At Fault (19 page)

"Oh, I don't doubt Mrs. Worthington's ability to make any startling
and pleasing revelations," rejoined the planter good humoredly, and
gallantly following Mrs. Worthington who had risen with the view of
putting into immediate effect her scheme of initiating these slow
people into the unsuspected possibilities of euchre; a game which,
however adaptable in other ways, could certainly not be indulged in by
seven persons. After each one proffering, as is usual on such
occasions, his readiness to assume the character of on-looker, Mr.
Worthington's claim to entire indifference, if not inability—confirmed
by his wife—was accepted as the most sincere, and that gentleman was
excluded and excused.

He watched them as they seated themselves at table, even lending
assistance, in his own awkward way, to range the chairs in place. Then
he followed the game for a while, standing behind Fanny to note the
outcome of her reckless offer of "five on hearts," with only three
trumps in hand, and every indication of little assistance from her
partners, Mr. Duplan and Belle Worthington.

At one end of the room was a long, low, well-filled book-case. Here
had been the direction of Mr. Worthington's secret and stolen glances
the entire evening. And now towards this point he finally transported
himself by gradual movements which he believed appeared unstudied and
indifferent. He was confronted by a good deal of French—to him an
unfamiliar language. Here a long row of Balzac; then, the Waverley
Novels in faded red cloth of very old date. Racine, Moliere, Bulwer
following in more modern garb; Shakespeare in a compass that promised
very small type. His quick trained glance sweeping along the shelves,
contracted into a little frown of resentment while he sent his hand
impetuously through his scant locks, standing them quite on end.

On the very lowest shelf were five imposing volumes in dignified black
and gold, bearing the simple inscription "Lives of the Saints—Rev. A.
Butler." Upon one of them, Mr. Worthington seized, opening it at
hazard. He had fallen upon the history of St. Monica, mother of the
great St. Austin—a woman whose habits it appears had been so closely
guarded in her childhood by a pious nurse, that even the quenching of
her natural thirst was permitted only within certain well defined
bounds. This mentor used to say "you are now for drinking water, but
when you come to be mistress of the cellar, water will be despised,
but the habit of drinking will stick by you." Highly interesting, Mr.
Worthington thought, as he brushed his hair all down again the right
way and seated himself the better to learn the fortunes of the good
St. Monica who, curiously enough, notwithstanding those early
incentives to temperance, "insensibly contracted an inclination to
wine," drinking "whole cups of it with pleasure as it came in her
way." A "dangerous intemperance" which it finally pleased Heaven to
cure through the instrumentality of a maid servant taunting her
mistress with being a "wine bibber."

Mr. Worthington did not stop with the story of Saint Monica. He lost
himself in those details of asceticism, martyrdom, superhuman
possibilities which man is capable of attaining under peculiar
conditions of life—something he had not yet "gone into."

The voices at the card table would certainly have disturbed a man with
less power of mind concentration. For Mrs. Worthington in this
familiar employment was herself again—
con fuoco
. Here was Mr.
Duplan in high spirits; his wife putting forth little gushes of
bird-like exaltation as the fascinations of the game revealed
themselves to her. Even Hosmer and Thérèse were drawn for the moment
from their usual preoccupation. Fanny alone was the ghost of the
feast. Her features never relaxed from their settled gloom. She played
at hap-hazard, listlessly throwing down the cards or letting them fall
from her hands, vaguely asking what were trumps at inopportune
moments; showing that inattentiveness so exasperating to an eager
player and which oftener than once drew a sharp rebuke from Belle
Worthington.

"Don't you wish we could play," said Ninette to her companion from her
comfortable perch beside the fire, and looking longingly towards the
card table.

"Oh, no," replied Lucilla briefly, gazing into the fire, with hands
folded in her lap. Thin hands, showing up very white against the dull
colored "convent uniform" that hung in plain, severe folds about her
and reached to her very ankles.

"Oh, don't you? I play often at home when company comes. And I play
cribbage and
vingt-et-un
with papa and win lots of money from him."

"That's wrong."

"No, it isn't; papa wouldn't do it if it was wrong," she answered
decidedly. "Do you go to the convent?" she asked, looking critically
at Lucilla and drawing a little nearer, so as to be confidential.
"Tell me about it," she continued, when the other had replied
affirmatively. "Is it very dreadful? you know they're going to send me
soon."

"Oh, it's the best place in the world," corrected Lucilla as eagerly
as she could.

"Well, mamma says she was just as happy as could be there, but you see
that's so awfully long ago. It must have changed since then."

"The convent never changes: it's always the same. You first go to
chapel to mass early in the morning."

"Ugh!" shuddered Ninette.

"Then you have studies," continued Lucilla. "Then breakfast, then
recreation, then classes, and there's meditation."

"Oh, well," interrupted Ninette, "I believe anything most would suit
you, and mamma when she was little; but if I don't like it—see here,
if I tell you something will you promise never, never, to tell?"

"Is it any thing wrong?"

"Oh, no, not very; it isn't a real mortal sin. Will you promise?"

"Yes," agreed Lucilla; curiosity getting something the better of her
pious scruples.

"Cross your heart?"

Lucilla crossed her heart carefully, though a little reluctantly.

"Hope you may die?"

"Oh!" exclaimed the little convent girl aghast.

"Oh, pshaw," laughed Ninette, "never mind. But that's what Polly
always says when she wants me to believe her: 'hope I may die, Miss
Ninette.' Well, this is it: I've been saving up money for the longest
time, oh ever so long. I've got eighteen dollars and sixty cents, and
when they send me to the convent, if I don't like it, I'm going to run
away." This last and startling revelation was told in a tragic whisper
in Lucilla's ear, for Betsy was standing before them with a tray of
chocolate and coffee that she was passing around.

"I yeard you," proclaimed Betsy with mischievous inscrutable
countenance.

"You didn't," said Ninette defiantly, and taking a cup of coffee.

"Yas, I did, I yeard you," walking away.

"See here, Betsy," cried Ninette recalling the girl, "you're not going
to tell, are you?"

"Dun know ef I isn't gwine tell. Dun know ef I isn't gwine tell Miss
Duplan dis yere ver' minute."

"Oh Betsy," entreated Ninette, "I'll give you this dress if you don't.
I don't want it any more."

Betsy's eyes glowed, but she looked down unconcernedly at the pretty
gown.

"Don't spec it fit me. An' you know Miss T'rèse ain't gwine let me go
flyin' roun' wid my laigs stickin' out dat away."

"I'll let the ruffle down, Betsy," eagerly proposed Ninette.

"Betsy!" called Thérèse a little impatiently.

"Yas, 'um—I ben waitin' fu' de cups."

Lucilla had made many an aspiration—many an "act" the while. This
whole evening of revelry, and now this last act of wicked conspiracy
seemed to have tainted her soul with a breath of sin which she would
not feel wholly freed from, till she had cleansed her spirit in the
waters of absolution.

The party broke up at a late hour, though the Duplans had a long
distance to go, and, moreover, had to cross the high and turbid river
to reach their carriage which had been left on the opposite bank,
owing to the difficulty of the crossing.

Mr. Duplan took occasion of a moment aside to whisper to Hosmer with
the air of a connoisseur, "fine woman that Mrs. Worthington of yours."

Hosmer laughed at the jesting implication, whilst disclaiming it, and
Fanny looked moodily at them both, jealously wondering at the cause of
their good humor.

Mrs. Duplan, under the influence of a charming evening passed in such
agreeable and distinguished company, was full of amiable bustle in
leaving and had many pleasant parting words to say to each, in her
pretty broken English.

"Oh, yes, ma'am," said Mrs. Worthington to that lady, who had taken
admiring notice of the beautiful silver "Holy Angels" medal that hung
from Lucilla's neck and rested against the dark gown. "Lucilla takes
after Mr. Worthington as far as religion goes—kind of different
though, for I must say it ain't often he darkens the doors of a
church."

Mrs. Worthington always spoke of her husband present as of a husband
absent. A peculiarity which he patiently endured, having no talent for
repartee, that he had at one time thought of cultivating. But that
time was long past.

The Duplans were the first to leave. Then Thérèse stood for a while on
the veranda in the chill night air watching the others disappear
across the lawn. Mr. and Mrs. Worthington and Lucilla had all shaken
hands with her in saying good night. Fanny followed suit limply and
grudgingly. Hosmer buttoned his coat impatiently and only lifted his
hat to Thérèse as he helped his wife down the stairs.

Poor Fanny! she had already taken exception at that hand pressure
which was to come and for which she watched, and now her whole small
being was in a jealous turmoil—because there had been none.

Thérèse felt that the room was growing oppressive. She had been
sitting all morning alone before the fire, passing in review a great
heap of household linen that lay piled beside her on the floor,
alternating this occupation with occasional careful and tender offices
bestowed upon a wee lamb that had been brought to her some hours
before, and that now lay wounded and half lifeless upon a pile of
coffee sacks before the blaze.

A fire was hardly needed, except to dispel the dampness that had even
made its insistent way indoors, covering walls and furniture with a
clammy film. Outside, the moisture was dripping from the glistening
magnolia leaves and from the pointed polished leaves of the live-oaks,
and the sun that had come out with intense suddenness was drawing it
steaming from the shingled roof-tops.

When Thérèse, finally aware of the closeness of the room, opened the
door and went out on the veranda, she saw a man, a stranger, riding
towards the house and she stood to await his approach. He belonged to
what is rather indiscriminately known in that section of the State as
the "piney-woods" genus. A rawboned fellow, lank and long of leg; as
ungroomed with his scraggy yellow hair and beard as the scrubby little
Texas pony which he rode. His big soft felt hat had done unreasonable
service as a head-piece; and the "store clothes" that hung upon his
lean person could never in their remotest freshness have masqueraded
under the character of "all wool." He was in transit, as the bulging
saddle-bags that hung across his horse indicated, as well as the rough
brown blanket strapped behind him to the animal's back. He rode up
close to the rail of the veranda near which Thérèse stood, and nodded
to her without offering to raise or touch his hat. She was prepared
for the drawl with which he addressed her, and even guessed at what
his first words would be.

"You're Mrs. Laferm I 'low?"

Thérèse acknowledged her identity with a bow.

"My name's Jimson; Rufe Jimson," he went on, settling himself on the
pony and folding his long knotty hands over the hickory switch that he
carried in guise of whip.

"Do you wish to speak to me? won't you dismount?" Thérèse asked.

"I hed my dinner down to the store," he said taking her proposal as an
invitation to dine, and turning to expectorate a mouth full of tobacco
juice before continuing. "Capital sardines them air," passing his hand
over his mouth and beard in unctuous remembrance of the oily dainties.

"I'm just from Cornstalk, Texas, on mu way to Grant. An' them roads as
I've traversed isn't what I'd call the best in a fair and square
talk."

His manner bore not the slightest mark of deference. He spoke to
Thérèse as he might have spoken to one of her black servants, or as he
would have addressed a princess of royal blood if fate had ever
brought him into such unlikely contact, so clearly was the sense of
human equality native to him.

Thérèse knew her animal, and waited patiently for his business to
unfold itself.

"I reckon thar hain't no ford hereabouts?" he asked, looking at her
with a certain challenge.

"Oh, no; its even difficult crossing in the flat," she answered.

"Wall, I hed calc'lated continooing on this near side. Reckon I could
make it?" challenging her again to an answer.

"There's no road on this side," she said, turning away to fasten more
securely the escaped branches of a rose-bush that twined about a
column near which she stood.

Whether there were a road on this side or on the other side, or no
road at all, appeared to be matter of equal indifference to Mr.
Jimson, so far as his manner showed. He continued imperturbably "I
'lowed to stop here on a little matter o' business. 'Tis some out o'
mu way; more'n I'd calc'lated. You couldn't tell the ixact distance
from here to Colfax, could you?"

Thérèse rather impatiently gave him the desired information, and
begged that he would disclose his business with her.

"Wall," he said, "onpleasant news 'll keep most times tell you're
ready fur it. Thet's my way o' lookin' at it."

"Unpleasant news for me?" she inquired, startled from her indifference
and listlessness.