At Fault

  XI

  A Social Evening.

  Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Duplan with their little daughter Ninette, who hadbeen invited to Place-du-Bois for supper, as well as for the evening,were seated with Therese in the parlor, awaiting the arrival of thecottage guests. They had left their rather distant plantation, LesChenieres, early in the afternoon, wishing as usual to make the mostof these visits, which, though infrequent, were always so muchenjoyed.

  The room was somewhat altered since that summer day when Therese hadsat in its cool shadows, hearing the story of David Hosmer's life.Only with such difference, however, as the change of season calledfor; imparting to it a rich warmth that invited to sociability andfriendly confidences. In the depths of the great chimney glowed with asteady and dignified heat, the huge back-log, whose disposal UncleHiram had superintended in person; and the leaping flames from the dryhickories that surrounded it, lent a very genial light to thegrim-visaged Lafirmes who looked down from their elevation on theinteresting group gathered about the hearth.

  Conversation had never once flagged with these good friends; for,aside from much neighborhood gossip to be told and listened to, therewas the always fertile topic of "crops" to be discussed in all itsbearings, that touched, in its local and restricted sense, the laborquestion, cultivation, freight rates, and the city merchant.

  With Mrs. Duplan there was a good deal to be said about the unusualmortality among "Plymouth-Rocks" owing to an alarming prevalence of"pip," which malady, however, that lady found to be gradually yieldingto a heroic treatment introduced into her _basse-cour_ by one Coulon,a piney wood sage of some repute as a mystic healer.

  This was a delicate refined little woman, somewhat old-fashioned andstranded in her incapability to keep pace with the modern conduct oflife; but giving her views with a pretty self-confidence, that showedher a ruler in her peculiar realm.

  The young Ninette had extended herself in an easy chair, in anattitude of graceful abandonment, the earnest brown eyes lookingeagerly out from under a tangle of auburn hair, and resting withabsorbed admiration upon her father, whose words and movements shefollowed with unflagging attentiveness. The fastidious little miss wasclad in a dainty gown that reached scarcely below the knees; revealingthe shapely limbs that were crossed and extended to let the well shodfeet rest upon the polished brass fender.

  Therese had given what information lay within her range, concerningthe company which was expected. But her confidences had plainly beeninsufficient to prepare Mrs. Duplan for the startling effect producedby Mrs. Worthington on that little woman in her black silk of aby-gone fashion; so splendid was Mrs. Worthington's erect and imposingfigure, so blonde her blonde hair, so bright her striking color and socomprehensive the sweep of her blue and scintillating gown. Yet wasMrs. Worthington not at ease, as might be noticed in the unnaturalquaver of her high-pitched voice and the restless motion of her hands,as she seated herself with an arm studiedly resting upon the tablenear by.

  Hosmer had met the Duplans before; on the occasion of a former visitto Place-du-Bois and again at Les Chenieres when he had gone to seethe planter on business connected with the lumber trade.

  Fanny was a stranger to them and promised to remain such; for sheacknowledged her presentation with a silent bow and retreated as farfrom the group as a decent concession to sociability would permit.

  Therese with her pretty Creole tact was not long in bringing theseseemingly incongruent elements into some degree of harmony. Mr. Duplanin his courteous and rather lordly way was presently imparting to Mrs.Worthington certain reminiscences of a visit to St. Louis twenty-fiveyears before, when he and Mrs. Duplan had rather hastily traversedthat interesting town during their wedding journey. Mr. Duplan'smanner had a singular effect upon Mrs. Worthington, who becamedignified, subdued, and altogether unnatural in her endeavor to adjustherself to it.

  Mr. Worthington seated himself beside Mrs. Duplan and was soon tryingto glean information, in his eager short-sighted way, of psychologicalinterest concerning the negro race; such effort rather bewilderingthat good lady, who could not bring herself to view the negro as aninteresting or suitable theme to be introduced into politeconversation.

  Hosmer sat and talked good-naturedly to the little girls, endeavoringto dispel the shyness with which they seemed inclined to view eachother--and Therese crossed the room to join Fanny.

  "I hope you're feeling better," she ventured, "you should have let mehelp you while Mr. Hosmer was ill."

  Fanny looked away, biting her lip, the sudden tears coming to hereyes. She answered with unsteady voice, "Oh, I was able to look aftermy husband myself, Mrs. Laferm."

  Therese reddened at finding herself so misunderstood. "I meant in yourhousekeeping, Mrs. Hosmer; I could have relieved you of some of thatworry, whilst you were occupied with your husband."

  Fanny continued to look unhappy; her features taking on that peculiardownward droop which Therese had come to know and mistrust.

  "Are you going to New Orleans with Mrs. Worthington?" she asked, "shetold me she meant to try and persuade you."

  "No; I'm not going. Why?" looking suspiciously in Therese's face.

  "Well," laughed Therese, "only for the sake of asking, I suppose. Ithought you'd enjoy Mardi-Gras, never having seen it."

  "I'm not going anywheres unless David goes along," she said, with animpertinent ring in her voice, and with a conviction that she wasadministering a stab and a rebuke. She had come prepared to watch herhusband and Mrs. Lafirme, her heart swelling with jealous suspicion asshe looked constantly from one to the other, endeavoring to detectsigns of an understanding between them. Failing to discover such, andloth to be robbed of her morbid feast of misery, she set her failuredown to their pre-determined subtlety. Therese was conscious of achange in Fanny's attitude, and felt herself unable to account for itotherwise than by whim, which she knew played a not unimportant rolein directing the manner of a large majority of women. Moreover, it wasnot a moment to lose herself in speculation concerning this woman'scapricious behavior. Her guests held the first claim upon herattentions. Indeed, here was Mrs. Worthington even now loudlydemanding a pack of cards. "Here's a gentleman never heard ofsix-handed euchre. If you've got a pack of cards, Mrs. Laferm, I guessI can show him quick enough that it can be done."

  "Oh, I don't doubt Mrs. Worthington's ability to make any startlingand pleasing revelations," rejoined the planter good humoredly, andgallantly following Mrs. Worthington who had risen with the view ofputting into immediate effect her scheme of initiating these slowpeople into the unsuspected possibilities of euchre; a game which,however adaptable in other ways, could certainly not be indulged in byseven persons. After each one proffering, as is usual on suchoccasions, his readiness to assume the character of on-looker, Mr.Worthington's claim to entire indifference, if not inability--confirmedby his wife--was accepted as the most sincere, and that gentleman wasexcluded and excused.

  He watched them as they seated themselves at table, even lendingassistance, in his own awkward way, to range the chairs in place. Thenhe followed the game for a while, standing behind Fanny to note theoutcome of her reckless offer of "five on hearts," with only threetrumps in hand, and every indication of little assistance from herpartners, Mr. Duplan and Belle Worthington.

  At one end of the room was a long, low, well-filled book-case. Herehad been the direction of Mr. Worthington's secret and stolen glancesthe entire evening. And now towards this point he finally transportedhimself by gradual movements which he believed appeared unstudied andindifferent. He was confronted by a good deal of French--to him anunfamiliar language. Here a long row of Balzac; then, the WaverleyNovels in faded red cloth of very old date. Racine, Moliere, Bulwerfollowing in more modern garb; Shakespeare in a compass that promisedvery small type. His quick trained glance sweeping along the shelves,contracted into a little frown of resentment while he sent his handimpetuously through his scant locks, standing them quite on end.

  On the very lowest shelf were five imposing volum
es in dignified blackand gold, bearing the simple inscription "Lives of the Saints--Rev. A.Butler." Upon one of them, Mr. Worthington seized, opening it athazard. He had fallen upon the history of St. Monica, mother of thegreat St. Austin--a woman whose habits it appears had been so closelyguarded in her childhood by a pious nurse, that even the quenching ofher natural thirst was permitted only within certain well definedbounds. This mentor used to say "you are now for drinking water, butwhen you come to be mistress of the cellar, water will be despised,but the habit of drinking will stick by you." Highly interesting, Mr.Worthington thought, as he brushed his hair all down again the rightway and seated himself the better to learn the fortunes of the goodSt. Monica who, curiously enough, notwithstanding those earlyincentives to temperance, "insensibly contracted an inclination towine," drinking "whole cups of it with pleasure as it came in herway." A "dangerous intemperance" which it finally pleased Heaven tocure through the instrumentality of a maid servant taunting hermistress with being a "wine bibber."

  Mr. Worthington did not stop with the story of Saint Monica. He losthimself in those details of asceticism, martyrdom, superhumanpossibilities which man is capable of attaining under peculiarconditions of life--something he had not yet "gone into."

  The voices at the card table would certainly have disturbed a man withless power of mind concentration. For Mrs. Worthington in thisfamiliar employment was herself again--_con fuoco_. Here was Mr.Duplan in high spirits; his wife putting forth little gushes ofbird-like exaltation as the fascinations of the game revealedthemselves to her. Even Hosmer and Therese were drawn for the momentfrom their usual preoccupation. Fanny alone was the ghost of thefeast. Her features never relaxed from their settled gloom. She playedat hap-hazard, listlessly throwing down the cards or letting them fallfrom her hands, vaguely asking what were trumps at inopportunemoments; showing that inattentiveness so exasperating to an eagerplayer and which oftener than once drew a sharp rebuke from BelleWorthington.

  "Don't you wish we could play," said Ninette to her companion from hercomfortable perch beside the fire, and looking longingly towards thecard table.

  "Oh, no," replied Lucilla briefly, gazing into the fire, with handsfolded in her lap. Thin hands, showing up very white against the dullcolored "convent uniform" that hung in plain, severe folds about herand reached to her very ankles.

  "Oh, don't you? I play often at home when company comes. And I playcribbage and _vingt-et-un_ with papa and win lots of money from him."

  "That's wrong."

  "No, it isn't; papa wouldn't do it if it was wrong," she answereddecidedly. "Do you go to the convent?" she asked, looking criticallyat Lucilla and drawing a little nearer, so as to be confidential."Tell me about it," she continued, when the other had repliedaffirmatively. "Is it very dreadful? you know they're going to send mesoon."

  "Oh, it's the best place in the world," corrected Lucilla as eagerlyas she could.

  "Well, mamma says she was just as happy as could be there, but you seethat's so awfully long ago. It must have changed since then."

  "The convent never changes: it's always the same. You first go tochapel to mass early in the morning."

  "Ugh!" shuddered Ninette.

  "Then you have studies," continued Lucilla. "Then breakfast, thenrecreation, then classes, and there's meditation."

  "Oh, well," interrupted Ninette, "I believe anything most would suityou, and mamma when she was little; but if I don't like it--see here,if I tell you something will you promise never, never, to tell?"

  "Is it any thing wrong?"

  "Oh, no, not very; it isn't a real mortal sin. Will you promise?"

  "Yes," agreed Lucilla; curiosity getting something the better of herpious scruples.

  "Cross your heart?"

  Lucilla crossed her heart carefully, though a little reluctantly.

  "Hope you may die?"

  "Oh!" exclaimed the little convent girl aghast.

  "Oh, pshaw," laughed Ninette, "never mind. But that's what Pollyalways says when she wants me to believe her: 'hope I may die, MissNinette.' Well, this is it: I've been saving up money for the longesttime, oh ever so long. I've got eighteen dollars and sixty cents, andwhen they send me to the convent, if I don't like it, I'm going to runaway." This last and startling revelation was told in a tragic whisperin Lucilla's ear, for Betsy was standing before them with a tray ofchocolate and coffee that she was passing around.

  "I yeard you," proclaimed Betsy with mischievous inscrutablecountenance.

  "You didn't," said Ninette defiantly, and taking a cup of coffee.

  "Yas, I did, I yeard you," walking away.

  "See here, Betsy," cried Ninette recalling the girl, "you're not goingto tell, are you?"

  "Dun know ef I isn't gwine tell. Dun know ef I isn't gwine tell MissDuplan dis yere ver' minute."

  "Oh Betsy," entreated Ninette, "I'll give you this dress if you don't.I don't want it any more."

  Betsy's eyes glowed, but she looked down unconcernedly at the prettygown.

  "Don't spec it fit me. An' you know Miss T'rese ain't gwine let me goflyin' roun' wid my laigs stickin' out dat away."

  "I'll let the ruffle down, Betsy," eagerly proposed Ninette.

  "Betsy!" called Therese a little impatiently.

  "Yas, 'um--I ben waitin' fu' de cups."

  Lucilla had made many an aspiration--many an "act" the while. Thiswhole evening of revelry, and now this last act of wicked conspiracyseemed to have tainted her soul with a breath of sin which she wouldnot feel wholly freed from, till she had cleansed her spirit in thewaters of absolution.

  The party broke up at a late hour, though the Duplans had a longdistance to go, and, moreover, had to cross the high and turbid riverto reach their carriage which had been left on the opposite bank,owing to the difficulty of the crossing.

  Mr. Duplan took occasion of a moment aside to whisper to Hosmer withthe air of a connoisseur, "fine woman that Mrs. Worthington of yours."

  Hosmer laughed at the jesting implication, whilst disclaiming it, andFanny looked moodily at them both, jealously wondering at the cause oftheir good humor.

  Mrs. Duplan, under the influence of a charming evening passed in suchagreeable and distinguished company, was full of amiable bustle inleaving and had many pleasant parting words to say to each, in herpretty broken English.

  "Oh, yes, ma'am," said Mrs. Worthington to that lady, who had takenadmiring notice of the beautiful silver "Holy Angels" medal that hungfrom Lucilla's neck and rested against the dark gown. "Lucilla takesafter Mr. Worthington as far as religion goes--kind of differentthough, for I must say it ain't often he darkens the doors of achurch."

  Mrs. Worthington always spoke of her husband present as of a husbandabsent. A peculiarity which he patiently endured, having no talent forrepartee, that he had at one time thought of cultivating. But thattime was long past.

  The Duplans were the first to leave. Then Therese stood for a while onthe veranda in the chill night air watching the others disappearacross the lawn. Mr. and Mrs. Worthington and Lucilla had all shakenhands with her in saying good night. Fanny followed suit limply andgrudgingly. Hosmer buttoned his coat impatiently and only lifted hishat to Therese as he helped his wife down the stairs.

  Poor Fanny! she had already taken exception at that hand pressurewhich was to come and for which she watched, and now her whole smallbeing was in a jealous turmoil--because there had been none.