At Fault (10 page)

"Why, Mr. Hosmer, is this you? come, come into the parlor, this is no
place," shaking Hosmer's hand and motioning towards the parlor.

"No, it's very nice and cozy here, and I have only a moment to stay,"
said Hosmer, seating himself beside the table on which the other had
laid his book, with his spectacles between the pages to mark his
place. Mr. Worthington then did a little hemming and hawing
preparatory to saying something fitting the occasion; not wishing to
be hasty in offering the old established form of congratulation, in a
case whose peculiarity afforded him no precedential guide. Hosmer came
to his relief by observing quite naturally that he and his wife had
come over to say good-bye, before leaving for the South, adding "no
doubt Mrs. Worthington has told you."

"Yes, yes, and I'm sure we're very sorry to lose you; that is, Mrs.
Larimore—I should say Mrs. Hosmer. Isabella will certainly regret her
departure, I see them always together, you know."

"You cling to your old habit, I see, Mr. Worthington," said Hosmer,
indicating his meaning by a motion of the hand towards the book on the
table.

"Yes, to a certain extent. Always within the forced limits, you
understand. At this moment I am much interested in tracing the history
of various religions which are known to us; those which have died out,
as well as existing religions. It is curious, indeed, to note the
circumstances of their birth, their progress and inevitable death;
seeming to follow the course of nations in such respect. And the
similitude which stamps them all, is also a feature worthy of study.
You would perhaps be surprised, sir, to discover the points of
resemblance which indicate in them a common origin. To observe the
slight differences, indeed technical differences, distinguishing the
Islam from the Hebrew, or both from the Christian religion. The creeds
are obviously ramifications from the one deep-rooted trunk which we
call religion. Have you ever thought of this, Mr. Hosmer?"

"No, I admit that I've not gone into it. Homeyer would have me think
that all religions are but mythological creations invented to satisfy
a species of sentimentality—a morbid craving in man for the unknown
and undemonstrable."

"That is where he is wrong; where I must be permitted to differ from
him. As you would find, my dear sir, by following carefully the
history of mankind, that the religious sentiment is implanted, a true
and legitimate attribute of the human soul—with peremptory right to
its existence. Whatever may be faulty in the creeds—that makes no
difference, the foundation is there and not to be dislodged. Homeyer,
as I understand him from your former not infrequent references, is an
Iconoclast, who would tear down and leave devastation behind him;
building up nothing. He would deprive a clinging humanity of the
supports about which she twines herself, and leave her helpless and
sprawling upon the earth."

"No, no, he believes in a natural adjustment," interrupted Hosmer. "In
an innate reserve force of accommodation. What we commonly call laws
in nature, he styles accidents—in society, only arbitrary methods of
expediency, which, when they outlive their usefulness to an advancing
and exacting civilization, should be set aside. He is a little
impatient to always wait for the inevitable natural adjustment."

"Ah, my dear Mr. Hosmer, the world is certainly to-day not prepared to
stand the lopping off and wrenching away of old traditions. She must
take her stand against such enemies of the conventional. Take religion
away from the life of man—"

"Well, I knew it—I was just as sure as preaching," burst out Mrs.
Worthington, as she threw open the door and confronted the two
men—resplendent in "baby blue" and much steel ornamentation. "As I
tell Mr. Worthington, he ought to turn Christian Brother or something
and be done with it."

"No, no, my dear; Mr. Hosmer and I have merely been interchanging a
few disjointed ideas."

"I'll be bound they were disjointed. I guess Fanny wants you, Mr.
Hosmer. If you listen to Mr. Worthington he'll keep you here till
daylight with his ideas."

Hosmer followed Mrs. Worthington down-stairs and into Mrs. Dawson's.
As he entered the parlor he heard Fanny laughing gaily, and saw that
she stood near the sideboard in the dining-room, just clicking her
glass of punch to Jack Dawson's, who was making a gay speech on the
occasion of her new marriage.

They did not leave when they had intended. Need the misery of that one
day be told?

But on the evening of the following day, Fanny peered with pale,
haggard face from the closed window of the Pullman car as it moved
slowly out of Union depôt, to see Lou and Jack Dawson smiling and
waving good-bye, Belle wiping her eyes and Mr. Worthington looking
blankly along the line of windows, unable to see them without his
spectacles, which he had left between the pages of his Schopenhauer on
the kitchen table at home.

The journey South had not been without attractions for Fanny. She had
that consciousness so pleasing to the feminine mind of being well
dressed; for her husband had been exceedingly liberal in furnishing
her the means to satisfy her fancy in that regard. Moreover the change
holding out a promise of novelty, irritated her to a feeble
expectancy. The air, that came to her in puffs through the car window,
was deliciously soft and mild; steeped with the rich languor of the
Indian summer, that had already touched the tree tops, the sloping
hill-side, and the very air, with russet and gold.

Hosmer sat beside her, curiously inattentive to his newspaper;
observant of her small needs, and anticipating her timid half
expressed wishes. Was there some mysterious power that had so soon
taught the man such methods to a woman's heart, or was he not rather
on guard and schooling himself for the rôle which was to be acted out
to the end? But as the day was approaching its close, Fanny became
tired and languid; a certain mistrust was creeping into her heart with
the nearing darkness. It had grown sultry and close, and the view from
the car window was no longer cheerful, as they whirled through
forests, gloomy with trailing moss, or sped over an unfamiliar country
whose features were strange and held no promise of a welcome for her.

They were nearing Place-du-Bois, and Hosmer's spirits had risen almost
to the point of gaiety as he began to recognize the faces of those who
loitered about the stations at which they stopped. At the Centerville
station, five miles before reaching their own, he had even gone out on
the platform to shake hands with the rather mystified agent who had
not known of his absence. And he had waved a salute to the little
French priest of Centerville who stood out in the open beside his
horse, booted, spurred and all equipped for bad weather, waiting for
certain consignments which were to come with the train, and who
answered Hosmer's greeting with a sober and uncompromising sweep of
the hand. When the whistle sounded for Place-du-Bois, it was nearly
dark. Hosmer hurried Fanny on to the platform, where stood Henry, his
clerk. There were a great many negroes loitering about, some of whom
offered him a cordial "how'dy Mr. Hosma," and pushing through was
Grégoire, meeting them with the ease of a courtier, and acknowledging
Hosmer's introduction of his wife, with a friendly hand shake.

"Aunt Thérèse sent the buggy down fur you," he said, "we had rain this
mornin' and the road's putty heavy. Come this way. Mine out fur that
ba'el, Mrs. Hosma, it's got molasses in. Hiurm bring that buggy ova
yere."

"What's the news, Grégoire?" asked Hosmer, as they waited for Hiram to
turn the horses about.

"Jus' about the same's ev'a. Miss Melicent wasn't ver' well a few days
back; but she's some betta. I reckon you're all plum wore out," he
added, taking in Fanny's listless attitude, and thinking her very
pretty as far as he could discover in the dim light.

They drove directly to the cottage, and on the porch Thérèse was
waiting for them. She took Fanny's two hands and pressed them warmly
between her own; then led her into the house with an arm passed about
her waist. She shook hands with Hosmer, and stood for a while in
cheerful conversation, before leaving them.

The cottage was fully equipped for their reception, with Minervy in
possession of the kitchen and the formerly reluctant Suze as
housemaid: though Thérèse had been silent as to the methods which she
had employed to prevail with these unwilling damsels.

Hosmer then went out to look after their baggage, and when he
returned, Fanny sat with her head pillowed on the sofa, sobbing
bitterly. He knelt beside her, putting his arm around her, and asked
the cause of her distress.

"Oh it's so lonesome, and dreadful, I don't believe I can stand it,"
she answered haltingly through her tears.

And here was he thinking it was so home-like and comforting, and
tasting the first joy that he had known since he had gone away.

"It's all strange and new to you, Fanny; try to bear up for a day or
two. Come now, don't be a baby—take courage. It will all seem quite
different by and by, when the sun shines."

A knock at the door was followed by the entrance of a young colored
boy carrying an armful of wood.

"Miss T'rèse sont me kin'le fiar fu' Miss Hosma; 'low he tu'nin'
cole," he said depositing his load on the hearth; and Fanny, drying
her eyes, turned to watch him at his work.

He went very deliberately about it, tearing off thin slathers from the
fat pine, and arranging them into a light frame-work, beneath a
topping of kindling and logs that he placed on the massive brass
andirons. He crawled about on hands and knees, picking up the stray
bits of chips and moss that had fallen from his arms when he came in.
Then sitting back on his heels he looked meditatively into the blaze
which he had kindled and scratched his nose with a splinter of pine
wood. When Hosmer presently left the room, he rolled his big black
eyes towards Fanny, without turning his head, and remarked in a tone
plainly inviting conversation "yo' all come f'om way yonda?"

He was intensely black, and if Fanny had been a woman with the
slightest sense of humor, she could not but have been amused at the
picture which he presented in the revealing fire-light with his elfish
and ape like body much too small to fill out the tattered and
ill-fitting garments that hung about it. But she only wondered at him
and his rags, and at his motive for addressing her.

"We're come from St. Louis," she replied, taking him with a
seriousness which in no wise daunted him.

"Yo' all brung de rain," he went on sociably, leaving off the
scratching of his nose, to pass his black yellow-palmed hand slowly
through the now raging fire, a feat which filled her with
consternation. After prevailing upon him to desist from this
salamander like exhibition, she was moved to ask if he were not very
poor to be thus shabbily clad.

"No 'um," he laughed, "I got some sto' close yonda home. Dis yere coat
w'at Mista Grégor gi'me," looking critically down at its length, which
swept the floor as he remained on his knees. "He done all to'e tu
pieces time he gi' him tu me, whar he scuffle wid Joçint yonda tu de
mill. Mammy 'low she gwine mek him de same like new w'en she kin kotch
de time."

The entrance of Minervy bearing a tray temptingly arranged with a
dainty supper, served to silence the boy, who at seeing her, threw
himself upon all fours and appeared to be busy with the fire. The
woman, a big raw-boned field hand, set her burden awkwardly down on a
table, and after staring comprehensively around, addressed the boy in
a low rich voice, "Dar ain't no mo' call to bodda wid dat fiar, you
Sampson; how come Miss T'rèse sont you lazy piece in yere tu buil'
fiar?"

"Don' know how come," he replied, vanishing with an air of the utmost
self-depreciation.

Hosmer and Fanny took tea together before the cheerful fire and he
told her something of methods on the plantation, and made her further
acquainted with the various people whom she had thus far encountered.
She listened apathetically; taking little interest in what he said,
and asking few questions. She did express a little bewilderment at the
servant problem. Mrs. Lafirme, during their short conversation, had
deplored her inability to procure more than two servants for her; and
Fanny could not understand why it should require so many to do the
work which at home was accomplished by one. But she was tired—very
tired, and early sought her bed, and Hosmer went in quest of his
sister whom he had not yet seen.

Melicent had been told of his marriage some days previously, and had
been thrown into such a state of nerves by the intelligence, as to
seriously alarm those who surrounded her and whose experience with
hysterical girls had been inadequate.

Poor Grégoire had betaken himself with the speed of the wind to the
store to procure bromide, valerian, and whatever else should be
thought available in prevailing with a malady of this distressing
nature. But she was "some betta," as he told Hosmer, who found her
walking in the darkness of one of the long verandas, all enveloped in
filmy white wool. He was a little prepared for a cool reception from
her, and ten minutes before she might have received him with a studied
indifference. But her mood had veered about and touched the point
which moved her to fall upon his neck, and in a manner, condole with
him; seasoning her sympathy with a few tears.

"Whatever possessed you, David? I have been thinking, and thinking,
and I can see no reason which should have driven you to do this thing.
Of course I can't meet her; you surely don't expect it?"

He took her arm and joined her in her slow walk.

"Yes, I do expect it, Melicent, and if you have the least regard for
me, I expect more. I want you to be good to her, and patient, and show
yourself her friend. No one can do such things more amiably than you,
when you try."