Therese had undergone the ordeal of having her ticket scrutinized,commented upon and properly punched by the suave conductor. The littleconventional figure had given over the contemplation of Parisianstyles and betaken herself to the absorbing pages of a novel which sheread through smoked glasses. The husband and father had peeled anddistributed his second outlay of bananas amongst his family. It was atthis moment that Therese, looking towards the door, saw Hosmer enterthe car.
She must have felt his presence somewhere near; his being there andcoming towards her was so much a part of her thoughts. She held outher hand to him and made place beside her, as if he had left her but ahalf hour before. All the astonishment was his. But he pressed herhand and took the seat she offered him.
"You knew I was on the train?" he asked.
"Oh, no, how should I?"
Then naturally followed question and answer.
Yes, he was going to Place-du-Bois.
No, the mill did not require his presence; it had been very wellmanaged during his absence.
Yes, she had been to New Orleans. Had had a very agreeable visit.Beautiful weather for city dwellers. But such dryness. So disastrousto the planters.
Yes--quite likely there would be rain next month: there usually was inApril. But indeed there was need of more than April showers for thatstiff land--that strip along the bayou, if he remembered? Oh, heremembered quite well, but for all that he did not know what she wastalking about. She did not know herself. Then they grew silent; notfrom any feeling of the absurdity of such speech between them, foreach had but listened to the other's voice. They became silentlyabsorbed by the consciousness of each other's nearness. She waslooking at his hand that rested on his knee, and thinking it fullerthan she remembered it before. She was aware of some change in himwhich she had not the opportunity to define; but this firmness andfullness of the hand was part of it. She looked up into his face then,to find the same change there, together with a new content. But whatshe noted beside was the dull scar on his forehead, coming out like ared letter when his eyes looked into her own. The sight of it was likea hurt. She had forgotten it might be there, telling its story of painthrough the rest of his life.
"Therese," Hosmer said finally, "won't you look at me?"
She was looking from the window. She did not turn her head, but herhand went out and met his that was on the seat close beside her. Heheld it firmly; but soon with an impatient movement drew down theloose wristlet of her glove and clasped his fingers around her warmwrist.
"Therese," he said again; but more unsteadily, "look at me."
"Not here," she answered him, "not now, I mean." And presently shedrew her hand away from him and held it for a moment pressed firmlyover her eyes. Then she looked at him with brave loving glance.
"It's been so long," she said, with the suspicion of a sigh.
"Too long," he returned, "I couldn't have borne it but for you--thethought of you always present with me; hel
ping me to take myself outof the past. That was why I waited--till I could come to you free.Have you an idea, I wonder, how you have been a promise, and can bethe fulfillment of every good that life may give to a man?"
"No, I don't know," she said a little hopelessly, taking his handagain, "I have seen myself at fault in following what seemed the onlyright. I feel as if there were no way to turn for the truth. Oldsupports appear to be giving way beneath me. They were so securebefore. It commenced, you remember--oh, you know when it must havebegun. But do you think, David, that it's right we should find ourhappiness out of that past of pain and sin and trouble?"
"Therese," said Hosmer firmly, "the truth in its entirety isn't givento man to know--such knowledge, no doubt, would be beyond humanendurance. But we make a step towards it, when we learn that there isrottenness and evil in the world, masquerading as right andmorality--when we learn to know the living spirit from the deadletter. I have not cared to stop in this struggle of life to question.You, perhaps, wouldn't dare to alone. Together, dear one, we will workit out. Be sure there is a way--we may not find it in the end, but wewill at least have tried."
XVII
Conclusion.
One month after their meeting on the train, Hosmer and Therese hadgone together to Centerville where they had been made one, as thesaying goes, by the good Pere Antoine; and without more ado, haddriven back to Place-du-Bois: Mr. and Mrs. Hosmer. The event hadcaused more than the proverbial nine days' talk. Indeed, now, twomonths after, it was still the absorbing theme that occupied thedwellers of the parish: and such it promised to remain till supplantedby something of sufficient dignity and importance to usurp its place.
But of the opinions, favorable and other, that were being exchangedregarding them and their marriage, Hosmer and Therese heard little andwould have cared less, so absorbed were they in the overmasteringhappiness that was holding them in thralldom. They could not yet bringthemselves to look at it calmly--this happiness. Even the intoxicationof it seemed a thing that promised to hold. Through love they hadsought each other, and now the fulfillment of that love had broughtmore than tenfold its promise to both. It was a royal love; a generouslove and a rich one in its revelation. It was a magician that hadtouched life for them and changed it into a glory. In giving them toeach other, it was moving them to the fullness of their owncapabilities. Much to do in two little months; but what cannot lovedo?
"Could it give a woman more than this?" Therese was saying softly toherself. Her hands were clasped as in prayer and pressed togetheragainst her bosom. Her head bowed and her lips touching theintertwined fingers. She spoke of her own emotion; of a certain sweetturmoil that was stirring within her, as she stood out in the softJune twilight waiting for her husband to come. Waiting to hear the newring in his voice that was like a song of joy. Waiting to see that newstrength and courage in his face, of whose significance she lostnothing. To see the new light that had come in his eyes withhappiness. All gifts which love had given her.
"Well, at last," she said, going to the top of the steps to meet himwhen he came. Her welcome was in her eyes.
"At last," he echoed, with a sigh of relief; pressing her hand whichshe held out to him and raising it to his lips.
He did not let it go, but passed it through his arm, and together theyturned to walk up and down the veranda.
"You didn't expect me at noon, did you?" he asked, looking down ather.
"No; you said you'd be likely not to come; but I hoped for you all thesame. I thought you'd manage it some way."
"No," he answered her, laughing, "my efforts failed. I used evenstrategy. Held out the temptation of your delightful Creole dishes andall that. Nothing was of any avail. They were all business and I hadto be all business too, the whole day long. It was horribly stupid."
She pressed his arm significantly.
"And do you think they will put all that money into the mill, David?Into the business?"
"No doubt of it, dear. But they're shrewd fellows: didn't committhemselves in any way. Yet I could see they were impressed. We rodefor hours through the woods this morning and they didn't leave a stickof timber unscrutinized. We were out on the lake, too, and they werelike ferrets into every cranny of the mill."
"But won't that give you more to do?"
"No, it will give me less: division of labor, don't you see? It willgive me more time to be with you."
"And to help with the plantation," his wife suggested.
"No, no, Madame Therese," he laughed, "I'll not rob you of youroccupation. I'll put no bungling hand into your concerns. I know asound piece of timber when I see it; but I should hardly be able totell a sample of Sea Island cotton from the veriest low middling."
"Oh, that's absurd, David. Do you know you're getting to talk suchnonsense since we're married; you remind me sometimes of Melicent."
"Of Melicent? Heaven forbid! Why, I have a letter from her," he said,feeling in his breast pocket. "The size and substance of it haveactually weighted my pocket the whole day."
"Melicent talking weighty things? That's something new," said Thereseinterested.
"Is Melicent ever anything else than new?" he enquired.
They went and sat together on the bench at the corner of the veranda,where the fading Western light came over their shoulders. A quizzicalsmile came into his eyes as he unfolded his sister's letter--withTherese still holding his arm and sitting very close to him.
"Well," he said, glancing over the first few pages--his wifefollowing--"she's given up her charming little flat and her quaintlittle English woman: concludes I was right about the expense, etc.,etc. But here comes the gist of the matter," he said, reading from theletter--" 'I know you won't object to the trip, David, I have my heartso set on it. The expense will be trifling, seeing there are four ofus to divide carriage hire, restaurant and all that: and it counts.
" 'If you only knew Mrs. Griesmann I'd feel confident of your consent.You'd be perfectly fascinated with her. She's one of those highlygifted women who knows everything. She's very much interested in me.Thinks to have found that I have a quick comprehensive intellectualism(she calls it) that has been misdirected. I think there is somethingin that, David; you know yourself I never did care really for society.She says it's impossible to ever come to a true knowledge of life asit is--which should be every one's aim--without studying certainfundamental truths and things.' "
"Oh," breathed Therese, overawed.
"But wait--but listen," said Hosmer, " 'Natural History and allthat--and we're going to take that magnificent trip through theWest--the Yosemite and so forth. It appears the flora of California isespecially interesting and we're to carry those delicious little tinboxes strapped over our shoulders to hold specimens. Her son anddaughter are both, in their way, striking. He isn't handsome; ratherthe contrary; but so serene and collected--so intensely bitter--hismother tells me he's a pessimist. And the daughter really puts me toshame, child as she is, with the amount of her knowledge. She labelsall her mother's specimens in Latin. Oh, I feel there's so much to belearned. Mrs. Griesmann thinks I ought to wear glasses during thetrip. Says we often require them without knowing it ourselves--thatthey are so restful. She has some theory about it. I'm trying a pair,and see a great deal better through them than I expected to. Only theydon't hold on very well, especially when I laugh.
" 'Who do you suppose seized on to me in Vandervoort's the other day,but that impertinent Mrs. Belle Worthington! Positively took me by thecoat and commenced to gush about dear sister Therese. She said: "Itell you what, my dear--" called me my dear at the highest pitch, andthat odious Mrs. Van Wycke behind us listening and pretending toexamine a lace handkerchief. "That Mrs. Lafirme's a trump," shesaid--"too good for most any man. Hope you won't take offense, but Imust say, your brother David's a perfect stick--it's what I alwayssaid." Can you conceive of such shocking impertinence?'
"Well; Belle Worthington does possess the virtue of candor," saidHosmer amused and folding the letter. "That's about all there is,e
xcept a piece of scandal concerning people you don't know; thatwouldn't interest you."
"But it would interest me," Therese insisted, with a little wifelyresentment that her husband should have a knowledge of people thatexcluded her.
"Then you shall hear it," he said, turning to the letter again. "Let'ssee--'conceive--shocking impertinence--' oh, here it is.
" 'Don't know if you have learned the horrible scandal; too dreadfulto talk about. I shall send you the paper. I always knew that LouDawson was a perfidious creature--and Bert Rodney! You never did likehim, David; but he was always so much the gentleman in hismanners--you must admit that. Who could have dreamed it of him. PoorMrs. Rodney is after all the one to be pitied. She is utterlyprostrated. Refuses to see even her most intimate friends. It all cameof those two vile wretches thinking Jack Dawson out of town when hewasn't; for he was right there following them around in theirperambulations. And the outcome is that Mr. Rodney has his beautyspoiled they say forever; the shot came very near being fatal. Butpoor, poor Mrs. Rodney!
" 'Well, good-bye, you dearest David mine. How I wish you both knewMrs. Griesmann. Give that sweet sister Therese as many kisses as shewill stand for me.
Melicent.' "
This time Hosmer put the letter into his pocket, and Therese askedwith a little puzzled air: "What do you suppose is going to become ofMelicent, anyway, David?"
"I don't know, love, unless she marries my friend Homeyer."
"Now, David, you are trying to mystify me. I believe there's a streakof perversity in you after all."
"Of course there is; and here comes Mandy to say that 'suppa's gittin'cole.' "
"Aunt B'lindy 'low suppa on de table gittin' cole," said Mandy,retreating at once from the fire of their merriment.
Therese arose and held her two hands out to her husband.
He took them but did not rise; only leaned further back on the seatand looked up at her.
"Oh, supper's a bore; don't you think so?" he asked.
"No, I don't," she replied. "I'm hungry, and so are you. Come, David."
"But look, Therese, just when the moon has climbed over the top ofthat live-oak? We can't go now. And then Melicent's request; we mustthink about that."
"Oh, surely not, David," she said, drawing back.
"Then let me tell you something," and he drew her head down andwhispered something in her pink ear that he just brushed with hislips. It made Therese laugh and turn very rosy in the moonlight.
Can that be Hosmer? Is this Therese? Fie, fie. It is time we wereleaving them.