At Fault Part 11

"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 s.h.i.+ning 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 wis.h.i.+ng 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 circ.u.mstances 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, distinguis.h.i.+ng 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 f.a.n.n.y 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 f.a.n.n.y laughing gaily, and saw that she stood near the sideboard in the dining-room, just clicking her gla.s.s 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, f.a.n.n.y 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

f.a.n.n.y's First Night at Place-du-Bois.

The journey South had not been without attractions for f.a.n.n.y. She had that consciousness so pleasing to the feminine mind of being well dressed; for her husband had been exceedingly liberal in furnis.h.i.+ng 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 antic.i.p.ating 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, f.a.n.n.y 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 f.a.n.n.y 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 pus.h.i.+ng 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 mola.s.ses 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 f.a.n.n.y's listless att.i.tude, 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 f.a.n.n.y's two hands and pressed them warmly between her own; then led her into the house with an arm pa.s.sed 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, f.a.n.n.y 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, f.a.n.n.y; 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 s.h.i.+nes."

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 f.a.n.n.y, 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 ma.s.sive bra.s.s 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 f.a.n.n.y, 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 f.a.n.n.y 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 pa.s.s 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."