by Kate Chopin
“You want to see dem niggas sneaking ’way,” resumed Pierson, “dey knows Grégor gwine fo’ce ’em drink; dey knows Chartrand gwine make it hot fu’ ’em art’ards ef dey does. Grégor he spie me jis’ I’se tryin’ glide frough de doo’ an he call out, ‘Yonda a gemmen f’um Place-du-Bois; Pierson, come heah; you’se good ’nough tu drink wid any w’ite man, ’cept me; you come heah, take drink wid Mr. Louis Chartrand.’
“I ’lows don’t wants no drink, much ’bleege, Marse Grégor. ‘Yis, you wants drink,’ an’ ’id dat he draws he pistol. ‘Mista Chartrand want drink, too. I done owe Mista Chartrand somethin’ dis long time; I’se gwine pay ’im wid a treat,’ he say. Chartrand look like he on fiar, he so red, he so mad, he swell up same like ole bull frog.”
“Dat make no odd,” chuckled Aunt Belindy, “he gwine drink wid nigga ef Grégor say so.”
“Yes, he drink, Lord, only he cuss me slow, an’ ’low he gwine break my skull.”
“Lordy! I knows you was jis’ a trimblin’, Mista Pierson.”
“Warn’t trimblin’ no mo’ ’en I’se tremblin’ dis minute, an’ you drap dat ‘Mista.’ Den w’at you reckon? Yonda come Père Antoine; he come an’ stan’ in de doo’ an’ he hole up he han’; look like he ain’t ’feard no body an’ he ’low: ‘Grégor Sanchun, how is you dar’ come in dis heah peaceful town frowin’ of it into disorda an’ confusion? Ef you isn’t ’feard o’ man; hasn’t you got no fear o’ God A’mighty wat punishes?’
“Grégor, he look at ’im an’ he say cool like, ‘Howdy, Père Antoine; how you come on?’ He got he pistol w’at he draw fu’ make Chartrand drink wid dis heah nigga,—he foolin’ wid it an’ a rubbin’ it up and down he pants, an’ he ’low ‘Dis a gemmen w’at fit to drink wid a Sanchun—w’at’ll you have?’ But Père Antoine, he go on makin’ a su’mon same like he make in chu’ch, an’ Grégor, he lean he two arm back on de counta—kine o’ smilin’ like, an’ he say, ‘Chartrand, whar dat bottle I orda you put up?’ Chartrand bring de bottle; Grégor, he put de bottle in he coat pocket wat hang on he arm—car’ful.
“Père Antoine, he go on preachin’, he say, ‘I tell you dis young man, you ’se on de big road w’at leads tu hell.’
“Den Grégor straight he se’f up an’ walk close to Père Antoine an’ he say, ‘Hell an’ damnation dar ain’t no sich a place. I reckon she know; w’at you know side o’ her. She say dar ain’t no hell, an’ ef you an’ de Archbishop an’ de Angel Gabriel come along an’ ’low dey a hell, you all liars,’ an’ he say, ‘Make way dah, I’se a gittin’ out o’ heah; dis ain’t no town fittin’ to hol’ a Sanchun. Make way ef you don’ wants to go to Kingdom come fo’ you’ time.’
“Well, I ’lows dey did make way. Only Père Antoine, he look mighty sorry an’ down cas’.
“Grégor go out dat sto’ taking plenty room, an’ walkin’ car’ful like, an’ he swing he se’f on de hoss; den he lean down mos’ flat an’ stick he spurs in dat hoss an’ he go tar’in’ like de win’ down street, out o’ de town, a firin’ he pistol up in de a’r.”
Uncle Hiram had listened to the foregoing recital with troubled countenance, and with many a protesting groan. He now shook his old white head, and heaved a deep sigh. “All dat gwine come hard an’ heavy on de madam. She don’t desarve it—God knows, she don’t desarve it.”
“How you, ole like you is, kin look fu’ somethin’ diffunt, Unc’ Hiurm?” observed Aunt Belindy philosophically. “Don’t you know Grégor gwine be Grégor tell he die? Dat’s all dar is ’bout it.”
Betsy arose with the sudden recollection that she had let the time pass for bringing in Miss Thérèse’s hot water, and Pierson went to the stove to see what Aunt Belindy had reserved for him in the shape of supper.
IX. THE REASON WHY
SAMPSON, THE YOUNG colored boy who had lighted Fanny’s fire on the first day of her arrival at Place-du-Bois, and who had made such insinuating advances of friendliness towards her, had continued to attract her notice and good will. He it was who lighted her fires on such mornings as they were needed. For there had been no winter. In mid-January, the grass was fresh and green; trees and plants were putting forth tender shoots, as if in welcome to spring; roses were blossoming, and it was a veritable atmosphere of Havana rather than of central Louisiana that the dwellers at Place-du-Bois were enjoying. But finally winter made tardy assertion of its rights. One morning broke raw and black with an icy rain falling, and young Sampson arriving in the early bleakness to attend to his duties at the cottage, presented a picture of human distress to move the most hardened to pity. Though dressed comfortably in the clothing with which Fanny had apparelled him—he was ashen. Save for the chattering of his teeth, his body seemed possessed of a paraletic inability to move. He knelt before the empty fire-place as he had done on that first day, and with deep sighs and groans went about his work. Then he remained long before the warmth that he had kindled; even lying full length upon the soft rug, to bask in the generous heat that permeated and seemed to thaw his stiffened limbs.
Next, he went quietly into the bedroom to attend to the fire there. Hosmer and Fanny were still sleeping. He approached a decorated basket that hung against the wall; a receptacle for old newspapers and odds and ends. He drew something from his rather capacious coat pocket, and, satisfying himself that Hosmer slept, thrust it in the bottom of the basket, well covered by the nondescript accumulation that was there.
The house was very warm and cheerful when they arose, and after breakfasting Hosmer felt unusually reluctant to quit his fire-side and face the inclement day; for an unaccustomed fatigue hung upon his limbs and his body was sore, as from the effect of bruises. But he went, nevertheless, well incased in protective rubber; and as he turned away from the house, Fanny hastened to the hanging basket, and fumbling nervously in its depths, found what the complaisant Sampson had left for her.
The cold rain had gradually changed into a fine mist, that in descending, spread an icy coat upon every object that it touched. When Hosmer returned at noon, he did not leave the house again.
During the afternoon Thérèse knocked at Fanny’s door. She was enveloped in a long hooded cloak, her face glowing from contact with the sharp moist air, and myriad crystal drops clinging to her fluffy blonde hair that looked very golden under the dark hood that covered it. She wanted to learn how Fanny accepted this unpleasant change of atmospheric conditions, intending to bear her company for the remainder of the day if she found her depressed, as was often the case.
“Why, I didn’t know you were home,” she said, a little startled, to Hosmer who opened the door to her. “I came over to show Mrs. Hosmer something pretty that I don’t suppose she ever saw before.” It was a branch from a rose-tree, bearing two open blossoms and a multitude of buds, creamy pink, all encased in an icy transparency that gleamed like diamonds. “Isn’t it exquisite?” she said, holding the spray up for Fanny’s admiration. But she saw at a glance that the spirit of Disorder had descended and settled upon the Hosmer household.
The usually neat room was in a sad state of confusion. Some of the pictures had been taken from the walls, and were leaning here and there against chairs and tables. The mantel ornaments had been removed and deposited at random and in groups about the room. On the hearth was a pail of water in which swam a huge sponge; and Fanny sat beside the center-table that was piled with her husband’s wearing apparel, holding in her lap a coat which she had evidently been passing under inspection. Her hair had escaped from its fastenings; her collar was hooked away; her face was flushed and her whole bearing indicated her condition.
Hosmer took the frozen spray from Thérèse’s hand, and spoke a little about the beauty of the trees, especially the young cedars that he had passed out in the hills on his way home.
“It’s all well and good to talk about flowers and things, Mrs. Lafirme—sit down please—but when a person’s got the job that I’ve got on my hands, she’s something else to think about. And David here smoking one cigar after
another. He knows all I’ve got to do, and goes and sends those darkies home right after dinner.”
Thérèse was so shocked that for a while she could say nothing; till for Hosmer’s sake she made a quick effort to appear at ease.
“What have you to do, Mrs. Hosmer? Let me help you, I can give you the whole afternoon,” she said with an appearance of being ready for any thing that was at hand to be done.
Fanny turned the coat over in her lap, and looked down helplessly at a stain on the collar, that she had been endeavoring to remove; at the same time pushing aside with patient repetition the whisp of hair that kept falling over her cheek.
“Belle Worthington’ll be here before we know it; her and her husband and that Lucilla of hers. David knows how Belle Worthington is, just as well as I do; there’s no use saying he don’t. If she was to see a speck of dirt in this house or on David’s clothes, or anything, why we’d never hear the last of it. I got a letter from her,” she continued, letting the coat fall to the floor, whilst she endeavored to find her pocket.
“Is she coming to visit you?” asked Thérèse who had taken up a feather brush, and was dusting and replacing the various ornaments that were scattered through the room.
“She’s going down to Muddy Graw (Mardi-Gras) her and her husband and Lucilla and she’s going to stop here a while. I had that letter—I guess I must of left it in the other room.”
“Never mind,” Thérèse hastened to say, seeing that her whole energies were centered on finding the letter.
“Let me look,” said Hosmer, making a movement towards the bedroom door, but Fanny had arisen and holding out a hand to detain him she went into the room herself, saying she knew where she’d left it.
“Is this the reason you’ve kept yourself shut up here in the house so often?” Thérèse asked of Hosmer, drawing near him. “Never telling me a word of it,” she went on, “it wasn’t right; it wasn’t kind.”
“Why should I have put any extra burden on you?” he answered, looking down at her, and feeling a joy in her presence there, that seemed like a guilty indulgence in face of his domestic shame.
“Don’t stay,” Thérèse said. “Leave me here. Go to your office or over to the house—leave me alone with her.”
Fanny returned, having found the letter, and spoke with increased vehemence of the necessity of having the house in perfect trim against the arrival of Belle Worthington, from whom they would never hear the last, and so forth.
“Well, your husband is going out, and that will give us a chance to get things righted,” said Thérèse encouragingly. “You know men are always in the way at such times.”
“It’s what he ought to done before; and left Suze and Minervy here,” she replied with grudging acquiescence.
After repeated visits to the bedroom, under various pretexts, Fanny grew utterly incapable to do more than sit and gaze stupidly at Thérèse, who busied herself in bringing the confusion of the sitting-room into some order.
She continued to talk disjointedly of Belle Worthington and her well-known tyrannical characteristics in regard to cleanliness; finishing by weeping mildly at the prospect of her own inability to ever reach the high standard required by her exacting friend.
It was far in the afternoon—verging upon night, when Thérèse succeeded in persuading her that she was ill and should go to bed. She gladly seized upon the suggestion of illness; assuring Thérèse that she alone had guessed her affliction: that whatever was thought singular in her behavior must be explained by that sickness which was past being guessed at—then she went to bed.
It was late when Hosmer left his office; a rough temporary shanty, put together near the ruined mill.
He started out slowly on his long cold ride. His physical malaise of the morning had augmented as the day went on, and he was beginning to admit to himself that he was “in for it.”
But the cheerless ride was lightened by a picture that had been with him through the afternoon, and that moved him in his whole being, as the moment approached when it might be changed to reality. He knew Fanny’s habits; knew that she would be sleeping now. Thérèse would not leave her there alone in the house—of that he was sure. And he pictured Thérèse at this moment seated at his fire-side. He would find her there when he entered. His heart beat tumultuously at the thought. It was a very weak moment with him, possibly, one in which his unnerved condition stood for some account. But he felt that when he saw her there, waiting for him, he would cast himself at her feet and kiss them. He would crush her white hands against his bosom. He would bury his face in her silken hair. She should know how strong his love was, and he would hold her in his arms till she yield back tenderness to his own. But—Thérèse met him on the steps. As he was mounting them, she was descending; wrapped in her long cloak, her pretty head covered by the dark hood.
“Oh, are you going?” he asked.
She heard the note of entreaty in his voice.
“Yes,” she answered, “I shouldn’t have left her before you came; but I knew you were here; I heard your horse’s tread a moment ago. She’s asleep. Good night. Take courage and have a brave heart,” she said, pressing his hand a moment in both hers, and was gone.
The room was as he had pictured it; order restored and the fire blazing brightly. On the table was a pot of hot tea and a tempting little supper laid. But he pushed it all aside and buried his face down upon the table into his folded arms, groaning aloud. Physical suffering; thwarted love, and at the same time a feeling of self-condemnation, made him wish that life were ended for him.
Fanny awoke close upon morning, not knowing what had aroused her. She was for a little while all bewildered and unable to collect herself. She soon learned the cause of her disturbance. Hosmer was tossing about and his outstretched arm lay across her face, where it had evidently been flung with some violence. She took his hand to move it away, and it burned her like a coal of fire. As she touched him he started and began to talk incoherently. He evidently fancied himself dictating a letter to some insurance company, in no pleased terms—of which Fanny caught but snatches. Then:
“That’s too much, Mrs. Lafirme; too much—too much—Don’t let Grégoire burn—take him from the fire, some one. Thirty days’ credit—shipment made on tenth,” he rambled on at intervals in his troubled sleep.
Fanny trembled with apprehension as she heard him. Surely he had brain fever she thought, and she laid her hand gently on his burning forehead. He covered it with his own, muttering “Thérèse, Thérèse—so good—let me love you.”
X. PERPLEXING THINGS
“LUCILLA!”
The pale, drooping girl started guiltily at her mother’s sharp exclamation, and made an effort to throw back her shoulders. Then she bit her nails nervously, but soon desisted, remembering that that also, as well as yielding to a relaxed tendency of the spinal column, was a forbidden indulgence.
“Put on your hat and go on out and get a breath of fresh air; you’re as white as milk-man’s cream.”
Lucilla rose and obeyed her mother’s order with the precision of a soldier, following the directions of his commander.
“How submissive and gentle your daughter is,” remarked Thérèse.
“Well, she’s got to be, and she knows it. Why, I haven’t got to do more than look at that girl most times for her to understand what I want. You didn’t notice, did you, how she straightened up when I called ‘Lucilla’ to her? She knows by the tone of my voice what she’s got to do.”
“Most mothers can’t boast of having such power over their daughters.”
“Well, I’m not the woman to stand any shenanigans from a child of mine. I could name you dead loads of women that are just completely walked over by their children. It’s a blessing that boy of Fanny’s died, between you and I; it’s what I’ve always said. Why, Mrs. Lafirme, she couldn’t any more look after a youngster than she could after a baby elephant. By the by, what do you guess is the matter with her, any way?”
“How,
the matter?” Thérèse asked; the too ready blood flushing her face and neck as she laid down her work and looked up at Mrs. Worthington.
“Why, she’s acting mighty queer, that’s all I can say for her.”
“I haven’t been able to see her for some time,” Thérèse returned, going back to her sewing, “but I suppose she got a little upset and nervous over her husband; he had a few days of very serious illness before you came.”
“Oh, I’ve seen her in all sorts of states and conditions, and I’ve never seen her like that before. Why, she does nothing in the God’s world but whine and sniffle, and wish she was dead; it’s enough to give a person the horrors. She can’t make out she’s sick; I never saw her look better in my life. She must of gained ten pounds since she come down here.”
“Yes,” said Thérèse, “she was looking so well, and—and I thought everything was going well with her too, but—” and she hesitated to go on.
“Oh, I know what you want to say You can’t help that. No use bothering your brains about that—now you just take my advice,” exclaimed Mrs. Worthington brusquely.
Then she laughed so loud and suddenly that Thérèse, being already nervous, pricked her finger with her needle till the blood came; a mishap which decided her to lay aside her work.
“If you never saw a fish out of water, Mrs. Lafirme, do take a peep at Mr. Worthington astride that horse; it’s enough to make a cat expire!”
Mrs. Worthington was on the whole rather inclined to take her husband seriously. As often as he might excite her disapproval, it was seldom that he aroused her mirth. So it may be gathered that his appearance in this unfamiliar rôle of horseman was of the most mirth-provoking.
He and Hosmer were dismounting at the cottage, which decided Mrs. Worthington to go and look after them; Fanny for the time being—in her opinion—not having “the gumption to look after a sick kitten.”
“This is what I call solid comfort,” she said looking around the well-appointed sitting-room, before quitting it.