At Fault Part 15

Morico looked nonplussed and a little abashed: but he had much faith in the healing qualities of his remedy and urged it on her anew. She trembled a little, and looked away with rather excited eyes.

"_Je vous a.s.sure madame, ca ne peut pas vous faire du mal._"

f.a.n.n.y took the gla.s.s from his hand, and rising went and placed it on the table, then walked to the open door and looked eagerly out, as though hoping for the impossibility of her husband's return.

She did not seat herself again, but walked restlessly about the room, intently examining its meager details. The circuit of inspection bringing her again to the table, she picked up Morico's turkey fan, looking at it long and critically. When she laid it down, it was to seize the gla.s.s of "toddy" which she unhesitatingly put to her lips and drained at a draught. All uneasiness and fatigue seemed to leave her on the instant as though by magic. She went back to her chair and reseated herself composedly. Her eyes now rested on her old host with a certain quizzical curiosity strange to them.

He was plainly demoralized by her presence, and still made pretense of occupying himself with the arrangement of the room.

Presently she said to him: "Your remedy did me more good than I'd expected," but not understanding her, he only smiled and looked at her blankly.

She laughed good-humoredly back at him, then went to the table and poured from the flask which he had left standing there, liquor to the depth of two fingers, this time drinking it more deliberately. After that she tried to talk to Morico and thought it very amusing that he could not understand her.

Presently Jocint came home and accepted her presence there very indifferently. He went to the _garde manger_ to stay his hunger, much as he had done on the occasion of Therese's visit; talked in grum abrupt utterances to his father, and disappeared into the adjoining room where f.a.n.n.y could hear him and occasionally see him polishing and oiling his cherished rifle.

Morico, more accustomed to foreign sounds in the woods than she, was the first to detect the approach of Gregoire, whom he went out hurriedly to meet, glad of the relief from the supposed necessity of entertaining his puzzling visitor. When he was fairly out of the room, she arose quickly, approached the table and reaching for the flask of liquor, thrust it hastily into her pocket, then went to join him. At the moment that Gregoire came up, Jocint issued from a side door and stood looking at the group.

"Well, Mrs. Hosma, yere I am. I reckon you was tired waitin'. The buggy's yonda in the road."

He shook hands cordially with Morico saying something to him in French which made the old man laugh heartily.

"Why didn't David come? I thought he said he was coming; that's the way he does," said f.a.n.n.y complainingly.

"That's a po' compliment to me, Mrs. Hosrma. Can't you stan' my company for that li'le distance?" returned Gregoire gallantly. "Mr.

Hosma had a good deal to do w'en he got back, that's w'y he sent me.

An' we betta hurry up if we expec' to git any suppa' to-night. Like as not you'll fine your kitchen cleaned out."

f.a.n.n.y looked her inquiry for his meaning.

"Why, don't you know this is 'Tous-saint' eve--w'en the dead git out o' their graves an' walk about? You wouldn't ketch a n.i.g.g.a out o' his cabin to-night afta dark to save his soul. They all gittin' ready now to hustle back to the quartas."

"That's nonsense," said f.a.n.n.y, drawing on her gloves, "you ought to have more sense than to repeat such things."

Gregoire laughed, looking surprised at her unusual energy of speech and manner. Then he turned to Jocint, whose presence he had thus far ignored, and asked in a peremptory tone:

"W'at did Woodson say 'bout watchin' at the mill to-night? Did you ask him like I tole you?"

"Yaas, me ax um: ee' low ee an' goin'. Say how Sylveste d'wan' watch lak alluz. Say ee an' goin'. Me don' blem 'im neida, don' ketch me out de 'ouse night lak dat fu no man."

"_Sacre imbecile_," muttered Gregoire, between his teeth, and vouchsafed him no other answer, but nodded to Morico and turned away.

f.a.n.n.y followed with a freedom of movement quite unlike that of her coming.

Morico went into the house and coming back hastily to the door called to Jocint:

"Bring back that flask of whisky that you took off the table."

"You're a liar: you know I have no use for whisky. That's one of your d.a.m.ned tricks to make me buy you more." And he seated himself on an over-turned tub and with his small black eyes half closed, looked moodily out into the solemn darkening woods. The old man showed no resentment at the harshness and disrespect of his son's speech, being evidently used to such. He pa.s.sed his hand slowly over his white long hair and turned bewildered into the house.

"Is it just this same old thing year in and year out, Gregoire? Don't any one ever get up a dance, or a card party or anything?"

"Jus' as you say; the same old thing f'om one yea's en' to the otha. I used to think it was putty lonesome myse'f w'en I firs' come yere.

Then you see they's no neighbo's right roun' yere. In Natchitoches now; that's the place to have a right down good time. But see yere; I didn' know you was fon' o' dancin' an' such things."

"Why, of course, I just dearly love to dance. But it's as much as my life's worth to say that before David; he's such a stick; but I guess you know that by this time," with a laugh, as he had never heard from her before--so unconstrained; at the same time drawing nearer to him and looking merrily into his face.

"The little lady's been having a 'toddy' at Morico's, that makes her lively," thought Gregoire. But the knowledge did not abash him in the least. He accommodated himself at once to the situation with that adaptability common to the American youth, whether of the South, North, East or West.

"Where abouts did you leave David when you come away?" she asked with a studied indifference.

"Hol' on there, Buckskin--w'ere you takin' us? W'y, I lef' him at the sto' mailin' lettas."

"Had the others all got back? Mrs. Laferm? Melicent? did they all stop at the store, too?"

"Who? Aunt Threrese? no, she was up at the house w'en I lef'--I reckon Miss Melicent was there too. Talkin' 'bout fun,--it's to git into one o' them big spring wagons on a moonlight night, like they do in Centaville sometimes; jus' packed down with young folks--and start out fur a dance up the coast. They ain't nothin' to beat it as fah as fun goes."

"It must be just jolly. I guess you're a pretty good dancer, Gregoire?"

"Well--'taint fur me to say. But they ain't many can out dance me: not in Natchitoches pa'ish, anyway. I can say that much."

If such a thing could have been, f.a.n.n.y would have startled Gregoire more than once during the drive home. Before its close she had obtained a promise from him to take her up to Natchitoches for the very next entertainment,--averring that she didn't care what David said. If he wanted to bury himself that was his own look out. And if Mrs. Laferm took people to be angels that they could live in a place like that, and give up everything and not have any kind of enjoyment out of life, why, she was mistaken and that's all there was to it. To all of which freely expressed views Gregoire emphatically a.s.sented.

Hosmer had very soon disembarra.s.sed himself of Torpedo, knowing that the animal would unerringly find his way to the corn crib by supper time. He continued his own way now untrammelled, and at an agreeable speed which soon brought him to the spring at the road side. Here he found Therese, half seated against a projection of rock, in her hand a bunch of ferns which she had evidently dismounted to gather, and holding Beauregard's bridle while he munched at the cool wet tufts of gra.s.s that grew everywhere.

As Hosmer rode up at a rapid pace, he swung himself from his horse almost before the animal came to a full stop. He removed his hat, mopped his forehead, stamped about a little to relax his limbs and turned to answer the enquiry with which Therese met him.

"Left her at Morico's. I'll have to send the buggy back for her."

"I can't forgive myself for such a blunder," said Therese regretfully, "indeed I had no idea of that miserable beast's character. I never was on him you know--only the little darkies, and they never complained: they'd as well ride cows as not."

"Oh, it's mainly from her being unaccustomed to riding, I believe."

This was the first time that Hosmer and Therese had met alone since his return from St. Louis. They looked at each other with full consciousness of what lay in the other's mind. Therese felt that however adroitly another woman might have managed the situation, for herself, it would have been a piece of affectation to completely ignore it at this moment.

"Mr. Hosmer, perhaps I ought to have said something before this, to you--about what you've done."

"Oh, yes, congratulated me--complimented me," he replied with a pretense at a laugh.

"Well, the latter, perhaps. I think we all like to have our good and right actions recognized for their worth."

He flushed, looked at her with a smile, then laughed out-right--this time it was no pretense.

"So I've been a good boy; have done as my mistress bade me and now I'm to receive a condescending little pat on the head--and of course must say thank you. Do you know, Mrs. Lafirme--and I don't see why a woman like you oughtn't to know it--it's one of those things to drive a man mad, the sweet complaisance with which women accept situations, or inflict situations that it takes the utmost of a man's strength to endure."

"Well, Mr. Hosmer," said Therese plainly discomposed, "you must concede you decided it was the right thing to do."

"I didn't do it because I thought it was right, but because you thought it was right. But that makes no difference."

"Then remember your wife is going to do the right thing herself--she admitted as much to me."