"Take de do' an' go! You year me? Take de do'!"
Lolotte's brown eyes flamed. Her small frame quivered. She stood with
her back turned to a meagre supper-table, as if to guard it from the
man who had just entered the cabin. She pointed toward the door, to
order him from the house.
"You mighty cross to-night, Lolotte. You mus' got up wid de wrong foot
to's mo'nin'. _Hein_, Veveste? _hein_, Jacques, w'at you say?"
The two small urchins who sat at table giggled in sympathy with their
father's evident good humor.
"I'm we' out, me!" the girl exclaimed, desperately, as she let her arms
fall limp at her side. "Work, work! Fu w'at? Fu feed de lazies' man in
Natchitoches pa'ish."
"Now, Lolotte, you think w'at you say in'," expostulated her father.
"Sylveste Bordon don' ax nobody to feed 'im."
"W'en you brought a poun' of suga in de house?" his daughter retorted
hotly, "or a poun' of coffee? W'en did you brought a piece o' meat
home, you? An' Nonomme all de time sick. Co'n bread an' po'k, dat's
good fu Veveste an' me an' Jacques; but Nonomme? no!"
She turned as if choking, and cut into the round, soggy "pone" of corn
bread which was the main feature of the scanty supper.
"Po' li'le Nonomme; we mus' fine some'in' to break dat fevah. You want
to kill a chicken once a w'ile fu Nonomme, Lolotte." He calmly seated
himself at the table.
"Did n' I done put de las' roostah in de pot?" she cried with
exasperation. "Now you come axen me fu kill de hen'! W'ere I goen to
fine aigg' to trade wid, w'en de hen' be gone? Is I got one picayune in
de house fu trade wid, me?"
"Papa," piped the young Jacques, "w'at dat I yeard you drive in de
yard, w'ile go?"
"Dat's it! W'en Lolotte would n' been talken' so fas', I could tole you
'bout dat job I got fu to-morrow. Dat was Joe Duplan's team of mule'
an' wagon, wid t'ree bale' of cotton, w'at you yaird. I got to go soon
in de mo'nin' wid dat load to de landin'. An' a man mus' eat w'at got
to work; dat's sho."
Lolotte's bare brown feet made no sound upon the rough boards as she
entered the room where Nonomme lay sick and sleeping. She lifted the
coarse mosquito net from about him, sat down in the clumsy chair by the
bedside, and began gently to fan the slumbering child.
Dusk was falling rapidly, as it does in the South. Lolotte's eyes grew
round and big, as she watched the moon creep up from branch to branch
of the moss-draped live-oak just outside her window. Presently the
weary girl slept as profoundly as Nonomme. A little dog sneaked into
the room, and socially licked her bare feet. The touch, moist and warm,
awakened Lolotte.
The cabin was dark and quiet. Nonomme was crying softly, because the
mosquitoes were biting him. In the room beyond, old Sylveste and the
others slept. When Lolotte had quieted the child, she went outside to
get a pail of cool, fresh water at the cistern. Then she crept into bed
beside Nonomme, who slept again.
Lolotte's dreams that night pictured her father returning from work,
and bringing luscious oranges home in his pocket for the sick child.
When at the very break of day she heard him astir in his room, a
certain comfort stole into her heart. She lay and listened to the faint
noises of his preparations to go out. When he had quitted the house,
she waited to hear him drive the wagon from the yard.
She waited long, but heard no sound of horse's tread or wagon-wheel.
Anxious, she went to the cabin door and looked out. The big mules were
still where they had been fastened the night before. The wagon was
there, too.
Her heart sank. She looked quickly along the low rafters supporting the
roof of the narrow porch to where her father's fishing pole and pail
always hung. Both were gone.
"'T ain' no use, 't ain' no use," she said, as she turned into the
house with a look of something like anguish in her eyes.
When the spare breakfast was eaten and the dishes cleared away, Lolotte
turned with resolute mien to the two little brothers.
"Veveste," she said to the older, "go see if dey got co'n in dat wagon
fu feed deni mule'."
"Yes, dey got co'n. Papa done feed 'em, fur I see de co'n-cob in de
trough, me."
"Den you goen he'p me hitch dem mule, to de wagon. Jacques, go down de
lane an' ax Aunt Minty if she come set wid Nonomme w'ile I go drive dem
mule' to de landin'."
Lolotte had evidently determined to undertake her father's work.
Nothing could dissuade her; neither the children's astonishment nor
Aunt Minty's scathing disapproval. The fat black negress came laboring
into the yard just as Lolotte mounted upon the wagon.
"Git down f'om dah, chile! Is you plumb crazy?" she exclaimed.
"No, I ain't crazy; I'm hungry, Aunt Minty. We all hungry. Somebody got
fur work in dis fam'ly."
"Dat ain't no work fur a gal w'at ain't bar' seventeen year ole;
drivin' Marse Duplan's mules! W'at I gwine tell yo' pa?"
"Fu me, you kin tell 'im w'at you want. But you watch Nonomme. I done
cook his rice an' set it 'side."
"Don't you bodda," replied Aunt Minty; "I got somepin heah fur my boy.
I gwine 'ten' to him."
Lolotte had seen Aunt Minty put something out of sight when she came
up, and made her produce it. It was a heavy fowl.
"Sence w'en you start raisin' Brahma chicken', you?" Lolotte asked
mistrustfully.
"My, but you is a cu'ious somebody! Ev'ything w'at got fedders on its
laigs is Brahma chicken wid you. Dis heah ole hen"--
"All de same, you don't got fur give dat chicken to eat to Nonomme. You
don't got fur cook 'im in my house."
Aunt Minty, unheeding, turned to the house with blustering inquiry for
her boy, while Lolotte drove away with great clatter.
She knew, notwithstanding her injunction, that the chicken would be
cooked and eaten. Maybe she herself would partake of it when she came
back, if hunger drove her too sharply.
"Nax' thing I'm goen be one rogue," she muttered; and the tears
gathered and fell one by one upon her cheeks.
"It _do_ look like one Brahma, Aunt Mint," remarked the small and
weazened Jacques, as he watched the woman picking the lusty fowl.
"How ole is you?" was her quiet retort.
"I don' know, me."
"Den if you don't know dat much, you betta keep yo' mouf shet, boy."
Then silence fell, but for a monotonous chant which the woman droned as
she worked. Jacques opened his lips once more.
"It _do_ look like one o' Ma'me Duplan' Brahma, Aunt Mint."
"Yonda, whar I come f'om, befo' de wah"--
"Ole Kaintuck, Aunt Mint?"
"Ole Kaintuck."
"Dat ain't one country like dis yere, Aunt Mint?"
"You mighty right, chile, dat ain't no sech kentry as dis heah. Yonda,
in Kaintuck, w'en boys says de word 'Brahma chicken,' we takes an'
gags 'em, an' ties dar han's behines 'em, an' fo'ces 'em ter stan' up
watchin' folks settin' down eatin' chicken soup."
Jacques passed the back of his hand across his mouth; but lest the act
should not place sufficient seal upon it; he prudently stole away to
go and sit beside Nonomme, and wait there as patiently as he could the
coming feast.
And what a treat it was! The luscious soup,--a great pot of it,--golden
yellow, thickened with the flaky rice that Lolotte had set carefully
on the shelf. Each mouthful of it seemed to carry fresh blood into the
veins and a new brightness into the eyes of the hungry children who ate
of it.
And that was not all. The day brought abundance with it. Their father
came home with glistening perch and trout that Aunt Minty broiled
deliciously over glowing embers, and basted with the rich chicken fat.
"You see," explained old Sylveste, "w'en I git up to 's mo'nin' an'
see it was cloudy, I say to me, 'Sylveste, w'en you go wid dat cotton,
rememba you got no tarpaulin. Maybe it rain, an' de cotton was spoil.
Betta you go yonda to Lafirme Lake, w'ere de trout was bitin' fas'er
'an mosquito, an' so you git a good mess fur de chil'en.' Lolotte
--w'at she goen do yonda? You ought stop Lolotte, Aunt Minty, w'en you
see w'at she was want to do."
"Did n' I try to stop 'er? Did n' I ax 'er, 'W'at I gwine tell yo'
pa?' An' she 'low, 'Tell 'im to go hang hisse'f, de triflind ole
rapscallion! I's de one w'at's runnin' dis heah fambly!'"
"Dat don' soun' like Lolotte, Aunt Minty; you mus' yaird 'er crooked;
_hein_, Nonomme?"
The quizzical look in his good-natured features was irresistible.
Nonomme fairly shook with merriment.
"My head feel so good," he declared. "I wish Lolotte would come, so I
could tole 'er." And he turned in his bed to look down the long, dusty
lane, with the hope of seeing her appear as he had watched her go,
sitting on one of the cotton bales and guiding the mules.
But no one came all through the hot morning. Only at noon a
broad-shouldered young negro appeared in view riding through the dust.
When he had dismounted at the cabin door, he stood leaning a shoulder
lazily against the jamb.
"Well, heah you is," he grumbled, addressing Sylveste with no mark of
respect.
"Heah you is, settin' down like comp'ny, an' Marse Joe yonda sont me
see if you was dead."
"Joe Duplan boun' to have his joke, him," said Sylveste, smiling
uneasily.
"Maybe it look like a joke to you, but 't aint no joke to him, man, to
have one o' his wagons smoshed to kindlin', an' his bes' team tearin'
t'rough de country. You don't want to let 'im lay ban's on you, joke o'
no joke."
"_Malédiction!_" howled Sylveste, as he staggered to his feet. He stood
for one instant irresolute; then he lurched past the man and ran wildly
down the lane. He might have taken the horse that was there, but he
went tottering on afoot, a frightened look in his eyes, as if his soul
gazed upon an inward picture that was horrible.
The road to the landing was little used. As Sylveste went he could
readily trace the marks of Lolotte's wagon-wheels. For some distance
they went straight along the road. Then they made a track as if a
madman had directed their course, over stump and hillock, tearing the
bushes and barking the trees on either side.
At each new turn Sylveste expected to find Lolotte stretched senseless
upon the ground, but, there was never a sign of her.
At last he reached the landing, which was a dreary spot, slanting down
to the river and partly cleared to afford room for what desultory
freight might be left there from time to time. There were the
wagon-tracks, clean down to the river's edge and partly in the water,
where they made a sharp and senseless turn. But Sylveste found no trace
of his girl.
"Lolotte!" the old man cried out into the stillness. "Lolotte, _ma
fille_, Lolotte!" But no answer came; no sound but the echo of his own
voice, and the soft splash of the red water that lapped his feet.
He looked down at it, sick with anguish and apprehension.
Lolotte had disappeared as completely as if the earth had opened and
swallowed her. After a few days it became the common belief that
the girl had been drowned. It was thought that she must have been
hurled from the wagon into the water during the sharp turn that the
wheel-tracks indicated, and carried away by the rapid current.
During the days of search, old Sylveste's excitement kept him up. When
it was over, an apathetic despair seemed to settle upon him.
Madame Duplan, moved by sympathy, had taken the little four-year-old
Nonomme to the plantation Les Chêniers, where the child was awed by the
beauty and comfort of things that surrounded him there. He thought
always that Lolotte would come back, and watched for her every day; for
they did not tell him the sad tidings of her loss.
The other two boys were placed in the temporary care of Aunt Minty;
and old Sylveste roamed like a persecuted being through the country.
He who had been a type of indolent content and repose had changed to a
restless spirit.
When he thought to eat, it was in some humble negro cabin that he
stopped to ask for food, which was never denied him. His grief had
clothed him with a dignity that imposed respect.
One morning very early he appeared before the planter with a disheveled
and hunted look.
"M'sieur Duplan," he said, holding his hat in his hand and looking away
into vacancy, "I been try ev'thing. I been try settin' down still on de
sto' gall'ry. I been walk, I been run; 't ain' no use. Dey got al'ays
some'in' w'at push me. I go fishin', an' it's some'in' w'at push me
worser 'an ever. By gracious! M'sieur Duplan, gi' me some work!"
The planter gave him at once a plow in hand, and no plow on the whole
plantation dug so deep as that one, nor so fast. Sylveste was the first
in the field, as he was the last one there. From dawn to nightfall he
worked, and after, till his limbs refused to do his bidding.
People came to wonder, and the negroes began to whisper hints of
demoniacal possession.
When Mr. Duplan gave careful thought to the subject of Lolotte's
mysterious disappearance, an idea came to him. But so fearful was he
to arouse false hopes in the breasts of those who grieved for the girl
that to no one did he impart his suspicions save to his wife. It was
on the eve of a business trip to New Orleans that he told her what he
thought, or what he hoped rather.
Upon his return, which happened not many days later, he went out to
where old Sylveste was toiling in the field with frenzied energy.
"Sylveste," said the planter, quietly, when he had stood a moment
watching the man at work, "have you given up all hope of hearing from
your daughter?"
"I don' know, me; I don' know. Le' me work, M'sieur Duplan."
"For my part, I believe the child is alive."
"You b'lieve dat, you?" His rugged face was pitiful in its imploring
lines.
"I know it," Mr. Duplan muttered, as calmly as he could. "Hold up!
Steady yourself, man! Come; come with me to the house. There is some
one there who knows it, too; some one who has seen her."
The room into which the planter led the old man was big, cool,
beautiful, and sweet with the delicate odor of flowers. It was shady,
too, for the shutters were half closed; but not so darkened but
Sylveste could at once see Lolotte, seated in a big wicker chair.
She was almost as white as the gown she wore. Her neatly shod feet
rested upon a cushion, and her black hair, that had been closely cut,
was beginning to make little rings about her temples.
"Aie!" he cried sharply, at sight of her, grasping his seamed throat as
he did so. Then he laughed like a madman, and then he sobbed.
He only sobbed, kneeling upon the floor beside her, kissing her knees
and her hands, that sought his. Little Nonomme was close to her, with
a health flush creeping into his cheek. Veveste and Jacques were there,
and rather awed by the mystery and grandeur of everything.
"W'ere'bouts you find her, M'sieur Duplan?" Sylveste asked, when the
first flush of his joy had spent itself, and he was wiping his eyes
with his rough cotton shirt sleeve.
"M'sieur Duplan find me 'way yonda to de city, papa, in de hospital,"
spoke Lolotte, before the planter could steady his voice to reply. "I
did n' know who ev'ybody was, me. I did n' know me, myse'f, tell I tu'n
roun' one day an' see M'sieur Duplan, w'at stan'en dere."
"You was boun' to know M'sieur Duplan, Lolotte," laughed Sylveste, like
a child.
"Yes, an' I know right 'way how dem mule was git frighten' w'en de boat
w'istle fu stop, an' pitch me plumb on de groun'. An' I rememba it was
one _mulâtresse_ w'at call herse'f one chembamed, all de time aside me."
"You must not talk too much, Lolotte," interposed Madame Duplan, coming
to place her hand with gentle solicitude upon the girl's forehead, and
to feel how her pulse beat.
Then to save the child further effort of speech, she herself related
how the boat had stopped at this lonely landing to take on a load of
cotton-seed. Lolotte had been found stretched insensible by the river,
fallen apparently from the clouds, and had been taken on board.
The boat had changed its course into other waters after that trip, and
had not returned to Duplan's Landing. Those who had tended Lolotte and
left her at the hospital supposed, no doubt, that she would make known
her identity in time, and they had troubled themselves no further about
her.
"An' dah you is!" almost shouted aunt Minty, whose black face gleamed
in the doorway; "dah you is, settin' down, lookin' jis' like w'ite
folks!"
"Ain't I always was w'ite folks, Aunt Mint?" smiled Lolotte, feebly.
"G'long, chile. You knows me. I don' mean no harm."
"And now, Sylveste," said Mr. Duplan, as he rose and started to walk
the floor, with hands in his pockets, "listen to me. It will be a long
time before Lolotte is strong again. Aunt Minty is going to look after
things for you till the child is fully recovered. But what I want to
say is this: I shall trust these children into your hands once more,
and I want you never to forget again that you are their father--do you
hear?--that you are a man!"
Old Sylveste stood with his hand in Lolotte's, who rubbed it lovingly
against her cheek.
"By gracious! M'sieur Duplan," he answered, "w'en God want to he'p me,
I'm goen try my bes'!"