THE GREAT WORLD.
The next morning he went to the Springs.
"I'll go an' settle up and bring ye your trunk an' things," he said.
"Mebbe I mayn't git back till to-morrer, so don't ye be oneasy. Ef I
feel tired when I git thar, I'll stay overnight."
She did not think it likely he would stay. She had never known him to
remain away from home during a night unless he had been compelled to do
so by business. He had always been too childishly fond of his home to
be happy away from it. He liked the routine he had been used to
through forty years, the rising at daylight, the regular common duties
he assumed as his share, his own seat on the hearth or porch and at
table.
"Folks may be clever enough," he used to say. "They air clever, as a
rule--but it don't come nat'ral to be away. Thar aint nothin' like
home an' home ways."
But he did not return that night, or even the next morning. It was
dusk the next evening before Louisiana heard the buggy wheels on the
road.
She had been sitting on the porch and rose to greet him when he drove
up and descended from his conveyence rather stiffly.
"Ye wasn't oneasy, was ye?" he asked.
"No," she answered; "only it seemed strange to know you were away."
"I haint done it but three times since me an' Ianthy was married," he
said. "Two o' them times was Conference to Barnsville, an' one was
when Marcelly died."
When he mounted the porch steps he looked up at her with a smile on his
weather-beaten face.
"Was ye lonesome?" he asked. "I bet ye was."
"A little," she replied. "Not very."
She gave him his chair against the wooden pillar, and watched him as he
tilted back and balanced himself on its back legs. She saw something
new and disturbed in his face and manner. It was as if the bit of
outside life he had seen had left temporary traces upon him. She
wondered very much how it had impressed him and what he was thinking
about.
And after a short time he told her.
"Ye must be lonesome," he said, "arter stayin' down thar. It's
nat'ral. A body don't know until they see it theirselves. It's gay
thar. Lord, yes! it's gay, an' what suits young folks is to be gay."
"Some of the people who were there did not think it was gay," Louisiana
said, a little listlessly. "They were used to gayer places and they
often called it dull, but it seemed very gay to me."
"I shouldn't want it no gayer, myself," he returned, seriously. "Not
if I was young folks. Thar must hev bin three hundred on 'em in thet
thar dinin'-room. The names o' the vittles writ down on paper to pick
an' choose from, an' fifty or sixty waiters flyin' round. An' the
dressin'! I sot an' watched 'em as they come in. I sot an' watched
'em all day. Thar was a heap o' cur'osities in the way of dressin' I
never seen before. I went into the dancin'-room at night, too, an' sot
thar a spell an' watched 'em. They played a play. Some on 'em put
little caps an' aperns on, an' rosettes an' fixin's. They sorter
danced in it, an' they hed music while they was doin' it. It was
purty, too, if a body could hev follered it out."
"It is a dance they call the German," said Louisiana, remembering with
a pang the first night she had seen it, as she sat at her new friend's
side.
"German, is it?" he said, with evident satisfaction at making the
discovery. "Waal now, I ain't surprised. It hed a kinder Dutch look
to me--kinder Dutch an' furrin."
Just then Nancy announced that his supper was ready, and he went in,
but on the threshold he stopped and spoke again:
"Them folks as was here," he said, "they'd gone. They started the next
mornin' arter they was here. They live up North somewhars, an' they've
went thar."
After he had gone in, Louisiana sat still for a little while. The moon
was rising and she watched it until it climbed above the tree-tops and
shone bright and clear. Then one desperate little sob broke from
her--only one, for she choked the next in its birth, and got up and
turned toward the house and the room in which the kerosene lamp burned
on the supper table.
"I'll go an' talk to him," she said. "He likes to have me with him,
and it will be better than sitting here."
She went in and sat near him, resting her elbows upon the table and her
chin on her hands, and tried to begin to talk. But it was not very
easy. She found that she had a tendency to fall back in long silent
pauses, in which she simply looked at him with sad, tender eyes.
"I stopped at Casey's as I came on," he said, at last. "Thet thar was
one thing as made me late. Thar's--thar's somethin' I hed on my mind
fur him to do fur me."
"For Casey to do?" she said.
He poured his coffee into his saucer and answered with a heavy effort
at speaking unconcernedly.
"I'm agoin' to hev him fix the house," he said.
She was going to ask him what he meant to have done, but he did not
give her time.
"Ianthy an' me," he said, "we'd useder say we'd do it sometime, an' I'm
agoin' to do it now. The rooms, now, they're low--whar they're not to
say small, they're low an'--an' old-timey. Thar aint no style to 'em.
Them rooms to the Springs, now, they've got style to 'em. An' rooms
kin be altered easy enough."
He drank his coffee slowly, set his saucer down and went on with the
same serious air of having broached an ordinary subject.
"Goin' to the Springs has sorter started me off," he said. "Seein'
things diff'rent does start a man off. Casey an' his men'll be here
Monday."
"It seems so--sudden," Louisiana said. She gave a slow, wondering
glance at the old smoke-stained room. "I can hardly fancy it looking
any other way than this. It wont be the same place at all."
He glanced around, too, with a start. His glance was hurried and
nervous.
"Why, no," he said, "it wont, but--it'll be stylisher. It'll be kinder
onfamil'ar at first, but I dessay we shall get used to it--an' it'll be
stylisher. An' style--whar thar's young folks, thet's what's
wanted--style."
She was so puzzled by his manner that she sat regarding him with
wonder. But he went on talking steadily about his plans until the meal
was over. He talked of them when they went back to the porch together
and sat in the moonlight. He scarcely gave her an opportunity to
speak. Once or twice the idea vaguely occurred to her that for some
reason he did not want her to talk. It was a relief to her only to be
called upon to listen, but still she was puzzled.
"When we git fixed up," he said, "ye kin hev your friends yere. Thar's
them folks, now, as was yere the other day from the Springs--when we're
fixed up ye mought invite 'em--next summer, fur instants. Like as not
I shall be away myself an'--ye'd hev room a plenty. Ye wouldn't need
me, ye see. An', Lord! how it'd serprise 'em to come an' find ye all
fixed."
"I should never ask them," she cried, impetuously. "And--they wouldn't
come if I did."
"Mebbe they would," he responded, gravely, "if ye was fixed up."
"I don't want them," she said, passionately. "Let them keep their
place. I don't want them."
"Don't ye," he said, in his quiet voice. "Don't ye, Louisianny?"
And he seemed to sink into a reverie and did not speak again for quite
a long time.