There was a dead silence. It was embarra.s.sing at first. Then the amazement of the unsophisticated one began to calm itself; it gradually died down, and became another emotion, merging itself into interest.
"Does"--guilelessly she inquired--"he make nice ones?"
"Nice!" echoed Miss Ferrol. "They are works of art! I have got three in my trunk."
"O-o h!" sighed Louisiana. "Oh, dear!"
Miss Ferrol rose from her chair.
"I will show them to you," she said. "I--I should like you to try them on."
"To try them on!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the child in an awe-stricken tone. "Me?"
"Yes," said Miss Ferrol, unlocking the trunk and throwing back the lid.
"I have been wanting to see you in them since the first day you came."
She took them out and laid them upon the bed on their trays. Louise got up from the floor and approaching, reverently stood near them.
There was a cream-colored evening-dress of soft, thick, close-clinging silk of some antique-modern sort; it had golden fringe, and golden flowers embroidered upon it.
"Look at that," said Miss Ferrol, softly--even religiously.
She made a mysterious, majestic gesture.
"Come here," she said. "You must put it on."
Louise shrank back a pace.
"I--oh! I daren"t," she cried. "It is too beautiful!"
"Come here," repeated Miss Ferrol.
She obeyed timorously, and gave herself into the hands of her controller. She was so timid and excited that she trembled all the time her toilette was being performed for her. Miss Ferrol went through this service with the manner of a priestess officiating at an altar. She laced up the back of the dress with the slender, golden cords; she arranged the antique drapery which wound itself around in close swathing folds. There was not the shadow of a wrinkle from shoulder to hem: the lovely young figure was revealed in all its beauty of outline. There were no sleeves at all, there was not very much bodice, but there was a great deal of effect, and this, it is to be supposed, was the object.
"Walk across the floor," commanded Miss Ferrol.
Louisiana obeyed her.
"Do it again," said Miss Ferrol.
Having been obeyed for the second time, her hands fell together. Her att.i.tude and expression could be said to be significant only of rapture.
"I said so!" she cried. "I said so! You might have been born in New York!"
It was a grand climax. Louisiana felt it to the depths of her reverent young heart. But she could not believe it. She was sure that it was too sublime to be true. She shook her head in deprecation.
"It is no exaggeration," said Miss Ferrol, with renewed fervor.
"Laurence himself, if he were not told that you had lived here, would never guess it. I should like to try you on him."
"Who--is he?" inquired Louisiana. "Is he a writer, too?"
"Well, yes,--but not exactly like the others. He is my brother."
It was two hours before this episode ended. Only at the sounding of the second bell did Louisiana escape to her room to prepare for dinner.
Miss Ferrol began to replace the dresses in her trunk. She performed her task in an abstracted mood. When she had completed it she stood upright and paused a moment, with quite a startled air.
"Dear me!" she exclaimed. "I--actually forgot about Ruskin!"
CHAPTER III.
"HE IS DIFFERENT."
The same evening, as they sat on one of the seats upon the lawn, Miss Ferrol became aware several times that Louisiana was regarding her with more than ordinary interest. She sat with her hands folded upon her lap, her eyes fixed on her face, and her pretty mouth actually a little open.
"What are you thinking of?" Olivia asked, at length.
The girl started, and recovered herself with an effort.
"I--well, I was thinking about--authors," she stammered.
"Any particular author?" inquired Olivia, "or authors as a cla.s.s?"
"About your brother being one. I never thought I should see any one who knew an author--and you are related to one!"
Her companion"s smile was significant of immense experience. It was plain that she was so accustomed to living on terms of intimacy with any number of authors that she could afford to feel indifferent about them.
"My dear," she said, amiably, "they are not in the least different from other people."
It sounded something like blasphemy.
"Not different!" cried Louisiana. "Oh, surely, they must be!
Isn"t--isn"t your brother different?"
Miss Ferrol stopped to think. She was very fond of her brother.
Privately she considered him the literary man of his day. She was simply disgusted when she heard experienced critics only calling him "clever" and "brilliant" instead of "great" and "world-moving."
"Yes," she replied at length, "he is different."
"I thought he must be," said Louisiana, with a sigh of relief. "You are, you know."
"Am I?" returned Olivia. "Thank you. But I am not an author--at least,"--she added, guiltily, "nothing I have written has ever been published."
"Oh, why not?" exclaimed Louisiana.
"Why not?" she repeated, dubiously and thoughtfully. And then, knitting her brows, she said, "I don"t know why not."