"Dar is white folks," said Aunt Patsy, "wot comes to a culled chu'ch
fur nothin' else but to larf. De debbil gits dem folks, but dat don'
do us no good, Miss Annie, an' we'd rudder dey stay away. But you
all's not dat kine. I knows dat, sartin shuh."

When the two had taken leave of the old woman, and Miss Annie had gone
out of the door, Aunt Patsy leaned very far forward, and stretching
out her long arm, seized Mr Croft by the skirt of his coat. He stepped
back, quite surprised, and then she said to him, in a low but very
earnest voice: "I reckon dat dat ar sprain ankle was nuffin but a
acciden'; but you look out, sah, you look out! Hab you got dem little
shoes handy?"

"Oh, yes," said Lawrence. "I have them in my trunk."

"Keep 'em whar you kin put your han' on 'em," said Aunt Patsy,
impressively. "You may want 'em yit. You min' my wuds."

"I shall be sure to remember," said Lawrence, as he hastened out to
rejoin Annie.

"What in the world had Aunt Patsy to say to you?" asked that somewhat
surprised young lady.

Then Lawrence told her how some time before Aunt Patsy had given him a
pair of blue shoes, which she said would act as a preventive charm, in
case Mrs Keswick should ever wish to do him harm, and that she had now
called him back to remind him not to neglect this means of personal
protection. "I can't imagine," said Lawrence, "that your aunt would
ever think of such a thing as doing me a harm, or how those little
shoes would prevent her, if she wanted to, but I suppose Aunt Patsy is
crack-brained on some subjects, and so I thought it best to humor her,
and took the shoes."

"Do you know," said Miss Annie, after walking a little distance in
silence, "that I am afraid Aunt Patsy has done a dreadful thing, and
one I never should have suspected her of. Aunt Keswick had a little
baby once, and it died very young. She keeps its clothes in a box, and
I remember when I was a little girl that she once showed them to me,
and told me I was to take the place of that little girl, and that
frightened me dreadfully, because I thought that I would have to die,
and have my clothes put in a box. I recollect perfectly that there was
a pair of little blue shoes among these clothes, and Aunt Patsy must
have stolen them."

"That surprises me," said Lawrence. "I supposed, from what I had heard
of the old woman, that she was perfectly honest."

"So she is," said Annie. "She has been a trusted servant in our family
nearly all her life. But some negroes have very queer ideas about
taking certain things, and I suppose Aunt Patsy had some particular
reason for taking those shoes, for, of course, they could be of no
value to her."

"I am very sorry," said Lawrence, "that such sacred relics should have
come into my possession, but I must admit that I would not like to
give them back to your aunt."

"Oh, no," said Annie, "that would never do; and I wouldn't dare to try
to find her box, and put them in it. It would seem like a desecration
for any hand but her own to touch those things."

"That is true," said Lawrence, "and you might get yourself into a lot
of trouble by endeavoring to repair the mischief. Before I leave here,
we may think of some plan of disposing of the little trotters. It
might be well to give them back to Aunt Patsy and tell her to restore
them."

"I don't know," said Miss Annie, with a slowness of reply, and an
irrelevance of demeanor, which indicated she was not thinking of the
words she was speaking.

The sun was now very near the horizon, and that evening coolness
which, in the autumn, comes on so quickly after the sunshine fades out
of the air, made Lawrence give a little shrug with his shoulders. He
proposed that they should quicken their pace, and as his companion
made no objection, they soon reached the house.

The next day being Sunday, breakfast was rather later than usual, and
as Lawrence looked out on the bright morning, with the mists just
disengaging themselves from the many-hued foliage which crowned the
tops of the surrounding hills; and on the recently risen sun, hanging
in an atmosphere of grey and lilac, with the smile of Indian summer on
its face; he thought he would like to take a stroll, before that meal;
but either the length of his walk on the previous day, or the rapidity
of the latter portion of it, had been rather too much for the
newly-recovered strength of his ankle, which now felt somewhat stiff
and sore. When he mentioned this at the breakfast table, he received a
good deal of condolence from the two ladies, especially Mrs Keswick.
And, at first, it was thought that it might be well for him to give
up his proposed attendance at the negro church. But to this Lawrence
strongly objected, for he very much desired to see some of the
peculiar religious services of the negroes. He had been talking on the
subject the evening before with Mrs Keswick, who had told him that in
this part of the country, which lay in the "black belt" of Virginia,
where the negro population had always been thickest, these ceremonies
were more characteristic of the religious disposition of the African,
than in those sections of the State where the white race exerted a
greater influence upon the manners and customs of the colored people.

"But it will not be necessary to walk much," said Miss Annie. "We can
take the spring-wagon, and you can go with us, aunt."

The old lady permitted herself a little grin. "When I go to church,"
she said, "I go to a white folks' church, and try to see what I can of
white folks' Christianity, though I must say that Christianity of
the other color is often just as good, as far as works go. But it is
natural that a stranger should want to see what kind of services
the colored people have, so you two might as well get into the
spring-wagon and go along."

"But shall we not deprive you of the vehicle?" said Lawrence.

"I never go to church in the spring-wagon," said the old lady, "so
long as I am able to walk. And, besides, this is not our Sunday for
preaching."

It seemed to Lawrence that an elderly person who went about in a
purple calico sun-bonnet, and with an umbrella of the same material,
might go to church in a wheelbarrow, so far as appearances were
concerned, but he had long ceased to wonder at Mrs Keswick's
idiosyncrasies. "I remember very well," said Miss Annie, after the
old lady had left the table, which she always did as soon as she had
finished a meal, "when Aunt Keswick used to go to church in a big
family carriage, which is now sleeping itself to pieces out there in
the barn. But then she had a pair of big gray horses, one of them
named Doctor and the other Colonel. But now she has only one horse,
and I am going to tell Uncle Isham to harness that one up before he
goes to church himself. You know he is to take Aunt Patsy in the
ox-cart, so he will have to go early."

They went to the negro church in the spring-wagon, Lawrence driving
the jogging sorrel, and Miss Annie on the seat beside him. When they
reached the old frame edifice in the woods beyond Howlett's, they
found gathered there quite a large assemblage, for this was one of
those very attractive occasions called a "big preaching." Horses and
mules, and wagons of various kinds, many of the latter containing
baskets of refreshments, were standing about under the trees; and Mrs
Keswick's cart and oxen, tethered to a little pine tree, gave proof
that Aunt Patsy had arrived. The inside of the church was nearly full,
and outside, around the door, stood a large number of men and boys.
The white visitors were looked upon with some surprise, but way was
made for them to approach the door, and as soon as they entered the
building two of the officers of the church came forward to show them
to one of the uppermost seats; but this honor Miss Annie strenuously
declined. She preferred a seat near the open door, and therefore she
and Mr Croft were given a bench in that vicinity, of which they had
sole possession.

To Lawrence, who had never seen anything of the sort, the services
which now began were exceedingly interesting; and as Annie had not
been to a negro church since she was a little girl, and very seldom
then, she gave very earnest and animated attention to what was going
on. The singing, as it always is among the negroes, was powerful and
melodious, and the long prayer of Brother Enoch Hines was one of those
spirited and emotional statements of personal condition, and wild and
ardent supplication, which generally pave the way for a most powerful
awakening in an assemblage of this kind. Another hymn, sung in more
vigorous tones than the first one, warmed up the congregation to
such a degree that when Brother Hines opened the Bible, and made
preparations for his discourse, he looked out upon an audience as
anxious to be moved and stirred as he was to move and stir it. The
sermon was intended to be a long one, for, had it been otherwise,
Brother Hines had lost his reputation; and, therefore, the preacher,
after a few prefatory statements, delivered in a grave and solemn
manner, plunged boldly into the midst of his exhortations, knowing
that he could go either backward or forward, presenting, with equal
acceptance, fresh subject matter, or that already used, so long as his
strength held out. He had not preached half an hour before his hearers
were so stirred and moved, that a majority of them found it utterly
impossible to merely sit still and listen. In different ways their
awakening was manifested; some began to sing in a low voice; others
gently rocked their bodies; while fervent ejaculations of various
kinds were heard from all parts of the church. From this beginning,
arose gradually a scene of religious activity, such as Lawrence had
never imagined. Each individual allowed his or her fervor to express
itself according to the method which best pleased the worshipper.
Some kept to their seats, and listened to the words of the preacher,
interrupting him occasionally by fervent ejaculations; others sang
and shouted, sometimes standing up, clapping their hands and stamping
their feet; while a large proportion of the able-bodied members left
their seats, and pushed their way forward to the wide, open space
which surrounded the preacher's desk, and prepared to engage in the
exhilarating ceremony of the "Jerusalem Jump."

Two concentric rings were formed around the preacher, the inner one
composed of women, the outer one of men, the faces of those forming
the inner ring being turned towards those in the outer. As soon as all
were in place, each brother reached forth his hand, and took the hand
of the sister opposite to him, and then each couple began to jump up
and down violently, shaking hands and singing at the top of their
voices. After about a minute of this, the two circles moved, one, one
way and one another, so that each brother found himself opposite
a different sister. Hands were again immediately seized, and the
jumping, hand-shaking, and singing went on. Minute by minute the
excitement increased; faster the worshippers jumped, and louder they
sang. Through it all Brother Enoch Hines kept on with his sermon.
It was very difficult now to make himself heard, and the time for
explanation or elucidation had long since passed; all he could do was
to shout forth certain important and moving facts, and this he did
over and over again, holding his hand at the side of his mouth, as if
he were hailing a vessel in the wind. Much of what he said was lost
in the din of the jumpers, but ever and anon could be heard ringing
through the church the announcement: "De wheel ob time is a turnin'
roun'!"

In a group by themselves, in an upper corner of the congregation, were
four or five very old women, who were able to manifest their pious
enthusiasm in no other way than by rocking their bodies backwards
and forwards, and singing with their cracked voices a gruesome
and monotonous chant. This rude song had something of a wild and
uncivilized nature, as if it had come down to these old people from
the savage rites of their African ancestors. They did not sing in
unison, but each squeaked or piped out her, "Yi, wiho, yi, hoo!"
according to the strength of her lungs, and the degree of her
exaltation. Prominent among these was old Aunt Patsy; her little black
eyes sparkling through her great iron-bound spectacles; her head and
body moving in unison with the wild air of the unintelligible chant
she sang; her long, skinny hands clapping up and down upon her
knees; while her feet, encased in their great green baize slippers,
unceasingly beat time upon the floor.

So many persons being absent from their seats, the group of old women
was clearly visible to Annie and Lawrence, and Aunt Patsy also could
easily see them. Whenever her head, in its ceaseless moving from side
to side, allowed her eyes to fall upon the two white visitors, her
ardor and fervency increased, and she seemed to be expressing a pious
gratitude that Miss Annie and he, whom she supposed to be her husband,
were still together in peace and safety.

Annie was much affected by all she saw and heard. Her face was
slightly pale, and occasionally she was moved by a little nervous
tremor. Mr Croft, too, was very attentive. His soul was not moved to
enthusiasm, and he did not feel, as his companion did, now and
then, that he would like to jump up and join in the dancing and the
shouting; but the scene made a very strong impression upon him.

Around and around went the two rings of men and women, jumping,
singing, and hand-shaking. Out from the centre of them came the
stentorian shout: "De wheel ob time is a turnin' roun'!" From all
parts of the church rose snatches of hymns, exultant shouts, groans,
and prayers; and, in the corner, the shrill chants of the old women
were fitfully heard through the storm of discordant worship.

In the midst of all the wild din and hubbub, the soul of Aunt Patsy
looked out from the habitation where it had dwelt so long, and,
without giving the slightest notice to any one, or attracting the
least attention by its movements, it silently slipped away.

The old habitation of the soul still sat in its chair, but no one
noticed that it no longer sang, or beat time with its hands and feet.

Not long after this, Lawrence looked round at his companion, and
noticed that she was slightly trembling. "Don't you think we have had
enough of this?" he whispered.

"Yes," she answered. And they rose and went out. They thought they
were the first who had left.




CHAPTER XXV.


When Mr Croft and Miss Annie got into the spring-wagon, and the head
of the sorrel was turned away from the church, Lawrence looked at his
watch, and remarked that, as it was still quite early, there might be
time for a little drive before going back to the house for dinner. The
face of the young lady beside him was still slightly pale, and the
thought came to him that it would be very well for her if her mind
could be diverted from the abnormally inspiriting scene she had just
witnessed.

"Dinner will be late to-day," she said, "for I saw Letty doing her
best among the Jerusalem Jumpers."

"Very well," said he, "we will drive. And now, where shall we go?"

"If we take the cross-road at the store," said Miss Annie, "and go on
for about half a mile, we can turn into the woods, and then there is a
beautiful road through the trees, which will bring us out on the other
side of Aunt Keswick's house. Junius took me that way not long ago."

So they turned at the store, much to the disgust of the plodding
sorrel, who thought he was going directly home, and they soon reached
the road that led through the woods. This was hard and sandy, as are
many of the roads through the forests in that part of the country, and
it would have been a very good driving road, had it not been for the
occasional protrusion of tree roots, which gave the wheels a little
bump, and for the branches which, now and then, hung down somewhat too
low for the comfort of a lady and gentleman, riding in a rather high
spring-wagon without a cover. But Lawrence drove slowly, and so the
root bumps were not noticed; and when the low-hanging boughs were on
his side, he lifted them so that his companion's head could pass under
and, when they happened to be on her side, Annie ducked her head,
and her hat was never brushed off. But, at times, they drove quite a
distance without overhanging boughs, and the pine trees, surrounded by
their smooth carpet of brown spines, gave forth a spicy fragrance in
the warm, but sparkling air; the oak trees stood up still dark and
green; while the chestnuts were all dressed in rich yellow, with the
chinquepin bushes by the roadside imitating them in color, as they
tried to do in fruit. Sometimes a spray of purple flowers could be
seen among the trees, and great patches of sunlight which, here
and there, came through the thinning foliage, fell, now upon the
brilliantly scarlet leaves of a sweet-gum, and now upon the polished
and brown-red dress of a neighboring black-gum.

The woods were very quiet. There was no sound of bird or insect, and
the occasional hare, or "Molly Cotton-tail," as Annie delightedly
called it, who hopped across the road, made no noise at all. A gentle
wind among the tops of the taller trees made a sound as of a distant
sea; but, besides this, little was heard but the low, crunching noise
of the wheels, and the voices of Lawrence and Miss Annie.

Reaching a place where the road branched, Lawrence stopped the horse,
and looked up each leafy lane. They were completely deserted. White
people seldom walked abroad at this hour on Sunday, and the negroes
of the neighborhood were at church. "Is not this a frightfully lonely
place?" he said. "One might imagine himself in a desert."

"I like it," replied Annie. "It is so different from the wild,
exciting tumult of that church. I am glad you took me away. At first I
would not have missed it for the world, but there seemed to come into
the stormy scene something oppressive, and almost terrifying."

"I am glad I took you away," said Lawrence, "but it seems to me that
your impression was not altogether natural. I thought that, amid all
that mad enthusiasm, you were over-excited, not depressed. A solemn
solitude like this would, to my thinking, be much more likely to lower
your spirits. I don't like solitude, myself, and therefore, I suppose
it is that I thought an impressible nature, like yours, would find
something sad in the loneliness of these silent woods."

Annie turned, and fixed on him her large blue eyes. "But I am not
alone," she said.

As Lawrence looked into her eyes he saw that they were as clear as the
purest crystal, and that he could look through them straight into her
soul, and there he saw that this woman loved him. The vision was
as sudden as if it had been a night scene lighted up by a flash of
lightning, but it was as clear and plain as if it had been that same
scene under the noonday sun.

There are times in the life of a man, when the goddess of Reasonable
Impulse raises her arms above her head, and allows herself a little
yawn. Then she takes off her crown and hangs it on the back of her
throne; after which she rests her sceptre on the floor, and, rising,
stretches herself to her full height, and goes forth to take a long,
refreshing walk by the waters of Unreflection. Then her minister,
Prudence, stretches himself upon a bench, and, with his handkerchief
over his eyes, composes himself for a nap. Discretion, Worldly Wisdom,
and other trusted officers of her court, and even, sometimes, that
agile page called Memory, no sooner see their royal mistress depart
than, by various doors, they leave the palace and wander far away.
Then, silently, with sparkling eyes, and parted lips, comes that fair
being, Unthinking Love. She puts one foot upon the lower step of
the throne; she looks about her; and, with a quick bound, she seats
herself. Upon her tumbled curls she hastily puts the crown; with her
small white hand she grasps the sceptre; and then, rising, waves it,
and issues her commands. The crowd of emotions which serve as her
satellites, seize the great seal from the sleeping Prudence, and the
new Queen reigns!

All this now happened to Lawrence. Never before had he looked into the
eyes of a woman who loved him; and, leaning over towards this one, he
put his arm around her and drew her towards him. "And never shall you
be alone," he said.

She looked up at him with tears starting to her eyes, and then she put
her head against his breast. She was too happy to say anything, and
she did not try.

It was about a minute after this, that the sober sorrel, who took no
interest in what had occurred behind him, and a great deal of interest
in his stable at home, started in an uncertain and hesitating way;
and, finding that he was not checked, began to move onward. Lawrence
looked up from the little head upon his breast, and called out,
"Whoa!" To this, however, the sorrel paid no attention. Lawrence
then put forth his right hand to grasp the reins, but having lately
forgotten all about them, they had fallen out of the spring-wagon, and
were now dragging upon the ground. It was impossible for him to reach
them, and so, seizing the whip, he endeavored with its aid to hook
them up. Failing in this, he was about to jump out and run to the
horse's head; but, perceiving his intention, Annie seized his arm.
"Don't you do it!" she exclaimed. "You'll ruin your ankle!"

Lawrence could not but admit to himself that he was not in condition
to execute any feats of agility, and he also felt that Annie had a
very charming way of holding fast to his arm, as if she had a right
to keep him out of danger. And now the sorrel broke into the jog-trot
which was his usual pace. "It is very provoking," said Lawrence, "I
don't think I ever allowed myself to drop the reins before."

"It doesn't make the slightest difference," said Annie, comfortingly.
"This old horse knows the road perfectly well, and he doesn't need a
bit of driving. He will take us home just as safely as if you held
the reins, and now don't you try to get them, for you will only hurt
yourself."

"Very well," said Lawrence, putting his arm around her again, "I am
resigned. But I think you are very brave to sit so quiet and composed,
under the circumstances."

She looked at him with a smile. "Such a little circumstance don't
count, just now," she said. "You must stop that," she added,
presently, "when we get to the edge of the woods."

Before long, they came out into the open country and found themselves
in a lane which led by a wide circuit to the road passing Mrs
Keswick's house. The old sorrel certainly behaved admirably; he held
back when he descended a declivity; he walked over the rough places;
and he trotted steadily where the road was smooth.

"It seems like our Fate," said Annie, who now sat up without an arm
around her, the protecting woods having been left behind, "he just
takes us along without our having anything to do with it."

"He is not much of a horse," said Lawrence, clasping, in an
unobservable way, the little hand which lay by his side, "but the Fate
is charming."

Fortunately there was no one upon the road to notice the reinless
plight in which these two young people found themselves, and they were
quite as well satisfied as if they had been doing their own driving.
After a little period of thought, Annie turned an earnest face to
Lawrence, and she said: "Do you know that I never believed that you
were really in love with Roberta March."

Lawrence squeezed her hand, but did not reply. He knew very well that
he had loved Roberta March, and he was not going to lie about it.

"I thought so," she continued, "because I did not believe that any
one, who was truly in love, would want to send other people about, to
propose for him, as you did."

"That is not exactly the state of the case," he said, "but we must not
talk of those things now. That is all passed and gone."

"But if there ever was any love," she persisted, "are you sure that it
is all gone?"

"Gone," he answered, earnestly, "as utterly and completely as the days
of last summer."

And now the sorrel, of his own accord, stopped at Mrs Keswick's outer
gate; and Lawrence, getting down, took up the reins, opened the gate,
and drove to the house in quite a proper way.

When Mr Croft helped Annie to descend from the spring-wagon, he did
not squeeze her hand, nor exchange with her any tender glances, for
old Mrs Keswick was standing at the top of the steps. "Have you seen
Letty?" she asked.

"Letty?" said Miss Annie. "Oh, yes," she added, as if she suddenly
remembered that such a person existed, "Letty was at church, and she
was very active."

"Well," said the old lady, "she must have taken more interest in the
exercises than you did, for it is long past the time when I told her
she must be home."

"I do not believe, madam," said Lawrence, "that any one could have
taken more interest in the exercises of this morning, than we have."

At this, Annie could not help giving him a little look which would
have provoked reflection in the mind of the old lady, had she not been
very earnestly engaged in gazing out into the road, in the hope of
seeing Letty.

When Lawrence had gone into the office, and had closed the door behind
him, he stood in a meditative mood before the empty fireplace. He was
making inquiries of himself in regard to what he had just done. He
was not accusing himself, nor indulging in regrets; he was simply
investigating the matter. Here he stood, a man accepted by two women.
If he had ever heard of any other man in a like condition, he would
have called that man a scoundrel, and yet he did not deem himself a
scoundrel.

The facts in the case were easy enough to understand. For the first
time in his life he had looked into the eyes of a woman who loved him,
and he had discovered to his utter surprise that he loved her. There
had been no plan; no prudent outlook into her nature and feelings;
no cautious insight into his own. He had taken part in a most
unpremeditated act of pure and simple love; and that it was real and
pure love on each side, he no more doubted than he doubted that he
lived. And yet, had he been an impostor when, on that hill over there,
he told Roberta March he loved her? No, he had been honest, he had
loved her; and, since the time that he had been roused to action by
the discovery of Junius Keswick's intentions to renew his suit, it had
been a love full of a rare and alluring beauty. But its charm, its
fascination, its very existence, had disappeared in the first flash of
his knowledge that Annie Peyton loved him. Had his love for Roberta
been a perfect one, had he been sure that she returned it, then it
could not have been overthrown; but it had gone, and a love, complete
and perfect, stood in its place. He had seen that he was loved, and he
loved. That was all, but it would stand forever.

This was the state of the case, and now Lawrence set himself to
discover if, in all ways, he had acted truly and honestly. He had been
accepted by Miss March, but what sort of acceptance was it? Should he,
as a man true to himself, accept such an acceptance? What was he to
think of a woman who, very angry as he had been informed, had sent him
a message, which meant everything in the world to him, if it meant
anything, and had then dashed away without allowing him a chance to
speak to her, or even giving him a nod of farewell. The last thing she
had really said to him in this connection were those cruel words on
Pine Top Hill, with which she had asked him to choose a spot in which
to be rejected. Could he consider himself engaged? Would a woman who
cared for him act towards him in such a manner? After all, was that
acceptance anything more than the result of pique? And could he not,
quite as justly, accept the rejection which she had professed herself
anxious to give him.

A short time before, Lawrence had done his best to explain to his
advantage these peculiarities of his status in regard to Miss March.
He had said to himself that she had threatened to reject him because
she wished to punish him, and he had intended to implore her pardon,
and expected to receive it. Over and over again, had he argued with
himself in this strain, and yet, in spite of it all, he had not been
able to bring himself into a state of mind in which he could sit down
and write to her a letter, which, in his estimation, would be certain
to seal and complete the engagement. "How very glad I am," he now said
to himself, "that I never wrote that letter!" And this was the only
decision at which he had arrived, when he heard Mrs Keswick calling to
him from the yard.

He immediately went to the door, when the old lady informed him, that
as Letty had not come back, and did not appear to be intending to come
back, and that as none of the other servants on the place had made
their appearance, he might as well come into the house, and try to
satisfy his hunger on what cold food she and Mrs Null had managed to
collect.

The most biting and spicy condiments of the little meal, to which the
three sat down, were supplied by Mrs Keswick, who reviled without
stint those utterly thoughtless and heedless colored people, who, once
in the midst of their crazy religious exercises, totally forgot that
they owed any duty whatever to those who employed them. Lawrence and
Annie did not say much, but there was something peculiarly piquant in
the way in which Annie brought and poured out the tea she had made,
and which, with the exception of the old lady's remarks, was the only
warm part of the repast; and there was an element of buoyancy in the
manner of Mr Croft, as he took his cup to drink the tea. Although he
said little at this meal, he thought a great deal, listening not at
all to Mrs Keswick's tirades. "What a charmingly inconsiderate affair
this has been!" he said to himself. "Nothing planned, nothing provided
for, or against; all spontaneous, and from our very hearts. I never
thought to tell her that she must say nothing to her aunt, until we
had agreed how everything should, be explained, and I don't believe
the idea that it is necessary to say anything to anybody, has entered
her mind. But I must keep my eyes away from her if I don't want to
bring on a premature explosion."

Whatever might be the result of the reasoning which this young man
had to do with himself, it was quite plain that he was abundantly
satisfied with things as they were.

It was beginning to be dark, when Letty and Uncle Isham returned and
explained why they had been so late in returning.

Old Aunt Patsy had died in church.




CHAPTER XXVI.


"Lawrence," said Annie, on the forenoon of the next day, as they were
sitting together in the parlor with the house to themselves, Mrs
Keswick having gone to Aunt Patsy's cabin to supervise proceedings
there, "Lawrence, don't you feel glad that we did not have a chance to
speak to dear old Aunt Patsy about those little shoes? Perhaps she had
forgotten that she had stolen them, and so went to heaven without that
sin on her soul."

"That is a very comfortable way of looking at it," said Lawrence, "but
wouldn't it be better to assume that she did not steal them?"

"I am very sorry," said Annie, "but that is not easy to do. But don't
let us think anything more about that. And, don't you feel very glad
that the poor old creature, who looked so happy as she sat singing and
clapping her hands on her knees, didn't die until after we had left
the church? If it had happened while we were there, I don't believe--"

"Don't believe what?" asked Lawrence.

"Well, that you now would be sitting with your arm on the back of my
chair."

Lawrence was quite sure, from what had been told him, that Aunt
Patsy's demise had taken place before they left the church, but he
did not say so to Annie. He merely took his arm from the back of her
chair, and placed it around her.

"And do you know," said she, "that Letty told me something, this
morning, that is so funny and yet in a certain way so pathetic, that
it made me laugh and cry both. She said that Aunt Patsy always thought
that you were Mr Null."

At this, Lawrence burst out laughing, but Annie checked him and went
on; "And she told Letty in church, when she saw us two come in, that
she believed she could die happy now, since she had seen Miss Annie
married to such a peart gentleman, and that it looked as if old miss
had got over her grudge against him."

"And didn't Letty undeceive her?" asked Lawrence.

"No, she said it would be a pity to upset the mind of such an old
woman, and she didn't do it."

"Then the good Aunt Patsy died," said Lawrence, "thinking I was that
wretched tramp of a bone-dust pedler, which the fancy of your aunt has
conjured up. That explains the interest the venerable colored woman
took in me. It is now quite easy to understand; for, if your aunt
abused your mythical husband to everybody, as she did to me, I don't
wonder Aunt Patsy thought I was in danger."

"Poor old woman," said Annie, looking down at the floor, "I am so glad
that we helped her to die happy."

"As she was obliged to anticipate the truth," said Lawrence, "in order
to derive any comfort from it, I am glad she did it. But although I am
delighted, more than my words can tell you, to take the place of your
Mr Null, you must not expect me to have any of his attributes."

"Now just listen to me, sir," said Annie. "I don't want you to say one
word against Mr Null. If it had not been for that good Freddy, things
would have been very different from what they are now. If you care for
me at all, you owe me entirely to Freddy Null."

"Entirely?" asked Lawrence.

"Of course I mean in regard to opportunities of finding out things and
saying them. If Aunt Keswick had supposed I was only Annie Peyton, she
would not have allowed Mr Croft to interfere with her plans for Junius
and me. I expected Mr Null to be of service to me, but no one could
have imagined that he would have brought about anything like this."

"Blessed be Null!" exclaimed Lawrence.

Annie asked him to please to be more careful, for how did he know that
one of the servants might not be sweeping the front porch, and of
course, they would look in at the windows.

"But, my dear child," said Lawrence, pushing back his chair to a
prudent distance, "we must seriously consider this Null business. We
shall have to inform your aunt of the present state of affairs, and
before we do that, we must explain what sort of person Frederick Null,
Esquire, really was--I am not willing to admit that he exists, even as
a myth."

"Oh dear! oh dear!" exclaimed Annie. "We shall have a dreadful time!
When Aunt Keswick knows that there never was any Mr Null, and then
hears that you and I are engaged, it will throw her into the most
dreadful state of mind that she has ever been in, in her life; and
father has told me of some of the awful family earthquakes that Aunt
Keswick has brought about, when things went wrong with her."

"We must be very cautious," said Lawrence, "and neither of us must say
a word, or do anything that may arouse her suspicions, until we have
settled upon the best possible method of making the facts known to
her. The case is indeed a complicated one."

"And what makes it more so," said Annie, "is Aunt Keswick's belief
that you are in love with Miss March, and that you want to get a
chance to propose to her. She does think that, doesn't she?"

"Yes," said Lawrence, "I must admit that she does."

"And she must be made to understand that that is entirely at an end,"
continued Annie. "All this will be a very difficult task, Lawrence,
and I don't see how it is to be done."

"But we shall do it," he answered, "and we must not forget to be very
prudent, until it is fully settled how we shall do it."

When Lawrence retired to his room, and sat down to hold that peculiar
court in which he was judge, jury, lawyers, and witnesses, as well as
the prisoner at the bar, he had to do with a case, a great deal more
complicated and difficult than that which perplexed the mind of Miss
Annie Peyton. He began by the very unjudicial act of pledging himself,
to himself, that nothing should interfere with this new, this true
love. In spite of all that might be said, done, or thought, Annie
Peyton should be his wife. There was no indecision, whatever, in
regard to the new love; the only question was: "What is to be done
about the old one?"

Lawrence could not admit, for a moment, that he could have spoken to
Roberta March as he had spoken, if he had not loved her; but he could
now perceive that that love had been in no small degree impaired and
weakened by the manner of its acceptance. The action of Miss March on
her last day here had much more chilled his ardor than her words
on Pine Top Hill. He had not, before, examined thoroughly into the
condition of that ardor after the departure of the lady, but it was
plain enough now.

There was, therefore, no doubt whatever in regard to his love for Miss
March; he was quite ready and able to lay that aside. But what about
her acceptance of it? How could he lay that aside?

This was the real case before the court. The witnesses could give no
available testimony, the lawyers argued feebly, the jury disagreed,
and Lawrence, in his capacity of judge, dismissed the case. In his
efforts to conduct his mind through the channels of law and equity,
Lawrence had not satisfied himself, and his thoughts began to be moved
by what might be termed his military impulses. "I made a charge into
the camp," he said with a little downward drawing of the corners of
his mouth, "and I did not capture the commander-in-chief. And now I
intend to charge out again."

He sat down to his table, and wrote the following note:

"My Dear Miss March:

"I have been waiting for a good many days, hoping to receive,
either from you or Mr Keswick, an explanation of the message you
sent to me by him. I now believe that it will be impossible to give a
satisfactory explanation of that message. I therefore recur to our last
private interview, and wish to say to you that I am ready, at any time,
to meet you under either a sycamore or a cherry tree."

And then he signed it, and addressed it to Miss March at Midbranch.
This being done, he put on his hat, and stepped out to see if a
messenger could be found to carry the letter to its destination, for
he did not wish to wait for the semi-weekly mail. Near the house he
met Annie.

"What have you been doing all this time?" she asked.

"I have been writing a letter," he said, "and am now looking for some
colored boy who will carry it for me."

"Who is it to?" she asked.

"Miss March," was his answer.

"Let me see it," said Annie.

At this, Lawrence looked at her with wide-open eyes, and then he
laughed. Never, since he had been a child, had there been any one who
would have thought of such a thing as asking to see a private letter
which he had written to some one else; and that this young girl should
stand up before him with her straightforward expectant gaze and make
such a request of him, in the first instance, amused him.

"You don't mean to say," she added, "that you would write anything to
Miss March which you would not let me see."

"This letter," said Lawrence, "was written for Miss March, and no one
else. It is simply the winding up of that old affair."

"Give it to me," said Annie, "and let me see how you wound it up."

Lawrence smiled, looked at her in silence for a moment, and then
handed her the letter.

"I don't want you to think," she said, as she took it, "that I am
going to ask you to show me all the letters you write. But when you
write one to a lady like Miss March, I want to know what you say to
her." And then she read the letter. When she had finished, she turned
to Lawrence, and with her countenance full of amazement, exclaimed: "I
haven't the least idea in the world what all this means! What message
did she send you? And why should you meet her under a tree?"

These questions went so straight to the core of the affair, and were
so peculiarly difficult to answer, that Lawrence, for the moment,
found himself in the very unusual position of not knowing what to say,
but he presently remarked: "Do you think it is of any advantage to
either of us to talk over this affair, which is now past and gone?"

"I don't want to talk over any of it," said Annie, very promptly,
"except the part of it which is referred to in this letter; but I want
to know about that."

"That covers the most important part of it," said Lawrence.

"Very good," she answered, "and so you can tell it to me. And now,
that I think of it, you can tell me, at the same time, why you wanted
to find my cousin Junius. You refused once to tell me that, you know."

"I remember," said Lawrence. "And if you have the least feeling about
it I will relate the whole affair, from beginning to end."

"That, perhaps, will be the best thing to do, after all," said Annie.
"And suppose we take a walk over the fields, and then you can tell it
without being interrupted."

But Lawrence did not feel that his ankle would allow him to accept
this invitation, for it had hurt him a good deal since his walk to
Aunt Patsy's cabin. He said so to Annie, and excited in her the
deepest feelings of commiseration.

"You must take no more walks of any length," she exclaimed, "until you
are quite, quite well! It was my fault that you took that tramp to
Aunt Patsy's. I ought to have known better. But then," she said,
looking up at him, "you were not under my charge. I shall take very
good care of you now."

"For my part," he said, "I am glad I have this little relapse, for now
I can stay here longer."

"I am very, very sorry for the relapse," said she, "but awfully glad
for the stay. And you mustn't stand another minute. Let us go and sit
in the arbor. The sun is shining straight into it, and that will make
it all the more comfortable, while you are telling me about those
things."

They sat down in the arbor, and Lawrence told Annie the whole history
of his affair with Miss March, from the beginning to the end; that is
if the end had been reached; although he intimated to her no doubt
upon this point. This avowal he had never expected to make. In fact
he had never contemplated its possibility. But now he felt a certain
satisfaction in telling it. Every item, as it was related, seemed
thrown aside forever. "And now then, my dear Annie," he said, when he
had finished, "what do you think of all that?"

"Well," she said, "in the first place, I am still more of the opinion
than I was before, that you never were really in love with her. You
did entirely too much planning, and investigating, and calculating;
and when, at last, you did come to the conclusion to propose to her,
you did not do it so much of your own accord, as because you found
that another man would be likely to get her, if you did not make a
pretty quick move yourself. And as to that acceptance, I don't think
anything of it at all. I believe she was very angry at Junius because
he consented to bring your messages, when he ought to have been his
own messenger, and that she gave him that answer just to rack his soul
with agony. I don't believe she ever dreamed that he would take it to
you. And, to tell the simple truth, I believe, from what I saw of her
that morning, that she was thinking very little of you, and a great
deal of him. To be sure, she was fiery angry with him, but it is
better to be that way with a lover, than to pay no attention to him at
all."

This was a view of the case which had never struck Lawrence before,
and although it was not very flattering to him, it was very
comforting. He felt that it was extremely likely that this young woman
had been able to truthfully divine, in a case in which he had failed,
the motives of another young woman. Here was a further reason for
congratulating himself that he had not written to Miss March.

"And as to the last part of the letter," said Annie, "you are not
going under any cherry tree, or sycamore either, to be refused by her.
What she said to you was quite enough for a final answer, without any
signing or sealing under trees, or anywhere else. I think the best
thing that can be done with this precious epistle is to tear it up."

Lawrence was amused by the piquant earnestness of this decision. "But
what am I to do," he asked, "I can't let the matter rest in this
unfinished and unsatisfactory condition."

"You might write to her," said Annie, "and tell her that you have
accepted what she said to you on Pine Top Hill as a conclusive answer,
and that you now take back everything you ever said on the subject
you talked of that day. And do you think it would be well to put in
anything about your being otherwise engaged?"

At this Lawrence laughed. "I think that expression would hardly
answer," he said, "but I will write another note, and we shall see how
you like it."

"That will be very well," said the happy Annie, "and if I were you I'd
make it as gentle as I could. It's of no use to hurt her feelings."

"Oh, I don't want to do that," said Lawrence, "and now that we have
the opportunity, let us consider the question of informing your aunt
of our engagement."

"Oh dear, dear, dear!" said Annie, "that is a great deal worse than
informing Miss March that you don't want to be engaged to her."

"That is true," said Lawrence. "It is not by any means an easy piece
of business. But we might as well look it square in the face, and
determine what is to be done about it."

"It is simple enough, just as we look at it," said Annie. "All we have
to do, is to say that, knowing that Aunt Keswick had written to my
father that she was determined to make a match between cousin Junius
and me, I was afraid to come down here without putting up some
insurmountable obstacle between me and a man that I had not seen since
I was a little girl. Of course I would say, very decidedly, that I
wouldn't have married him if I hadn't wanted to; but then, considering
Aunt Keswick's very open way of carrying out her plans, it would have
been very unpleasant, and indeed impossible for me to be in the house
with him unless she saw that there was no hope of a marriage between
us; and for this reason I took the name of Mrs Null, or Mrs Nothing;
and came down here, secure under the protection of a husband who
never existed. And then, we could say that you and I were a good deal
together, and that, although you had supposed, when you came here,
that you were in love with Miss March, you had discovered that this
was a mistake, and that afterwards we fell in love with each other,
and are now engaged. That would be a straightforward statement of
everything, just as it happened; but the great trouble is: How are we
going to tell it to Aunt Keswick?"

"You are right," said Lawrence. "How are we going to tell it?"

"It need not be told!" thundered a strong voice close to their ears.
And then there was a noise of breaking lattice-work and cracking
vines, and through the back part of the arbor came an old woman
wearing a purple sun-bonnet, and beating down all obstacles before
her with a great purple umbrella. "You needn't tell it!" cried Mrs
Keswick, standing in the middle of the arbor, her eyes glistening, her
form trembling, and her umbrella quivering in the air. "You needn't
tell it! It's told!"

Graphic and vivid descriptions have been written of those furious
storms of devastating wind and deluging rain, which suddenly sweep
away the beauty of some fair tropical scene; and we have read, too, of
dreadful cyclones and tornadoes, which rush, in mad rage, over land
and sea, burying great ships in a vast tumult of frenzied waves, or
crushing to the earth forests, buildings, everything that may lie in
their awful paths; but no description could be written which could
give an adequate idea of the storm which now burst upon Lawrence and
Annie. The old lady had seen these two standing together in the yard,
conversing most earnestly. She had then seen Annie read a letter
that Lawrence gave her; and then she had perceived the two, in close
converse, enter the arbor, and sit down together without the slightest
regard for the rights of Mr Null.

Mrs Keswick looked upon all this as somewhat more out-of-the-way than
the usual proceedings of these young people, and there came into her
mind a curiosity to know what they were saying to each other. So she
immediately repaired to the large garden, and quietly made her way to
the back of the arbor, in which advantageous position she heard the
whole of Lawrence's story of his love-affair with Miss March; Annie's
remarks upon the same, and the facts of this young lady's proposed
confession in regard to her marriage with Mr Null, and her engagement
to Mr Croft.

Then she burst in upon them; the tornado and the cyclone raged; the
thunder rolled and crashed; and the white lightning of her wrath
flashed upon the two, as if it would scathe and annihilate them, as
they stood before her. Neither of them had ever known or imagined
anything like this. It had been long since Mrs Keswick had had an
opportunity of exercising that power of vituperative torment, which
had driven a husband to the refuge of a reverted pistol; which had
banished, for life, relatives and friends; and which, in the shape of
a promissory curse, had held apart those who would have been husband
and wife; and now, like the long stored up venom of a serpent, it
burst out with the direful force given by concentration and retention.

At the first outburst, Annie had turned pale and shrunk back, but now
she clung to the side of Lawrence, who, although his face was somewhat
blanched and his form trembled a little with excitement, still stood
up bravely, and endeavored, but ineffectually, to force upon the old
lady's attention a denial of her bitter accusations. With face almost
as purple as the bonnet she wore, or the umbrella she shook in
the air, the old lady first addressed her niece. With scorn and
condemnation she spoke of the deceit which the young girl had
practised upon her. But this part of the exercises was soon over. She
seemed to think that although nothing could be viler than Annie's
conduct towards her, still the fact that Mr Null no longer existed,
put Annie again within her grasp and control, and made it unnecessary
to say much to her on this occasion. It was upon Lawrence that the
main cataract of her fury poured. It would be wrong to say that she
could not find words to express her ire towards him. She found plenty
of them, and used them all. He had deceived her most abominably; he
had come there, the expressed and avowed lover of Miss March; he had
connived with her niece in her deceit; he had taken advantage of all
the opportunities she gave him to attain the legitimate object of his
visit, to inveigle into his snares this silly and absurd young woman;
and he had dared to interfere with the plans, which, by day and by
night, she had been maturing for years. In vain did Lawrence endeavor
to answer or explain. She stopped not, nor listened to one word.