Kate Chopin- The Dover Reader

by Kate Chopin

  The burning of the mill entailed much work upon Hosmer, to which he turned with a zest—an absorption that for the time excluded everything else.

  Melicent had shunned Grégoire since the shooting. She had avoided speaking with him—even looking at him. During the turmoil which closely followed upon the tragic event, this change in the girl had escaped his notice. On the next day he suspected it only. But the third day brought him the terrible conviction. He did not know that she was making preparations to leave for St. Louis, and quite accidentally overheard Hosmer giving an order to one of the unemployed mill hands to call for her baggage on the following morning before train time.

  As much as he had expected her departure, and looked painfully forward to it, this certainty—that she was leaving on the morrow and without a word to him—bewildered him. He abandoned at once the work that was occupying him.

  “I didn’ know Miss Melicent was goin’ away to-morrow,” he said in a strange pleading voice to Hosmer.

  “Why, yes,” Hosmer answered, “I thought you knew. She’s been talking about it for a couple of days.”

  “No, I didn’ know nothin’ ’tall ’bout it,” he said, turning away and reaching for his hat, but with such nerveless hand that he almost dropped it before placing it on his head.

  “If you’re going to the house,” Hosmer called after him, “tell Melicent that Woodson won’t go for her trunks before morning. She thought she’d need to have them ready to-night.”

  “Yes, if I go to the house. I don’ know if I’m goin’ to the house or not,” he replied, walking listlessly away.

  Hosmer looked after the young man, and thought of him for a moment: of his soft voice and gentle manner—perplexed that he should be the same who had expressed in confidence the single regret that he had not been able to kill Joçint more than once.

  Grégoire went directly to the house, and approached that end of the veranda on which Melicent’s room opened. A trunk had already been packed and fastened and stood outside, just beneath the low-silled window that was open. Within the room, and also beneath the window, was another trunk, before which Melicent kneeled, filling it more or less systematically from an abundance of woman’s toggery that lay in a cumbrous heap on the floor beside her. Grégoire stopped at the window to tell her, with a sad attempt at indifference:

  “Yo’ brotha says don’t hurry packin’; Woodson ain’t goin’ to come fur your trunks tell mornin’.”

  “All right, thank you,” glancing towards him for an instant carelessly and going on with her work.

  “I didn’ know you was goin’ away.”

  “That’s absurd: you knew all along I was going away,” she returned, with countenance as expressionless as feminine subtlety could make it.

  “W’y don’t you let somebody else do that? Can’t you come out yere a w’ile?”

  “No, I prefer doing it myself; and I don’t care to go out.”

  What could he do? what could he say? There were no convenient depths in his mind from which he might draw at will, apt and telling speeches to taunt her with. His heart was swelling and choking him, at sight of the eyes that looked anywhere, but in his own; at sight of the lips that he had one time kissed, pressed into an icy silence. She went on with her task of packing, unmoved. He stood a while longer, silently watching her, his hat in his hands that were clasped behind him, and a stupor of grief holding him vise-like. Then he walked away. He felt somewhat as he remembered to have felt oftentimes as a boy, when ill and suffering, his mother would put him to bed and send him a cup of bouillon perhaps, and a little negro to sit beside him. It seemed very cruel to him now that some one should not do something for him—that he should be left to suffer this way. He walked across the lawn over to the cottage, where he saw Fanny pacing slowly up and down the porch.

  She saw him approach and stood in a patch of sunlight to wait for him. He really had nothing to say to her as he stood grasping two of the balustrades and looking up at her. He wanted somebody to talk to him about Melicent.

  “Did you know Miss Melicent was goin’ away?”

  Had it been Hosmer or Thérèse asking her the question she would have replied simply “yes,” but to Grégoire she said “yes; thank Goodness,” as frankly as though she had been speaking to Belle Worthington. “I don’t see what’s kept her down here all this time, anyway.”

  “You don’t like her?” he asked, stupefied at the strange possibility of any one not loving Melicent to distraction.

  “No. You wouldn’t either, if you knew her as well as I do. If she likes a person she goes on like a lunatic over them as long as it lasts; then good-by John! she’ll throw them aside as she would an old dress.”

  “Oh, I believe she thinks a heap of Aunt Thérèse.”

  “All right; you’ll see how much she thinks of Aunt Thérèse. And the people she’s been engaged to! There ain’t a worse flirt in the city of St. Louis; and always some excuse or other to break it off at the last minute. I haven’t got any use for her, Lord knows. There ain’t much love lost between us.”

  “Well, I reckon she knows they ain’t anybody born, good enough fur her,” he said, thinking of those engagements that she had shattered.

  “What was David doing?” Fanny asked abruptly.

  “Writin’ lettas at the sto’.”

  “Did he say when he was coming?”

  “No.”

  “Do you guess he’ll come pretty soon?”

  “No, I reckon not fur a good w’ile.”

  “Is Melicent with Mrs. Lafirme?”

  “No; she’s packin’ her things.”

  “I guess I’ll go sit with Mrs. Lafirme, d’you think she’ll mind?”

  “No, she’ll be glad to have you.”

  Fanny crossed over to join Thérèse. She liked to be with her when there was no danger of interruption from Melicent, and Grégoire 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 Thérèse; 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 Thérèse.

  “Oh, Grégoire, 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.”

  “Grégoire wants to know if you won’t go out and speak to him a moment, Melicent,” said Thérèse 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; murderd 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, hobnobbing with him. Even that Fanny 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 Thérèse, flushing violently.

  “Oh, this is something physical,” she replied, shivering, “let me alone.”

  Thérès
e went out to Grégoire, 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 circumstances, would have felt sufficient pride to refrain from going to the depôt on the following morning, but Grégoire 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 passed him he held out his hand, saying “Good-by.” 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-by to Hosmer, and Fanny, and Thérèse, who were on the platform; then she was gone.

  Grégoire stood looking stupidly at the vanishing train.

  “Are you going back with us?” Hosmer asked him. Fanny and Thérèse 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 kitchen’ 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 warthful 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?” suggested 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 Centreville. He was one of the dancers who had displayed their skill before Melicent and Grégoire. 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, “God 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, “sense 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 title.

  “Dey flyin’ ’roun’, Lord! dey hidin’ dey sef ! dey gittin’ out o’ de way, I tell you. Grégor 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 Grégor,” Aunt Belindy enunciated between paroxysms of laughter, seating herself with her fat arms resting on her knees, and her whole bearing announcing pleased anticipation.

  “Dat boy neva did have no car’ fur salvation o’ his soul,” groaned Uncle Hiram.

  “W’at he ben a doin’ yonda?” demanded Aunt Belindy impatiently.

  “Well,” said Pierson, assuming a declamatory air and position in the middle of the large kitchen, “he lef’ heah—w’at time he lef heah, Aunt B’lindy?”

  “He done lef’ fo’ dinna, ’caze I seed ’im a lopin’ to’ads de riva, time I flung dat Sampson boy out o’ de doo’, bringin’ dem greens in heah ’dou’t washin’ of ’em.”

  “Dat’s so; it war good dinna time w’en he come a lopin’ in town. Dat hoss look like he ben swimmin’ in Cane Riva, he done ride him so hard. He fling he se’f down front o’ Grammont’s sto’ an’ he come a stompin’ in, look like gwine hu’t somebody. Ole Grammont tell him, ‘How you come on, Grégor? Come ova tu de house an’ eat dinna wid us: de ladies be pleas tu see you.’ ”

  “Humph,” muttered Aunt Belindy, “dem Grammont gals be glad to see any t’ing dat got breeches on; lef ’lone good lookin’ piece like dat Grégor.”

  “Grégor, he neva sey, ‘Tank you dog,’ jis fling he big dolla down on de counta an’ ’low ‘don’t want no dinna: gimme some w’iskey’.”

  “Yas, yas, Lord,” from Aunt Belindy.

  “Ole Grammont, he push de bottle to’ads ’im, an’ I ’clar to Goodness ef he didn’ mos fill dat tumbla to de brim, an’ drink it down, neva blink a eye. Den he tu’n an treat ev’y las’ w’ite man stan’in’ roun’; dat ole kiarpenta man; de blacksmif; Marse Verdon. He keep on a treatin’; Grammont, he keep a handin’ out de w’iskey; Grégor he keep on a drinkin’ an a treatin’—Grammont, he keep a handin’ out; don’t make no odds tu him s’long uz dat bring de money in de draw. I ben a stan’in’ out on de gallery, me, a peekin’ in. An’ Grégor, he cuss and swar an’ he kiarry on, an ’low he want play game poka. Den dey all goes a trompin’ in de back room an’ sets down roun’ de table, an’ I comes a creepin’ in, me, whar I kin look frough de doo’, an dar dey sets an’ plays an Grégor, he drinks w’iskey an’ he wins de money. An’ arta w’ile Marse Verdon, he little eyes blinkin’, he ’low’, ‘y’ all had a shootin’ down tu Place-du-Bois, hein Grégor?’ Grégor, he neva say nuttin’: he jis draw he pistol slow out o’ he pocket an’ lay it down on de table; an’ he look squar in Marse Verdon eyes. Man! ef you eva seed some pussun tu’n’ w’ite!”

  “Reckon dat heifa ‘Milky’ look black side li’le Verdon dat time,” chuckled Aunt Belindy.

  “Jis uz w’ite uz Unc’ Hiurm’s shurt an’ a trimblin’, an’ neva say no mo’ ’bout shootin’. Den ole Grammont, he keine o’ hang back an’ say, ‘You git de jestice de peace, ’hine you, kiarrin’ conceal’ weepons dat a-way, Grégor.’  ”

  “Dat ole Grammont, he got to git he gab in ef he gwine die fu’ it,” interrupted Aunt Belindy.

  “Grégor say—‘I don’t ’lows to kiarr no conceal weepons,’ an he draw nudda pistol slow out o’ he udda pocket an’ lay et on de table. By dat time he gittin’ all de money, he crammin’ de money in he pocket; an’ dem fellas dey gits up one arta d’udda keine o’ shy-like, an’ sneaks out. De
n Grégor, he git up an come out o’ de room, he coat ’crost he arm, an’ de pistols a stickin’ out an him lookin’ sassy tell ev’y body make way, same ef he ben Jay Goul’. Ef he look one o’ ’em in de eye dey outs wid, ‘Howdy, Grégor—how you come on, Grégor?’ jis’ uz pelite uz a peacock, an’ him neva take no trouble to yansa ’em. He jis’ holla out fu’ somebody bring dat hoss tu de steps, an’ him stan’in’ ’s big uz life, waitin’. I gits tu de hoss fus’, me, an’ leads ’im up, an’ he gits top dat hoss stidy like he ain’t tetch a drap, an’ he fling me big dolla.”

  “Whar de dolla, Mista Pierson?” enquired Betsy.

  “De dolla in my pocket, an’ et gwine stay dah. Didn’ ax you fu’ no, ‘Mista Pierson.’ Whar yu’ all tink he went on dat hoss?”

  “How you reckon we know whar he wint; we wasn’t dah,” replied Aunt Belindy.

  “He jis’ went a lopin’ twenty yards down to Chartrand’s sto’. I goes on ’hine ’un see w’at he gwine do. Dah he git down f’um de hoss an’ go a stompin’ in de sto’—eve’y body stan’in’ back jis’ same like fu’ Jay Goul’, an’ he fling bill down on de counta an’ low, ‘Fill me up a bottle, Chartrand, I’se gwine travelin’.’ Den he ’lows, ‘You treats eve’y las’ man roun’ heah at my ’spence, black an’ w’ite—nuttin’ fu’ me,’ an’ he fole he arms an’ lean back on de counta, jis’ so. Chartrand, he look skeerd, he say ‘François, gwine wait on you.’ But Grégor, he ’low he don’t wants no rusty skileton a waitin’ on him w’en he treat, ‘Wait on de gemmen yo’se’f—step up gemmen.’ Chartrand ’low, ‘Damn ef nigga gwine drink wid w’ite man in dat sto’,’ all same he kein git ’hine box tu say dat.”

  “Lord, Lord, de ways o’ de transgressor!” groaned Uncle Hiram.