Part 64 (1/2)
A curious light came into Charlitte's eyes, and he put his tongue in his cheek. Then he went on, calmly. ”I'm on my way from Turk's Island to Saint John, New Brunswick,--I've got a cargo of salt to unload there, and, 'pon my word, I hadn't a thought of calling here until I got up in the Bay, working towards Pet.i.t Pa.s.sage. I guess it was old habit that made me run for this place, and I thought I'd give you a call, and see if you were moping to death, and wanted to go away with me. If you do, I'll be glad to have you. If not, I'll not bother you.”
A deadly faintness came over Rose. ”Charlitte, are you not sorry for your sin? Ah! tell me that you repent. And will you not talk to Father Duvair? So many quiet nights I think of you and pray that you may understand that you are being led into this wickedness. That other woman,--she is still living?”
”What other woman? Oh, Lord, yes,--I thought that fool Agapit had had spies on me.”
Rose was so near fainting that she only half comprehended what he said.
”I wish you'd come with me,” he went on, jocosely. ”If you happened to worry I'd send you back to this dull little hole. You're not going to swoon, are you? Here, put your head on this,” and he drew up to her a small table on which Bidiane had been playing solitaire. ”You used not to be delicate.”
”I am not now,” she whispered, dropping her head on her folded arms, ”but I cannot hold myself up. When I saw you come, I thought it was to say you were sorry. Now--”
”Come, brace up, Rose,” he said, uneasily. ”I'll sit down beside you for awhile. There's lots of time for me to repent yet,” and he chuckled shortly and struck his broad chest with his fist. ”I'm as strong as a horse; there's nothing wrong with me, except a little rheumatism, and I'll outgrow that. I'm only fifty-two, and my father died at ninety.
Come on, girl,--don't cry. I wish I hadn't started this talk of taking you away. You'd be glad of it, though, if you'd go. Listen till I tell you what a fine place New Orleans is--”
Rose did not listen to him. She still sat with her flaxen head bowed on her arms, that rested on the little table. She was a perfect picture of silent, yet agitated distress.
”You are not praying, are you?” asked her husband, in a disturbed manner. ”I believe you are. Come, I'll go away.”
For some time there was no movement in the half prostrated figure, then the head moved slightly, and Charlitte caught a faint sentence, ”Repent, my husband.”
”Yes, I repent,” he said, hastily. ”Good Lord, I'll do anything. Only cheer up and let me out of this.”
The grief-stricken Rose pushed back the hair from her tear-stained face and slowly raised her head from her arms.
It was only necessary for her to show that face to her husband. So impressed was it with the stamp of intense anguish of mind, of grief for his past delinquencies of conduct, of a sorrow n.o.bly, quietly borne through long years, that even he--callous, careless, and thoughtless--was profoundly moved.
For a long time he was silent. Then his lip trembled and he turned his head aside. ”'Pon my word, Rose,--I didn't think you'd fret like this.
I'll do better; let me go now.”
One of her hands stole with velvety clasp to his brown wrists, and while the gentle touch lasted he sat still, listening with an averted face to the words whispered in his ear.
Agapit, in the meantime, was walking in the garden with Bidiane. He had told her all that she wished to know with regard to the recreant husband, and in a pa.s.sionate, resentful state of mind she was storming to and fro, scarcely knowing what she said.
”It is abominable, treacherous!--and we stand idly here. Go and drive him away, Agapit. He should not be allowed to speak to our spotless Rose. I should think that the skies would fall--and I spoke to him, the traitor! Go, Agapit,--I wish you would knock him down.”
Agapit, with an indulgent glance, stood at a little distance from her, softly murmuring, from time to time, ”You are very young, Bidiane.”
”Young! I am glad that I am young, so that I can feel angry. You are stolid, unfeeling. You care nothing for Rose. I shall go myself and tell that wretch to his face what I think of him.”
She was actually starting, but Agapit caught her gently by the arm.
”Bidiane, restrain yourself,” and drawing her under the friendly shade of a solitary pine-tree that had been left when the garden was made, he smoothed her angry cheeks and kissed her hot forehead.
”You condone his offence,--you, also, some day, will leave me for some woman,” she gasped.
”This from you to me,” he said, quietly and proudly, ”when you know that we Acadiens are proud of our virtue,--of the virtue of our women particularly; and if the women are pure, it is because the men are so.”