Louisiana Part 12

Even yet he scarcely believed that all this was true. He felt as if he were walking in a dream. The worst of it was this desperate feeling that there was nothing for him to say. There was a long silence, but at last Louisiana left her place and came and stood before him.

"I am going to meet my father," she said. "I persuaded him that I was only playing a joke. He thought it was one of my fancies, and he helped me out because I asked him to do it. I am going to tell him that I have told you the truth. He wont know why I did it. I will make it easy for you. I shall not see you again. Good-by."

Ferrol's misery got the better of him.

"I can't bear this!" he cried, springing up. "I can't, indeed."

She drew back.

"Why not?" she said. "Nothing has hurt _you_."

The simple coldness of her manner was very hard upon him, indeed.

"You think I have no right to complain," he answered, "and yet see how you send me away! You speak as if you did not intend to let me see you again----"

"No," she interposed, "you shall not see me again. Why should you?

Ask your sister to tell you how ignorant I am. She knows. Why should you come here? There would always be as much to laugh at as there has been to-day. Go where you need not laugh. This is not the place for you. Good-by!"

Then he knew he need say no more. She spoke with a child's pa.s.sion and with a woman's proud obstinacy. Then she turned to Olivia. He was thrilled to the heart as he watched her while she did it. Her eyes were full of tears, but she had put both her hands behind her.

"Good-by," she said.

Olivia broke down altogether.

"Is that the way you are going to say good-by?" she cried. "I did not think you were so hard. If I had meant any harm--but I didn't--and you look as if you never would forgive me."

"I may some time," answered the girl. "I don't yet. I did not think I was so hard, either."

Her hands fell at her sides and she stood trembling a second. All at once she had broken down, too.

"I loved you," she said; "but you did not love me."

And then she turned away and walked slowly into the house.

It was almost half an hour before their host came to them with the news that their carriage was ready.

He looked rather "off color" himself and wore a wearied air, but he was very uncommunicative.

"Louisianny 'lowed she'd go to bed an' sleep off her headache, instead of goin' back to the Springs," he said. "I'll be thar in a day or two to 'tend to her bill an' the rest on it. I 'low the waters haint done her much good. She aint at herself rightly. I knowed she wasn't when she was so notionate this evenin'. She aint notionate when she's at herself."

"We are much indebted to you for your kindness," said Ferrol, when he took the reins.

"Oh, thet aint nothin'. You're welcome. You'd hev hed a better time if Louisianny had been at herself. Good-by to ye. Ye'll hev plenty of moonlight to see ye home."

Their long ride was a silent one. When they reached the end of it and Olivia had been helped out of the carriage and stood in the moonlight upon the deserted gallery, where she had stood with Louisiana in the morning, she looked very suitably miserable.

"Laurence," she said, "I don't exactly see why you should feel so very severe about it. I am sure I am as abject as any one could wish."

He stood a moment in silence looking absently out on the moonlight-flooded lawn. Everything was still and wore an air of desolation.

"We won't talk about it," he said, at last, "but you have done me an ill-turn, Olivia."

CHAPTER IX.

"DON'T YE, LOUISIANNY?"

As he said it, Louisiana was at home in the house-room, sitting on a low chair at her father's knee and looking into the fire. She had not gone to bed. When he returned to the house her father had found her sitting here, and she had not left her place since. A wood fire had been lighted because the mountain air was cool after the rains, and she seemed to like to sit and watch it and think.

Mr. Rogers himself was in a thoughtful mood. After leaving his departing guests he had settled down with some deliberation. He had closed the doors and brought forward his favorite wooden-backed, split-seated chair. Then he had seated himself, and drawing forth his twist of tobacco had cut off a goodly "chaw." He moved slowly and wore a serious and somewhat abstracted air. Afterward he tilted backward a little, crossed his legs, and proceeded to ruminate.

"Louisianny," he said, "Louisianny, I'd like to hear the rights of it."

She answered him in a low voice.

"It is not worth telling," she said. "It was a very poor joke, after all."

He gave her a quick side glance, rubbing his crossed legs slowly.

"Was it?" he remarked. "A poor one, after all? Why, thet's bad."

The quiet patience of his face was a study. He went on rubbing his leg even more slowly than before.

"Thet's bad," he said again. "Now, what d'ye think was the trouble, Louisianny?"

"I made a mistake," she answered. "That was all."

Suddenly she turned to him and laid her folded arms on his knee and her face upon them, sobbing.

"I oughtn't to have gone," she cried. "I ought to have stayed at home with you, father."

His face flushed, and he was obliged to relieve his feelings by expectorating into the fire.

"Louisianny," he said, "I'd like to ask ye one question. Was thar anybody thar as didn't--well, as didn't show ye respect--as was slighty or free or--or onconsiderate? Fur instants, any littery man--jest for instants, now?"

"No, no!" she answered. "They were very kind to me always."

"Don't be afeared to tell me, Louisianny," he put it to her. "I only said 'fur instants,' havin' heern as littery men was sometimes--now an'

again--thataway--now an' ag'in."

"They were very good to me," she repeated, "always."

"If they was," he returned, "I'm glad of it. I'm a-gittin' old, Louisianny, an' I haint much health--dispepsy's what tells on a man,"

he went on deliberately. "But if thar'd a bin any one as hed done it, I'd hev hed to settle it with him--I'd hev hed to hev settled it with him--liver or no liver."

He put his hand on her head and gave it a slow little rub, the wrong way, but tenderly.