The Late Mrs. Null Part 22

"You are entirely too matter-of-fact," said Lawrence, smiling in spite of himself, and, in a moment, Roberta entered the room.

If the young lady in the high-backed rocking-chair had any idea of giving Mr Croft and Miss March an opportunity of expressing their sentiments toward each other, she took no immediate steps to do so; for she gently rocked herself; she talked about the novel she had been reading; she blamed Miss March for staying so long in her room on such a beautiful afternoon; and she was the primary cause of a conversation among the three upon the differences between New York weather and that of Virginia; and this continued until old Mrs Keswick joined the party, and changed the conversation to the consideration of the fact that a fertilizer agent, a pill man, or a blackmailer would find out a person's whereabouts, even if he were attending the funeral of his grandmother on a desert island.

The next morning, about an hour after breakfast, Lawrence was walking up and down on the gra.s.s in front of the house, smoking a cigar, and troubling his mind. He had had no opportunity on the previous evening to be alone with Miss March, for the little party sat together in the parlor until they separated for bed; and so, of course, nothing was yet settled. He was overstaying the time he had expected to spend here, and he felt nervous about it. He had hoped to see Miss March after breakfast, but she seemed to have withdrawn herself entirely from observation. Perhaps she considered that she had sufficiently rejected him on the previous morning, and that she now intended, except when she was sure of the company of the others, to remain in her room until he should go away. But he had no such opinion in regard to their interview on Pine Top Hill. He believed that he had been punished, not rejected, and that when he should be able to explain everything to her, he would be forgiven. That, at least, was his earnest hope, and hope makes us believe almost anything.

But, although there were so many difficulties in his way, Lawrence had a friend in that household who still remained true to him. Mrs Keswick, with sun-bonnet and umbrella, came out upon the porch, and said cheerily: "I should think a gentleman like you would prefer to be with the ladies than to be walking about here by yourself. They have gone to take a walk in the woods. I should have said that Miss March has gone on ahead, with her little maid Peggy. My niece was going with her, but I called her back to attend to some housekeeping matters for me, and I think she will be kept longer than she expected, for I have just sent Letty to her to be shown how to cut out a frock. But you needn't wait; you can go right through the flower-garden, and take the path over the fields into the woods." And, having concluded this bit of conscienceless and transparent management, the old lady remarked that she, herself, was going for a walk, and left him.

Lawrence lost no time in following her suggestions. Throwing away his cigar, he hurried through the house and the little flower-garden, a gate at the back of which opened into a wide pasture-field. This field sloped down gently to a branch, or little stream, which ran through the middle of it, and then the ground ascended until it reached the edge of the woods. Following the well-defined path, he looked across the little valley before him, and could see, just inside the edge of the woods--the trees and bushes being much more thinly attired than in the summer time--the form of a lady in a light-colored dress with a red scarf upon her shoulders, sometimes moving slowly, sometimes stopping. This was Roberta, and those woods were a far better place than the exposed summit of Pine Top Hill, in which to plight his troth, if it should be so that he should be able to do it, and there were doubtless paths in those woods through which they might afterwards wander, if things should turn out propitiously. At all events, in those woods would he settle this affair.

His intention was still strong to make a very clean breast of it to Roberta. If she had blamed him for his prudent reserve, she should have full opportunity to forgive him. All that he had been she should know, but far more important than that, he would try to make her know, better than he had done before, what he was now. Abandoning all his previous positions, and mounted on these strong resolutions, thus would he dash into her camp, and hope to capture her.

Reaching the little ravine, at the bottom of which flowed the branch, now but two or three feet wide, he ran down the rather steep slope and stepped upon the stout plank which bridged the stream. The instant he did so, the plank turned beneath him as if it had been hung on pivots, and he fell into the stony bed of the branch. It was an awkward fall, for the leg which was undermost came down at an angle, and his foot, striking a slippery stone, turned under him. In a moment he was on his feet, and scrambled up the side of the ravine, down which he had just come. When he reached the top he sat down and put both his hands on his right ankle, in which he felt considerable pain. In a few minutes he arose, and began to walk toward the house, but he had not taken a dozen steps before he sat down again. The pain in his ankle was very severe, and he felt quite sure that he had sprained it. He knew enough about such things to understand that if he walked upon this injured joint, he would not only make the pain worse, but the consequences might be serious. He was very much annoyed, not only that this thing had happened to him, but that it had happened at such an inauspicious moment. Of course, he could not now go on to the woods, and he must get somebody to help him to the house. Looking about, he saw, at a distance, Uncle Isham, and he called loudly to him. As soon as Lawrence was well away from the edge of the ravine, there emerged from some thick bushes on the other side of it, and at a short distance from the crossing-place, a negro girl, who slipped noiselessly down to the branch; moved with quick steps and crouching body to the plank; removed the two round stones on which it had been skilfully poised, and replaced it in its usual firm position. This done, she slipped back into the bushes, and by the time Isham had heard the call of Mr Croft, she was slowly walking down the opposite hill, as if she were coming from the woods to see why the gentleman was shouting.

Miss March also heard the call, and came out of the woods, and when she saw Lawrence sitting on the gra.s.s on the other side of the branch, with one hand upon his ankle, she knew that something had happened, and came down toward him. Lawrence saw her approaching, and before she was even near enough to hear him, he began to shout to her to be careful about crossing the branch, as the board was unsafe. Peggy joined her, and walked on in front of her; and when Miss March understood what Lawrence was saying, she called back that she would be careful. When they reached the ravine, Peggy ran down, stepped upon the plank, jumped on the middle of it, walked over it, and then back again, and a.s.sured her mistress that it was just as good as ever it was, and that she reckoned the city gentleman didn't know how to walk on planks, and that "he jes' done fall off."

Miss March crossed, stepping a little cautiously, and reached Lawrence just as Uncle Isham, with strong arms and many words of sympathy, had a.s.sisted him to his feet. "What has happened to you, Mr Croft?" she exclaimed.

"I was coming to you," he said; "and in crossing the stream the plank turned under me, and I am afraid I have sprained my ankle. I can't walk on it."

"I am very sorry," she said.

"Because I was coming to you," he said, grimly, "or because I hurt myself?"

"You ought to be ashamed to speak in that way," she answered, "but I won't find fault with you, now that you are in such pain. Is there anything I can do for you?"

"No, thank you," said Lawrence. "I will lean on this good man, and I think I can hop to the house."

"Peggy," said Miss Roberta, "walk on the other side of the gentleman, and let him lean upon your shoulder. I will go on and have something prepared to put on his ankle."

With one side supported by the stout Isham, and his other hand resting on the shoulder of the good little Peggy, who bore up as strongly under it as if she had been a big walking-stick, Lawrence slowly made his way to the house. Miss March got there sometime before he did, and was very glad to find that Mrs Keswick had not yet gone out on the walk for which she was prepared. That circ.u.mspect old lady had found this and that to occupy her, while she so managed her household matters, that one thing should follow another, to detain her niece. But when she heard what had happened, all other impulses gave way to those which belonged to a head nurse and a mistress of emergencies. She set down her umbrella; shouted an order to Letty to put a kettle of water on the fire; brought from her own room some flannel and two bottles of embrocation; and then stopping a moment to reflect, ordered that the office should be prepared for Mr Croft, for it would be a shame to make a gentleman, with a sprained ankle, clamber up stairs.

The office was a small building in the wide front yard, not very far from the house, and opposite to the arbor, which has been before mentioned. It was one story high, and contained one large and comfortable room. Such buildings are quite common on Virginian farms, and although called offices are seldom used in an official way, being generally appropriated to the bachelors of the family or their gentleman visitors. This one was occupied by Junius Keswick, when he was at home, and a good many of his belongings were now in it; but as it was at present unoccupied, nothing could be more proper than that Mr Croft should have it.

CHAPTER XIX.

About noon of the day of Mr Croft's accident, Uncle Isham had occasion to go to the cabin of the venerable Aunt Patsy, and, of course he told her what had happened to the gentleman whom he and Aunt Patsy still supposed to be Miss Annie's husband. The news produced a very marked effect upon the old woman. She put down the crazy quilt, upon the unfinished corner of which she was making a few feeble st.i.tches, and looked at Uncle Isham with a troubled frown. She was certain that this was the work of old Mrs Keswick, who had succeeded, at last, in conjuring the young husband; and the charm she had given him, and upon which she had relied to avert the ill will of "ole miss," had proved unavailing. The conjuring had been accomplished so craftily and slyly, the bewitched plank in one place, and Mrs Keswick far off in another, that there had been no chance to use the counteracting charm. And yet Aunt Patsy had thought it a good charm, a very good one indeed.

Early in her married life Mrs Keswick had been the mother of a little girl. It had died when it was very small, and it was the only child she ever had. Of this infant she preserved, as a memento, a complete suit of its clothes, which she regarded with a feeling almost religious. Years ago, however, Aunt Patsy, in order to protect herself against the conjuring powers of the mistress of the house, in which she then served as a sort of supervising cook, had possessed herself of the shoes belonging to the cherished suit of clothes. She knew the sacred light in which they were regarded by their owner, and she felt quite sure that if "ole miss" ever attempted, in one of her fits of anger, to exercise her power of limb twisting or back contortion upon her, that the sight of those little blue shoes would create a revulsion of feeling, and, as she put it to herself, "stop her mighty short." The shoes had never been missed, for the box containing the suit was only opened on one day of the year, and then all the old lady could endure was a peep at the little white frock which covered the rest of the contents; and Aunt Patsy well knew that the sight of those little blue shoes would be to her mistress like two little feet coming back from the grave.

Patsy had been much too old to act as nurse to the infant, Annie Peyton, then regarded as the daughter of the house, but she had always felt for the child the deepest affection; and now that she herself was so near the end of her career that she had little fear of being bewitched, she was willing to give up the safeguards she had so long possessed, in order that they might protect the man whom Miss Annie had loved and married. But they had failed, or rather it had been impossible to use them, and Miss Annie's husband had been stricken down. "It's pow'ful hard to git roun' ole miss," she groaned. "She too much fur ole folks like I is."

At this remark Uncle Isham fired up. Although the conduct of his mistress troubled him at times very much he was intensely loyal to her, and he instantly caught the meaning of this aspersion against her. "Now, look h'yar, Aun' Patsy," he exclaimed, "wot you talkin' 'bout? Wot ole miss got to do wid Mister Crof' sprainin' he ankle? Ole miss warn't dar; an' when I done fotch him up to de house, she cut roun' an' do more fur him dan anybody else. She got de hot water, an' she dipped de flannels in it, an' she wrop up de ankle all herse'f, an' when she got him all fixed comfable in de offis, she says to me, says she, 'Now, Isham, you wait on Mister Crof', an' you gib him eberything he want, an' when de cool ob de ebenin' comes on you make a fire in dat fireplace, an' stay whar he kin call you wheneber he wants you to wait on him.' I didn't eben come down h'yar till I axed him would he want me fur half an hour."

"Well," said Aunt Patsy, her eyes softening a little, "p'raps she didn't do it dis time. It mout a been his own orkardness. I hopes to mussiful goodness dat dat was so. But wot fur you call him Mister Crof'? Is dat he fus' name?"

"I reckon so," said Isham. "He one ob de fam'ly now, an' I reckon dey calls him by he fus' name. An' now, look h'yar, Aun' Patsy, I wants you not to disremember dis h'yar. Don' you go imaginin' ebery time anything happens to folks, that ole miss done been kunjerin' 'em. Dat ain't pious, an' 'taint suitable fur a ole pusson like you, Aun' Patsy, wot's jus' settin' on de poach steps ob heaben, a waitin' till somebody finds out you's dar, an' let's you in."

Aunt Patsy turned her great spectacles full upon him, and then she said: "You, Isham, ef eber you gits a call to preach to folks, you jus' sing out: 'Oh, Lor', I aint fit!' And den you go crack your head wid a mill-stone, fur fear you git called agin, fru mistake."

Uncle Isham made no answer to this piece of advice, but taking up some clothes which Aunt Patsy's great granddaughter had washed and ironed for him, he left the cabin. He was a man much given to attending to his own business, and paying very little attention to those affairs of his mistress's household, with which he had no personal concern. When Mr Croft first came to the house he, as well as Aunt Patsy, had been told that it was Mr Null, the husband of Miss Annie; and although not thinking much about it, he had always supposed this to be the case. But now it struck him as a very strange thing that Miss Annie did not attend to her husband, but allowed his mistress and himself to do everything that was done for him. It was a question which his mind was totally incapable of solving, but when he reached the house, he spoke to Letty on the subject. "Bress your soul!" exclaimed that well-nourished person, "dat's not Mister Null, wot married Miss Annie. Dat's Mister Crof', an' he aint married to n.o.body. Mister Null he aint come yet, but I reckon he'll be along soon."

"Well den," exclaimed Isham, much surprised, "how come Aun' Patsy to take he for Miss Annie's husband?"

"Oh, git out!" contemptuously exclaimed Letty, "don' you go put no 'count on dem fool notions wot Aun' Patsy got in she old head. n.o.body knows how dey come dar, no more'n how dey eber manage to git out. 'Taint no use splainin nothin' to Aun' Patsy, an' if she b'lieves dat's Miss Annie's husband, you can't make her b'lieve it's anybody else. Jes' you lef her alone. Nuffin she b'lieves aint gwine to hurt her."

And Isham, remembering his frequent ill success in endeavoring to make Aunt Patsy think as she ought to think, concluded that this was good advice.

At the time of the conversation just mentioned, Lawrence was sitting in a large easy chair in front of the open door of the room of which he had been put in possession. His injured foot was resting upon a cushioned stool, a small table stood by him, on which were his cigar and match cases; a pitcher of iced water and a gla.s.s, and a late copy of a semi-weekly paper. Through the doorway, which was but two steps higher than the gra.s.s sward before it, his eyes fell upon a very pleasing scene. To the right was the house, with its vine-covered porch and several great oak trees overhanging it, which still retained their heavy foliage, although it was beginning to lose something of its summer green. In front of him, at the opposite end of the gra.s.sy yard, was the pretty little arbor in which he had told Mr Junius Keswick of the difficulties in the way of his speaking his mind to Miss March. Beyond the large garden, at the back of this arbor, stretched a wide field with a fringe of woods at its distant edge, gay with the colors of autumn.

The sky was bright and blue, and fair white clouds moved slowly over its surface; the air was sunny and warm, with b.u.mble-bees humming about some late-flowering shrubs; and, high in the air, floated two great turkey-buzzards, with a beauty of motion surpa.s.sed by no other flying thing, with never a movement of their wide-spread wings, except to give them the necessary inclination as they rose with the wind, and then turned and descended in a long sweep, only to rise again and complete the circle; sailing thus for hours, around and around, their shadows moving over the fields below them.

Fearing that he had sustained some injury more than a mere sprain, Lawrence had had the Howlett's doctor summoned, and that general pract.i.tioner had come and gone, after having a.s.sured Mr Croft that no bones had been broken; that Mrs Keswick's treatment was exactly what it should be, and that all that was necessary for him was to remain quiet for a few days, and be very careful not to use the injured ankle. Thus he had the prospect of but a short confinement; he felt no present pain; and there was nothing of the sick-room atmosphere in his surroundings, for his position close to the door almost gave him the advantage of sitting in the open air of this bright autumnal day.

But Lawrence's mind dwelt not at all on these ameliorating circ.u.mstances; it dwelt only upon the fact that he was in one house and Miss March was in another. It was impossible for him to go to her, and he had no reason to believe that she would come to him. Under ordinary circ.u.mstances it would be natural enough for her to look in upon him and inquire into his condition, but now the case was very different. She knew that he desired to see her, that he had been coming to her when he met with his accident, and she knew, too, exactly what he wanted to say; and it was not to be supposed that a lady would come to a man to be wooed, especially this lady, who had been in such an unfavorable humor when he had wooed her the day before.

But it was quite impossible for Lawrence, at this most important crisis of his life, to sit without action for three or four days, during which time it was not unlikely that Miss March might go home. But what was he to do? It would be rediculous to think of sending for her, she knowing for what purpose she was wanted; and as for writing a letter, that did not suit him at all. There was too much to be explained, too much to be urged, too much to be avowed, and, probably, too many contingencies to be met, for him to even consider the subject of writing a letter. A proposal on paper would most certainly bring a rejection on paper. He could think of no plan; he must trust to chance. If his lucky star, and it had shone a good deal in his life, should give him an opportunity of speaking to her, he would lose not an instant in broaching the important subject. He was happy to think he had a friend in the old lady. Perhaps she might bring about the desired interview. But although this thought was encouraging, he could not but tremble when he remembered the very plain and unvarnished way she had of doing such things.

While these thoughts were pa.s.sing through his mind, a lady came out upon the porch, and descended the steps. At the first sight of her through the vines, Lawrence had thought it might be Miss March, and his heart had given a jump. But it was not; it was Mrs Null, and she came over the gra.s.s toward him, and stopped in front of his door. "How are you feeling now?" she asked. "Does your foot still hurt you?"

"Oh, no," said Lawrence, "I am in no pain. The only thing that troubles me is that I have to stay just here."

"It might have been better on some accounts," said she, "if you had been taken into the house; but it would have hurt you dreadfully to go up stairs, unless Uncle Isham carried you on his back, which I don't believe he could do."

"Of course it's a great deal better out here," said Lawrence. "In fact this is a perfectly charming place to be laid up in, but I want to get about. I want to see people." "Many people?" asked she, with a significant little smile.

Lawrence smiled in return. "You must know, Mrs Null, from what I have told you," he said, "that there is one person I want to see very much, and that is why I am so annoyed at being kept here in this chair."

"You must be of an uncommonly impatient turn of mind," she said, "for you haven't been here three hours, altogether, and hundreds of persons sit still that long, just because they want to."

"I don't want to sit still a minute," said Lawrence. "I very much wish to speak to Miss March. Couldn't you contrive an opportunity for me to do so?"

"It is possible that I might," she said, "but I won't. Haven't I told you that I don't approve of this affair of yours? My cousin is in love with Miss March, and all I should do for you would be directly against him. Aunt so managed things this morning that I was actually obliged to give you an opportunity to be with her, but I had intended going with Roberta to the woods, as she had asked me to do."

"You are very cruel," said Lawrence.

"No, I am not," said she, "I am only just." "I explained to you yesterday," said he, "that your course of thinking and acting is not just, and is of no possible advantage to anybody. How can it injure your cousin if Miss March refuses me and I go away and never see her again?

And, if she accepts me, then you should be glad that I had put an end to your cousin's pursuit of a woman who does not love him."

"That is nonsense," said she. "I shouldn't be glad at all to see him disappointed. I should feel like a traitor if I helped you. But I did not come to talk about these things. I came to ask you what you would have for dinner."

"I had an idea," said Lawrence, not regarding this remark, "that you were a young lady of a kindly disposition."

"And you don't think so, now?" she said.

"No," answered Lawrence, "I cannot. I cannot think a woman kind who will refuse to a.s.sist a man, situated as I am, to settle the most important question of his life, especially as I have told you, before, that it is really to the interest of the one you are acting for, that it should be settled."