But Zoséphine was looking at the speaker. Her face is kindled with the inspiration of his praise. His own eyes grow ardent.
“Look at their women! Ah, Josephine, I’m looking at one! Don’t turn away.
—‘One made up
Of loveliness alone;
A woman, of her gentle sex
The seeming paragon.’
‘The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect woman nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort, and command.’
“You can’t stop me, Josephine; it’s got to come, and come right now. I’m a homeless man, Josephine, tired of wandering, with a heart bigger and weaker than I ever thought I had. I want you! I love you! I’ve never loved anybody before in my life except myself, and I don’t find myself as lovely as I used. Oh, take me, Josephine! I don’t ask you to love as if you’d never loved another. I’ll take what’s left, and be perfectly satisfied! I know you’re ambitious, and I love you for that! But I do think I can give you a larger life. With you for a wife, I believe I could be a man you needn’t be ashamed of. I’m already at the head of my line. Best record in the United States, Josephine, whether by the day, week, month, year, or locality. But if you don’t like the line, I’ll throw up the ‘A. of U. I.’ and go into any thing you say; for I want to lift you higher, Josephine. You’re above me already, by nature and by rights, but I can lift you, I know I can. You’ve got no business keeping tavern; you’re one of Nature’s aristocrats. Yes, you are! and you’re too young and lovely to stay a widow—in a State where there’s more men than there’s women. There’s a good deal of the hill yet to climb before you start down. Oh, let’s climb it together, Josephine! I’ll make you happier than you are, Josephine; I haven’t got a bad habit left; such as I had, I’ve quit; it don’t pay. I don’t drink, chew, smoke, tell lies, swear, quarrel, play cards, make debts, nor belong to a club—be my wife! Your daughter ’ll soon be leaving you. You can’t be happy alone. Take me! take me!” He urges his horse close—her face is averted—and lays his hand softly but firmly on her two, resting folded on the saddle-horn. They struggle faintly and are still; but she slowly shakes her hanging head.
“O Josephine! you don’t mean no, do you? Look this way! you don’t mean no?” He presses his hand passionately down upon hers. Her eyes do not turn to his; but they are lifted tearfully to the vast, unanswering sky, and as she mournfully shakes her head again, she cries,—
“I dunno! I dunno! I can’t tell! I got to see Marguerite.”
“Well, you’ll see her in an hour, and if she”—
“Naw, naw! ’tis not so; Marguerite is in New Orleans since Christmas.”
Very late in the evening of that day Mr. Tarbox entered the principal inn of St. Martinville, on the Teche. He wore an air of blitheness which, though silent, was overdone. As he pushed his silk hat back on his head, and registered his name with a more than usual largeness of hand, he remarked: