enquiry if he could
serve 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, but
in talk that invited her to friendly response.
With Thérèse, she was at first shy and diffident, and over watchful of
herself. She did not forget that Hosmer had told her "The lady knows
why I have come" and she resented that knowledge which Thérèse
possessed of her past intimate married life.
Melicent's attentions did not last in their ultra-effusiveness, but
she found Fanny less objectionable since removed from her St. Louis
surroundings; and the evident consideration with which she had been
accepted at Place-du-Bois seemed to throw about her a halo of
sufficient distinction to impel the girl to view her from a new and
different stand-point.
But the charm of plantation life was letting go its hold upon
Melicent. Grégoire's adoration alone, and her feeble response to it
were all that kept her.
"I neva felt anything like this befo'," he said, as they stood
together and their hands touched in reaching for a splendid rose that
hung invitingly from its tall latticed support out in mid lawn. The
sun had come again and dried the last drop of lingering moisture on
grass 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 at
me. Th' otha day, down at the gin," he continued, "I was figurin' on
some weights an' wasn't thinkin' about you at all, an' all at once I
remember'd the one time I'd kissed you. Goodness! I couldn't see the
figures 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 was
goin' to faint fur a minute."
"That's very unwise, Grégoire," she said, taking the roses that he
handed her to add to the already large bunch. "You must learn to think
of me calmly: our love must be something like a sacred memory—a sweet
recollection 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—my
God!" he gasped, paling and crushing between his nervous fingers the
flower 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 daintily
with one hand and passing the other through his arm—the hand which
held the flowers, whose peculiar perfume ever afterwards made Grégoire
shiver through a moment of pain that touched very close upon rapture.
He was more occupied than he liked during those busy days of
harvesting and ginning, that left him only brief and snatched
intervals of Melicent's society. If he could have rested in the
comfort of being sure of her, such moments of separation would have
had their compensation in reflective anticipation. But with his
undisciplined desires and hot-blooded eagerness, her half-hearted
acknowledgments and inadequate concessions, closed her about with a
chilling barrier that staggered him with its problematic nature.
Feeling himself her equal in the aristocracy of blood, and her master
in the knowledge and strength of loving, he resented those half
understood reasons which removed him from the possibility of being
anything to her. And more, he was angry with himself for acquiescing
in that self understood agreement. But it was only in her absence that
these thoughts disturbed him. When he was with her, his whole being
rejoiced in her existence and there was no room for doubt or dread.
He felt himself regenerated through love, and as having no part in
that other Grégoire whom he only thought of to dismiss with
unrecognition.
The time came when he could ill conceal his passion from others.
Thérèse became conscious of it, through an unguarded glance. The
unhappiness of the situation was plain to her; but to what degree she
could not guess. It was
serve 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, but
in talk that invited her to friendly response.
With Thérèse, she was at first shy and diffident, and over watchful of
herself. She did not forget that Hosmer had told her "The lady knows
why I have come" and she resented that knowledge which Thérèse
possessed of her past intimate married life.
Melicent's attentions did not last in their ultra-effusiveness, but
she found Fanny less objectionable since removed from her St. Louis
surroundings; and the evident consideration with which she had been
accepted at Place-du-Bois seemed to throw about her a halo of
sufficient distinction to impel the girl to view her from a new and
different stand-point.
But the charm of plantation life was letting go its hold upon
Melicent. Grégoire's adoration alone, and her feeble response to it
were all that kept her.
"I neva felt anything like this befo'," he said, as they stood
together and their hands touched in reaching for a splendid rose that
hung invitingly from its tall latticed support out in mid lawn. The
sun had come again and dried the last drop of lingering moisture on
grass 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 at
me. Th' otha day, down at the gin," he continued, "I was figurin' on
some weights an' wasn't thinkin' about you at all, an' all at once I
remember'd the one time I'd kissed you. Goodness! I couldn't see the
figures 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 was
goin' to faint fur a minute."
"That's very unwise, Grégoire," she said, taking the roses that he
handed her to add to the already large bunch. "You must learn to think
of me calmly: our love must be something like a sacred memory—a sweet
recollection 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—my
God!" he gasped, paling and crushing between his nervous fingers the
flower 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 daintily
with one hand and passing the other through his arm—the hand which
held the flowers, whose peculiar perfume ever afterwards made Grégoire
shiver through a moment of pain that touched very close upon rapture.
He was more occupied than he liked during those busy days of
harvesting and ginning, that left him only brief and snatched
intervals of Melicent's society. If he could have rested in the
comfort of being sure of her, such moments of separation would have
had their compensation in reflective anticipation. But with his
undisciplined desires and hot-blooded eagerness, her half-hearted
acknowledgments and inadequate concessions, closed her about with a
chilling barrier that staggered him with its problematic nature.
Feeling himself her equal in the aristocracy of blood, and her master
in the knowledge and strength of loving, he resented those half
understood reasons which removed him from the possibility of being
anything to her. And more, he was angry with himself for acquiescing
in that self understood agreement. But it was only in her absence that
these thoughts disturbed him. When he was with her, his whole being
rejoiced in her existence and there was no room for doubt or dread.
He felt himself regenerated through love, and as having no part in
that other Grégoire whom he only thought of to dismiss with
unrecognition.
The time came when he could ill conceal his passion from others.
Thérèse became conscious of it, through an unguarded glance. The
unhappiness of the situation was plain to her; but to what degree she
could not guess. It was
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