"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."
"May I ask you to explain?" said Ferrol, rather sternly. "I suppose some of this has been for my benefit."
"Don't speak in that tone," said Olivia. "It is bad enough as it is. I—I never was so wretched in my life. I never dreamed of its turning out in this way. She was so pretty and gentle and quick to take a hint, and—I wanted to try the experiment—to see if you would guess at the truth. I—I had a theory, and I was so much interested that—I forgot to—to think of her very much. I did not think she would care."
Louisiana broke in.
"Yes," she said, her eyes bright with pain, "she forgot. I was very fond of her, and I knew so very little that she forgot to think of me. I was only a kind of plaything—but I was too proud to remind her. I thought it would be soon over, and I knew how ignorant I was. I was afraid to trust my feelings at first. I thought perhaps—it was vanity, and I ought to crush it down. I was very fond of her."
"Oh!" cried Olivia, piteously, "don't say 'was,' Louise!"
"Don't say 'Louise,'" was the reply. "Say 'Louisiana.' I am not ashamed of it now. I want Mr. Ferrol to hear it."
"I have nothing to say in self-defense," Laurence replied, hopelessly.
"There is nothing for any of us to say but good-by," said Louisiana. "We shall never see each other again. It is all over between us. You will go your way and I shall go mine. I shall stay here to-night. You must drive back to the Springs without me. I ought never to have gone there."
Laurence threw himself into a chair and sat shading his face with his hand. He stared from under it at the shining wet grass and leaves. 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 passion 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."