THE ROAD TO THE RIGHT.
The morning after, Ferrol heard an announcement which came upon him
like a clap of thunder.
After breakfast, as they walked about the grounds, Olivia, who had
seemed to be in an abstracted mood, said, without any preface:
"Miss Rogers returns home to-morrow."
Laurence stopped short in the middle of the path.
"To-morrow!" he exclaimed. "Oh, no."
He glanced across at Louisiana with an anxious face.
"Yes," she said, "I am going home."
"To New York?"
"I do not live in New York."
She spoke quite simply, but the words were a shock to him. They
embarrassed him. There was no coldness in her manner, no displeasure
in her tone, but, of course, he understood that it would be worse than
tactless to inquire further. Was it possible that she did not care
that he should know where she lived? There seemed no other
construction to be placed upon her words. He flushed a little, and for
a few minutes looked rather gloomy, though he quickly recovered himself
afterward and changed the subject with creditable readiness.
"Did not you tell me she lived in New York?" he asked Olivia, the first
time they were alone together.
"No," Olivia answered, a trifle sharply. "Why New York, more than
another place?"
"For no reason whatever,--really," he returned, more bewildered than
ever. "There was no reason why I should choose New York, only when I
spoke to her of certain places there, she--she----"
He paused and thought the matter over carefully before finishing his
sentence. He ended it at last in a singular manner.
"She said nothing," he said. "It is actually true--now I think of
it--she said nothing whatever!"
"And because she said nothing whatever----" began Olivia.
He drew his hand across his forehead with a puzzled gesture.
"I fancied she _looked_ as if she knew," he said, slowly. "I am sure
she looked as if she knew what I was talking about--as if she knew the
places, I mean. It is very queer! There seems no reason in it. Why
shouldn't she wish us to know where she lives?"
"I--I must confess," cried Olivia, "that I am getting a little tired of
her."
It was treacherous and vicious, and she knew it was; but her guilty
conscience and her increasing sense of having bungled drove her to
desperation. If she had not promised to keep the truth to herself, she
would have been only too glad to unburden herself. It was so stupid,
after all, and she had only herself to blame.
Laurence drew a long breath.
"You can not be tired of _her_!" he said. "That is impossible. She
takes firmer hold upon one every hour."
This was certainly true, as far as he was concerned. He was often even
surprised at his own enthusiasm. He had seen so many pretty women that
it was almost inconsistent that he should be so much moved by the
prettiness of one charming creature, and particularly one who spoke so
little, who, after all, was--but there he always found himself at a
full stop. He could not say what she was, he did not know yet; really,
he seemed no nearer the solution of the mystery than he had been at
first. There lay the fascination. He felt so sure there was an
immense deal for him to discover, if he could only discover it. He had
an ideal in his mind, and this ideal, he felt confident, was the real
creature, if he could only see her. During the episode on the upper
gallery he fancied he had caught a glimpse of what was to be revealed.
The sudden passion on her pale young face, the fire in her eyes, were
what he had dreamed of.
If he had not been possessed of courage and an honest faith in himself,
born of a goodly amount of success, he would have been far more
depressed than he was. She was going away, and had not encouraged him
to look forward to their meeting again.
"I own it is rather bad to look at," he said to himself, "if one quite
believed that Fate would serve one such an ill turn. She never played
me such a trick, however, and I won't believe she will. I shall see
her again--sometime. It will turn out fairly enough, surely."
So with this consolation he supported himself. There was one day left
and he meant to make the best of it. It was to be spent in driving to
a certain mountain, about ten miles distant. All tourists who were
possessed of sufficient energy made this excursion as a matter of duty,
if from no more enthusiastic motive. A strong, light carriage and a
pair of horses were kept in the hotel stables for the express purpose
of conveying guests to this special point.
This vehicle Ferrol had engaged the day before, and as matters had
developed he had cause to congratulate himself upon the fact. He said
to Louisiana what he had before said to himself:
"We have one day left, and we will make the best of it."
Olivia, who stood upon the gallery before which the carriage had been
drawn up, glanced at Louisiana furtively. On her part she felt
privately that it would be rather hard to make the best of it. She
wished that it was well over. But Louisiana did not return her glance.
She was looking at Ferrol and the horses. She had done something new
this morning. She had laid aside her borrowed splendor and attired
herself in one of her own dresses, which she had had the boldness to
remodel. She had seized a hint from some one of Olivia's possessions,
and had given her costume a pretty air of primitive simplicity. It was
a plain white lawn, with a little frilled cape or fichu which crossed
upon her breast, and was knotted loosely behind. She had a black
velvet ribbon around her lithe waist, a rose in her bosom where the
fichu crossed, and a broad Gainsborough hat upon her head. One was
reminded somewhat of the picturesque young woman of the good old colony
times. Ferrol, at least, when he first caught sight of her, was
reminded of pictures he had seen of them.
There was no trace of her last night's fire in her manner. She was
quieter than usual through the first part of the drive. She was gentle
to submissiveness to Olivia. There was something even tender in her
voice once or twice when she addressed her. Laurence noticed it, and
accounted for it naturally enough.
"She is really fonder of her than she has seemed," he thought, "and she
is sorry that their parting is so near."
He was just arriving at this conclusion when Louisiana touched his arm.
"Don't take that road," she said.
He drew up his horses and looked at her with surprise. There were two
roads before them, and he had been upon the point of taking the one to
the right.
"But it is the only road to take," he continued. "The other does not
lead to the mountain. I was told to be sure to take the road to the
right hand."
"It is a mistake," she said, in a disturbed tone. "The left-hand road
leads to the mountain, too--at least, we can reach it by striking the
wagon-road through the woods. I--yes, I am sure of it."
"But this is the better road. Is there any reason why you prefer the
other? Could you pilot us? If you can----"
He stopped and looked at her appealingly.
He was ready to do anything she wished, but the necessity for his
yielding had passed. Her face assumed a set look.
"I can't," she answered. "Take the road to the right. Why not?"