At Fault (17 page)

"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' yo' 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.

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 paralytic 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 encased 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 awry; 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.
Laferm—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 wisp 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 day's credit—shipment
made on tenth," he rambled on at intervals in his troubled sleep.

Fanny trembled with apprehension as she heard him. Surely he has 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."

"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."