A NEW PLAN.
At last the day came when the house was finished and stood big and
freshly painted and bare in the sun. Late one afternoon in the Indian
summer, Casey and his men, having bestowed their last touches,
collected their belongings and went away, leaving it a lasting monument
to their ability. Inside, instead of the low ceilings, and painted
wooden walls, there were high rooms and plaster and modern papering;
outside, instead of the variegated piazza, was a substantial portico.
The whole had been painted a warm gray, and Casey considered his job a
neat one and was proud of it. When they were all gone Louisiana went
out into the front yard to look at it. She stood in the grass and
leaned against an apple-tree. It was near sunset, and both trees and
grass were touched with a yellow glow so deep and mellow that it was
almost a golden haze. Now that the long-continued hammering and sawing
was at an end and all traces of its accompaniments removed, the
stillness seemed intense. There was not a breath of wind stirring, or
the piping of a bird to be heard. The girl clasped her slender arms
about the tree's trunk and rested her cheek against the rough bark.
She looked up piteously.
"I must try to get used to it," she said. "It is very much nicer--and
I must try to get used to it."
But the strangeness of it was very hard on her at first. When she
looked at it she had a startled feeling--as if when she had expected to
see an old friend she had found herself suddenly face to face with a
stranger.
Her father had gone to Bowersville early in the day, and she had been
expecting his return for an hour or so. She left her place by the tree
at length and went to the fence to watch for his coming down the road.
But she waited in vain so long that she got tired again and wandered
back to the house and around to the back to where a new barn and stable
had been built, painted and ornamented in accordance with the most
novel designs. There was no other such barn or stable in the country,
and their fame was already wide-spread and of an enviable nature.
As she approached these buildings Louisiana glanced up and uttered an
exclamation. Her father was sitting upon the door-sill of the barn,
and his horse was turned loose to graze upon the grass before him.
"Father," the girl cried, "I have been waiting for you. I thought you
had not come."
"I've been yere a right smart while, Louisianny," he answered. "Ye
wasn't 'round when I come, an' so ye didn't see me, I reckon."
He was pale, and spoke at first heavily and as if with an effort, but
almost instantly he brightened.
"I've jest ben a-settin' yere a-steddyin'," he said. "A man wants to
see it a few times an' take it sorter gradual afore he kin do it
jestice. A-lookin' at it from yere, now," with a wide sweep of his
hand toward the improvements, "ye kin see how much style thar is to it.
Seems to me thet the--the mountains now, they look better. It--waal it
kinder sets 'em off--it kinder sets 'em off."
"It is very much prettier," she answered.
"Lord, yes! Thar aint no comparison. I was jest a-settin' thinkin'
thet anyone thet'd seed it as it was afore they'd not know it. Ianthy,
fer instants--Ianthy she wouldn't sca'cely know it was home--thar's so
much style to it."
He suddenly stopped and rested against the door-lintel. He was pale
again, though he kept up a stout air of good cheer.
"Lord!" he said, after a little pause, "it's a heap stylisher!"
Presently he bent down and picked up a twig which lay on the ground at
his feet. He began to strip the leaves from it with careful slowness,
and he kept his eyes fixed on it as he went on talking.
"Ye'll never guess who I've ben a-talkin' to to-day, an' what I've ben
talkin' to 'em about."
She put her hand on his knee caressingly.
"Tell me, father," she said.
He laughed a jerky, high-pitched laugh.
"I've ben talkin' to Jedge Powers," he said. "He's up yere from
Howelsville, a-runnin' fer senator. He's sot his mind on makin' it,
too, an' he was a-tellin' me what his principles was. He--he's got a
heap o' principles. An' he told me his wife an' family was a-goin' to
Europe. He was mighty sosherble--an' he said they was a-goin' to
Europe."
He had stripped the last leaf from the twig and had begun upon the
bark. Just at this juncture it slipped from his hand and fell on the
ground. He bent down again to pick it up.
"Louisianny," he said, "how--would ye like to go to Europe?"
She started back amazed, but she could not catch even a glimpse of his
face, he was so busy with the twig.
"I go to Europe--I!" she said. "I don't--I never thought of it. It is
not people like us who go to Europe, father."
"Louisianny," he said, hurriedly, "what's agin it? Thar aint
nothin'--nothin'! It come in my mind when Powers was a-tellin' me. I
ses to myself, 'Why, here's the very thing fer Louisianny! Travel an'
furrin langwidges an' new ways o' doin'. It's what she'd oughter hed
long ago.' An' Powers he went on a-talkin' right while I was
a-steddyin, an' he ses: 'Whar's that pretty darter o' yourn thet we was
so took with when we passed through Hamilton last summer? Why,' ses
he,--he ses it hisself, Louisianny,--'why don't ye send her to Europe?
Let her go with my wife. She'll take care of her.' An' I stopped him
right thar. 'Do ye mean it, Jedge?' I ses. 'Yes,' ses he. 'Why not?
My wife an' daughter hev talked about her many a time, an' said how
they'd like to see her agin. Send her,' ses he. 'You're a rich man,
an' ye kin afford it, Squire, if ye will.' An' I ses, 'So I kin ef
she'd like to go, an' what's more, I'm a-goin' to ask her ef she
would--fer thar aint nothin' agin it--nothin'.'"
He paused for a moment and turned to look at her.
"Thet's what I was steddyin' about mostly, Louisianny," he said, "when
I set yere afore ye come."
She had been sitting beside him, and she sprang to her feet and stood
before him.
"Father," she cried, "are you tired of me?"
"Tired of ye, Louisianny?" he repeated. "Tired of ye?"
She flung out her hand with a wild gesture and burst into tears.
"Are you tired of me?" she said again. "Don't you love me any more?
Don't you want me as you used to? Could you do without me for months
and months and know I was far away and couldn't come to you? No, you
couldn't. You couldn't. I know that, though something--I don't know
what--has come between us, and I feel it every minute, and most when
you are kindest. Is there nothing in the way of my going
away--nothing? Think again."
"Louisianny," he answered, "I cayn't think of nothin'--thet's
partic'lar."
She slipped down on her knee and threw herself on his breast, clinging
to him with all her young strength.
"Are _you_ nothing?" she cried. "Is all your love nothing? Are all
your beautiful, good thoughts for my happiness 'nothing'? Is your
loneliness nothing? Shall I leave you here to live by yourself in the
new home which is strange to you--after you have given up the old one
you knew and loved for me? Oh! what has made you think I have no
heart, and no soul, and nothing to be grateful with? Have I ever been
bad and cruel and hard to you that you can think it?"
She poured forth her love and grief and tender reproach on his breast
with such innocent fervor that he could scarcely bear it. His eyes
were wet too, and his furrowed, sunburnt cheeks, and his breath came
short and fast while he held her close in his arms.
"Honey," he said, just as he had often spoken to her when she had been
a little child, "Louisianny, honey, no! No, never! I never hed a
thought agin ye, not in my bottermost heart. Did ye think it? Lord,
no! Thar aint nothin' ye've never done in yer life that was meant to
hurt or go agin me. Ye never did go agin me. Ye aint like me, honey;
ye're kinder finer. Ye was borned so. I seed it when ye was in yer
cradle. I've said it to Ianthy (an' sence ye're growed up I've said it
more). Thar's things ye'd oughter hev thet's diff'rent from what most
of us wants--it's through you a-bein' so much finer. Ye mustn't be so
tender-hearted, honey, ye mustn't."
She clung more closely to him and cried afresh, though more softly.
"Nothing shall take me away from you," she said, "ever again. I went
away once, and it would have been better if I had stayed at home. The
people did not want me. They meant to be good to me, and they liked
me, but--they hurt me without knowing it, and it would have been better
if I had stayed here. _You_ don't make me feel ashamed, and sad, and
bitter. _You_ love me just as I am, and you would love me if I knew
even less, and was more simple. Let me stay with you! Let us stay
together always--always--always!"
He let her cry her fill, holding her pretty head tenderly and soothing
her as best he could. Somehow he looked a little brighter himself, and
not quite so pale as he had done when she found him sitting alone
trying to do the new house "jestice."
When at length they went in to supper it was almost dusk, and he had
his arm still around her. He did not let her go until they sat down at
the table, and then she brought her chair quite close to his, and while
he ate looked at him often with her soft, wet eyes.