At Fault Part 18

"No."

"Do you guess he'll come pretty soon?"

"No, I reckon not fur a good w'ile."

"Is Melicent with Mrs. Laferm?"

"No; she's packin' her things."

"I guess I'll go sit with Mrs. Laferm, d'you think she'll mind?"

"No, she'll be glad to have you."

f.a.n.n.y crossed over to go join Therese. She liked to be with her when there was no danger of interruption from Melicent, and Gregoire went wandering aimlessly about the plantation.

He staked great hopes on what the night might bring for him. She would melt, perhaps, to the extent of a smile or one of her old glances. He was almost cheerful when he seated himself at table; only he and his aunt and Melicent. He had never seen her look so handsome as now, in a woolen gown that she had not worn before, of warm rich tint, that brought out a certain regal splendor that he had not suspected in her.

A something that she seemed to have held in reserve till this final moment. But she had nothing for him--nothing. All her conversation was addressed to Therese; and she hurried away from table at the close of the meal, under pretext of completing her arrangements for departure.

"Doesn't she mean to speak to me?" he asked fiercely of Therese.

"Oh, Gregoire, I see so much trouble around me; so many sad mistakes, and I feel so powerless to right them; as if my hands were tied. I can't help you in this; not now. But let me help you in other ways.

Will you listen to me?"

"If you want to help me, Aunt," he said stabbing his fork into a piece of bread before him, "go and ask her if she doesn't mean to talk to me: if she won't come out on the gallery a minute."

"Gregoire wants to know if you won't go out and speak to him a moment, Melicent," said Therese entering the girl's room. "Do as you wish, of course. But remember you are going away to-morrow; you'll likely never see him again. A friendly word from you now, may do more good than you imagine. I believe he's as unhappy at this moment as a creature can be!"

Melicent looked at her horrified. "I don't understand you at all, Mrs.

Lafirme. Think what he's done; murdered a defenseless man! How can you have him near you--seated at your table? I don't know what nerves you have in your bodies, you and David. There's David, hobn.o.bbing with him. Even that f.a.n.n.y talking to him as if he were blameless. Never! If he were dying I wouldn't go near him."

"Haven't you a spark of humanity in you?" asked Therese, flus.h.i.+ng violently.

"Oh, this is something physical," she replied, s.h.i.+vering, "let me alone."

Therese went out to Gregoire, who stood waiting on the veranda. She only took his hand and pressed it telling him good-night, and he knew that it was a dismissal.

There may be lovers, who, under the circ.u.mstances, would have felt sufficient pride to refrain from going to the depot on the following morning, but Gregoire was not one of them. He was there. He who only a week before had thought that nothing but her constant presence could reconcile him with life, had narrowed down the conditions for his life's happiness now to a glance or a kind word. He stood close to the steps of the Pullman car that she was about to enter, and as she pa.s.sed him he held out his hand, saying "Good-bye." But he held his hand to no purpose. She was much occupied in taking her valise from the conductor who had hoisted her up, and who was now shouting in stentorian tones "All aboard," though there was not a soul with the slightest intention of boarding the train but herself.

She leaned forward to wave good-bye to Hosmer, and f.a.n.n.y, and Therese, who were on the platform; then she was gone.

Gregoire stood looking stupidly at the vanis.h.i.+ng train.

"Are you going back with us?" Hosmer asked him. f.a.n.n.y and Therese had walked ahead.

"No," he replied, looking at Hosmer with ashen face, "I got to go fine my hoss."

VIII

With Loose Rein.

"De Lord be praised fu' de blessin's dat he showers down 'pon us," was Uncle Hiram's graceful conclusion of his supper, after which he pushed his empty plate aside regretfully, and addressed Aunt Belindy.

" 'Pears to me, Belindy, as you reached a pint wid dem bacon an' greens to-night, dat you never tetched befo'. De pint o' de flavorin' is w'at I alludes to."

"All de same, dat ain't gwine to fetch no mo'," was the rather uncivil reply to this neat compliment to her culinary powers.

"Dah!" cried the youthful Betsy, who formed one of the trio gathered together in the kitchen at Place-du-Bois. "Jis listen (to) Unc' Hiurm!

Aunt B'lindy neva tetched a han' to dem bacon an' greens. She tole me out o' her own mouf to put'em on de fiar; she warn't gwine pesta wid 'em."

"Warn't gwine pesta wid 'em?" administering a cuff on the ear of the too communicative Betsy, that sent her sprawling across the table.

"T'inks I'se gwine pesta wid you--does you? Messin' roun' heah in de kitchin' an' ain't tu'ned down a bed or drawed a bah, or done a lick o' yo' night wurk yit."

"I is done my night wurk, too," returned Betsy whimpering but defiantly, as she retreated beyond reach of further blows from Aunt Belindy's powerful right hand.

"Dat harshness o' yourn, Belindy, is wat's a sourin' yo' tempa, an' a turnin' of it intur gall an' wormwood. Does you know wat de Scripture tells us of de wrathful woman?"

"Whar I got time to go a foolin' wid Scripture? W'at I wants to know; whar dat Pierson boy, he don't come. He ben gone time 'nough to walk to Natch'toches an' back."

"Ain't dat him I years yonda tu de crib?" suggestod Betsy, coming to join Aunt Belindy in the open doorway.

"You heahs mos' too much fu' yo' own good, you does, gal."

But Betsy was right. For soon a tall, slim negro, young and coal black, mounted the stairs and came into the kitchen, where he deposited a meal bag filled with various necessities that he had brought from Centerville. He was one of the dancers who had displayed their skill before Melicent and Gregoire. Uncle Hiram at once accosted him.

"Well, Pierson, we jest a ben a wonderin' consarnin' you. W'at was de 'casion o' dat long delay?"

"De 'casion? W'y man alive, I couldn't git a dog gone soul in de town to wait on me."

"Dat boy kin lie, yas," said Aunt Belindy, "G.o.d A'mighty knows ever time I ben to Centaville dem sto' keepas ain't done a blessed t'ing but settin' down."

"Settin' down--Lord! dey warn't settin' down to-day; you heah me."

"W'at dey doin' ef dey ain't settin' down, Unc' Pierson?" asked Betsy with amiable curiosity.

"You jis drap dat 'uncle,' you," turning wrathfully upon the girl, "sence w'en you start dat new trick?"

"Lef de chile 'lone, Pierson, lef 'er alone. Come heah, Betsy, an' set by yo' Uncle Hiurm."

From the encouraging nearness of Uncle Hiram, she ventured to ask "w'at you 'low dey doin' ef dey ain't settin' down?" this time without adding the offensive t.i.tle.

"Dey flyin' 'roun', Lord! dey hidin' dey sef! dey gittin' out o' de way, I tell you. Gregor jis ben a raisin' ole Cain in Centaville."

"I know'd it; could a' tole you dat mese'f. My Lan'! but dats a piece, dat Gregor," Aunt Belindy enunciated between paroxysms of laughter, seating herself with her fat arms resting on her knees, and her whole bearing announcing pleased antic.i.p.ation.

"Dat boy neva did have no car' fur de salvation o' his soul," groaned Uncle Hiram.