At Fault (5 page)

Grégoire called out that the horses were ready. Melicent was
approaching in her diaphanous envelope, and Hosmer reluctantly let
drop Thérèse's hand and left her.

As the men rode away, the two women stood silently following their
diminishing outlines into the darkness and listening to the creaking
of the saddles and the dull regular thud of the horses' feet upon the
soft earth, until the sounds grew inaudible, when they turned to the
inner shelter of the veranda. Melicent once more possessed herself of
the hammock in which she now reclined fully, and Thérèse sat near
enough beside her to intertwine her fingers between the tense cords.

"What a great difference in age there must be between you and your
brother," she said, breaking the silence.

"Yes—though he is younger and I older than you perhaps think. He was
fifteen and the only child when I was born. I am twenty-four, so he of
course is thirty-nine."

"I certainly thought him older."

"Just imagine, Mrs. Lafirme, I was only ten when both my parents died.
We had no kindred living in the West, and I positively rebelled
against being separated from David; so you see he's had the care of me
for a good many years."

"He appears very fond of you."

"Oh, not only that, but you've no idea how splendidly he's done for me
in every way. Looked after my interest and all that, so that I'm
perfectly independent. Poor Dave," she continued, heaving a profound
sigh, "he's had more than his share of trouble, if ever a man had. I
wonder when his day of compensation will come."

"Don't you think," ventured Thérèse, "that we make too much of our
individual trials. We are all so prone to believe our own burden
heavier than our neighbor's."

"Perhaps—but there can be no question about the weight of David's.
I'm not a bit selfish about him though; poor fellow, I only wish he'd
marry again."

Melicent's last words stung Thérèse like an insult. Her native pride
rebelled against the reticence of this man who had shared her
confidence while keeping her in ignorance of so important a feature of
his own life. But her dignity would not permit a show of disturbance;
she only asked:—

"How long has his wife been dead?"

"Oh," cried Melicent, in dismay. "I thought you knew of course;
why—she isn't dead at all—they were divorced two years ago."

The girl felt intuitively that she had yielded to an indiscretion of
speech. She could not know David's will in the matter, but since he
had all along left Mrs. Lafirme in ignorance of his domestic trials,
she concluded it was not for her to enlighten that lady further. Her
next remark was to call Thérèse's attention to the unusual number of
glow-worms that were flashing through the darkness, and to ask the
sign of it, adding "every thing seems to be the sign of something down
here."

"Aunt Belindy might tell you," replied Thérèse, "I only know that I
feel the signs of being very sleepy after that ride through the woods
to-day. Don't mind if I say good night?"

"Certainly not. Good night, dear Mrs. Lafirme. Let me stay here till
David comes back; I should die of fright, to go to the cottage alone."

Thérèse possessed an independence of thought exceptional enough when
considered in relation to her life and its surrounding conditions. But
as a woman who lived in close contact with her fellow-beings she was
little given to the consideration of abstract ideas, except in so far
as they touched the individual man. If ever asked to give her opinion
of divorce, she might have replied that the question being one which
did not immediately concern her, its remoteness had removed it from
the range of her inquiry. She felt vaguely that in many cases it might
be a blessing; conceding that it must not infrequently be a necessity,
to be appealed to however only in an extremity beyond which endurance
could scarcely hold. With the prejudices of her Catholic education
coloring her sentiment, she instinctively shrank when the theme
confronted her as one having even a remote reference to her own clean
existence. There was no question with her of dwelling upon the matter;
it was simply a thing to be summarily dismissed and as far as possible
effaced from her remembrance.

Thérèse had not reached the age of thirty-five without learning that
life presents many insurmountable obstacles which must be accepted,
whether with the callousness of philosophy, the revolt of weakness or
the dignity of self-respect. The following morning, the only sign
which she gave of her mental disturbance, was an appearance that might
have succeeded a night of unrefreshing sleep.

Hosmer had decided that his interview with Mrs. Lafirme should not be
left further to the caprice of accident. An hour or more before noon
he rode up from the mill knowing it to be a time when he would likely
find her alone. Not seeing her he proceeded to make inquiry of the
servants; first appealing to Betsy.

"I don' know whar Miss T'rèse," with a rising inflection on the
"whar." "I yain't seed her sence mornin', time she sont Unc' Hi'um
yonda to old Morico wid de light bread an' truck," replied the verbose
Betsy. "Aunt B'lindy, you know whar Miss T'rèse?"

"How you want me know? standin' up everlastin' in de kitchen a bakin'
light-bread fu' lazy trash det betta be in de fiel' wurkin' a crap
like people, stid o' 'pendin' on yeda folks."

Mandy, who had been a silent listener, divining that she had perhaps
better make known certain information that was exclusively her own
piped out:—

"Miss T'rèse shet up in de parla; 'low she want we all lef 'er
'lone."

Having as it were forced an entrance into the stronghold where Thérèse
had supposed herself secure from intrusion, Hosmer at once seated
himself beside her.

This was a room kept for the most part closed during the summer days
when the family lived chiefly on the verandas or in the wide open hall
There lingered about it the foreign scent of cool clean matting,
mingled with a faint odor of rose which came from a curious Japanese
jar that stood on the ample hearth. Through the green half-closed
shutters the air came in gentle ripples, sweeping the filmy curtains
back and forth in irregular undulations. A few tasteful pictures hung
upon the walls, alternating with family portraits, for the most part
stiff and unhandsome, except in the case of such as were of so remote
date that age gave them a claim upon the interest and admiration of a
far removed generation.

It was not entirely clear to the darkies whether this room were not a
sort of holy sanctuary, where one should scarce be permitted to
breathe, except under compulsion of a driving necessity.

"Mrs. Lafirme," began Hosmer, "Melicent tells me that she made you
acquainted last night with the matter which I wished to talk to you
about to-day."

"Yes," Thérèse replied, closing the book which she had made a pretense
of reading, and laying it down upon the window-sill near which she
sat; adding very simply, "Why did you not tell me long ago, Mr.
Hosmer?"

"God knows," he replied; the sharp conviction breaking upon him, that
this disclosure had some how changed the aspect of life for him.
"Natural reluctance to speak of a thing so painful—native
reticence—I don't know what. I hope you forgive me; that you will let
it make no difference in whatever regard you may have for me."

"I had better tell you at once that there must be no repetition of—of
what you told me last night."

Hosmer had feared it. He made no protest in words; his revolt was
inward and showed itself only in an added pallor and increased
rigidity of face lines. He arose and went to a near window, peering
for a while aimlessly out between the partly open slats.

"I hadn't thought of your being a Catholic," he said, finally turning
towards her with folded arms.

"Because you have never seen any outward signs of it. But I can't
leave you under a false impression: religion doesn't influence my
reason in this."

"Do you think then that a man who has had such misfortune, should be
debarred the happiness which a second marriage could give him?"

"No, nor a woman either, if it suit her moral principle, which I hold
to be something peculiarly one's own."

"That seems to me to be a prejudice," he replied. "Prejudices may be
set aside by an effort of the will," catching at a glimmer of hope.

"There are some prejudices which a woman can't afford to part with,
Mr. Hosmer," she said a little haughtily, "even at the price of
happiness. Please say no more about it, think no more of it."

He seated himself again, facing her; and looking at him all her
sympathetic nature was moved at sight of his evident trouble.

"Tell me about it. I would like to know every thing in your life," she
said, feelingly.

"It's very good of you," he said, holding a hand for a moment over his
closed eyes. Then looking up abruptly, "It was a painful enough
experience, but I never dreamed that it could have had this last blow
in reserve for me."

"When did you marry?" she asked, wishing to start him with the story
which she fancied he would feel better for the telling.

"Ten years ago. I am a poor hand to analyze character: my own or
another's. My reasons for doing certain things have never been quite
clear to me; or I have never schooled myself to inquiry into my own
motives for action. I have been always thoroughly the business man. I
don't make a boast of it, but I have no reason to be ashamed of the
admission. Socially, I have mingled little with my fellow-beings,
especially with women, whose society has had little attraction for me;
perhaps, because I have never been thrown much into it, and I was
nearly thirty when I first met my wife."

"Was it in St. Louis?" Thérèse asked.

"Yes. I had been inveigled into going on a river excursion," he said,
plunging into the story, "Heaven knows how. Perhaps I was feeling
unwell—I really can't remember. But at all events I met a friend who
introduced me early in the day to a young girl—Fanny Larimore. She
was a pretty little thing, not more than twenty, all pink and white
and merry blue eyes and stylish clothes. Whatever it was, there was
something about her that kept me at her side all day. Every word and
movement of hers had an exaggerated importance for me. I fancied such
things had never been said or done quite in the same way before."

"You were in love," sighed Thérèse. Why the sigh she could not have
told.

"I presume so. Well, after that, I found myself thinking of her at the
most inopportune moments. I went to see her again and again—my first
impression deepened, and in two weeks I had asked her to marry me. I
can safely say, we knew nothing of each other's character. After
marriage, matters went well enough for a while." Hosmer here arose,
and walked the length of the room.

"Mrs. Lafirme," he said, "can't you understand that it must be a
painful thing for a man to disparage one woman to another: the woman
who has been his wife to the woman he loves? Spare me the rest."

"Please have no reservations with me; I shall not misjudge you in any
case," an inexplicable something was moving her to know what remained
to be told.

"It wasn't long before she attempted to draw me into what she called
society," Hosmer continued. "I am little versed in defining shades of
distinction between classes, but I had seen from the beginning that
Fanny's associates were not of the best social rank by any means. I
had vaguely expected her to turn from them, I suppose, when she
married. Naturally, I resisted anything so distasteful as being
dragged through rounds of amusement that had no sort of attraction
whatever for me. Besides, my business connections were extending, and
they claimed the greater part of my time and thoughts.

"A year after our marriage our boy was born." Here Hosmer ceased
speaking for a while, seemingly under pressure of a crowding of
painful memories.

"The child whose picture you have at the office?" asked Thérèse.

"Yes," and he resumed with plain effort: "It seemed for a while that
the baby would give its mother what distraction she sought so
persistently away from home; but its influence did not last and she
soon grew as restless as before. Finally there was nothing that united
us except the child. I can't really say that we were united through
him, but our love for the boy was the one feeling that we had in
common. When he was three years old, he died. Melicent had come to
live with us after leaving school. She was a high-spirited girl full
of conceits as she is now, and in her exaggerated way became filled
with horror of what she called the mésalliance I had made. After a
month she went away to live with friends. I didn't oppose her. I saw
little of my wife, being often away from home; but as feebly observant
as I was, I had now and again marked a peculiarity of manner about her
that vaguely troubled me. She seemed to avoid me and we grew more and
more divided.

"One day I returned home rather early. Melicent was with me. We found
Fanny in the dining-room lying on the sofa. As we entered, she looked
at us wildly and in striving to get up grasped aimlessly at the back
of a chair. I felt on a sudden as if there were some awful calamity
threatening my existence. I suppose, I looked helplessly at Melicent,
managing to ask her what was the matter with my wife. Melicent's black
eyes were flashing indignation. 'Can't you see she's been drinking.
God help you,' she said. Mrs. Lafirme, you know now the reason which
drove me away from home and kept me away. I never permitted my wife to
want for the comforts of life during my absence; but she sued for
divorce some years ago and it was granted, with alimony which I
doubled. You know the miserable story now. Pardon me for dragging it
to such a length. I don't see why I should have told it after all."