Dressed, and evidently waiting with forced patience for the termination of these overhead maneuvers of her friend, sat Lou,—Mrs. Jack Dawson,—a woman whom most people called handsome. If she were handsome, no one could have told why, for her beauty was a thing which could not be defined. She was tall and thin, with hair, eyes, and complexion of a brownish neutral tint, and bore in face and figure, a stamp of defiance which probably accounted for a certain eccentricity in eschewing hair dyes and cosmetics. Her face was full of little irregularities; a hardly perceptible cast in one eye; the nose drawn a bit to one side, and the mouth twitched decidedly to the other when she talked or laughed. It was this misproportion which gave a piquancy to her expression and which in charming people, no doubt made them believe her handsome.

Mrs. Worthington's coiffure being completed, she regaled herself with a deliberate and comprehensive glance into the street, and the outcome of her observation was the sudden exclamation.

"Well I'll be switched! come here quick Lou. If there ain't Fanny Larimore getting on the car with Dave Hosmer!"

Mrs. Dawson approached the window, but without haste; and in no wise sharing her friend's excitement, gave utterance to her calm opinion.

"They've made it up, I'll bet you what you want."

Surprise seemed for the moment to have deprived Mrs. Worthington of further ability to proceed with her toilet, for she had fallen into a chair as limply as her starched condition would permit, her face full of speculation.

"See here, Belle Worthington, if we've got to be at the 'Lympic at two o'clock, you'd better be getting a move on yourself."

"Yes, I know; but I declare, you might knock me down with a feather."

A highly overwrought figure of speech on the part of Mrs. Worthington, seeing that the feather which would have prostrated her must have met a resistance of some one hundred and seventy-five pounds of solid avoirdupois.

"After all she said about him, too!" seeking to draw her friend into some participation in her own dumbfoundedness.

"Well, you ought to know Fanny Larimore's a fool, don't you?"

"Well, but I just can't get over it; that's all there is about it." And Mrs. Worthington went about completing the adornment of her person in a state of voiceless stupefaction.

In full garb, she presented the figure of a splendid woman; trim and tight in a black silk gown of expensive quality, heavy with jets which hung and shone, and jangled from every available point of her person. Not a thread of her yellow hair was misplaced. She shone with cleanliness, and her broad expressionless face and meaningless blue eyes were set to a good-humored readiness for laughter, which would be wholesome if not musical. She exhaled a fragrance of patchouly or jockey-club, or something odorous and "strong" that clung to every article of her apparel, even to the yellow kid gloves which she would now be forced to put on during her ride in the car. Mrs. Dawson, attired with equal richness and style, showed more of individuality in her toilet.

As they quitted the house she observed to her friend:

"I wish you'd let up on that smell; it's enough to sicken a body."

"I know you don't like it, Lou," was Mrs. Worthington's apologetic and half disconcerted reply, "and I was careful as could be. Give you my word, I didn't think you could notice it."

"Notice it? Gee!" responded Mrs. Dawson.

These were two ladies of elegant leisure, the conditions of whose lives, and the amiability of whose husbands, had enabled them to develop into finished and professional time-killers.

Their intimacy with each other, as also their close acquaintance with Fanny Larimore, dated from a couple of years after that lady's marriage, when they had met as occupants of the same big up-town boarding house. The intercourse had never since been permitted to die out. Once, when the two former ladies were on a visit to Mrs. Larimore, seeing the flats in course of construction, they were at once assailed with the desire to abandon their hitherto nomadic life, and settle to the responsibilities of housekeeping; a scheme which they carried into effect as soon as the houses became habitable.

There was a Mr. Lorenzo Worthington; a gentleman employed for many years past in the custom house. Whether he had been overlooked, which his small unobtrusive, narrow-chested person made possible—or whether his many-sided usefulness had rendered him in a manner indispensable to his employers, does not appear; but he had remained at his post during the various changes of administration that had gone by since his first appointment.

During intervals of his work—intervals often occurring of afternoon hours, when he had been given night work—he was fond of sitting at the sunny kitchen window, with his long thin nose, and shortsighted eyes plunged between the pages of one of his precious books: a small hoard of which he had collected at some cost and more self-denial.

One of the grievances of his life was the necessity under which he found himself of protecting his treasure from the Philistine abuse and contempt of his wife. When they moved into the flat, Mrs. Worthington, during her husband's absence, had ranged them all, systematically enough, on the top shelf of the kitchen closet to "get them out of the way." But at this he had protested, and taken a positive stand, to which his wife had so far yielded as to permit that they be placed on the top shelf of the bedroom closet; averring that to have them laying around was a thing that she would not do, for they spoilt the looks of any room.

He had not foreseen the possibility of their usefulness being a temptation to his wife in so handy a receptacle.

Seeking once a volume of Ruskin's Miscellanies, he discovered that it had been employed to support the dismantled leg of a dressing bureau. On another occasion, a volume of Schopenhauer, which he had been at much difficulty and expense to procure, Emerson's Essays, and two other volumes much prized, he found had served that lady as weights to hold down a piece of dry goods which she had sponged and spread to dry on an available section of roof top.

He was glad enough to transport them all back to the safer refuge of the kitchen closet, and pay the hired girl a secret stipend to guard them.

Mr. Worthington regarded women as being of peculiar and unsuitable conformation to the various conditions of life amid which they are placed; with strong moral proclivities, for the most part subservient to a weak and inadequate mentality.

It was not his office to remodel them; his role was simply to endure with patience the vagaries of an order of human beings, who after all, offered an interesting study to a man of speculative habit, apart from their usefulness as propagators of the species.

As regards this last qualification, Mrs. Worthington had done less than her fair share, having but one child, a daughter of twelve, whose training and education had been assumed by an aunt of her father's, a nun of some standing in the Sacred Heart Convent.

Quite a different type of man was Jack Dawson, Lou's husband. Short, round, young, blonde, good looking and bald—as what St. Louis man past thirty is not? he rejoiced in the agreeable calling of a traveling salesman.

On the occasions when he was at home; once in two weeks—sometimes seldomer—never oftener—the small flat was turned inside out and upside down. He filled it with noise and merriment. If a theater party were not on hand, it was a spin out to Forest park behind a fast team, closing with a wine supper at a road-side restaurant. Or a card party would be hastily gathered to which such neighbors as were congenial were bid in hot haste; deficiencies being supplied from his large circle of acquaintances who happened not to be on the road, and who at the eleventh hour were rung up by telephone. On such occasions Jack's voice would be heard loud in anecdote, introduced in some such wise as "When I was in Houston, Texas, the other day," or "Tell you what it is, sir, those fellers over in Albuquerque are up to a thing or two."

One of his standing witticisms was to inquire in a stage whisper of Belle or Lou—whether the little gal over the way had taken the pledge yet.

This gentleman and his wife were on the most amiable of terms together, barring the small grievance that he sometimes lost money at poker. But as losing was exceptional with him, and as he did not make it a matter of conscience to keep her at all times posted as to the fluctuations of his luck, this grievance had small occasion to show itself.

What he thought of his wife, might best be told in his own language: that Lou was up to the mark and game every time; feminine characteristics which he apparently held in high esteem.

The two ladies in question had almost reached the terminus of their ride, when Mrs. Worthington remarked incidentally to her friend, "It was nothing in the God's world but pure sass brought those two fellers to see you last night, Lou."

Mrs. Dawson bit her lip and the cast in her eye became more accentuated, as it was apt to do when she was ruffled.

"I notice you didn't treat 'em any too cool yourself," she retorted.

"Oh, they weren't my company, or I'd a give 'em a piece of my mind pretty quick. You know they're married, and they know you're married, and they hadn't a bit o' business there."

"They're perfect gentlemen, and I don't see what business 'tis of yours, anyway."

"Oh that's a horse of another color," replied Mrs. Worthington, bridling and relapsing into injured silence for the period of ten seconds, when she resumed, "I hope they ain't going to poke themselves at the matinee."

"Likely they will 's long as they gave us the tickets."

One of the gentlemen was at the matinee: Mr. Bert Rodney, but he certainly had not "poked" himself there. He never did any thing vulgar or in bad taste. He had only "dropped in!" Exquisite in dress and manner, a swell of the upper circles, versed as was no one better in the code of gentlemanly etiquette—he was for the moment awaiting disconsolately the return of his wife and daughter from Narragansett.

He took a vacant seat behind the two ladies, and bending forward began to talk to them in his low and fascinating drawl.

Mrs. Worthington, who often failed to accomplish her fierce designs, was as gracious towards him as if she had harbored no desire to give him a piece of her mind; but she was resolute in her refusal to make one of a proposed supper party.

A quiet sideward look from Mrs. Dawson, told Mr. Rodney as plainly as words, that in the event of his partie-carree failing him, he might count upon her for a tete-a-tete.



XI

The Self-Assumed Burden.

The wedding was over. Hosmer and Fanny had been married in the small library of their Unitarian minister whom they had found intent upon the shaping of his Sunday sermon.

Out of deference, he had been briefly told the outward circumstances of the case, which he knew already; for these two had been formerly members of his congregation, and gossip had not been reluctant in telling their story. Hosmer, of course, had drifted away from his knowledge, and in late years, he had seen little of Fanny, who when moved to attend church at all usually went to the Redemptorist's Rock Church with her friend Belle Worthington. This lady was a good Catholic to the necessary extent of hearing a mass on Sundays, abstaining from meat on Fridays and Ember days, and making her "Easters." Which concessions were not without their attendant discomforts, counterbalanced, however, by the soothing assurance which they gave her of keeping on the safe side.

The minister had been much impressed with the significance of this re-marriage which he was called upon to perform, and had offered some few and well chosen expressions of salutary advice as to its future guidance. The sexton and housekeeper had been called in as witnesses. Then Hosmer had taken Fanny back home in a cab as she requested, because of her eyes that were red and swollen.

Inside the little hall-way he took her in his arms and kissed her, calling her "my child." He could not have told why, except that it expressed the responsibility he accepted of bearing all things that a father must bear from the child to whom he has given life.

"I should like to go out for an hour, Fanny; but if you would rather not, I shall stay."

"No, David, I want to be alone," she said, turning into the little parlor, with eyes big and heavy from weariness and inward clashing emotions.

Along the length of Lindell avenue from Grand avenue west to Forest park, reaches for two miles on either side of the wide and well kept gravel drive a smooth stone walk, bordered its full extent with a double row of trees which were young and still uncertain, when Hosmer walked between them.

Had it been Sunday, he would have found himself making one of a fashionable throng of promenaders; it being at that time a fad with society people to walk to Forest park and back of a Sunday afternoon. Driving was then considered a respectable diversion only on the six work days of the week.

But it was not Sunday and this inviting promenade was almost deserted. An occasional laborer would walk clumsily by; apathetic; swinging his tin bucket and bearing some implement of toil with the yellow clay yet clinging to it. Or it might be a brace of strong-minded girls walking with long and springing stride, which was then fashionable; looking not to the right nor left; indulging in no exchange of friendly and girlish chatter, but grimly intent upon the purpose of their walk.

A steady line of vehicles was pushing on towards the park at the moderate speed which the law required. On both sides the wide boulevard tasteful dwellings, many completed, but most of them in course of construction, were in constant view. Hosmer noted every thing, but absently; and yet he was not pre-occupied with thought. He felt himself to be hurrying away from something that was fast overtaking him, and his faculties for the moment were centered in the mere act of motion. It is said that motion is pleasurable to man. No doubt, in connection with a healthy body and free mind, movement brings to the normal human being a certain degree of enjoyment. But where the healthful conditions are only physical, rapid motion changes from a source of pleasure to one of mere expediency.

So long as Hosmer could walk he kept a certain pressing consciousness at bay. He would have liked to run if he had dared. Since he had entered the park there were constant trains of cars speeding somewhere overhead; he could hear them at near intervals clashing over the stone bridge. And there was not a train which passed that he did not long to be at the front of it to measure and let out its speed. What a mad flight he would have given it, to make men hold their breath with terror! How he would have driven it till its end was death and chaos!—so much the better.

There suddenly formed in Hosmer's mind a sentence—sharp and distinct. We are all conscious of such quick mental visions whether of words or pictures, coming sometimes from a hidden and untraceable source, making us quiver with awe at this mysterious power of mind manifesting itself with the vividness of visible matter.

"It was the act of a coward."

Those were the words which checked him, and forbade him to go farther: which compelled him to turn about and face the reality of his convictions.

It is no unusual sight, that of a man lying full length in the soft tender grass of some retired spot of Forest park—with his face hidden in his folded arms. To the few who may see him, if they speculate at all about him he sleeps or he rests his body after a day's fatigue. "Am I never to be the brave man?" thought Hosmer, "always the coward, flying even from my own thoughts?"

How hard to him was this unaccustomed task of dealing with moral difficulties, which all through his life before, however lightly they had come, he had shirked and avoided! He realized now, that there was to be no more of that. If he did not wish his life to end in disgraceful shipwreck, he must take command and direction of it upon himself.

He had felt himself capable of stolid endurance since love had declared itself his guide and helper. But now—only to-day—something beside had crept into his heart. Not something to be endured, but a thing to be strangled and thrust away. It was the demon of hate; so new, so awful, so loathsome, he doubted that he could look it in the face and live.

Here was the problem of his new existence.

The woman who had formerly made his life colorless and empty he had quietly turned his back upon, carrying with him a pity that was not untender. But the woman who had unwittingly robbed him of all possibility of earthly happiness—he hated her. The woman who for the remainder of a life-time was to be in all the world the nearest thing to him, he hated her. He hated this woman of whom he must be careful, to whom he must be tender, and loyal and generous. And to give no sign or word but of kindness; to do no action that was not considerate, was the task which destiny had thrust upon his honor.

He did not ask himself if it were possible of accomplishment. He had flung hesitancy away, to make room for the all-powerful "Must be."

He walked slowly back to his home. There was no need to run now; nothing pursued him. Should he quicken his pace or drag himself ever so slowly, it could henceforth make no difference. The burden from which he had fled was now banded upon him and not to be loosed, unless he fling himself with it into forgetfulness.



XII

Severing Old Ties.

Returning from the matinee, Belle and her friend Lou Dawson, before entering their house, crossed over to Fanny's. Mrs. Worthington tried the door and finding it fastened, rang the bell, then commenced to beat a tattoo upon the pane with her knuckles; an ingenuous manner which she had of announcing her identity. Fanny opened to them herself, and the three walked into the parlor.

"I haven't seen you for a coon's age, Fanny," commenced Belle, "where on earth have you been keeping yourself?"

"You saw me yesterday breakfast time, when you came to borrow the wrapper pattern," returned Fanny, in serious resentment to her friend's exaggeration.

"And much good the old wrapper pattern did me: a mile too small every way, no matter how much I let out the seams. But see here—"

"Belle's the biggest idiot about her size: there's no convincing her she's not a sylph."

"Thank you, Mrs. Dawson."

"Well, it's a fact. Didn't you think Furgeson's scales were all wrong the other day because you weighed a hundred and eighty pounds?"

"O that's the day I had that heavy rep on."

"Heavy nothing. We were coming over last night, Fanny, but we had company," continued Mrs. Dawson.

"Who d'you have?" asked Fanny mechanically and glad of the respite.

"Bert Rodney and Mr. Grant. They're so anxious to meet you. I'd 'a sent over for you, but Belle—"

"See here, Fanny, what the mischief was Dave Hosmer doing here to-day, and going down town with you and all that sort o' thing?"

Fanny flushed uneasily. "Have you seen the evening paper?" she asked.

"How d'you want us to see the paper? we just come from the matinee."

"David came yesterday," Fanny said working nervously at the window shade. "He'd wrote me a note the postman brought right after you left with the pattern. When you saw us getting on the car, we were going down to Dr. Martin's, and we've got married again."

Mrs. Dawson uttered a long, low whistle by way of comment. Mrs. Worthington gave vent to her usual "Well I'll be switched," which she was capable of making expressive of every shade of astonishment, from the lightest to the most pronounced; at the same time unfastening the bridle of her bonnet which plainly hindered her free respiration after such a shock.

"Say that Fanny isn't sly, after that, Belle."

"Sly? My God, she's a fool! If ever a woman had a snap! and to go to work and let a man get around her like that."

Mrs. Worthington seemed powerless to express herself in anything but disconnected exclamations.

"What are you going to do, Fanny?" asked Lou, who having aired all the astonishment which she cared to show, in her whistle, was collected enough to want her natural curiosity satisfied.

"David's living down South. I guess we'll go down there pretty soon. Soon's he can get things fixed up here."

"Where—down South?"

"Oh, I don't know. Somewheres in Louisiana."

"It's to be hoped in New Orleans," spoke Belle didactically, "that's the only decent place in Louisiana where a person could live."

"No, 'tain't in New Orleans. He's got a saw mill somewheres down there."

"Heavens and earth! a saw mill?" shrieked Belle. Lou was looking calmly resigned to the startling news.

"Oh, I ain't going to live in a saw mill. I wisht you'd all let me alone, any way," she returned pettishly. "There's a lady keeps a plantation, and that's where he lives."

"Well of all the rigmaroles! a lady, and a saw mill and a plantation. It's my opinion that man could make you believe black's white, Fanny Larimore."

As Hosmer approached his house, he felt mechanically in his pocket for his latch key; so small a trick having come back to him with the old habit of misery. Of course he found no key. His ring startled Fanny, who at once sprang from her scat to open the door for him; but having taken a few steps, she hesitated and irresolutely re-seated herself. It was only his second ring that the servant unamiably condescended to answer.

"So you're going to take Fanny away from us, Mr. Hosmer," said Belle, when he had greeted them and seated himself beside Mrs. Dawson on the small sofa that stood between the door and window. Fanny sat at the adjoining window, and Mrs. Worthington in the center of the room; which was indeed so small a room that any one of them might have reached out and almost touched the hand of the others.

"Yes, Fanny has agreed to go South with me," he answered briefly. "You're looking well, Mrs. Worthington."

"Oh, Law yes, I'm never sick. As I tell Mr. Worthington, he'll never get rid of me, unless he hires somebody to murder me. But I tell you what, you came pretty near not having any Fanny to take away with you. She was the sickest woman! Did you tell him about it, Fanny? Come to think of it, I guess the climate down there'll be the very thing to bring her round."

Mrs. Dawson without offering apology interrupted her friend to inquire of Hosmer if his life in the South were not of the most interesting, and begging that he detail them something of it; with a look to indicate that she felt the deepest concern in anything that touched him.

A masculine presence had always the effect of rousing Mrs. Dawson into an animation which was like the glow of a slumbering ember, when a strong pressure of air is brought to bear upon it.

Hosmer had always considered her an amiable woman, with rather delicate perceptions; frivolous, but without the vulgarisms of Mrs. Worthington, and consequently a less objectionable friend for Fanny. He answered, looking down into her eyes, which were full of attentiveness.

"My life in the South is not one that you would think interesting. I live in the country where there are no distractions such as you ladies call amusements—and I work pretty hard. But it's the sort of life that one grows attached to and finds himself longing for again if he have occasion to change it."

"Yes, it must be very satisfying," she answered; for the moment perfectly sincere.

"Oh very!" exclaimed Mrs. Worthington, with a loud and aggressive laugh. "It would just suit you to a T, Lou, but how it's going to satisfy Fanny! Well, I've got nothing to say about it, thanks be; it don't concern me."

"If Fanny finds that she doesn't like it after a fair trial, she has the privilege of saying so, and we shall come back again," he said looking at his wife whose elevation of eyebrow, and droop of mouth gave her the expression of martyred resignation, which St. Lawrence might have worn, when invited to make himself comfortable on the gridiron—so had Mrs. Worthington's words impressed her with the force of their prophetic meaning.

Mrs. Dawson politely hoped that Hosmer would not leave before Jack came home; it would distress Jack beyond everything to return and find that he had missed an old friend whom he thought so much of.

Hosmer could not say precisely when they would leave. He was in present negotiation with a person who wanted to rent the house, furnished; and just as soon as he could arrange a few business details, and Fanny could gather such belongings as she wished to take with her they would go.

"You seem mighty struck on Dave Hosmer, all of a sudden," remarked Mrs. Worthington to her friend, as the two crossed over the street. "A feller without any more feelings than a stick; it's what I always said about him."

"Oh, I always did like Hosmer," replied Mrs. Dawson. "But I thought he had more sense than to tie himself to that little gump again, after he'd had the luck to get rid of her."

A few days later Jack came home. His return was made palpable to the entire neighborhood; for no cab ever announced itself with quite the dash and clatter and bang of door that Jack's cabs did.

The driver had staggered behind him under the weight of the huge yellow valise, and had been liberally paid for the service.

Immediately the windows were thrown wide open, and the lace curtains drawn aside until no smallest vestige of them remained visible from the street. A condition of things which Mrs. Worthington upstairs bitterly resented, and naturally, spoiling as it necessarily did, the general coup d'oeil of the flat to passers-by. But Mrs. Dawson had won her husband's esteem by just such acts as this one of amiable permission to ventilate the house according to methods of his own and essentially masculine; regardless of dust that might be flying, or sun that might be shining with disastrous results to the parlor carpet.

Clouds of tobacco smoke were seen to issue from the open windows. Those neighbors whose openings commanded a view of the Dawson's alley-gate might have noted the hired girl starting for the grocery with unusual animation of step, and returning with her basket well stocked with beer and soda bottles—a provision made against a need for "dutch-cocktails," likely to assail Jack during his hours of domesticity.

In the evening the same hired girl, breathless from the multiplicity of errands which she had accomplished during the day, appeared at the Hosmers with a message that Mrs. Dawson wanted them to "come over."

They were preparing to leave on the morrow, but concluded that they could spare a few moments in which to bid adieu to their friends.

Jack met them at the very threshold, with warm and hearty hand-shaking, and loud protest when he learned that they had not come to spend the evening and that they were going away next day.

"Great Scott! you're not leaving to-morrow? And I ain't going to have a chance to get even with Mrs. Hosmer on that last deal? By Jove, she knows how to do it," he said, addressing Hosmer and holding Fanny familiarly by the elbow. "Drew to the middle, sir, and hang me, if she didn't fill. Takes a woman to do that sort o' thing; and me a laying for her with three aces. Hello there, girls! here's Hosmer and Fanny," in response to which summons his wife and Mrs. Worthington issued from the depths of the dining-room, where they had been engaged in preparing certain refreshments for the expected guests.

"See here, Lou, we'll have to fix it up some way to go and see them off to-morrow. If you'd manage to lay over till Thursday I could join you as far as Little Rock. But no, that's a fact," he added reflectively, "I've got to be in Cincinnati on Thursday."

They had all entered the parlor, and Mrs. Worthington suggested that Hosmer go up and make a visit to her husband, whom he would find up there "poring over those everlasting books."

"I don't know what's got into Mr. Worthington lately," she said, "he's getting that religious. If it ain't the Bible he's poring over, well it's something or other just as bad."

The brightly burning light guided Hosmer to the kitchen, where he found Lorenzo Worthington seated beside his student lamp at the table, which was covered with a neat red cloth. On the gas-stove was spread a similar cloth and the floor was covered with a shining oil-cloth.

Mr. Worthington was startled, having already forgotten that his wife had told him of Hosmer's return to St. Louis.

"Why, Mr. Hosmer, is this you? come, come into the parlor, this is no place," shaking Hosmer's hand and motioning towards the parlor.

"No, it's very nice and cozy here, and I have only a moment to stay," said Hosmer, seating himself beside the table on which the other had laid his book, with his spectacles between the pages to mark his place. Mr. Worthington then did a little hemming and hawing preparatory to saying something fitting the occasion; not wishing to be hasty in offering the old established form of congratulation, in a case whose peculiarity afforded him no precedential guide. Hosmer came to his relief by observing quite naturally that he and his wife had come over to say good-bye, before leaving for the South, adding "no doubt Mrs. Worthington has told you."

"Yes, yes, and I'm sure we're very sorry to lose you; that is, Mrs. Larimore—I should say Mrs. Hosmer. Isabella will certainly regret her departure, I see them always together, you know."

"You cling to your old habit, I see, Mr. Worthington," said Hosmer, indicating his meaning by a motion of the hand towards the book on the table.

"Yes, to a certain extent. Always within the forced limits, you understand. At this moment I am much interested in tracing the history of various religions which are known to us; those which have died out, as well as existing religions. It is curious, indeed, to note the circumstances of their birth, their progress and inevitable death; seeming to follow the course of nations in such respect. And the similitude which stamps them all, is also a feature worthy of study. You would perhaps be surprised, sir, to discover the points of resemblance which indicate in them a common origin. To observe the slight differences, indeed technical differences, distinguishing the Islam from the Hebrew, or both from the Christian religion. The creeds are obviously ramifications from the one deep-rooted trunk which we call religion. Have you ever thought of this, Mr. Hosmer?"

"No, I admit that I've not gone into it. Homeyer would have me think that all religions are but mythological creations invented to satisfy a species of sentimentality—a morbid craving in man for the unknown and undemonstrable."

"That is where he is wrong; where I must be permitted to differ from him. As you would find, my dear sir, by following carefully the history of mankind, that the religious sentiment is implanted, a true and legitimate attribute of the human soul—with peremptory right to its existence. Whatever may be faulty in the creeds—that makes no difference, the foundation is there and not to be dislodged. Homeyer, as I understand him from your former not infrequent references, is an Iconoclast, who would tear down and leave devastation behind him; building up nothing. He would deprive a clinging humanity of the supports about which she twines herself, and leave her helpless and sprawling upon the earth."

"No, no, he believes in a natural adjustment," interrupted Hosmer. "In an innate reserve force of accommodation. What we commonly call laws in nature, he styles accidents—in society, only arbitrary methods of expediency, which, when they outlive their usefulness to an advancing and exacting civilization, should be set aside. He is a little impatient to always wait for the inevitable natural adjustment."

"Ah, my dear Mr. Hosmer, the world is certainly to-day not prepared to stand the lopping off and wrenching away of old traditions. She must take her stand against such enemies of the conventional. Take religion away from the life of man—"

"Well, I knew it—I was just as sure as preaching," burst out Mrs. Worthington, as she threw open the door and confronted the two men—resplendent in "baby blue" and much steel ornamentation. "As I tell Mr. Worthington, he ought to turn Christian Brother or something and be done with it."

"No, no, my dear; Mr. Hosmer and I have merely been interchanging a few disjointed ideas."

"I'll be bound they were disjointed. I guess Fanny wants you, Mr. Hosmer. If you listen to Mr. Worthington he'll keep you here till daylight with his ideas."

Hosmer followed Mrs. Worthington down-stairs and into Mrs. Dawson's. As he entered the parlor he heard Fanny laughing gaily, and saw that she stood near the sideboard in the dining-room, just clicking her glass of punch to Jack Dawson's, who was making a gay speech on the occasion of her new marriage.

They did not leave when they had intended. Need the misery of that one day be told?

But on the evening of the following day, Fanny peered with pale, haggard face from the closed window of the Pullman car as it moved slowly out of Union depot, to see Lou and Jack Dawson smiling and waving good-bye, Belle wiping her eyes and Mr. Worthington looking blankly along the line of windows, unable to see them without his spectacles, which he had left between the pages of his Schopenhauer on the kitchen table at home.



PART II



I

Fanny's First Night at Place-du-Bois.

The journey South had not been without attractions for Fanny. She had that consciousness so pleasing to the feminine mind of being well dressed; for her husband had been exceedingly liberal in furnishing her the means to satisfy her fancy in that regard. Moreover the change holding out a promise of novelty, irritated her to a feeble expectancy. The air, that came to her in puffs through the car window, was deliciously soft and mild; steeped with the rich languor of the Indian summer, that had already touched the tree tops, the sloping hill-side, and the very air, with russet and gold.

Hosmer sat beside her, curiously inattentive to his newspaper; observant of her small needs, and anticipating her timid half expressed wishes. Was there some mysterious power that had so soon taught the man such methods to a woman's heart, or was he not rather on guard and schooling himself for the role which was to be acted out to the end? But as the day was approaching its close, Fanny became tired and languid; a certain mistrust was creeping into her heart with the nearing darkness. It had grown sultry and close, and the view from the car window was no longer cheerful, as they whirled through forests, gloomy with trailing moss, or sped over an unfamiliar country whose features were strange and held no promise of a welcome for her.

They were nearing Place-du-Bois, and Hosmer's spirits had risen almost to the point of gaiety as he began to recognize the faces of those who loitered about the stations at which they stopped. At the Centerville station, five miles before reaching their own, he had even gone out on the platform to shake hands with the rather mystified agent who had not known of his absence. And he had waved a salute to the little French priest of Centerville who stood out in the open beside his horse, booted, spurred and all equipped for bad weather, waiting for certain consignments which were to come with the train, and who answered Hosmer's greeting with a sober and uncompromising sweep of the hand. When the whistle sounded for Place-du-Bois, it was nearly dark. Hosmer hurried Fanny on to the platform, where stood Henry, his clerk. There were a great many negroes loitering about, some of whom offered him a cordial "how'dy Mr. Hosma," and pushing through was Gregoire, meeting them with the ease of a courtier, and acknowledging Hosmer's introduction of his wife, with a friendly hand shake.

"Aunt Therese sent the buggy down fur you," he said, "we had rain this mornin' and the road's putty heavy. Come this way. Mine out fur that ba'el, Mrs. Hosma, it's got molasses in. Hiurm bring that buggy ova yere."

"What's the news, Gregoire?" asked Hosmer, as they waited for Hiram to turn the horses about.

"Jus' about the same's ev'a. Miss Melicent wasn't ver' well a few days back; but she's some betta. I reckon you're all plum wore out," he added, taking in Fanny's listless attitude, and thinking her very pretty as far as he could discover in the dim light.

They drove directly to the cottage, and on the porch Therese was waiting for them. She took Fanny's two hands and pressed them warmly between her own; then led her into the house with an arm passed about her waist. She shook hands with Hosmer, and stood for a while in cheerful conversation, before leaving them.

The cottage was fully equipped for their reception, with Minervy in possession of the kitchen and the formerly reluctant Suze as housemaid: though Therese had been silent as to the methods which she had employed to prevail with these unwilling damsels.

Hosmer then went out to look after their baggage, and when he returned, Fanny sat with her head pillowed on the sofa, sobbing bitterly. He knelt beside her, putting his arm around her, and asked the cause of her distress.

"Oh it's so lonesome, and dreadful, I don't believe I can stand it," she answered haltingly through her tears.

And here was he thinking it was so home-like and comforting, and tasting the first joy that he had known since he had gone away.

"It's all strange and new to you, Fanny; try to bear up for a day or two. Come now, don't be a baby—take courage. It will all seem quite different by and by, when the sun shines."

A knock at the door was followed by the entrance of a young colored boy carrying an armful of wood.

"Miss T'rese sont me kin'le fiar fu' Miss Hosma; 'low he tu'nin' cole," he said depositing his load on the hearth; and Fanny, drying her eyes, turned to watch him at his work.

He went very deliberately about it, tearing off thin slathers from the fat pine, and arranging them into a light frame-work, beneath a topping of kindling and logs that he placed on the massive brass andirons. He crawled about on hands and knees, picking up the stray bits of chips and moss that had fallen from his arms when he came in. Then sitting back on his heels he looked meditatively into the blaze which he had kindled and scratched his nose with a splinter of pine wood. When Hosmer presently left the room, he rolled his big black eyes towards Fanny, without turning his head, and remarked in a tone plainly inviting conversation "yo' all come f'om way yonda?"

He was intensely black, and if Fanny had been a woman with the slightest sense of humor, she could not but have been amused at the picture which he presented in the revealing fire-light with his elfish and ape like body much too small to fill out the tattered and ill-fitting garments that hung about it. But she only wondered at him and his rags, and at his motive for addressing her.

"We're come from St. Louis," she replied, taking him with a seriousness which in no wise daunted him.

"Yo' all brung de rain," he went on sociably, leaving off the scratching of his nose, to pass his black yellow-palmed hand slowly through the now raging fire, a feat which filled her with consternation. After prevailing upon him to desist from this salamander like exhibition, she was moved to ask if he were not very poor to be thus shabbily clad.

"No 'um," he laughed, "I got some sto' close yonda home. Dis yere coat w'at Mista Gregor gi'me," looking critically down at its length, which swept the floor as he remained on his knees. "He done all to'e tu pieces time he gi' him tu me, whar he scuffle wid Jocint yonda tu de mill. Mammy 'low she gwine mek him de same like new w'en she kin kotch de time."

The entrance of Minervy bearing a tray temptingly arranged with a dainty supper, served to silence the boy, who at seeing her, threw himself upon all fours and appeared to be busy with the fire. The woman, a big raw-boned field hand, set her burden awkwardly down on a table, and after staring comprehensively around, addressed the boy in a low rich voice, "Dar ain't no mo' call to bodda wid dat fiar, you Sampson; how come Miss T'rese sont you lazy piece in yere tu buil' fiar?"

"Don' know how come," he replied, vanishing with an air of the utmost self-depreciation.

Hosmer and Fanny took tea together before the cheerful fire and he told her something of methods on the plantation, and made her further acquainted with the various people whom she had thus far encountered. She listened apathetically; taking little interest in what he said, and asking few questions. She did express a little bewilderment at the servant problem. Mrs. Lafirme, during their short conversation, had deplored her inability to procure more than two servants for her; and Fanny could not understand why it should require so many to do the work which at home was accomplished by one. But she was tired—very tired, and early sought her bed, and Hosmer went in quest of his sister whom he had not yet seen.

Melicent had been told of his marriage some days previously, and had been thrown into such a state of nerves by the intelligence, as to seriously alarm those who surrounded her and whose experience with hysterical girls had been inadequate.

Poor Gregoire had betaken himself with the speed of the wind to the store to procure bromide, valerian, and whatever else should be thought available in prevailing with a malady of this distressing nature. But she was "some betta," as he told Hosmer, who found her walking in the darkness of one of the long verandas, all enveloped in filmy white wool. He was a little prepared for a cool reception from her, and ten minutes before she might have received him with a studied indifference. But her mood had veered about and touched the point which moved her to fall upon his neck, and in a manner, condole with him; seasoning her sympathy with a few tears.

"Whatever possessed you, David? I have been thinking, and thinking, and I can see no reason which should have driven you to do this thing. Of course I can't meet her; you surely don't expect it?"

He took her arm and joined her in her slow walk.

"Yes, I do expect it, Melicent, and if you have the least regard for me, I expect more. I want you to be good to her, and patient, and show yourself her friend. No one can do such things more amiably than you, when you try."

"But David, I had hoped for something so different."

"You couldn't have expected me to marry Mrs. Lafirme, a Catholic," he said, making no pretense of misunderstanding her.

"I think that woman would have given up religion—anything for you."

"Then you don't know her, little sister."

It must have been far in the night when Fanny awoke suddenly. She could not have told whether she had been awakened by the long, wailing cry of a traveler across the narrow river, vainly trying to rouse the ferryman; or the creaking of a heavy wagon that labored slowly by in the road and moved Hector to noisy enquiry. Was it not rather the pattering rain that the wind was driving against the window panes? The lamp burned dimly upon the high old-fashioned mantel-piece and her husband had thoughtfully placed an improvised screen before it, to protect her against its disturbance. He himself was not beside her, nor was he in the room. She slid from her bed and moved softly on her bare feet over to the open sitting-room door.

The fire had all burned away. Only the embers lay in a glowing heap, and while she looked, the last stick that lay across the andirons, broke through its tapering center and fell amongst them, stirring a fitful light by which she discovered her husband seated and bowed like a man who has been stricken. Uncomprehending, she stood a moment speechless, then crept back noiselessly to bed.



II

"Neva to See You!"

Therese judged it best to leave Fanny a good deal to herself during her first days on the plantation, without relinquishing a certain watchful supervision of her comfort, and looking in on her for a few moments each day. The rain which had come with them continued fitfully and Fanny remained in doors, clad in a warm handsome gown, her small slippered feet cushioned before the fire, and reading the latest novel of one of those prolific female writers who turn out their unwholesome intellectual sweets so tirelessly, to be devoured by the girls and women of the age.

Melicent, who always did the unexpected, crossed over early on the morning after Fanny's arrival; penetrated to her sleeping room and embraced her effusively, even as she lay in bed, calling her "poor dear Fanny" and cautioning her against getting up on such a morning.

The tears which had come to Fanny on arriving, and which had dried on her cheek when she turned to gaze into the cheer of the great wood fire, did not return. Everybody seemed to be making much of her, which was a new experience in her life; she having always felt herself as of little consequence, and in a manner, overlooked. The negroes were overawed at the splendor of her toilettes and showed a respect for her in proportion to the money value which these toilettes reflected. Each morning Gregoire left at her door his compliments with a huge bouquet of brilliant and many colored crysanthemums, and enquiry if he could serve her in any way. And Hosmer's time, that was not given to work, was passed at her side; not in brooding or pre-occupied silence, but in talk that invited her to friendly response.

With Therese, she was at first shy and diffident, and over watchful of herself. She did not forget that Hosmer had told her "The lady knows why I have come" and she resented that knowledge which Therese possessed of her past intimate married life.

Melicent's attentions did not last in their ultra-effusiveness, but she found Fanny less objectionable since removed from her St. Louis surroundings; and the evident consideration with which she had been accepted at Place-du-Bois seemed to throw about her a halo of sufficient distinction to impel the girl to view her from a new and different stand-point.

But the charm of plantation life was letting go its hold upon Melicent. Gregoire's adoration alone, and her feeble response to it were all that kept her.

"I neva felt anything like this befo'," he said, as they stood together and their hands touched in reaching for a splendid rose that hung invitingly from its tall latticed support out in mid lawn. The sun had come again and dried the last drop of lingering moisture on grass and shrubbery.

"W'en I'm away f'om you, even fur five minutes, 't seems like I mus' hurry quick, quick, to git back again; an' w'en I'm with you, everything 'pears all right, even if you don't talk to me or look at me. Th' otha day, down at the gin," he continued, "I was figurin' on some weights an' wasn't thinkin' about you at all, an' all at once I remember'd the one time I'd kissed you. Goodness! I couldn't see the figures any mo', my head swum and the pencil mos' fell out o' my han'. I neva felt anything like it: hones', Miss Melicent, I thought I was goin' to faint fur a minute."

"That's very unwise, Gregoire," she said, taking the roses that he handed her to add to the already large bunch. "You must learn to think of me calmly: our love must be something like a sacred memory—a sweet recollection to help us through life when we are apart."

"I don't know how I'm goin' to stan' it. Neva to see you! neva—my God!" he gasped, paling and crushing between his nervous fingers the flower she would have taken from him.

"There is nothing in this world that one cannot grow accustomed to, dear," spoke the pretty philosopher, picking up her skirts daintily with one hand and passing the other through his arm—the hand which held the flowers, whose peculiar perfume ever afterwards made Gregoire shiver through a moment of pain that touched very close upon rapture.

He was more occupied than he liked during those busy days of harvesting and ginning, that left him only brief and snatched intervals of Melicent's society. If he could have rested in the comfort of being sure of her, such moments of separation would have had their compensation in reflective anticipation. But with his undisciplined desires and hot-blooded eagerness, her half-hearted acknowledgments and inadequate concessions, closed her about with a chilling barrier that staggered him with its problematic nature. Feeling himself her equal in the aristocracy of blood, and her master in the knowledge and strength of loving, he resented those half understood reasons which removed him from the possibility of being anything to her. And more, he was angry with himself for acquiescing in that self understood agreement. But it was only in her absence that these thoughts disturbed him. When he was with her, his whole being rejoiced in her existence and there was no room for doubt or dread.

He felt himself regenerated through love, and as having no part in that other Gregoire whom he only thought of to dismiss with unrecognition.

The time came when he could ill conceal his passion from others. Therese became conscious of it, through an unguarded glance. The unhappiness of the situation was plain to her; but to what degree she could not guess. It was certainly so deplorable that it would have been worth while to have averted it. Yet, she felt great faith in the power of time and absence to heal such wounds even to the extent of leaving no tell-tale scar.

"Gregoire, my boy," she said to him, speaking in French, and laying her hand on his, when they were alone together. "I hope that your heart is not too deep in this folly."

He reddened and asked, "What do you mean, aunt?"

"I mean, that unfortunately, you are in love with Melicent. I do not know how much longer she will remain here, but taking any possibility for granted, let me advise you to leave the place for a while; go back to your home, or take a little trip to the city."

"No, I could not."

"Force yourself to it."

"And lose days, perhaps weeks, of being near her? No, no, I could not do that, aunt. There will be plenty time for that in the rest of my life," he said, trying to speak calmly and forcing his voice to a harshness which the nearness of tears made needful.

"Does she know? Have you told her?"

"Oh yes, she knows how much I love her."

"And she does not love you," said Therese, seeming rather to assert than to question.

"No, she does not. No matter what she says—she does not. I can feel that here," he answered, striking his breast. "Oh aunt, it is terrible to think of her going away; forever, perhaps; of never seeing her. I could not stand it." And he stood the strain no longer, but sobbed and wept with his aunt's consoling arms around him.

Therese, knowing that Melicent would not tarry much longer with them, thought it not needful to approach her on the subject. Had it been otherwise, she would not have hesitated to beg the girl to desist from this unprofitable amusement of tormenting a human heart.



III

A Talk Under the Cedar Tree.

Day by day, Fanny threw off somewhat of the homesickness which had weighted her at coming. Not by any determined effort of the will, nor by any resolve to make the best of things. Outside influences meeting half-way the workings of unconscious inward forces, were the agents that by degrees were gently ridding her of the acute pressure of dissatisfaction, which up to the present, she had stolidly borne without any personal effort to cast it off.

Therese affected her forcibly. This woman so wholesome, so fair and strong; so un-American as to be not ashamed to show tenderness and sympathy with eye and lip, moved Fanny like a new and pleasing experience. When Therese touched her caressingly, or gently stroked her limp hand, she started guiltily, and looked furtively around to make sure that none had witnessed an exhibition of tenderness that made her flush, and the first time found her unresponsive. A second time, she awkwardly returned the hand pressure, and later, these mildly sensuous exchanges prefaced the outpouring of all Fanny's woes, great and small.

"I don't say that I always done what was right, Mrs. Laferm, but I guess David's told you just what suited him about me. You got to remember there's always two sides to a story."

She had been to the poultry yard with Therese, who had introduced her to its feathery tenants, making her acquainted with stately Brahmas and sleek Plymouth-Rocks and hardy little "Creole chickens"—not much to look at, but very palatable when converted into fricassee.

Returning, they seated themselves on the bench that encircled a massive cedar—spreading and conical. Hector, who had trotted attendance upon them during their visit of inspection, cast himself heavily down at his mistress' feet and after glancing knowingly up into her face, looked placidly forth at Sampson, gathering garden greens on the other side of a low dividing fence.

"You see if David'd always been like he is now, I don't know but things'd been different. Do you suppose he ever went any wheres with me, or even so much as talked to me when he came home? There was always that everlasting newspaper in his pocket, and he'd haul it out the first thing. Then I used to read the paper too sometimes, and when I'd go to talk to him about what I read, he'd never even looked at the same things. Goodness knows what he read in the paper, I never could find out; but here'd be the edges all covered over with figuring. I believe it's the only thing he ever thought or dreamt about; that eternal figuring on every bit of paper he could lay hold of, till I was tired picking them up all over the house. Belle Worthington used to say it'd of took an angel to stand him. I mean his throwing papers around that way. For as far as his never talking went, she couldn't find any fault with that; Mr. Worthington was just as bad, if he wasn't worse. But Belle's not like me; I don't believe she'd let poor Mr. Worthington talk in the house if he wanted to."

She gradually drifted away from her starting point, and like most people who have usually little to say, became very voluble, when once she passed into the humor of talking. Therese let her talk unchecked. It seemed to do her good to chatter about Belle and Lou, and Jack Dawson, and about her home life, of which she unknowingly made such a pitiable picture to her listener.

"I guess David never let on to you about himself," she said moodily, having come back to the sore that rankled: the dread that Therese had laid all the blame of the rupture on her shoulders.

"You're mistaken, Mrs. Hosmer. It was a knowledge of his own short-comings that prompted your husband to go back and ask your forgiveness. You must grant, there's nothing in his conduct now that you could reproach him with. And," she added, laying her hand gently on Fanny's arm, "I know you'll be strong, and do your share in this reconciliation—do what you can to please him."

Fanny flushed uneasily under Therese's appealing glance.

"I'm willing to do anything that David wants," she replied, "I made up my mind to that from the start. He's a mighty good husband now, Mrs. Laferm. Don't mind what I said about him. I was afraid you thought that—"

"Never mind," returned Therese kindly, "I know all about it. Don't worry any farther over what I may think. I believe in you and in him, and I know you'll both be brave and do what's right."

"There isn't anything so very hard for David to do," she said, depressed with a sense of her inadequate strength to do the task which she had set herself. "He's got no faults to give up. David never did have any faults. He's a true, honest man; and I was a coward to say those things about him."

Melicent and Gregoire were coming across the lawn to join the two, and Fanny, seeing them approach, suddenly chilled and wrapt herself about in her mantle of reserve.

"I guess I better go," she said, offering to rise, but Therese held out a detaining hand.

"You don't want to go and sit alone in the cottage; stay here with me till Mr. Hosmer comes back from the mill."

Gregoire's face was a study. Melicent, who did what she wanted with him, had chosen this afternoon, for some inscrutable reason, to make him happy. He carried her shawl and parasol; she herself bearing a veritable armful of flowers, leaves, red berried sprigs, a tangle of richest color. They had been in the woods and she had bedecked him with garlands and festoons of autumn leaves, till he looked a very Satyr; a character which his flushed, swarthy cheeks, and glittering animal eyes did not belie.

They were laughing immoderately, and their whole bearing still reflected their exuberant gaiety as they joined Therese and Fanny.

"What a 'Mater Dolorosa' Fanny looks!" exclaimed Melicent, throwing herself into a picturesque attitude on the bench beside Therese, and resting her feet on Hector's broad back.

Fanny offered no reply, but to look helplessly resigned; an expression which Melicent knew of old, and which had always the effect of irritating her. Not now, however, for the curve of the bench around the great cedar tree removed her from the possibility of contemplating Fanny's doleful visage, unless she made an effort to that end, which she was certainly not inclined to do.

"No, Gregoire," she said, flinging a rose into his face when he would have seated himself beside her, "go sit by Fanny and do something to make her laugh; only don't tickle her; David mightn't like it. And here's Mrs. Lafirme looking almost as glum. Now, if David would only join us with that 'pale cast of thought' that he bears about usually, what a merry go round we'd have."

"When Melicent looks at the world laughing, she wants it to laugh back at her," said Therese, reflecting something of the girl's gaiety.

"As in a looking-glass, well isn't that square?" she returned, falling into slang, in her recklessness of spirit.

Endeavoring to guard her treasure of flowers from Therese, who was without ceremony making a critical selection among them of what pleased her, Melicent slid around the bench, bringing herself close to Gregoire and begging his protection against the Vandalism of his aunt. She looked into his eyes for an instant as though asking him for love instead of so slight a favor and he grasped her arm, pressing it till she cried out from the pain: which act, on his side, served to drive her again around to Therese.

"Guess what we are going to do to-morrow: you and I and all of us; Gregoire and David and Fanny and everybody?"

"Going to Bedlam along with you?" Therese asked.

"Mrs. Lafirme is in need of a rebuke, which I shall proceed to administer," thrusting a crumpled handful of rose leaves down the neck of Therese's dress, and laughing joyously in her scuffle to accomplish the punishment.

"No, madam; I don't go to Bedlam; I drive others there. Ask Gregoire what we're going to do. Tell them, Gregoire."

"They ain't much to tell. We'a goin' hoss back ridin'."

"Not me; I can't ride," wailed Fanny.

"You can get up Torpedo for Mrs. Hosmer, can't you, Gregoire?" asked Therese.

"Certainly. W'y you could ride ole Torpedo, Mrs. Hosma, if you nova saw a hoss in yo' life. A li'l chile could manage him."

Fanny turned to Therese for further assurance and found all that she looked for.

"We'll go up on the hill and see that dear old Morico, and I shall take along a comb, and comb out that exquisite white hair of his and then I shall focus him, seated in his low chair and making one of those cute turkey fans."

"Ole Morico ain't goin' to let you try no monkeyshines on him; I tell you that befo' han'," said Gregoire, rising and coming to Melicent to rid him of his sylvan ornamentations, for it was time for him to leave them. When he turned away, Melicent rose and flung all her flowery wealth into Therese's lap, and following took his arm.

"Where are you going?" asked Therese.

"Going to help Gregoire feed the mules," she called back looking over her shoulder; the sinking sun lighting her handsome mischievous face.

Therese proceeded to arrange the flowers with some regard to graceful symmetry; and Fanny did not regain her talkative spirit that Melicent's coming had put to flight, but sat looking silent and listlessly into the distance.

As Therese glanced casually up into her face she saw it warmed by a sudden faint glow—an unusual animation, and following her gaze, she saw that Hosmer had returned and was entering the cottage.

"I guess I better be going," said Fanny rising, and this time Therese no longer detained her.



IV

Therese Crosses the River.

To shirk any serious duties of life would have been entirely foreign to Therese's methods or even instincts. But there did come to her moments of rebellion—or repulsion, against the small demands that presented themselves with an unfailing recurrence; and from such, she at times indulged herself with the privilege of running away. When Fanny left her alone—a pathetic little droop took possession of the corners of her mouth that might not have come there if she had not been alone. She laid the flowers, only half arranged, on the bench beside her, as a child would put aside a toy that no longer interested it. She looked towards the house and could see the servants going back and forth. She knew if she entered, she would be met by appeals from one and the other. The overseer would soon be along, with his crib keys, and stable keys; his account of the day's doings and consultations for to-morrow's work, and for the moment, she would have none of it.

"Come, Hector—come, old boy," she said rising abruptly; and crossing the lawn she soon gained the gravel path that led to the outer road. This road brought her by a mild descent to the river bank. The water, seldom stationary for any long period, was at present running low and sluggishly between its red banks.

Tied to the landing was a huge flat-boat, that was managed by the aid of a stout cable reaching quite across the river; and beside it nestled a small light skiff. In this Therese seated herself, and proceeded to row across the stream, Hector plunging into the water and swimming in advance of her.

The banks on the opposite shore were almost perpendicular; and their summit to be reached only by the artificial road that had been cut into them: broad and of easy ascent. This river front was a standing worry to Therese, for when the water was high and rapid, the banks caved constantly, carrying away great sections from the land. Almost every year, the fences in places had to be moved back, not only for security, but to allow a margin for the road that on this side followed the course of the small river.

High up and perilously near the edge, stood a small cabin. It had once been far removed from the river, which had now, however, eaten its way close up to it—leaving no space for the road-way. The house was somewhat more pretentious than others of its class, being fashioned of planed painted boards, and having a brick chimney that stood fully exposed at one end. A great rose tree climbed and spread generously over one side, and the big red roses grew by hundreds amid the dark green setting of their leaves.

At the gate of this cabin Therese stopped, calling out, "Grosse tante!—oh, Grosse tante!"

The sound of her voice brought to the door a negress—coal black and so enormously fat that she moved about with evident difficulty. She was dressed in a loosely hanging purple calico garment of the mother Hubbard type—known as a volante amongst Louisiana Creoles; and on her head was knotted and fantastically twisted a bright tignon. Her glistening good-natured countenance illumined at the sight of Therese.

"Quo faire to pas woulez rentrer, Tite maitresse?" and Therese answered in the same Creole dialect: "Not now, Grosse tante—I shall be back in half an hour to drink a cup of coffee with you." No English words can convey the soft music of that speech, seemingly made for tenderness and endearment.

As Therese turned away from the gate, the black woman re-entered the house, and as briskly as her cumbersome size would permit, began preparations for her mistress' visit. Milk and butter were taken from the safe; eggs, from the India rush basket that hung against the wall; and flour, from the half barrel that stood in convenient readiness in the corner: for Tite maitresse was to be treated to a dish of croquignoles. Coffee was always an accomplished fact at hand in the chimney corner.

Grosse tante, or more properly, Marie Louise, was a Creole—Therese's nurse and attendant from infancy, and the only one of the family servants who had come with her mistress from New Orleans to Place-du-Bois at that lady's marriage with Jerome Lafirme. But her ever increasing weight had long since removed her from the possibility of usefulness, otherwise than in supervising her small farm yard. She had little use for "ces neges Americains," as she called the plantation hands—a restless lot forever shifting about and changing quarters.

It was seldom now that she crossed the river; only two occasions being considered of sufficient importance to induce her to such effort. One was in the event of her mistress' illness, when she would install herself at her bedside as a fixture, not to be dislodged by any less inducement than Therese's full recovery. The other was when a dinner of importance was to be given: then Marie Louise consented to act as chef de cuisine, for there was no more famous cook than she in the State; her instructor having been no less a personage than old Lucien Santien—a gourmet famed for his ultra Parisian tastes.

Seated at the base of a great China-berry on whose gnarled protruding roots she rested an arm languidly, Therese looked out over the river and gave herself up to doubts and misgivings. She first took exception with herself for that constant interference in the concerns of other people. Might not this propensity be carried too far at times? Did the good accruing counterbalance the personal discomfort into which she was often driven by her own agency? What reason had she to know that a policy of non-interference in the affairs of others might not after all be the judicious one? As much as she tried to vaguely generalize, she found her reasoning applying itself to her relation with Hosmer.

The look which she had surprised in Fanny's face had been a painful revelation to her. Yet could she have expected other, and should she have hoped for less, than that Fanny should love her husband and he in turn should come to love his wife?

Had she married Hosmer herself! Here she smiled to think of the storm of indignation that such a marriage would have roused in the parish. Yet, even facing the impossibility of such contingency, it pleased her to indulge in a short dream of what might have been.

If it were her right instead of another's to watch for his coming and rejoice at it! Hers to call him husband and lavish on him the love that awoke so strongly when she permitted herself, as she was doing now, to invoke it! She felt what capability lay within her of rousing the man to new interests in life. She pictured the dawn of an unsuspected happiness coming to him: broadening; illuminating; growing in him to answer to her own big-heartedness.

Were Fanny, and her own prejudices, worth the sacrifice which she and Hosmer had made? This was the doubt that bade fair to unsettle her; that called for a sharp, strong out-putting of the will before she could bring herself to face the situation without its accessions of personalities. Such communing with herself could not be condemned as a weakness with Therese, for the effect which it left upon her strong nature was one of added courage and determination.

When she reached Marie Louise's cabin again, twilight, which is so brief in the South, was giving place to the night.

Within the cabin, the lamp had already been lighted, and Marie Louise was growing restless at Therese's long delay.

"Ah Grosse tante, I'm so tired," she said, falling into a chair near the door; not relishing the warmth of the room after her quick walk, and wishing to delay as long as possible the necessity of sitting at table. At another time she might have found the dish of golden brown croquignoles very tempting with its accessory of fragrant coffee; but not to-day.

"Why do you run about so much, Tite maitresse? You are always going this way and that way; on horseback, on foot—through the house. Make those lazy niggers work more. You spoil them. I tell you if it was old mistress that had to deal with them, they would see something different."

She had taken all the pins from Therese's hair which fell in a gleaming, heavy mass; and with her big soft hands she was stroking her head as gently as if those hands had been of the whitest and most delicate.

"I know that look in your eyes, it means headache. It's time for me to make you some more eau sedative—I am sure you haven't any more; you've given it away as you give away every thing."

"Grosse tante," said Therese seated at table and sipping her coffee; Grosse tante also drinking her cup—but seated apart, "I am going to insist on having your cabin moved back; it is silly to be so stubborn about such a small matter. Some day you will find yourself out in the middle of the river—and what am I going to do then?—no one to nurse me when I am sick—no one to scold me—nobody to love me."

"Don't say that, Tite maitresse, all the world loves you—it isn't only Marie Louise. But no. You must remember the last time poor Monsieur Jerome moved me, and said with a laugh that I can never forget, 'well, Grosse tante, I know we have got you far enough this time out of danger,' away back in Dumont's field you recollect? I said then, Marie Louise will move no more; she's too old. If the good God does not want to take care of me, then it's time for me to go."

"Ah but, Grosse tante, remember—God does not want all the trouble on his own shoulders," Therese answered humoring the woman, in her conception of the Deity. "He wants us to do our share, too."

"Well, I have done my share. Nothing is going to harm Marie Louise. I thought about all that, do not fret. So the last time Pere Antoine passed in the road—going down to see that poor Pierre Pardou at the Mouth—I called him in, and he blessed the whole house inside and out, with holy water—notice how the roses have bloomed since then—and gave me medals of the holy Virgin to hang about. Look over the door, Tite maitresse, how it shines, like a silver star."

"If you will not have your cabin removed, Grosse tante, then come live with me. Old Hatton has wanted work at Place-du-Bois, the longest time. We will have him build you a room wherever you choose, a pretty little house like those in the city."

"Non—non, Tite maitresse, Marie Louise 'pre crever icite ave tous son butin, si faut" (no, no, Tite maitresse, Marie Louise will die here with all her belongings if it must be).

The servants were instructed that when their mistress was not at home at a given hour, her absence should cause no delay in the household arrangements. She did not choose that her humor or her movements be hampered by a necessity of regularity which she owed to no one. When she reached home supper had long been over.

Nearing the house she heard the scraping of Nathan's violin, the noise of shuffling feet and unconstrained laughter. These festive sounds came from the back veranda. She entered the dining-room, and from its obscurity looked out on a curious scene. The veranda was lighted by a lamp suspended from one of its pillars. In a corner sat Nathan; serious, dignified, scraping out a monotonous but rhythmic minor strain to which two young negroes from the lower quarters—famous dancers—were keeping time in marvelous shuffling and pigeon-wings; twisting their supple joints into astonishing contortions and the sweat rolling from their black visages. A crowd of darkies stood at a respectful distance an appreciative and encouraging audience. And seated on the broad rail of the veranda were Melicent and Gregoire, patting Juba and singing a loud accompaniment to the breakdown.

Was this the Gregoire who had only yesterday wept such bitter tears on his aunt's bosom?

Therese turning away from the scene, the doubt assailed her whether it were after all worth while to strive against the sorrows of life that can be so readily put aside.



V

One Afternoon.

Whatever may have been Torpedo's characteristics in days gone by, at this advanced period in his history he possessed none so striking as a stoical inaptitude for being moved. Another of his distinguishing traits was a propensity for grazing which he was prone to indulge at inopportune moments. Such points taken in conjunction with a gait closely resembling that of the camel in the desert, might give much cause to wonder at Therese's motive in recommending him as a suitable mount for the unfortunate Fanny, were it not for his wide-spread reputation of angelic inoffensiveness.

The ride which Melicent had arranged and in which she held out such promises of a "lark" proved after all but a desultory affair. For with Fanny making but a sorry equestrian debut and Hosmer creeping along at her side; Therese unable to hold Beauregard within conventional limits, and Melicent and Gregoire vanishing utterly from the scene, sociability was a feature entirely lacking to the excursion.

"David, I can't go another step: I just can't, so that settles it."

The look of unhappiness in Fanny's face and attitude, would have moved the proverbial stone.

"I think if you change horses with me, Fanny, you'll find it more comfortable, and we'll turn about and go home."

"I wouldn't get on that horse's back, David Hosmer, if I had to die right here in the woods, I wouldn't."

"Do you think you could manage to walk back that distance then? I can lead the horses," he suggested as a pis aller.

"I guess I'll haf to; but goodness knows if I'll ever get there alive."

They were far up on the hill, which spot they had reached by painfully slow and labored stages, each refraining from mention of a discomfort that might interfere with the supposed enjoyment of the other, till Fanny's note of protest.

Hosmer cast about him for some expedient that might lighten the unpleasantness of the situation, when a happy thought occurred to him.

"If you'll try to bear up, a few yards further, you can dismount at old Morico's cabin and I'll hurry back and get the buggy. It can be driven this far anyway: and it's only a short walk from here through the woods."

So Hosmer set her down before Morico's door: her long riding skirt, borrowed for the occasion, twisting awkwardly around her legs, and every joint in her body aching.

Partly by pantomimic signs interwoven with a few French words which he had picked up within the last year, Hosmer succeeded in making himself understood to the old man, and rode away leaving Fanny in his care.

Morico fussily preceded her into the house and placed a great clumsy home-made rocker at her disposal, into which she cast herself with every appearance of bodily distress. He then busied himself in tidying up the room out of deference to his guest; gathering up the scissors, waxen thread and turkey feathers which had fallen from his lap in his disturbance, and laying them on the table. He knocked the ashes from his corn-cob pipe which he now rested on a projection of the brick chimney that extended into the room and that served as mantel-piece. All the while he cast snatched glances at Fanny, who sat pale and tired. Her appearance seemed to move him to make an effort towards relieving it. He took a key from his pocket and unlocking a side of the garde manger, drew forth a small flask of whisky. Fanny had closed her eyes and was not aware of his action, till she heard him at her elbow saying in his feeble quavering voice:—

"Tenez madame; goutez un peu: ca va vous faire du bien," and opening her eyes she saw that he held a glass half filled with strong "toddy" for her acceptance.

She thrust out her hand to ward it away as though it had been a reptile that menaced her with its sting.

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 assure madame, ca ne peut pas vous faire du mal."

Fanny took the glass 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 glass 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 Fanny 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 Fanny 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."

Fanny 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 nigga 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 Fanny, 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. Fanny 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 damned 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 passed 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, Fanny 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 assented.

Hosmer had very soon disembarrassed 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 grass 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.