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 stitches, 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 nobody. 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. Nobody
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 glass, and a late copy of a
semi-weekly paper. Through the doorway, which was but two steps higher
than the grass 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 grassy 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 bumble-bees humming about some
late-flowering shrubs; and, high in the air, floated two great
turkey-buzzards, with a beauty of motion surpassed 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
practitioner had come and gone, after having assured 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
circumstances; 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
circumstances 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 passing 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
grass 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 assist 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."
Miss Annie, still standing in front of the door, now regarded Lawrence
with a certain degree of thoughtfullness on her countenance, which
presently changed to a half smile. "If I were perfectly sure," she said,
"that she would reject you, I would try to get her here, and have the
matter settled, but I don't know her very well yet, and can't feel at
all certain as to what she might do."
"I like your frankness," said Lawrence, "but, as I said before, you are
very cruel."
"Not at all," said she, "I am very kind, only--"
"You don't show it," interrupted Lawrence.
At this Miss Annie laughed. "Kindness isn't of much use, if it is shut
up, is it?" she said. "I suppose you think it is one of those virtues
that we ought to act out, as well as feel, if we want any credit. And
now, isn't there something I can do for you besides bringing another
man's sweetheart to you?"
Lawrence smiled. "I don't believe she is his sweetheart," he said, "and
I want to find out if I am right."
"It is my opinion," said Miss Annie, "that you ought to think more about
your sprained ankle and your general health, than about having your mind
settled by Miss March. I should think that keeping your blood boiling,
in this way, would inflame your joints."
"The doctor didn't tell me what to think about," said Lawrence. "He only
said I must not walk."
"I haven't heard yet," said Miss Annie, "what you would like to have to
eat." "I don't wish to give the slightest trouble," answered Lawrence.
"What do you generally give people in such scrapes as this? Tea and
toast?"
Annie laughed. "Nonsense," said she. "What you want is the best meal you
can get. Aunt said if there was anything you particularly liked she
would have it made for you."
"Do not think of such a thing," said Lawrence. "Give me just what the
family has."
"Would you like Miss March to bring it out to you?" she asked.
"The word cruel cannot express your disposition," said Lawrence. "I pity
Mr Null." "Poor man," said she; "but it would be a good thing for you if
you could keep your mind as quiet as his is." And with that she went
into the house.
After dinner, Miss March did come out to inquire into Mr Croft's
condition, but she was accompanied by Mrs Keswick. Lawrence invited the
ladies to come in and be seated, but Roberta stood on the grass in front
of the door, as Miss Annie had done, while Mrs Keswick entered the room,
looked into the ice-water pitcher, and examined things generally, to see
if Uncle Isham had been guilty of any sins of omission.
"Do you feel quite at ease now?" said Miss March.
"My ankle don't trouble me," said Lawrence, "but I never felt so
uncomfortable and dissatisfied in my life." And with these latter words
he gave the lady a look which was intended to be, and which probably
was, full of meaning to her.
"Wouldn't you like some books?" said Mrs Keswick, now appearing from the
back of the room. "You haven't anything to read. There are plenty of
books in the house, but they are all old."
"I think those are the most delightful of books," said Miss March. "I
have been looking over the volumes on your shelves, Mrs Keswick. I am
sure there are a good many of them Mr Croft would like to read, even if
he has read them before. There are lots of queer old-time histories and
biographies, and sets of bound magazines, some of them over a hundred
years old. Would you like me to select some for you, Mr Croft? Or shall
I write some of the titles on a slip of paper, and let you select for
yourself?"
"I shall be delighted," said Lawrence, "to have you make a choice for
me; and I think the list would be the better plan, because books would
be so heavy to carry about."
"I will do it immediately," said Miss March, and she walked rapidly to
the house.
"Now then," said Mrs Keswick, "I'll put a chair out here on the grass,
close to the door. It's shady there, and I should think it would be
pleasant for both of you, if she would sit there and read to you out of
those books. She is a fine woman, that Miss March--a much finer woman
than I thought she could be, before I knew her."
"She is, indeed," said Lawrence.
"I suppose you think she is the finest woman in the world?" said the old
lady, with a genial grin.
"What makes you suppose so?" asked Lawrence.
"Haven't I eyes?" said Mrs Keswick. "But you needn't make any excuses.
You have made an excellent choice, and I hope you may succeed in getting
her. Perhaps you have succeeded?" she added, giving Lawrence an earnest
look, with a question in it.
Lawrence did not immediately reply. It was not in his nature to confide
his affairs to other people, and yet he had done so much of it, of late,
that he did not see why he should make an exception against Mrs Keswick,
who was, indeed, the only person who seemed inclined to be friendly to
his suit. He might as well let her know how matters stood. "No," he
said, "I have not yet succeeded, and I am very sorry that this accident
has interfered with my efforts to do so."
"Don't let it interfere," said the old lady, her eyes sparkling, while
her purple sun-bonnet was suddenly and severely bobbed. "You have just
as good a chance now as you ever had, and all you have to do is to make
the most of it. When she comes out here to read to you, you can talk to
her just as well as if you were in the woods, or on top of a hill.
Nobody'll come here to disturb you; I'll take care of that."
"You are very kind," said Lawrence, somewhat wondering at her
enthusiasm.
"I intended to go away and leave her here with you," continued Mrs
Keswick, "if I could find a good opportunity to do so, but she hit on
the best plan herself. And now I'll be off and leave the coast clear. I
will come again before dark and put some more of that stuff on your
ankle. If you want anything, ring this bell, and if Isham doesn't hear
you, somebody will call him. He has orders to keep about the house."
"You are putting me under very great obligations to you, madam," said
Lawrence.
But the old lady did not stop to hear any thanks, and hastened to clear
the coast.
Lawrence had to wait a long time for his list of books, but at last it
came; and, much to his surprise and chagrin, Mrs Null brought it. "Miss
March asked me to give you this," she said, "so that you can pick out
just what books you want."
Lawrence took the paper, but did not look at it. He was deeply
disappointed and hurt. His whole appearance showed it.
"You don't seem glad to get it," said Miss Annie. Lawrence looked at
her, his face darkening. "Did you persuade Miss March," he said, "to
stay in the house and let you bring this?"
"Now, Mr Croft," said the young lady, a very decided flush coming into
her face, "that is going too far. You have no right to accuse me of such
a thing. I am not going to help in your love affairs, but I don't intend
to be mean about it, either. Miss March asked me to bring that list, and
at first I wouldn't do it, for I knew, just as well as I know anything,
that you expected her to come to you with it, and I was very sure you
wanted to see her more than the paper. I refused two or three times, but
she said, at last, that if I didn't take it, she'd send it by some one
in the house; so I just picked it up and brought it right along. I don't
like her as much as I did."
"Why not?" asked Lawrence.
"You needn't accept a man if you don't want him," said Miss Annie, "but
there is no need of being cruel to him, especially when he is laid up.
If she didn't intend to come out to you again, she ought not to have
made you believe so. You did expect her to come, didn't you?"
"Most certainly," said Lawrence, in rather a doleful tone. "Yes, and
there is the chair she was to sit in," said Miss Annie, "while you said
seven words about the books and ten thousand about the way your heart
was throbbing. I see Aunt Keswick's hand in that, as plain as can be. I
don't say I'd put her in that chair if I could do it, but I certainly
am sorry she disappointed you so. Would you like to have any of those
books? If you would, I'll get them for you."
"I am much obliged, Mrs Null," said Lawrence, "but I don't think I care
for any books. And let me say that I am very sorry for the way I spoke
to you, just now."
"Oh, don't mention that," said she. "If I'd been in your place, I should
have been mad enough to say anything. But it's no use to sit here and be
grumpy. You'd better let me go and get you a book. The "Critical
Magazine" for 1767 and 1768, is on that list, and I know there are lots
of queer, interesting things in it, but it takes a good while to hunt
them out from the other things for which you would not care at all. And
then there are all the "Spectators," and "Ramblers," and "The World
Displayed" in eight volumes, which, from what I saw when I looked
through it, seems to be a different kind of world from the one I live
in; and there are others that you will see on your list. But there is
one book which I have been reading lately which I think you will find
odder and funnier than any of the rest. It is the "Geographical Grammar"
by Mr Salmon. Suppose I bring you that. It is a description of the whole
world, written more than a hundred years ago, by an Irish gentleman who,
I think, never went anywhere."
"Thank you," said Lawrence, "I shall be obliged to you if you will be
kind enough to bring me that one." He was glad for her to go away, even
for a little time, that he might think. The smart of the disappointment
caused by the non-appearance of Miss March was beginning to subside a
little. Looking at it more quietly and reasonably, he could see that, in
her position, it would be actually unmaidenly for her to come to him by
herself. It was altogether another thing for this other girl, and,
therefore, perhaps it was quite proper to send her. But, in spite of
whatever reasonableness there might have been in it, he chafed under
this propriety. It would have been far better, he thought, if she had
come and told him that she could not possibly accept him, and that
nothing more must be said about it. But then he did not believe, if she
had given him time to say the words he wished to say, that she would
have come to such a decision; and as he called up her lovely face and
figure, as it stood framed in the open doorway, with a background of the
sunlit arbor and fields, the gorgeous distant foliage, with the blue sky
and its white clouds and circling birds, he thought of the rapture and
ecstasy which would have come to him, if she had listened to his words,
and had given him but a smile of encouragement.
But here came Mrs Null, with a fat brown book in her hand. "One of the
funniest things," she said, as she came to the door, "is Mr Salmon's
chapter on paradoxes. He thinks it would be quite improper to issue a
book of this kind without alluding to geographical paradoxes. Listen to
this one." And then she read to him the elucidation of the apparent
paradox that there is a certain place in this world where the wind
always blows from the south; and another explaining the statement that
in certain cannibal islands the people eat themselves. "There is
something he says about Virginia," said she, turning over the pages,
"which I want you to be sure to read."
"Won't you sit down," said Lawrence, "and read to me some of those
extracts? You know just where to find them."
"That chair wasn't put there for me," said Miss Annie, with a smile.
"Nonsense," said Lawrence. "Won't you please sit down? I ought to have
asked you before. Perhaps it is too cool for you, out there."
"Oh, not at all," said she. "The air is still quite warm." And she took
her seat on the chair which was placed close to the door-step, and she
read to him some of the surprising and interesting facts which Mr Salmon
had heard, in a Dublin coffee-house, about Virginia and the other
colonies, and also some of those relating to the kindly way in which
slave-holders in South America, when they killed a slave to feed their
hounds, would send a quarter to a neighbor, expecting some day to
receive a similar favor in return. When they had laughed over these, she
read some very odd and surprising statements about Southern Europe, and
the people of far-away lands; and so she went on, from one thing to
another, talking a good deal about what she had read, and always on the
point of stopping and giving the book to Lawrence, until the short
autumnal afternoon began to draw to its close, and he told her that it
was growing too chilly for her to sit out on the grass any longer.
"Very well," said she, closing the book, and handing it to him, "you can
read the rest of it yourself, and if you want any other books on the
list, just let me know by Uncle Isham, and I will send them to you. He
is coming now to see after you. I wonder," she said, stopping for a
moment as she turned to leave, "if Miss March had been sitting in that
chair, if you would have had the heart to tell her to go away; or if you
would have let her sit still, and take cold."
Lawrence smiled, but very slightly. "That subject," said he, "is one on
which I don't joke."
"Goodness!" exclaimed Miss Annie, clasping her hands and gazing with an
air of comical commiseration at Mr Croft's serious face. "I should think
not!" and away she went.
Just before supper time, when Lawrence's door had been closed, and his
lamp lighted, there came a knock, and Mrs Keswick appeared. "That plan
of mine didn't work," she said, "but I will bring Miss March out here,
and manage it so that she'll have to stay till I come back. I have an
idea about that. All that you have to do is to be ready when you get
your chance."
Lawrence thanked her, and assured her he would be very glad to have a
chance, although he hoped, without much ground for it, that Roberta
would not see through the old lady's schemes.
Mrs Keswick lotioned and rebandaged the sprained ankle, and then she
said. "I think it would be pleasant if we were all to come out here
after supper, and have a game of whist. I used to play whist, and
shouldn't mind taking a hand. You could have the table drawn up to your
chair, and,--let me see--yes, there are three more chairs. It won't be
like having her alone with you," she said, with the cordial grin in
which she sometimes indulged, "but you will have her opposite to you for
an hour, and that will be something."
Lawrence approved heartily of the whist party, and assured Mrs Keswick
that she was his guardian angel.
"Not much of that," she said, "but I have been told often enough that
I'm a regular old matchmaker, and I expect I am."
"If you make this match," said Lawrence, "you will have my eternal
gratitude."
The supper sent out to Lawrence was a very good one, and the
anticipation of what was to follow made him enjoy it still more, for his
passion had now reached such a point that even to look at his love,
although he could only speak to her of trumps and of tricks, would be a
refreshing solace which would go down deep into his thirsty soul.
But bedtime and old Isham came, and the whist players came not. It
needed no one to tell Lawrence whose disinclination it was that had
prevented their coming.
"I reckon," said Uncle Isham, as he looked in at Letty's cabin on his
way to his own, "dat dat ar Mister Crof' aint much use to gittin'
hisse'f hurt. All de time I was helpin' him to go to bed he was a
growlin' like de bery debbil."