Part 1 - VIII. Treats of Melicent.

by Kate Chopin

　　Treats of Melicent.Melicent knew that there were exchanges of confidence going on betweenher brother and Mrs. Lafirme, from which she was excluded. She hadnoted certain lengthy conferences held in remote corners of theverandas. The two had deliberately withdrawn one moonlight evening topace to and fro the length of gravel walk that stretched from doorfront to lane; and Melicent had fancied that they rather lingered whenunder the deep shadow of the two great live-oaks that overarched thegate. But that of course was fancy; a young girl’s weakness to thinkthe world must go as she would want it to.She was quite sure of having heard Mrs. Lafirme say “I will help you.”Could it be that David had fallen into financial straights and wantedassistance from Thérèse? No, that was improbable and furthermore,distasteful, so Melicent would not burden herself with the suspicion.It was far more agreeable to believe that affairs were shapingthemselves according to her wishes regarding her brother and herfriend. Yet her mystification was in no wise made clearer, when Davidleft them to go to St. Louis.Melicent was not ready or willing to leave with him. She had not hadher “visit out” as she informed him, when he proposed it to her. Toremain in the cottage during his absence was out of the question, soshe removed herself and all her pretty belongings over to the house,taking possession of one of the many spare rooms. The act of removalfurnished her much entertainment of a mild sort, into which, however,she successfully infused something of her own intensity by making theoccasion one to bring a large detachment of the plantation force intoher capricious service.Melicent was going out, and she stood before her mirror to make surethat she looked properly. She was black from head to foot. From thegreat ostrich plume that nodded over her wide-brimmed hat, to thepointed toe of the patent leather boot that peeped from under hergown--a filmy gauzy thing setting loosely to her slender shapelyfigure. She laughed at the somberness of her reflection, which she atonce set about relieving with a great bunch of geraniums--big andscarlet and long-stemmed, that she thrust slantwise through her belt.Melicent, always charming, was very pretty when she laughed. Shethought so herself and laughed a second time into the depths of herdark handsome eyes. One corner of the large mouth turned saucilyupward, and the lips holding their own crimson and all that the cheekswere lacking, parted only a little over the gleaming whiteness of herteeth. As she looked at herself critically, she thought that a fewmore pounds of flesh would have well become her. It had been only theother day that her slimness was altogether to her liking; but atpresent she was in love with plumpness as typified in Mrs. Lafirme.However, on the whole, she was not ill pleased with her appearance,and gathering up her gloves and parasol, she quitted the room.It was “broad day,” one of the requirements which Grégoire had namedas essential for taking Melicent to visit old McFarlane’s grave. Butthe sun was not “shining mighty bright,” the second condition, andwhose absence they were willing enough to overlook, seeing that themonth was September.They had climbed quite to the top of the hill, and stood on the verybrink of the deep toilsome railroad cut all fringed with matted grassand young pines, that had but lately sprung there. Up and down thetrack, as far as they could see on either side the steel railsglittered on into gradual dimness. There were patches of the fieldbefore them, white with bursting cotton which scores of negroes, men,women and children were dexterously picking and thrusting into greatbags that hung from their shoulders and dragged beside them on theground; no machine having yet been found to surpass the sufficiency offive human fingers for wrenching the cotton from its tenacious hold.Elsewhere, there were squads “pulling fodder” from the dry cornstalks; hot and distasteful work enough. In the nearest field, wherethe cotton was young and green, with no show of ripening, the overseerrode slowly between the rows, sprinkling plentifully the dry powder ofparis green from two muslin bags attached to the ends of a short polethat lay before him across the saddle.Grégoire’s presence would be needed later in the day, when the cottonwas hauled to gin to be weighed; when the mules were brought tostable, to see them properly fed and cared for, and the gearing allput in place. In the meanwhile he was deliciously idle with Melicent.They retreated into the woods, soon losing sight of everything but thetrees that surrounded them and the underbrush, that was scant andscattered over the turf which the height of the trees permitted togrow green and luxuriant.There, on the far slope of the hill they found McFarlane’s grave,which they knew to be such only by the battered and weather-worn crossof wood, that lurched disreputably to one side--there being no hand inall the world that cared enough to make it straight--and from whichall lettering had long since been washed away. This cross was all thatmarked the abiding place of that mist-like form, so often seen at darkto stalk down the hill with threatening stride, or of moonlight nightsto cross the lake in a pirogue, whose substance though visible wasnought; with sound of dipping oars that made no ripple on the lake’ssmooth surface. On stormy nights, some more gifted with spiritualinsight than their neighbors, and with hearing better sharpened todelicate intonations of the supernatural, had not only seen the mistfigure mounted and flying across the hills, but had heard the pantingof the blood-hounds, as the invisible pack swept by in hot pursuit ofthe slave so long ago at rest.But it was “broad day,” and here was nothing sinister to causeMelicent the least little thrill of awe. No owl, no bat, no ill-omenedcreature hovering near; only a mocking bird high up in the branches ofa tall pine tree, gushing forth his shrill staccatoes as blithely asthough he sang paeans to a translated soul in paradise.“Poor old McFarlane,” said Melicent, “I’ll pay a little tribute to hismemory; I dare say his spirit has listened to nothing but abuse ofhimself there in the other world, since it left his body here on thehill;” and she took one of the long-stemmed blood-red flowers and laidit beside the toppling cross.“I reckon he’s in a place w’ere flowers don’t git much waterin’, ifthey got any there.”“Shame to talk so cruelly; I don’t believe in such places.”“You don’t believe in hell?” he asked in blank surprise.“Certainly not. I’m a Unitarian.”“Well, that’s new to me,” was his only comment.“Do you believe in spirits, Grégoire? I don’t--in day time.”“Neva mine ’bout spirits,” he answered, taking her arm and leading heroff, “let’s git away f’om yere.”They soon found a smooth and gentle slope where Melicent sat herselfcomfortably down, her back against the broad support of a tree trunk,and Grégoire lay prone upon the ground with--his head in Melicent’slap.When Melicent first met Grégoire, his peculiarities of speech, sounfamiliar to her, seemed to remove him at once from the possibilityof her consideration. She was not then awake to certain finepsychological differences distinguishing man from man; precluding thepossibility of naming and classifying him in the moral as one might inthe animal kingdom. But short-comings of language, which finallyseemed not to detract from a definite inheritance of good breeding,touched his personality as a physical deformation might, adding to itcertainly no charm, yet from its pathological aspect not without aspecies of fascination, for a certain order of misregulated mind.She bore with him, and then she liked him. Finally, whilst indulgingin a little introspection; making a diagnosis of various symptoms,indicative by no means of a deep-seated malady, she decided that shewas in love with Grégoire. But the admission embraced theunderstanding with herself, that nothing could come of it. Sheaccepted it as a phase of that relentless fate which in pessimisticmoments she was inclined to believe pursued her.It could not be thought of, that she should marry a man whoseeccentricity of speech would certainly not adapt itself to therequirements of polite society.He had kissed her one day. Whatever there was about the kiss--possiblyan over exuberance--it was not to her liking, and she forbade that heever repeat it, under pain of losing her affection. Indeed, on the fewoccasions when Melicent had been engaged, kissing had been excluded assuperfluous to the relationship, except in the case of the younglieutenant out at Fort Leavenworth who read Tennyson to her, as anangel might be supposed to read, and who in moments of rapturousself-forgetfulness, was permitted to kiss her under the ear: aproceeding not positively distasteful to Melicent, except in so muchas it tickled her.Grégoire’s hair was soft, not so dark as her own, and possessed aninclination to curl about her slender fingers.“Grégoire,” she said, “you told me once that the Santien boys were ahard lot; what did you mean by that?”“Oh no,” he answered, laughing good-humoredly up into her eyes, “youdid’n year me right. W’at I said was that we had a hard name in thecountry. I don’ see w’y eitha, excep’ we all’ays done putty much likewe wanted. But my! a man can live like a saint yere at Place-du-Bois,they ain’t no temptations o’ no kine.”“There’s little merit in your right doing, if you have no temptationsto withstand,” delivering the time worn aphorism with the air and toneof a pretty sage, giving utterance to an inspired truth.Melicent felt that she did not fully know Grégoire; that he had alwaysbeen more or less under restraint with her, and she was troubled bysomething other than curiosity to get at the truth concerning him. Oneday when she was arranging a vase of flowers at a table on the backporch, Aunt Belindy, who was scouring knives at the same table, hadfollowed Grégoire with her glance, when he walked away afterexchanging a few words with Melicent.“God! but dats a diffunt man sence you come heah.”“Different?” questioned the girl eagerly, and casting a quick sidewardlook at Aunt Belindy.“Lord yas honey, ’f you warn’t heah dat same Mista Grégor ’d be inCentaville ev’y Sunday, a raisin’ Cain. Humph--I knows ’im.”Melicent would not permit herself to ask more, but picked up her vaseof flowers and walked with it into the house; her comprehension ofGrégoire in no wise advanced by the newly acquired knowledge that hewas liable to “raise Cain” during her absence--a proceeding which shecould not too hastily condemn, considering her imperfect apprehensionof what it might imply.Meanwhile she would not allow her doubts to interfere with thekindness which she lavished on him, seeing that he loved her todesperation. Was he not at this very moment looking up into her eyes,and talking of his misery and her cruelty? turning his face downwardin her lap--as she knew to cry--for had she not already seen him lieon the ground in an agony of tears, when she had told him he shouldnever kiss her again?And so they lingered in the woods, these two curious lovers, till theshadows grew so deep about old McFarlane’s grave that they passed itby with hurried step and averted glance.