Louisiana

He checked himself to speak to the negro woman who had presented herself at a room door.

"We're a-comin', Nancy," he said, with an air of good-fellowship. "Now, ladies an' gentlemen," he added, rising from his chair, "walk in an' have some supper."

Ferrol and Olivia rose with some hesitation.

"You are very kind," they said. "We did not intend to give you trouble."

"Trouble!" he replied, as if scarcely comprehending. "This yere aint no trouble. Ye haint ben in North Ca'liny before, hev ye?" he continued, good-naturedly. "We're bound to hev ye eat, if ye stay with us long enough. We wouldn't let ye go 'way without eatin', bless ye. We aint that kind. Walk straight in."

He led them into a long, low room, half kitchen, half dining-room. It was not so ugly as the room of state, because it was entirely unadorned. Its ceiled walls were painted brown and stained with many a winter's smoke. The pine table was spread with a clean homespun cloth and heaped with well-cooked, appetizing food.

"If ye can put up with country fare, ye'll not find it so bad," said the host. "Nancy prides herself on her way o' doin' things."

There never was more kindly hospitality, Ferrol thought. The simple generosity which made them favored guests at once warmed and touched him. He glanced across at Louisiana to see if she was not as much pleased as he was himself. But the food upon her plate remained almost untouched. There was a strange look on her face; she was deadly pale and her downcast eyes shone under their lashes. She did not look at their host at all; it struck Ferrol that she avoided looking at him with a strong effort. Her pallor made him anxious.

"You are not well," he said to her. "You do not look well at all."

Their host started and turned toward her.

"Why, no ye aint!" he exclaimed, quite tremulously. "Lord, no! Ye cayn't be. Ye haint no color. What – what's the trouble, Lou – Lord! I was gwine to call ye Louisianny, an' – she aint yere, Louisianny aint."

He ended with a nervous laugh.

"I'm used to takin' a heap o' care on her," he said. "I've lost ten on 'em, an' she's all that's left me, an' – an' I think a heap on her. I – I wish she was yere. Ye musn't git sick, ma'am."

The girl got up hurriedly.

"I am not sick, really," she said. "The thunder – I have a little headache. I will go out on to the porch. It's clearing up now. The fresh air will do me good."

The old man rose, too, with rather a flurried manner.

"If Louisianny was yere," he faltered, "she could give ye something to help ye. Camphire now – sperrits of camphire – let me git ye some."

"No – no," said the girl. "No, thank you."

And she slipped out of the door and was gone.

Mr. Rogers sat down again with a sigh.

"I wish she'd let me git her some," he said, wistfully. "I know how it is with young critters like that. They're dele-cate," anxiously. "Lord, they're dele-cate. They'd oughter hev' their mothers round 'em. I know how it is with Louisianny."

A cloud seemed to settle upon him. He rubbed his grizzled chin with his hand again and again, glancing at the open door as he did it. It was evident that his heart was outside with the girl who was like "Louisianny."

CHAPTER VIII.

"NOTHING HAS HURT YOU."

The storm was quite over, and the sun was setting in flames of gold when the meal was ended and they went out on the porch again. Mr. Rogers had scarcely recovered himself, but he had made an effort to do so, and had so far succeeded as to begin to describe the nature of the one novel he had read. Still, he had rubbed his chin and kept his eye uneasily on the door all the time he had been talking.

"It was about a Frenchman," he said, seriously, "an' his name was – Frankoyse – F-r-a-n-c-o-i-s, Frankoyse. Thet thar's a French name, aint it? Me an' Ianthy 'lowed it was common to the country. It don't belong yere, Frankoyse don't, an' it's got a furrin sound."

"It – yes, it is a French name," assented Ferrol.

A few minutes afterward they went out. Louisiana stood at the end of the porch, leaning against a wooden pillar and twisting an arm around it.

"Are ye better?" Mr. Rogers asked. "I am goin' to 'tend to my stock, an' if ye aint, mebbe the camphire – sperrits of camphire – "

"I don't need it," she answered. "I am quite well."

So he went away and left them, promising to return shortly and "gear up their critters" for them that they might go on their way.

When he was gone, there was a silence of a few seconds which Ferrol could not exactly account for. Almost for the first time in his manhood, he did not know what to say. Gradually there had settled upon him the conviction that something had gone very wrong indeed, that there was something mysterious and complicated at work, that somehow he himself was involved, and that his position was at once a most singular and delicate one. It was several moments before he could decide that his best plan seemed to be to try to conceal his bewilderment and appear at ease. And, very naturally, the speech he chose to begin with was the most unlucky he could have hit upon.

"He is charming," he said. "What a lovable old fellow! What a delicious old fellow! He has been telling me about the novel. It is the story of a Frenchman, and his name – try to guess his name."

But Louisiana did not try.

"You couldn't guess it," he went on. "It is better than all the rest. His name was – Frankoyse."

That instant she turned round. She was shaking all over like a leaf.

"Good heavens!" flashed through his mind. "This is a climax! This is the real creature!"

"Don't laugh again!" she cried. "Don't dare to laugh! I wont bear it! He is my father!"

For a second or so he had not the breath to speak.

"Your father!" he said, when he found his voice. "Your father! Yours!"

"Yes," she answered, "mine. This is my home. I have lived here all my life – my name is Louisiana. You have laughed at me too!"

It was the real creature, indeed, whom he saw. She burst into passionate tears.

"Do you think that I kept up this pretense to-day because I was ashamed of him?" she said. "Do you think I did it because I did not love him – and respect him – and think him better than all the rest of the world? It was because I loved him so much that I did it – because I knew so well that you would say to each other that he was not like me – that he was rougher, and that it was a wonder I belonged to him. It is a wonder I belong to him! I am not worthy to kiss his shoes. I have been ashamed – I have been bad enough for that, but not bad enough to be ashamed of him. I thought at first it would be better to let you believe what you would – that it would soon be over, and we should never see each other again, but I did not think that I should have to sit by and see you laugh because he does not know the world as you do – because he has always lived his simple, good life in one simple, country place."

Ferrol had grown as pale as she was herself. He groaned aloud.

"Oh!" he cried, "what shall I say to you? For heaven's sake try to understand that it is not at him I have laughed, but – "

"He has never been away from home," she broke in. "He has worked too hard to have time to read, and – " she stopped and dropped her hands with a gesture of unutterable pride. "Why should I tell you that?" she said. "It sounds as if I were apologizing for him, and there is no need that I should."

"If I could understand," began Ferrol, – "if I could realize – "

"Ask your sister," she replied. "It was her plan. I – I" (with a little sob) "am only her experiment."

Olivia came forward, looking wholly subdued. Her eyes were wet, too.

"It is true," she said. "It is all my fault."