At Fault (13 page)

"Well, I have done my share. Nothing is going to harm Marie Louise. I
thought about all that, do not fret. So the last time Père Antoine
passed in the road—going down to see that poor Pierre Pardou at the
Mouth—I called him in, and he blessed the whole house inside and out,
with holy water—notice how the roses have bloomed since then—and
gave me medals of the holy Virgin to hang about. Look over the door,
Tite maîtresse
, how it shines, like a silver star."

"If you will not have your cabin removed,
Grosse tante
, then come
live with me. Old Hatton has wanted work at Place-du-Bois, the longest
time. We will have him build you a room wherever you choose, a pretty
little house like those in the city."

"
Non—non, Tite maîtresse, Marie Louise 'prè créver icite avé tous
son butin, si faut
" (no, no,
Tite maîtresse
, Marie Louise will die
here with all her belongings if it must be).

The servants were instructed that when their mistress was not at home
at a given hour, her absence should cause no delay in the household
arrangements. She did not choose that her humor or her movements be
hampered by a necessity of regularity which she owed to no one. When
she reached home supper had long been over.

Nearing the house she heard the scraping of Nathan's violin, the noise
of shuffling feet and unconstrained laughter. These festive sounds
came from the back veranda. She entered the dining-room, and from its
obscurity looked out on a curious scene. The veranda was lighted by a
lamp suspended from one of its pillars. In a corner sat Nathan;
serious, dignified, scraping out a monotonous but rhythmic minor
strain to which two young negroes from the lower quarters—famous
dancers—were keeping time in marvelous shuffling and pigeon-wings;
twisting their supple joints into astonishing contortions and the
sweat rolling from their black visages. A crowd of darkies stood at a
respectful distance an appreciative and encouraging audience. And
seated on the broad rail of the veranda were Melicent and Grégoire,
patting Juba and singing a loud accompaniment to the breakdown.

Was this the Grégoire who had only yesterday wept such bitter tears on
his aunt's bosom?

Thérèse turning away from the scene, the doubt assailed her whether it
were after all worth while to strive against the sorrows of life that
can be so readily put aside.

Whatever may have been Torpedo's characteristics in days gone by, at
this advanced period in his history he possessed none so striking as a
stoical inaptitude for being moved. Another of his distinguishing
traits was a propensity for grazing which he was prone to indulge at
inopportune moments. Such points taken in conjunction with a gait
closely resembling that of the camel in the desert, might give much
cause to wonder at Thérèse's motive in recommending him as a suitable
mount for the unfortunate Fanny, were it not for his wide-spread
reputation of angelic inoffensiveness.

The ride which Melicent had arranged and in which she held out such
promises of a "lark" proved after all but a desultory affair. For with
Fanny making but a sorry equestrian debut and Hosmer creeping along at
her side; Thérèse unable to hold Beauregard within conventional
limits, and Melicent and Grégoire vanishing utterly from the scene,
sociability was a feature entirely lacking to the excursion.

"David, I can't go another step: I just can't, so that settles it."

The look of unhappiness in Fanny's face and attitude, would have moved
the proverbial stone.

"I think if you change horses with me, Fanny, you'll find it more
comfortable, and we'll turn about and go home."

"I wouldn't get on that horse's back, David Hosmer, if I had to die
right here in the woods, I wouldn't."

"Do you think you could manage to walk back that distance then? I can
lead the horses," he suggested as a
pis aller
.

"I guess I'll haf to; but goodness knows if I'll ever get there
alive."

They were far up on the hill, which spot they had reached by painfully
slow and labored stages, each refraining from mention of a discomfort
that might interfere with the supposed enjoyment of the other, till
Fanny's note of protest.

Hosmer cast about him for some expedient that might lighten the
unpleasantness of the situation, when a happy thought occurred to him.

"If you'll try to bear up, a few yards further, you can dismount at
old Morico's cabin and I'll hurry back and get the buggy. It can be
driven this far anyway: and it's only a short walk from here through
the woods."

So Hosmer set her down before Morico's door: her long riding skirt,
borrowed for the occasion, twisting awkwardly around her legs, and
every joint in her body aching.

Partly by pantomimic signs interwoven with a few French words which he
had picked up within the last year, Hosmer succeeded in making himself
understood to the old man, and rode away leaving Fanny in his care.

Morico fussily preceded her into the house and placed a great clumsy
home-made rocker at her disposal, into which she cast herself with
every appearance of bodily distress. He then busied himself in tidying
up the room out of deference to his guest; gathering up the scissors,
waxen thread and turkey feathers which had fallen from his lap in his
disturbance, and laying them on the table. He knocked the ashes from
his corn-cob pipe which he now rested on a projection of the brick
chimney that extended into the room and that served as mantel-piece.
All the while he cast snatched glances at Fanny, who sat pale and
tired. Her appearance seemed to move him to make an effort towards
relieving it. He took a key from his pocket and unlocking a side of
the
garde manger
, drew forth a small flask of whisky. Fanny had
closed her eyes and was not aware of his action, till she heard him at
her elbow saying in his feeble quavering voice:—

"
Tenez madame; goutez un peu: ça va vous faire du bien,
" and opening
her eyes she saw that he held a glass half filled with strong "toddy"
for her acceptance.

She thrust out her hand to ward it away as though it had been a
reptile that menaced her with its sting.

Morico looked nonplussed and a little abashed: but he had much faith
in the healing qualities of his remedy and urged it on her anew. She
trembled a little, and looked away with rather excited eyes.

"
Je vous assure madame, ça ne peut pas vous faire du mal.
"

Fanny took the glass from his hand, and rising went and placed it on
the table, then walked to the open door and looked eagerly out, as
though hoping for the impossibility of her husband's return.

She did not seat herself again, but walked restlessly about the room,
intently examining its meager details. The circuit of inspection
bringing her again to the table, she picked up Morico's turkey fan,
looking at it long and critically. When she laid it down, it was to
seize the glass of "toddy" which she unhesitatingly put to her lips
and drained at a draught. All uneasiness and fatigue seemed to leave
her on the instant as though by magic. She went back to her chair and
reseated herself composedly. Her eyes now rested on her old host with
a certain quizzical curiosity strange to them.

He was plainly demoralized by her presence, and still made pretense of
occupying himself with the arrangement of the room.

Presently she said to him: "Your remedy did me more good than I'd
expected," but not understanding her, he only smiled and looked at her
blankly.

She laughed good-humoredly back at him, then went to the table and
poured from the flask which he had left standing there, liquor to the
depth of two fingers, this time drinking it more deliberately. After
that she tried to talk to Morico and thought it very amusing that he
could not understand her.

Presently Joçint came home and accepted her presence there very
indifferently. He went to the
garde manger
to stay his hunger, much
as he had done on the occasion of Thérèse's visit; talked in grum
abrupt utterances to his father, and disappeared into the adjoining
room where Fanny could hear him and occasionally see him polishing and
oiling his cherished rifle.

Morico, more accustomed to foreign sounds in the woods than she, was
the first to detect the approach of Grégoire, whom he went out
hurriedly to meet, glad of the relief from the supposed necessity of
entertaining his puzzling visitor. When he was fairly out of the room,
she arose quickly, approached the table and reaching for the flask of
liquor, thrust it hastily into her pocket, then went to join him. At
the moment that Grégoire came up, Joçint issued from a side door and
stood looking at the group.

"Well, Mrs. Hosma, yere I am. I reckon you was tired waitin'. The
buggy's yonda in the road."

He shook hands cordially with Morico saying something to him in French
which made the old man laugh heartily.

"Why didn't David come? I thought he said he was coming; that's the
way he does," said Fanny complainingly.

"That's a po' compliment to me, Mrs. Hosrma. Can't you stan' my
company for that li'le distance?" returned Grégoire gallantly. "Mr.
Hosma had a good deal to do w'en he got back, that's w'y he sent me.
An' we betta hurry up if we expec' to git any suppa' to-night. Like as
not you'll fine your kitchen cleaned out."

Fanny looked her inquiry for his meaning.

"Why, don't you know this is 'Tous-saint' eve—w'en the dead git out
o' their graves an' walk about? You wouldn't ketch a nigga out o' his
cabin to-night afta dark to save his soul. They all gittin' ready now
to hustle back to the quartas."

"That's nonsense," said Fanny, drawing on her gloves, "you ought to
have more sense than to repeat such things."

Grégoire laughed, looking surprised at her unusual energy of speech
and manner. Then he turned to Joçint, whose presence he had thus far
ignored, and asked in a peremptory tone:

"W'at did Woodson say 'bout watchin' at the mill to-night? Did you ask
him like I tole you?"

"Yaas, me ax um: ee' low ee an' goin'. Say how Sylveste d'wan' watch
lak alluz. Say ee an' goin'. Me don' blem 'im neida, don' ketch me
out de 'ouse night lak dat fu no man."

"
Sacré imbécile
," muttered Grégoire, between his teeth, and
vouchsafed him no other answer, but nodded to Morico and turned away.
Fanny followed with a freedom of movement quite unlike that of her
coming.

Morico went into the house and coming back hastily to the door called
to Joçint:

"Bring back that flask of whisky that you took off the table."

"You're a liar: you know I have no use for whisky. That's one of your
damned tricks to make me buy you more." And he seated himself on an
over-turned tub and with his small black eyes half closed, looked
moodily out into the solemn darkening woods. The old man showed no
resentment at the harshness and disrespect of his son's speech, being
evidently used to such. He passed his hand slowly over his white long
hair and turned bewildered into the house.

"Is it just this same old thing year in and year out, Grégoire? Don't
any one ever get up a dance, or a card party or anything?"

"Jus' as you say; the same old thing f'om one yea's en' to the otha. I
used to think it was putty lonesome myse'f w'en I firs' come yere.
Then you see they's no neighbo's right roun' yere. In Natchitoches
now; that's the place to have a right down good time. But see yere; I
didn' know you was fon' o' dancin' an' such things."

"Why, of course, I just dearly love to dance. But it's as much as my
life's worth to say that before David; he's such a stick; but I guess
you know that by this time," with a laugh, as he had never heard from
her before—so unconstrained; at the same time drawing nearer to him
and looking merrily into his face.

"The little lady's been having a 'toddy' at Morico's, that makes her
lively," thought Grégoire. But the knowledge did not abash him in the
least. He accommodated himself at once to the situation with that
adaptability common to the American youth, whether of the South,
North, East or West.

"Where abouts did you leave David when you come away?" she asked with
a studied indifference.

"Hol' on there, Buckskin—w'ere you takin' us? W'y, I lef' him at the
sto' mailin' lettas."

"Had the others all got back? Mrs. Laferm? Melicent? did they all stop
at the store, too?"

"Who? Aunt Thrérèse? no, she was up at the house w'en I lef'—I reckon
Miss Melicent was there too. Talkin' 'bout fun,—it's to git into one
o' them big spring wagons on a moonlight night, like they do in
Centaville sometimes; jus' packed down with young folks—and start out
fur a dance up the coast. They ain't nothin' to beat it as fah as fun
goes."

"It must be just jolly. I guess you're a pretty good dancer,
Grégoire?"

"Well—'taint fur me to say. But they ain't many can out dance me: not
in Natchitoches pa'ish, anyway. I can say that much."

If such a thing could have been, Fanny would have startled Grégoire
more than once during the drive home. Before its close she had
obtained a promise from him to take her up to Natchitoches for the
very next entertainment,—averring that she didn't care what David
said. If he wanted to bury himself that was his own look out. And if
Mrs. Laferm took people to be angels that they could live in a place
like that, and give up everything and not have any kind of enjoyment
out of life, why, she was mistaken and that's all there was to it. To
all of which freely expressed views Grégoire emphatically assented.

Hosmer had very soon disembarrassed himself of Torpedo, knowing that
the animal would unerringly find his way to the corn crib by supper
time. He continued his own way now untrammelled, and at an agreeable
speed which soon brought him to the spring at the road side. Here he
found Thérèse, half seated against a projection of rock, in her hand a
bunch of ferns which she had evidently dismounted to gather, and
holding Beauregard's bridle while he munched at the cool wet tufts of
grass that grew everywhere.