II
"Neva to See You!"
Therese judged it best to leave Fanny a good deal to herself duringher first days on the plantation, without relinquishing a certainwatchful supervision of her comfort, and looking in on her for a fewmoments each day. The rain which had come with them continued fitfullyand Fanny remained in doors, clad in a warm handsome gown, her smallslippered feet cushioned before the fire, and reading the latest novelof one of those prolific female writers who turn out their unwholesomeintellectual sweets so tirelessly, to be devoured by the girls andwomen of the age.
Melicent, who always did the unexpected, crossed over early on themorning after Fanny's arrival; penetrated to her sleeping room andembraced her effusively, even as she lay in bed, calling her "poordear Fanny" and cautioning her against getting up on such a morning.
The tears which had come to Fanny on arriving, and which had dried onher cheek when she turned to gaze into the cheer of the great woodfire, did not return. Everybody seemed to be making much of her, whichwas a new experience in her life; she having always felt herself as oflittle consequence, and in a manner, overlooked. The negroes wereoverawed at the splendor of her toilettes and showed a respect for herin proportion to the money value which these toilettes reflected. Eachmorning Gregoire left at her door his compliments with a huge bouquetof brilliant and many colored crysanthemums, and enquiry if he couldserve 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, butin talk that invited her to friendly response.
With Therese, she was at first shy and diffident, and over watchful ofherself. She did not forget that Hosmer had told her "The lady knowswhy I have come" and she resented that knowledge which Theresepossessed of her past intimate married life.
Melicent's attentions did not last in their ultra-effusiveness, butshe found Fanny less objectionable since removed from her St. Louissurroundings; and the evident consideration with which she had beenaccepted at Place-du-Bois seemed to throw about her a halo ofsufficient distinction to impel the girl to view her from a new anddifferent stand-point.
But the charm of plantation life was letting go its hold uponMelicent. Gregoire's adoration alone, and her feeble response to itwere all that kept her.
"I neva felt anything like this befo'," he said, as they stoodtogether and their hands touched in reaching for a splendid rose thathung invitingly from its tall latticed support out in mid lawn. Thesun had come again and dried the last drop of lingering moisture ongrass 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 atme. Th' otha day, down at the gin," he continued, "I was figurin' onsome weights an' wasn't thinkin' about you at all, an' all at once Iremember'd the one time I'd kissed you. Goodness! I couldn't see thefigures 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 wasgoin' to faint fur a minute."
"That's very unwise, Gregoire," she said, taking the roses that hehanded her to add to the already large bunch. "You must learn to thinkof me calmly: our love must be something like a sacred memory--a sweetrecollection 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--myGod!" he gasped, paling and crushing between his nervous fingers theflower 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 daintilywith one hand and passing the other through his arm--the hand whichheld the flowers, whose peculiar perfume ever afterwards made Gregoireshiver through a moment of pain that touched very close upon rapture.
He was more occupied than he liked during those busy days ofharvesting and ginning, that left him only brief and snatchedintervals of Melicent's society. If he could have rested in thecomfort of being sure of her, such moments of separation would havehad their compensation in reflective anticipation. But with hisundisciplined desires and hot-blooded eagerness, her half-heartedacknowledgments and inadequate concessions, closed her about with achilling barrier that staggered him with its problematic nature.Feeling himself her equal in the aristocracy of blood, and her masterin the knowledge and strength of loving, he resented those halfunderstood reasons which removed him from the possibility of beinganything to her. And more, he was angry with himself for acquiescingin that self understood agreement. But it was only in her absence thatthese thoughts disturbed him. When he was with her, his whole beingrejoiced in her existence and there was no room for doubt or dread.
He felt himself regenerated through love, and as having no part inthat other Gregoire whom he only thought of to dismiss withunrecognition.
The time came when he could ill conceal his passion from others.Therese became conscious of it, through an unguarded glance. Theunhappiness of the situation was plain to her; but to what degree shecould not guess. It was certainly so deplorable that it would havebeen worth while to have averted it. Yet, she felt great faith in thepower of time and absence to heal such wounds even to the extent ofleaving no tell-tale scar.
"Gregoire, my boy," she said to him, speaking in French, and layingher hand on his, when they were alone together. "I hope that yourheart 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 notknow how much longer she will remain here, but taking any possibilityfor granted, let me advise you to leave the place for a while; go backto 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 notdo that, aunt. There will be plenty time for that in the rest of mylife," he said, trying to speak calmly and forcing his voice to aharshness 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 assertthan to question.
"No, she does not. No matter what she says--she does not. I can feelthat here," he answered, striking his breast. "Oh aunt, it is terribleto think of her going away; forever, perhaps; of never seeing her. Icould not stand it." And he stood the strain no longer, but sobbed andwept 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 beenotherwise, she would not have hesitated to beg the girl to desist fromthis unprofitable amusement of tormenting a human heart.