Part 2 - XVI. To Him Who Waits.

by Kate Chopin

　　To Him Who Waits.The air was filled with the spring and all its promises. Full with thesound of it, the smell of it, the deliciousness of it. Such sweet air;soft and strong, like the touch of a brave woman’s hand. The air of anearly March day in New Orleans. It was folly to shut it out from nookor cranny. Worse than folly the lady thought who was making futileendeavors to open the car window near which she sat. Her face hadgrown pink with the effort. She had bit firmly into her red netherlip, making it all the redder; and then sat down from theunaccomplished feat to look ruefully at the smirched finger tips ofher Parisian gloves. This flavor of Paris was well about her; in thefolds of her graceful wrap that set to her fine shoulders. It wasplainly a part of the little black velvet toque that rested on herblonde hair. Even the umbrella and one small valise which she had justlaid on the seat opposite her, had Paris written plain upon them.These were impressions which the little grey-garbed conventionalfigure, some seats removed, had been noting since the striking ladyhad entered the car. Points likely to have escaped a man, who--unlessa minutely observant one,--would only have seen that she was handsomeand worthy of an admiration that he might easily fancy rising todevotion.Beside herself and the little grey-garbed figure was an interestingfamily group at the far end of the car. A husband, but doubly afather, surrounded and sat upon by a small band of offspring. Awife--presumably a mother--absorbed with the view of the outside worldand the elaborate gold chain that hung around her neck.The presence of a large valise, an overcoat, a cane and an umbrelladisposed on another seat, bespoke a further occupant, likely to be atpresent in the smoking car.The train pushed out from the depôt. The porter finally made tardyhaste to the assistance of the lady who had been attempting to openthe window, and when the fresh morning air came blowing in upon herThérèse leaned back in her seat with a sigh of content.There was a full day’s journey before her. She would not reachPlace-du-Bois before dark, but she did not shrink from those hoursthat were to be passed alone. She rather welcomed the quiet of themafter a visit to New Orleans full of pleasant disturbances. She waseager to be home again. She loved Place-du-Bois with a love that wasreal; that had grown deep since it was the one place in the worldwhich she could connect with the presence of David Hosmer. She hadoften wondered--indeed was wondering now--if the memory of thosehappenings to which he belonged would ever grow strange and far awayto her. It was a trick of memory with which she indulged herself onoccasion, this one of retrospection. Beginning with that June day whenshe had sat in the hall and watched the course of a white sunshadeover the tops of the bending corn.Such idle thoughts they were with their mingling of bitter andsweet--leading nowhere. But she clung to them and held to them as ifto a refuge which she might again and again return to.The picture of that one terrible day of Fanny’s death, stood out insharp prominent lines; a touch of the old agony always coming back asshe remembered how she had believed Hosmer dead too--lying so pale andbleeding before her. Then the parting which had held not so much ofsorrow as of awe and bewilderment in it: when sick, wounded and brokenhe had gone away at once with the dead body of his wife; when the twohad clasped hands without words that dared be uttered.But that was a year ago. And Thérèse thought many things might comeabout in a year. Anyhow, might not such length of time be hoped to rubthe edge off a pain that was not by its nature lasting?That time of acute trouble seemed to have thrown Hosmer back upon hisold diffidence. The letter he wrote her after a painful illness whichprostrated him on his arrival in St. Louis, was stiff and formal, asmen’s letters are apt to be, though it had breathed an untold story ofloyalty which she had felt at the time, and still cherished. Otherletters--a few--had gone back and forth between them, till Hosmer hadgone away to the sea-shore with Melicent, to recuperate, and Junecoming, Thérèse had sailed from New Orleans for Paris, whither she hadpassed six months.Things had not gone well at Place-du-Bois during her absence, theimpecunious old kinsman whom she had left in charge, having a decidedpreference for hunting the _Gros-Bec_ and catching trout in the laketo supervising the methods of a troublesome body of blacks. So Thérèsehad had much to engage her thoughts from the morbid channel into whichthose of a more idle woman might have drifted.She went occasionally enough to the mill. There at least she wasalways sure to hear Hosmer’s name--and what a charm the sound of ithad for her. And what a delight it was to her eyes when she caughtsight of an envelope lying somewhere on desk or table of the office,addressed in his handwriting. That was a weakness which she could notpardon herself; but which staid with her, seeing that the sametrifling cause never failed to awaken the same unmeasured delight. Shehad even trumped up an excuse one day for carrying off one of Hosmer’sbusiness letters--indeed of the dryest in substance, and which, whenhalf-way home, she had torn into the smallest bits and scattered tothe winds, so overcome was she by a sense of her own absurdity.Thérèse had undergone the ordeal of having her ticket scrutinized,commented upon and properly punched by the suave conductor. The littleconventional figure had given over the contemplation of Parisianstyles and betaken herself to the absorbing pages of a novel which sheread through smoked glasses. The husband and father had peeled anddistributed his second outlay of bananas amongst his family. It was atthis moment that Thérèse, looking towards the door, saw Hosmer enterthe car.She must have felt his presence somewhere near; his being there andcoming towards her was so much a part of her thoughts. She held outher hand to him and made place beside her, as if he had left her but ahalf hour before. All the astonishment was his. But he pressed herhand and took the seat she offered him.“You knew I was on the train?” he asked.“Oh, no, how should I?”Then naturally followed question and answer.Yes, he was going to Place-du-Bois.No, the mill did not require his presence; it had been very wellmanaged during his absence.Yes, she had been to New Orleans. Had had a very agreeable visit.Beautiful weather for city dwellers. But such dryness. So disastrousto the planters.Yes--quite likely there would be rain next month: there usually was inApril. But indeed there was need of more than April showers for thatstiff land--that strip along the bayou, if he remembered? Oh, heremembered quite well, but for all that he did not know what she wastalking about. She did not know herself. Then they grew silent; notfrom any feeling of the absurdity of such speech between them, foreach had but listened to the other’s voice. They became silentlyabsorbed by the consciousness of each other’s nearness. She waslooking at his hand that rested on his knee, and thinking it fullerthan she remembered it before. She was aware of some change in himwhich she had not the opportunity to define; but this firmness andfullness of the hand was part of it. She looked up into his face then,to find the same change there, together with a new content. But whatshe noted beside was the dull scar on his forehead, coming out like ared letter when his eyes looked into her own. The sight of it was likea hurt. She had forgotten it might be there, telling its story of painthrough the rest of his life.“Thérèse,” Hosmer said finally, “won’t you look at me?”She was looking from the window. She did not turn her head, but herhand went out and met his that was on the seat close beside her. Heheld it firmly; but soon with an impatient movement drew down theloose wristlet of her glove and clasped his fingers around her warmwrist.“Thérèse,” he said again; but more unsteadily, “look at me.”“Not here,” she answered him, “not now, I mean.” And presently shedrew her hand away from him and held it for a moment pressed firmlyover her eyes. Then she looked at him with brave loving glance.“It’s been so long,” she said, with the suspicion of a sigh.“Too long,” he returned, “I couldn’t have borne it but for you--thethought of you always present with me; helping me to take myself outof the past. That was why I waited--till I could come to you free.Have you an idea, I wonder, how you have been a promise, and can bethe fulfillment of every good that life may give to a man?”“No, I don’t know,” she said a little hopelessly, taking his handagain, “I have seen myself at fault in following what seemed the onlyright. I feel as if there were no way to turn for the truth. Oldsupports appear to be giving way beneath me. They were so securebefore. It commenced, you remember--oh, you know when it must havebegun. But do you think, David, that it’s right we should find ourhappiness out of that past of pain and sin and trouble?”“Thérèse,” said Hosmer firmly, “the truth in its entirety isn’t givento man to know--such knowledge, no doubt, would be beyond humanendurance. But we make a step towards it, when we learn that there isrottenness and evil in the world, masquerading as right andmorality--when we learn to know the living spirit from the deadletter. I have not cared to stop in this struggle of life to question.You, perhaps, wouldn’t dare to alone. Together, dear one, we will workit out. Be sure there is a way--we may not find it in the end, but wewill at least have tried.”