At Fault (18 page)

"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; its what I've always said. Why, Mrs. Laferm,
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. Laferm, 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.

"You ought to be a mighty happy woman, Mrs. Laferm; only I'd think
you'd die of lonesomeness, sometimes."

Thérèse laughed, and told her not to forget that she expected them all
over in the evening.

"You can depend on me; and I'll do my best to drag Fanny over;
so-long."

When left alone, Thérèse at once relapsed into the gloomy train of
reflections that had occupied her since the day she had seen with her
bodily eyes something of the wretched life that she had brought upon
the man she loved. And yet that wretchedness in its refinement of
cruelty and immorality she could not guess and was never to know.
Still, she had seen enough to cause her to ask herself with a shudder
"was I right—was I right?"

She had always thought this lesson of right and wrong a very plain
one. So easy of interpretation that the simplest minded might solve it
if they would. And here had come for the first time in her life a
staggering doubt as to its nature. She did not suspect that she was
submitting one of those knotty problems to her unpracticed judgment
that philosophers and theologians delight in disagreeing upon, and her
inability to unravel it staggered her. She tried to convince herself
that a very insistent sting of remorse which she felt, came from
selfishness—from the pain that her own heart suffered in the
knowledge of Hosmer's unhappiness. She was not callous enough to quiet
her soul with the balm of having intended the best. She continued to
ask herself only "was I right?" and it was by the answer to that
question that she would abide, whether in the stony content of
accomplished righteousness, or in an enduring remorse that pointed to
a goal in whose labyrinthine possibilities her soul lost itself and
fainted away.

Lucilla went out to get a breath of fresh air as her mother had
commanded, but she did not go far to seek it. Not further than the end
of the back veranda, where she stood for some time motionless, before
beginning to occupy herself in a way which Aunt Belindy, who was
watching her from the kitchen window, considered highly problematical.
The negress was wiping a dish and giving it a fine polish in her
absence of mind. When her curiosity could no longer contain itself she
called out:

"W'ats dat you'se doin' dah, you li'le gal? Come heah an' le' me see."
Lucilla turned with the startled look which seemed to be usual with
her when addressed.

"Le' me see," repeated Aunt Belindy pleasantly.

Lucilla approached the window and handed the woman a small square of
stiff writing paper which was stuck with myriad tiny pin-holes; some
of which she had been making when interrupted by Aunt Belindy.

"W'at in God A'Mighty's name you call dat 'ar?" the darkey asked
examining the paper critically, as though expecting the riddle would
solve itself before her eyes.

"Those are my acts I've been counting," the girl replied a little
gingerly.

"Yo' ax? I don' see nuttin' 'cep' a piece o' papah plum fill up wid
holes. W'at you call ax?"

"Acts—acts. Don't you know what acts are?"

"How you want me know? I neva ben to no school whar you larn all dat."

"Why, an act is something you do that you don't want to do—or
something you don't want to do, that you do—I mean that you don't do.
Or if you want to eat something and don't. Or an aspiration; that's an
act, too."

"Go long! W'ats dat—aspiration?"

"Why, to say any kind of little prayer; or if you invoke our Lord, or
our Blessed Lady, or one of the saints, that's an aspiration. You can
make them just as quick as you can think—you can make hundreds and
hundreds in a day."

"My Lan'! Dat's w'at you'se studyin' 'bout w'en you'se steppin' 'roun'
heah like a droopy pullet? An' I t'ought you was studyin' 'bout dat
beau you lef' yonda to Sent Lous."

"You mustn't say such things to me; I'm going to be a religious."

"How dat gwine henda you have a beau ef you'se religious?"

"The religious never get married," turning very red, "and don't live
in the world like others."

"Look heah, chile, you t'inks I'se fool? Religion—no religion, whar
you gwine live ef you don' live in de word? Gwine live up in de moon?"

"You're a very ignorant person," replied Lucilla, highly offended. "A
religious devotes her life to God, and lives in the convent."

"Den w'y you neva said 'convent'? I knows all 'bout convent. W'at you
gwine do wid dem ax w'en de papah done all fill up?" handing the
singular tablet back to her.

"Oh," replied Lucilla, "when I have thousands and thousands I gain
twenty-five years' indulgence."

"Is dat so?"

"Yes," said the girl; and divining that Aunt Belindy had not
understood, "twenty-five years that I don't have to go to purgatory.
You see most people have to spend years and years in purgatory, before
they can get to Heaven."

"How you know dat?"

If Aunt Belindy had asked Lucilla how she knew that the sun shone, she
could not have answered with more assurance "because I know" as she
turned and walked rather scornfully away.

"W'at dat kine o' fool talk dey larns gals up yonda tu Sent Lous? An'
huh ma a putty woman; yas, bless me; all dress up fittin' to kill.
Don' 'pear like she studyin' 'bout ax."

Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Duplan with their little daughter Ninette, who had
been invited to Place-du-Bois for supper, as well as for the evening,
were seated with Thérèse in the parlor, awaiting the arrival of the
cottage guests. They had left their rather distant plantation, Les
Chênières, early in the afternoon, wishing as usual to make the most
of these visits, which, though infrequent, were always so much
enjoyed.

The room was somewhat altered since that summer day when Thérèse had
sat in its cool shadows, hearing the story of David Hosmer's life.
Only with such difference, however, as the change of season called
for; imparting to it a rich warmth that invited to sociability and
friendly confidences. In the depths of the great chimney glowed with a
steady and dignified heat, the huge back-log, whose disposal Uncle
Hiram had superintended in person; and the leaping flames from the dry
hickories that surrounded it, lent a very genial light to the
grim-visaged Lafirmes who looked down from their elevation on the
interesting group gathered about the hearth.

Conversation had never once flagged with these good friends; for,
aside from much neighborhood gossip to be told and listened to, there
was the always fertile topic of "crops" to be discussed in all its
bearings, that touched, in its local and restricted sense, the labor
question, cultivation, freight rates, and the city merchant.

With Mrs. Duplan there was a good deal to be said about the unusual
mortality among "Plymouth-Rocks" owing to an alarming prevalence of
"pip," which malady, however, that lady found to be gradually yielding
to a heroic treatment introduced into her
basse-cour
by one Coulon,
a piney wood sage of some repute as a mystic healer.

This was a delicate refined little woman, somewhat old-fashioned and
stranded in her incapability to keep pace with the modern conduct of
life; but giving her views with a pretty self-confidence, that showed
her a ruler in her peculiar realm.

The young Ninette had extended herself in an easy chair, in an
attitude of graceful abandonment, the earnest brown eyes looking
eagerly out from under a tangle of auburn hair, and resting with
absorbed admiration upon her father, whose words and movements she
followed with unflagging attentiveness. The fastidious little miss was
clad in a dainty gown that reached scarcely below the knees; revealing
the shapely limbs that were crossed and extended to let the well shod
feet rest upon the polished brass fender.

Thérèse had given what information lay within her range, concerning
the company which was expected. But her confidences had plainly been
insufficient to prepare Mrs. Duplan for the startling effect produced
by Mrs. Worthington on that little woman in her black silk of a
by-gone fashion; so splendid was Mrs. Worthington's erect and imposing
figure, so blonde her blonde hair, so bright her striking color and so
comprehensive the sweep of her blue and scintillating gown. Yet was
Mrs. Worthington not at ease, as might be noticed in the unnatural
quaver of her high-pitched voice and the restless motion of her hands,
as she seated herself with an arm studiedly resting upon the table
near by.

Hosmer had met the Duplans before; on the occasion of a former visit
to Place-du-Bois and again at Les Chênières when he had gone to see
the planter on business connected with the lumber trade.

Fanny was a stranger to them and promised to remain such; for she
acknowledged her presentation with a silent bow and retreated as far
from the group as a decent concession to sociability would permit.

Thérèse with her pretty Creole tact was not long in bringing these
seemingly incongruent elements into some degree of harmony. Mr. Duplan
in his courteous and rather lordly way was presently imparting to Mrs.
Worthington certain reminiscences of a visit to St. Louis twenty-five
years before, when he and Mrs. Duplan had rather hastily traversed
that interesting town during their wedding journey. Mr. Duplan's
manner had a singular effect upon Mrs. Worthington, who became
dignified, subdued, and altogether unnatural in her endeavor to adjust
herself to it.

Mr. Worthington seated himself beside Mrs. Duplan and was soon trying
to glean information, in his eager short-sighted way, of psychological
interest concerning the negro race; such effort rather bewildering
that good lady, who could not bring herself to view the negro as an
interesting or suitable theme to be introduced into polite
conversation.

Hosmer sat and talked good-naturedly to the little girls, endeavoring
to dispel the shyness with which they seemed inclined to view each
other—and Thérèse crossed the room to join Fanny.

"I hope you're feeling better," she ventured, "you should have let me
help you while Mr. Hosmer was ill."

Fanny looked away, biting her lip, the sudden tears coming to her
eyes. She answered with unsteady voice, "Oh, I was able to look after
my husband myself, Mrs. Laferm."

Thérèse reddened at finding herself so misunderstood. "I meant in your
housekeeping, Mrs. Hosmer; I could have relieved you of some of that
worry, whilst you were occupied with your husband."

Fanny continued to look unhappy; her features taking on that peculiar
downward droop which Thérèse had come to know and mistrust.

"Are you going to New Orleans with Mrs. Worthington?" she asked, "she
told me she meant to try and persuade you."

"No; I'm not going. Why?" looking suspiciously in Thérèse's face.

"Well," laughed Thérèse, "only for the sake of asking, I suppose. I
thought you'd enjoy Mardi-Gras, never having seen it."

"I'm not going anywheres unless David goes along," she said, with an
impertinent ring in her voice, and with a conviction that she was
administering a stab and a rebuke. She had come prepared to watch her
husband and Mrs. Lafirme, her heart swelling with jealous suspicion as
she looked constantly from one to the other, endeavoring to detect
signs of an understanding between them. Failing to discover such, and
loth to be robbed of her morbid feast of misery, she set her failure
down to their pre-determined subtlety. Thérèse was conscious of a
change in Fanny's attitude, and felt herself unable to account for it
otherwise than by whim, which she knew played a not unimportant rôle
in directing the manner of a large majority of women. Moreover, it was
not a moment to lose herself in speculation concerning this woman's
capricious behavior. Her guests held the first claim upon her
attentions. Indeed, here was Mrs. Worthington even now loudly
demanding a pack of cards. "Here's a gentleman never heard of
six-handed euchre. If you've got a pack of cards, Mrs. Laferm, I guess
I can show him quick enough that it can be done."