"And you need not imagine," she screamed at him, "that you are going
to turn round, when you like, and marry anybody you please. You are
engaged, body and soul, to Roberta March, and have no right, by laws
of man or heaven, to marry anybody else. If you breathe a word of love
to any other woman it makes you a vile criminal in the eyes of the
law, and renders you liable to prosecution, sir. Your affianced bride
knows nothing of what her double-faced snake of a lover is doing here,
but she shall know speedily. That is a matter which I take into my own
hands. Out of my way, both of you!"

And with these words she charged by them, and rushed out of the arbor,
and into the house.




CHAPTER XXVII.


They were not a happy pair, Lawrence Croft and Annie Peyton, as they
stood together in the arbor, after old Mrs Keswick had left them. They
were both a good deal shaken by the storm they had passed through.

"Lawrence," said Annie, looking up to him with her large eyes full of
earnestness, "there surely is no truth in what she said about your
being legally bound to Miss March?"

"None in the least," said Lawrence. "No man, under the circumstances,
would consider himself engaged to a woman. At any rate, there is
one thing which I wish you to understand, and that is that I am not
engaged to Miss March, and that I am engaged to you. No matter what is
said or done, you and I belong to each other."

Annie made no answer, but she pressed his hand tightly as she looked
up into his face. He kissed her as she stood, notwithstanding his
belief that old Mrs Keswick was fully capable of bounding down on him,
umbrella in hand, from an upper window.

"What do you think she is going to do?" Annie asked presently.

"My dear Annie," said he, "I do not believe that there is a person on
earth who could divine what your Aunt Keswick is going to do. As to
that, we must simply wait and see. But, for my part, I know what I
must do. I must write a letter to Miss March, and inform her, plainly
and definitely, that I have ceased to be a suitor for her hand. I
think also that it will be well to let her know that we are engaged?"

"Yes," said Annie, "for she will be sure to hear it now. But she will
think it is a very prompt proceeding."

"That's exactly what it was," said Lawrence, smiling, "prompt and
determined. There was no doubt or indecision about any part of our
affair, was there, little one?"

"Not a bit of it," said Annie, proudly.

At dinner that day Annie took her place at one end of the table,
and Lawrence his at the other, but the old lady did not make her
appearance. She was so erratic in her goings and comings, and had so
often told them they must never wait for her, that Annie cut the ham,
and Lawrence carved the fowl, and the meal proceeded without her. But
while they were eating Mrs Keswick was heard coming down stairs from
her room, the front door was opened and slammed violently, and from
the dining-room windows they saw her go down the steps, across the
yard, and out of the gate.

"I do hope," ejaculated Annie, "that she has not gone away to stay!"

If Annie had remembered that the boy Plez, in a clean jacket and long
white apron, officiated as waiter, she would not have said this, but
then she would have lost some information. "Ole miss not gone to
stay," he said, with the license of an untrained retainer. "She gone
to Howlettses, an' she done tole Aun' Letty she'll be back agin dis
ebenin'."

"If Aunt Keswick don't come back," said Annie, when the two were in
the parlor after dinner, "I shall go after her. I don't intend to
drive her out of the house."

"Don't you trouble yourself about that, my dear," said Lawrence. "She
is too angry not to come back."

"There is one thing," said Annie, after a while, "that we really ought
to do. To-morrow Aunt Patsy is to be buried, and before she is put
into the ground, those little shoes should be returned to Aunt
Keswick. It seems to me that justice to poor Aunt Patsy requires that
this should be done. Perhaps now she knows how wicked it was to steal
them."

"Yes," said Lawrence, "I think it would be well to put them back where
they belong; but how can you manage it?"

"If you will give them to me," said Annie, "I will go up to aunt's
room, now that she is away, and if she keeps the box in the same place
where it used to be, I'll slip them into it. I hate dreadfully to do
it, but I really feel that it is a duty."

When Lawrence, with some little difficulty, walked across the yard to
get the shoes from his trunk, Annie ran after him, and waited at the
office door. "You must not take a step more than necessary," she said,
"and so I won't make you come back to the house."

When Lawrence gave her the shoes, and her hand a little squeeze at the
same time, he told her that he should sit down immediately and write
his letter.

"And I," said Annie, "will go, and see what I can do with these."

With the shoes in her pocket, she went up stairs into her aunt's room,
and, after looking around hastily, as if to see that the old lady had
not left the ghost of herself in charge, she approached the closet in
which the sacred pasteboard box had always been kept. But the closet
was locked. Turning away she looked about the room. There was no other
place in which there was any probability that the box would be kept.
Then she became nervous; she fancied she heard the click of the yard
gate; she would not for anything have her aunt catch her in that room;
nor would she take the shoes away with her. Hastily placing them upon
a table she slipped out, and hurried into her own room.

It was about an hour after this, that Mrs Keswick came rapidly up the
steps of the front porch. She had been to Howlett's to carry a letter
which she had written to Miss March, and had there made arrangements
to have that letter taken to Midbranch very early the next morning.
She had wished to find some one who would start immediately, but as
there was no moon, and as the messenger would arrive after the family
were all in bed, she had been obliged to abandon this more energetic
line of action. But the letter would get there soon enough; and if it
did not bring down retribution on the head of the man who lodged in
her office, and who, she said to herself, had worked himself into her
plans, like the rot in a field of potatoes, she would ever after admit
that she did not know how to write a letter. All the way home she had
conned over her method of action until Mr Brandon, or a letter, should
come from Midbranch.

She had already attacked, together, the unprincipled pair who found
shelter in her house, and she now determined to come upon them
separately, and torment each soul by itself. Annie, of course, would
come in for the lesser share of the punishment, for the fact that
the wretched and depraved Null was no more, had, in a great measure,
mitigated her offence. She was safe, and her aunt intended to hold her
fast, and do with her as she would, when the time and Junius came. But
upon Lawrence she would have no mercy. When she had delivered him into
the hands of Mr Brandon, or those of Roberta's father, or the clutches
of the law, she would have nothing more to do with him, but until that
time she would make him bewail the day when he deceived and imposed
upon her by causing her to believe that he was in love with another
when he was, in reality, trying to get possession of her niece. There
were a great many things which she had not thought to say to him in
the arbor, but she would pour the whole hot mass upon his head that
evening.

Stamping up the stairs, and thumping her umbrella upon every step as
she went, hot vengeance breathing from between her parted lips, and
her eyes flashing with the delight of prospective fury, she entered
her room. The light of the afternoon had but just begun to wane, and
she had not made three steps into the apartment, before her eyes fell
upon a pair of faded, light blue shoes, which stood side by side upon
a table. She stopped suddenly, and stood, pale and rigid. Her grasp
upon her umbrella loosened, and, unnoticed, it fell upon the floor.
Then, her eyes still fixed upon the shoes, she moved slowly sidewise
towards the closet. She tried the door, and found it still locked;
then she put her hand in her pocket, drew out the key, looked at it,
and dropped it. With faltering steps she drew near the table, and
stood supporting herself by the back of a chair. Any one else would
have seen upon that table merely a pair of baby's shoes; but she saw
more. She saw the tops of the little socks which she had folded away
for the last time so many years before; she saw the first short dress
her child had ever worn; it was tied up with pink ribbons at the
shoulders, from which hung two white, plump, little arms. There was a
little neck, around which was a double string of coral fastened by a
small gold clasp. Above this was a face, a baby face, with soft, pale
eyes, and its head covered with curls of the lightest yellow, not
arranged in artistic negligence, but smooth, even, and regular, as she
so often had turned, twisted, and set them. It was indeed her baby
girl who had come to her as clear and vivid in every feature, limb,
and garment, as were the real shoes upon the table. For many minutes
she stood, her eyes fixed upon the little apparition, then, slowly,
she sank upon her knees by the chair, her sun-bonnet, which she had
not removed, was bowed, so the pale eyes of the little one could not
see her face, and from her own eyes came the first tears that that old
woman had shed since her baby's clothes had been put away in the box.

       *       *       *       *       *

Lawrence's letter to Miss March was a definitely expressed document,
intended to cover all the ground necessary, and no more; but it could
not be said that it was entirely satisfactory to himself. His case, to
say the least of it, was a difficult one to defend. He was aware that
his course might be looked upon by others as dishonorable, although he
assured himself that he had acted justly. It might have been better
to wait for a positive declaration from Miss March, that she had not
truly accepted him, before engaging himself to another lady. But then,
he said to himself, true love never waits for anything. At all events,
he could write no better letter than the one he had produced, and he
hoped he should have an opportunity to show it to Annie before he sent
it.

He need not have troubled himself in this regard, for he and Annie
were not disturbed during the rest of that day by the appearance
of Mrs Keswick; but after the letter had been duly considered and
approved, he found it difficult to obtain a messenger. There was no
one on the place who would undertake to walk to Midbranch, and he
could not take the liberty of using Mrs Keswick's horse for the trip,
so it was found necessary to wait until the morrow, when the letter
could be taken to Howlett's, where, if no one could be found to carry
it immediately, it would have to be entrusted to the mail which went
out the next day. Lawrence, of course, knew nothing of Mrs Keswick's
message to Midbranch, or he would have been still more desirous that
his letter should be promptly dispatched.

The evening was not a very pleasant one; the lovers did not know at
what moment the old lady might descend upon them, and the element of
unpleasant expectancy which pervaded the atmosphere of the house was
somewhat depressing. They talked a good deal of the probabilities of
Mrs Keswick's action. Lawrence expected that she would order him away,
although Annie had stoutly maintained that her aunt would have no
right to do this, as he was not in a condition to travel. This
argument, however, made little impression upon Lawrence, who was not
the man to stay in any house where he was not wanted; besides, he knew
very well that for any one to stay in Mrs Keswick's house when she did
not want him, would be an impossibility. But he did not intend to slip
away in any cowardly manner, and leave Annie to bear alone the brunt
of the second storm. He felt sure that such a storm was impending, and
he was also quite certain that its greatest violence would break upon
him. He would stay, therefore, and meet the old lady when she next
descended upon them, and, before he went away, he would endeavor to
utter some words in defence of himself and Annie.

They separated early, and a good deal of thinking was done by them
before they went to sleep.

The next morning they had only each other for company at breakfast,
but they had just risen from that meal when they were startled by the
entrance of Mrs Keswick. Having expected her appearance during the
whole of the time they were eating, they had no reason to be startled
by her coming now, but for their subsequent amazement at her
appearance and demeanor, they had every reason in the world. Her face
was pale and grave, with an air of rigidity about it, which was
not common to her, for, in general, she possessed a very mobile
countenance. Without speaking a word, she advanced towards Lawrence,
and extended her hand to him. He was so much surprised that while he
took her hand in his he could only murmur some unintelligible form of
morning salutation. Then Mrs Keswick turned to Annie, and shook hands
with her. The young girl grew pale, but said not a word, but some
tears came into her eyes, although why this happened she could not
have explained to herself. Having finished this little performance,
the old lady walked to the back window, and looked out into the flower
garden, although there was really nothing there to see. Now Annie
found voice to ask her aunt if she would not have some breakfast.

"No," said Mrs Keswick, "my breakfast was brought up-stairs to me."
And with that she turned and went out of the room. She closed the door
behind her, but scarcely had she done so, when she opened it again
and looked in. It was quite plain, to the two silent and astonished
observers of her actions, that she was engaged in the occupation, very
unusual with her, of controlling an excited condition of mind. She
looked first at one, and then at the other, and then she said, in a
voice which seemed to meet with occasional obstructions in its course:
"I have nothing more to say about anything. Do just what you please,
only don't talk to me about it." And she closed the door.

"What is the meaning of all this?" said Lawrence, advancing towards
Annie. "What has come over her?"

"I am sure I don't know," said Annie, and with this she burst into
tears, and cried as she would have scorned to cry, during the terrible
storm of the day before.

That morning, Lawrence Croft was a very much puzzled man. What had
happened to Mrs Keswick he could not divine, and at times he imagined
that her changed demeanor was perhaps nothing but an artful cover to
some new and more ruthless attack.

Annie took occasion to be with her aunt a good deal during the
morning, but she reported to Lawrence that the old lady had said very
little, and that little related entirely to household affairs.

Mrs Keswick ate dinner with them. Her manner was grave, and even
stern; but she made a few remarks in regard to the weather and some
neighborhood matters; and before the end of the meal both Lawrence and
Annie fancied that they could see some little signs of a return to her
usual humor, which was pleasant enough when nothing happened to make
it otherwise. But expectations of an early return to her ordinary
manner of life were fallacious; she did not appear at supper; and she
spent the evening in her own room. Lawrence and Annie had thus ample
opportunity to discuss this novel and most unexpected state of
affairs. They did not understand it, but it could not fail to cheer
and encourage them. Only one thing they decided upon, and that was
that Lawrence could not go away until he had had an opportunity of
fully comprehending the position, in relation to Mrs Keswick, in which
he and Annie stood.

About the middle of the evening, as Lawrence was thinking that it was
time for him to retire to his room in the little house in the yard,
Letty came in with a letter which she said had been brought from
Midbranch by a colored man on a horse; the man had said there was no
answer, and had gone back to Howlett's, where he belonged.

The letter was for Mr Croft and from Miss March. Very much surprised
at receiving such a missive, Lawrence opened the envelope. His letter
to Miss March had not yet been sent, for the new state of affairs had
not only very much occupied his mind, but it also seemed to render
unnecessary any haste in the matter, and he had concluded to mail the
letter the next day. This, therefore, was not in answer to anything
from him; and why should she have written?

It was with a decidedly uneasy sensation that Lawrence began to read
the letter, Annie watching him anxiously as he did so. The letter was
a somewhat long one, and the purport of it was as follows: The writer
stated that, having received a most extraordinary and astounding
epistle from old Mrs Keswick, which had been sent by a special
messenger, she had thought it her duty to write immediately on the
subject to Mr Croft, and had detained the man that she might send this
letter by him. She did not pretend to understand the full purport of
what Mrs Keswick had written, but it was evident that the old lady
believed that an engagement of marriage existed between herself (Miss
March) and Mr Croft. That that gentleman had given such information
to Mrs Keswick she could hardly suppose, but, if he had, it must have
been in consequence of a message which, very much to her surprise and
grief, had been delivered to Mr Croft by Mr Keswick. In order that
this message might be understood, Miss March had determined to make a
full explanation of her line of conduct towards Mr Croft.

During the latter part of their pleasant intercourse at Midbranch
during the past summer, she had reason to believe that Mr Croft's
intentions in regard to her were becoming serious, but she had also
perceived that his impulses, however earnest they might have been,
were controlled by an extraordinary caution and prudence, which,
although it sometimes amused her, was not in the least degree
complimentary to her. She could not prevent herself from resenting
this somewhat peculiar action of Mr Croft, and this resentment grew
into a desire, which gradually became a very strong one, that she
might have an opportunity of declining a proposal from him. That
opportunity came while they were both at Mrs Keswick's, and she had
intended that what she said at her last interview with Mr Croft should
be considered a definite refusal of his suit, but the interview had
terminated before she had stated her mind quite as plainly as she had
purposed doing. She had not, however, wished to renew the conversation
on the subject, and had concluded to content herself with what she had
already said; feeling quite sure that her words had been sufficient
to satisfy Mr Croft that it would be useless to make any further
proposals.

When, on the eve of her departure from the house, Mr Keswick had
brought her Mr Croft's message, she was not only amazed, but
indignant; not so much at Mr Croft for sending it, as at Mr Keswick
for bringing it. Miss March was not ashamed to confess that she was
irritated and incensed to a high degree that a gentleman who had held
the position towards her that Mr Keswick had held, should bring her
such a message from another man. She was, therefore, seized with a
sudden impulse to punish him, and, without in the least expecting that
he would carry such an answer, she had given him the one which he had
taken to Mr Croft. Having, until the day on which she was writing,
heard nothing further on the subject, she had supposed that her
expectations had been realized. But on this day the astonishing letter
from Mrs Keswick had arrived, and it made her understand that not
only had her impulsive answer been delivered, but that Mr Croft
had informed other persons that he had been accepted. She wished,
therefore, to lose no time in stating to Mr Croft that what she had
said to him, with her own lips, was to be received as her final
resolve; and that the answer given to Mr Keswick was not intended for
Mr Croft's ears.

Miss March then went on to say that it might be possible that she owed
Mr Croft an apology for the somewhat ungracious manner in which she
had treated him at Mrs Keswick's house; but she assured herself
that Mr Croft owed her an apology, not only for the manner of his
attentions, but for the peculiar publicity he had given them. In that
case the apologies neutralized each other. Miss March had no intention
of answering Mrs Keswick's letter. Under no circumstances could
she have considered, for a moment, its absurd suggestions and
recommendations; and it contained allusions to Mr Croft and another
person which, if not founded upon the imagination of Mrs Keswick,
certainly concerned nothing with which Miss March had anything to do.

The proud spirit of Lawrence Croft was a good deal ruffled when he
read this letter, but he made no remark about it. "Would you like to
read it?" he said to Annie.

She greatly desired to read it, but there was something in her lover's
face, and in the tone in which he spoke, which made her suspect that
the reading of that letter might be, in some degree, humiliating to
him. She was certain, from the expression of his face as he read it,
that the letter contained matter very unpleasant to Lawrence, and it
might be that it would wound him to have another person, especially
herself, read them; and so she said: "I don't care to read it if you
will tell me why she wrote to you, and the point of what she says."

"Thank you," said Lawrence. And he crumpled the letter in his hand as
he spoke. "She wrote," he continued, "in consequence of a letter she
has had from your aunt."

"What!" exclaimed Annie. "Did Aunt Keswick write to her?"

"Yes," said Lawrence, "and sent it by a special messenger. She must
have told her all the heinous crimes with which she charged you and
me, particularly me; and this must have been the first intimation to
Miss March that her cousin had given me the answer she made to him;
therefore Miss March writes in haste to let me know that she did not
intend that that answer should be given to me, and that she wishes it
generally understood that I have no more connection with her than I
have with the Queen of Spain. That is the sum and substance of the
letter."

"I knew as well as I know anything in the world," said Annie, "that
that message Junius brought you meant nothing." And, taking the
crumpled letter from his hand, she threw it on the few embers that
remained in the fireplace; and, as it blazed and crumbled into black
ashes, she said: "Now that is the end of Roberta March!"

"Yes," said Lawrence, emphasizing his remark with an encircling arm,
"so far as we are concerned, that is the end of her."




CHAPTER XXVIII.


On the next day, old Aunt Patsy was buried. Mrs Keswick and Annie
attended the ceremonies in the cabin, but they did not go to the
burial. After a time, it might be in a week or two, or it might be in
a year, the funeral sermon would be preached in the church, and they
would go to hear that. Aunt Patsy never finished her crazy quilt,
several pieces being wanted to one corner of it; but in the few days
preceding her burial two old women of the congregation, with trembling
hands and uncertain eyes, sewed in these pieces, and finished the
quilt, in which the body of the venerable sister was wrapped,
according to her well-known wish and desire. It is customary among the
negroes to keep the remains of their friends a very short time after
death, but Aunt Patsy had lived so long upon this earth that it was
generally conceded that her spirit would not object to her body
remaining above ground until all necessary arrangements should be
completed, and until all people who had known or heard of her had had
an opportunity of taking a last look at her. As she had been so very
well known to almost everybody's grandparents, a good many people
availed themselves of this privilege.

After Mrs Keswick's return from Aunt Patsy's cabin, where, according
to her custom, she made herself very prominent, it was noticeable that
she had dropped some of the grave reserve in which she had wrapped
herself during the preceding day. It was impossible for her, at least
but for a very short time, to act in a manner unsuited to her nature;
and reserve and constraint had never been suited to her nature. She,
therefore, began to speak on general subjects in her ordinary free
manner to the various persons in her house; but it must not be
supposed that she exhibited any contrition for the outrageous way in
which she had spoken to Annie and Lawrence, or gave them any reason
to suppose that the laceration of their souls on that occasion was a
matter which, at present, needed any consideration whatever from her.
An angel, born of memory and imagination, might come to her from
heaven, and so work upon her superstitious feelings as to induce her
to stop short in her course of reckless vengeance; but she would not,
on that account, fall upon anybody's neck, or ask forgiveness for
anything she had done to anybody. She did not accuse herself, nor
repent; she only stopped. "After this," she said, "you all can do as
you please. I have no further concern with your affairs. Only don't
talk to me about them."

She told Lawrence, in a manner that would seem to indicate a moderate,
but courteous, interest in his welfare, that he must not think of
leaving her house until his ankle had fully recovered its strength;
and she even went so far as to suggest the use of a patent lotion
which she had seen at the store at Howlett's. She resumed her former
intercourse with Annie, but it seemed impossible for her to entirely
forget the deception which that young lady had practised upon her. The
only indication, however, of this resentment was the appellation which
she now bestowed upon her niece. In speaking of her to Lawrence, or
any of the household, she invariably called her "the late Mrs Null,"
and this title so pleased the old lady that she soon began to use it
in addressing her niece. Annie occasionally remonstrated in a manner
which seemed half playful, but was in fact quite earnest, but her aunt
paid no manner of attention to her words, and continued to please
herself by this half-sarcastic method of alluding to her niece's
fictitious matrimonial state.

Letty, and the other servants, were at first much astonished by the
new title given to Miss Annie, and the only way in which they could
explain it was by supposing that Mr Null had gone off somewhere and
died; and although they could not understand why Miss Annie should
show so little grief in the matter, and why she had not put on
mourning, they imagined that these were customs which she had learned
in the North.

Lawrence advised Annie to pay no attention to this whim of her aunt.
"It don't hurt either of us," he said, "and we ought to be very glad
that she has let us off so easily. But there is one thing I think you
ought to do; you should write to your cousin Junius, and tell him of
our engagement; but I would not refer at all to the other matter; you
are not supposed to have anything to do with it, and Miss March can
tell him as much about it as she chooses, Mr Keswick wrote me that he
was going to Midbranch, and that he would communicate with me while
there, but, as I have not since heard from him, I presume he is still
in Washington."

A letter was, therefore, written by Annie, and addressed to Junius,
in Washington, and Lawrence drove her to the railroad station in the
spring-wagon, where it was posted. The family mail came bi-weekly to
Howlett's, as the post-office at the railroad station was entirely too
distant for convenience; and as Saturday approached it was evident,
from Mrs Keswick's occasional remarks and questions, that she expected
a letter. It was quite natural for Lawrence and Annie to surmise that
this letter was expected from Miss March, for Mrs Keswick had not
heard of any rejoinder having been made to her epistle to that lady.
When, late on Saturday afternoon, the boy Plez returned from
Howlett's, Mrs Keswick eagerly took from him the well-worn
letter-bag, and looked over its contents. There was a letter for her
and from Midbranch, but the address was written by Junius, not by Miss
March. There was another in the same hand-writing for Annie. As
the old lady looked at the address on her letter, and then on its
post-mark, she was evidently disappointed and displeased, but she said
nothing, and went away with it to her room. Annie's letter was in
answer to the one she had sent to Washington, which had been promptly
forwarded to Midbranch where Junius had been for some days. It began
by expressing much surprise at the information his cousin had given
him in regard to her assumption of a married title, and although she
had assured him she had very good reasons, he could not admit that it
was right and proper for her to deceive his aunt and himself in this
way. If it were indeed necessary that other persons should suppose
that she were a married woman, her nearest relatives, at least, should
have been told the truth.

At this passage, Annie, who was reading the letter aloud, and Lawrence
who was listening, both laughed. But they made no remarks, and the
reading proceeded.

Junius next alluded to the news of his cousin's engagement to Mr
Croft. His guarded remarks on this subject showed the kindness of his
heart. He did not allude to the suddenness of the engagement, nor to
the very peculiar events that had so recently preceded it; but reading
between the lines, both Annie and Lawrence thought that the writer had
probably given these points a good deal of consideration. In a general
way, however, it was impossible for him to see any objection to such
a match for his cousin, and this was the impression he endeavored to
give in a very kindly way, in his congratulations. But, even here,
there seemed to be indications of a hope, on the part of the writer,
that Mr Croft would not see fit to make another short tack in his
course of love.

Like the polite gentleman he was, Mr Keswick allowed his own affairs
to come in at the end of the letter. Here he informed his cousin that
his engagement with Miss March had been renewed, and that they were to
be married shortly after Christmas. As it must have been very plain to
those who were present when Miss March left his aunt's house, that she
left in anger with him, he felt impelled to say that he had explained
to her the course of action to which she had taken exception, and
although she had not admitted that that course had been a justifiable
one, she had forgiven him. He wished also to say at this point that
he, himself, was not at all proud of what he had done.

"That was intended for me," interrupted Lawrence.

"Well, if you understand it, it is all right," said Annie.

Junius went on to say that the renewal of his engagement was due, in
great part, to Miss March's visit to his aunt; and to a letter she had
received from her. A few days of intercourse with Mrs Keswick, whom
she had never before seen, and the tenor and purpose of that letter,
had persuaded Miss March that his aunt was a person whose mind had
passed into a condition when its opposition or its action ought not to
be considered by persons who were intent upon their own welfare. His
own arrival at Midbranch, at this juncture, had resulted in the happy
renewal of their engagement.

"I don't know Junius half as well as I wish I did," said Annie, as she
finished the letter, "but I am very sure, indeed, that he will make
a good husband, and I am glad he has got Roberta March--as he wants
her."

"Did you emphasize 'he'?" asked Lawrence.

"I will emphasize it, if you would like to hear me do it," said she.

"It's very queer," remarked Annie, after a little pause, "that
I should have been so anxious to preserve poor Junius from your
clutches, and that, after all I did to save him, I should fall into
those clutches myself."

Whereupon Lawrence, much to her delight, told her the story of the
anti-detective.

Mrs Keswick sat down in her room, and read her letter. She had no
intention of abandoning her resolution to let things go as they would;
and, therefore, did not expect to follow up, with further words or
actions, anything she had written in her letter to Roberta March. But
she had had a very strong curiosity to know what that lady would say
in answer to said letter, and she was therefore disappointed and
displeased that the missive she had received was from her nephew, and
not from Miss March. She did not wish to have a letter from Junius.
She knew, or rather very much feared, that it would contain news which
would be bad news to her, and although she was sure that such news
would come to her sooner or later, she was very much averse to
receiving it.

His letter to her merely touched upon the points of Mrs Null, and his
cousin's engagement to Mr Croft; but it was almost entirely filled
with the announcement, and most earnest defence, of his own engagement
to Roberta March. He said a great deal upon this subject, and he said
it well. But it is doubtful if his fervid, and often affectionate,
expressions made much impression upon his aunt. Nothing could make the
old lady like this engagement, but she had made up her mind that he
might do as he pleased, and it didn't matter what he said about it; he
had done it, and there was an end of it.

But there was one thing that did matter: That unprincipled and
iniquitous old man Brandon had had his own way at last; and she and
her way had been set aside. This was the last of a series of injuries
to her and her family with which she charged Mr Brandon and his
family; but it was the crowning wrong. The injury itself she did not
so much deplore, as that the injurer would profit by it. Arrested
in her course of raging passion by a sudden flood of warm and
irresistible emotion, she had resigned, as impetuously as she had
taken them up, her purposes of vengeance, and consequently, her plans
for her nephew and niece. But she was a keen-minded, as well as
passionate old woman, and when she had considered the altered state
of affairs, she was able to see in it advantages as well as
disappointment and defeat. From what she had learned of Lawrence
Croft's circumstances and position, and she had made a good many
inquiries on this subject of Roberta March, he was certainly a good
match for Annie; and, although she hated to have anything to do with
Midbranch, it could not be a bad thing for Junius to be master of that
large estate, and that Mr Brandon had repeatedly declared he would be,
if he married Roberta. Thus, in the midst of these reverses, there was
something to comfort her, and reconcile her to them. But there was no
balm for the wound caused by Mr Brandon's success and her failure.

With the letter of Junius open in her hand, she sat, for a long time,
in bitter meditation. At length a light gradually spread itself over
her gloomy countenance. Her eyes sparkled; she sat up straight in her
chair, and a broad smile changed the course of the wrinkles on her
cheeks. She arose to her feet; she gave her head a quick jerk of
affirmation; she clapped one hand upon the other; and she said aloud:
"I will bless, not curse!"

And with that she went happy to bed.




CHAPTER XXIX.


On the following Monday, Lawrence announced that his ankle was now
quite well enough for him to go to New York, where his affairs
required his presence. Neither he, nor the late Mrs Null, regarded
this parting with any satisfaction, but their very natural regrets at
the necessary termination of these happy autumn days were a good deal
tempered by the fact that Lawrence intended to return in a few weeks,
and that then the final arrangements would be made for their marriage.
It was not easy to decide what these arrangements would be, for in
spite of the many wrongnesses of the old lady's head and heart, Annie
had conceived a good deal of affection for her aunt, and felt a strong
disinclination to abandon her to her lonely life, which would be more
lonely than before, now that Junius was to be married. On the other
hand, Lawrence, although he had discovered some estimable points in
the very peculiar character of Mrs Keswick, had no intention of living
in the same house with her. This whole matter, therefore, was left in
abeyance until the lovers should meet again, some time in December.

Lawrence and Annie had desired very much that Junius should visit them
before Mr Croft's departure for the North, for they both had a high
esteem for him, and both felt a desire that he should be as well
satisfied with their matrimonial project as they were with his. But
they need not have expected him. Junius had conceived a dislike for Mr
Croft, which was based in great part upon disapprobation of what he
himself had done in connection with that gentleman; and this manner
of dislike is not easily set aside. The time would come when he would
take Lawrence Croft and Annie by the hand, and honestly congratulate
them, but for that time they must wait.

Lawrence departed in the afternoon; and the next day Mrs Keswick set
about that general renovation and rearrangement of her establishment
which many good housewives consider necessary at certain epochs, such
as the departure of guests, the coming in of spring, or the advent of
winter. These arrangements occupied two days, and on the evening that
they were finished to her satisfaction, the old lady informed her
niece, that early the next morning, she was going to start for
Midbranch, and that it was possible, nay, quite probable, that she
would stay there over a night. "I might go and come back the same
day," she said, "but thirty miles a day is too much for Billy, and
besides, I am not sure I could get through what I have to do, if I do
not stay over. I would take you with me but this is not to be a mere
visit; I have important things to attend to, and you would be in the
way. You got along so well without me when you first came here that
I have no doubt you will do very well for one night. I shall drive
myself, and take Plez along with me, and leave Uncle Isham and Letty
to take care of you."

Under ordinary circumstances Annie would have been delighted to go to
Midbranch, a place she had never seen, and of which she had heard so
much, but she had no present desire to see Roberta March, and said so;
further remarking that she was very willing to stay by herself for
a night. She hoped much that her aunt would proceed with the
conversation, and tell her why she had determined upon such an
extraordinary thing as a visit to Midbranch; where she knew the old
lady had not been for many, many years. But Mrs Keswick had nothing
further to say upon this subject, and began to talk of other matters.

After a very early breakfast next morning, Mrs Keswick set out
upon her journey, driving the sorrel horse with much steadiness,
intermingled with severity whenever he allowed himself to drop out of
his usual jogging pace. Plez sat in the back part of the spring-wagon,
and whenever the old lady saw an unusually large stone lying in the
track of the road, she would stop, and make him get out and throw it
to one side.

"I believe," she said, on one of these occasions, "that a thousand men
in buggies might pass along this road thrice a day for a year, and
never think of stopping to throw that rock out of the way of people's
wheels. They would steer around it every time, or bump over it, but
such a thing as moving it would never enter their heads."

The morning was somewhat cool, but fine, and the smile which
occasionally flitted over the corrugated countenance of Mrs Keswick
seemed to indicate that she was in a pleasant state of mind, which
might have been occasioned by the fine weather and the good condition
of the roads, or by cheerful anticipations connected with her visit.

It was not very long after noonday that, with a stifled remark of
disapprobation upon her lips, she drew up at the foot of the broad
flight of steps by which one crossed the fence into the Midbranch
yard. Giving Billy into the charge of Plez, with directions to take
him round to the stables and tell somebody to put him up and feed him,
she mounted the steps, and stopped for a minute or so on the broad
platform at the top; looking about her as she stood. Everything, the
house, the yard, the row of elms along the fence, the wide-spreading
fields, and the farm buildings and cabins, some of which she could see
around the end of the house, were all on a scale so much larger and
more imposing than those of her own little estate that, although
nothing had changed for the better since the days when she was
familiar with Midbranch, she was struck with the general superiority
of the Brandon possessions to her own. Her eyes twinkled, and she
smiled; but there did not appear to be anything envious about her.

She presented a rather remarkable figure as she stood in this
conspicuous position. Annie had insisted, when she was helping her
aunt to array herself for the journey, that she should wear a bonnet
which for many years had been her head-gear on Sundays and important
occasions, but to this the old lady positively objected. She was not
going on a mere visit of state or ceremony; her visit at Midbranch
would require her whole attention, and she did not wish to distract
her mind by wondering whether her bonnet was straight on her head or
not, and she was so unaccustomed to the feel of it that she would
never know if it got turned hind part foremost. She could never be at
her ease, nor say freely what she wished to say, if she were dressed
in clothes to which she was not accustomed. She was perfectly
accustomed to her sun-bonnet, and she intended to wear that. Of course
she carried her purple umbrella, and she wore a plain calico dress,
blue spotted with white, which was very narrow and short in the
skirt, barely touching the tops of her shoes, the stoutest and most
serviceable that could be procured in the store at Howlett's. She
covered her shoulders with a small red shawl which, much to Annie's
surprise, she fastened with a large and somewhat tarnished silver
brooch, an ornament her niece had never before seen. Attired thus, she
certainly would have attracted attention, had there been any one
there to see, but the yard was empty, and the house door closed. She
descended the steps, crossed the yard with what might be termed a
buoyant gait, and, mounting the porch, knocked on the door with the
handle of her umbrella. After some delay a colored woman appeared, and
as soon as the door was opened, Mrs Keswick walked in.

"Where is your master?" said she, forgetting all about the
Emancipation Act.

"Mahs' Robert is in the libery," said the woman.

"And where are Miss Roberta March and Master Junius Keswick?"

"Miss Rob went Norf day 'fore yestiddy," was the answer, "an' Mahs'
Junius done gone 'long to 'scort her. Who shall I tell Mahs' Robert is
come?"

"There is no need to tell him who I am," said Mrs Keswick. "Just take
me in to him. That's all you have to do."

A good deal doubtful of the propriety of this proceeding, but
more doubtful of the propriety of opposing the wishes of such a
determined-looking visitor, the woman stepped to the back part of the
hall, and opened the door. The moment she did so, Mrs Keswick entered,
and closed the door behind her.

Mr Brandon was seated in an arm chair by a table, and not very far
from a wood fire of a size suited to the season. His slippered feet
were on a cushioned stool; his eye-glasses were carefully adjusted on
the capacious bridge of his nose; and, intent upon a newspaper which
had arrived by that morning's mail, he presented the appearance of a
very well satisfied old gentleman, in very comfortable circumstances.
But when he turned his head and saw the Widow Keswick close the door
behind her, every idea of satisfaction or comfort seemed to vanish
from his mind. He dropped the paper; he rose to his feet; he took
off his eye-glasses; he turned somewhat red in the face; and he
ejaculated: "What! madam! So it is you, Mrs Keswick?"

The old lady did not immediately answer. Her head dropped a little on
one side, a broad smile bewrinkled the lower part of her well-worn
visage, and with her eyes half-closed, behind her heavy spectacles,
she held out both her hands, the purple umbrella in one of them, and
exclaimed in a voice of happy fervor: "Robert! I am yours!"

Mr Brandon, recovered from his first surprise, had made a step forward
to go round the table and greet his visitor; but at these words he
stopped as if he had been shot. Perception, understanding, and even
animation, seemed to have left him as he vacantly stared at the
elderly female with purple sun-bonnet and umbrella, blue calico gown,
red shawl and coarse boots, who held out her arms towards him, and who
gazed upon him with an air of tender, though decrepit, fondness.

"Don't you understand me, Robert?" she continued. "Don't you remember
the day, many a good long year ago, it is true, when we walked
together down there by the branch, and you asked me to be yours? I
refused you, Robert, and, although you went down on your knees in the
damp grass and besought me to give you my heart, I would not do it.
But I did not know you then as I know you now, Robert, and the words
of true love which you spoke to me that morning come to me now with
a sweetness which I was too young and trifling to notice then. That
heart is yours now, Robert. I am yours." And, with these words, she
made a step forward.

At this demonstration Mr Brandon appeared suddenly to recover his
consciousness and he precipitately made two steps backwards, just
missing tumbling over his footstool into the fireplace.

"Madam!" he exclaimed, "what are you talking about?"

"Of the days of our courtship, and your love, Robert," she said. "My
love did not come then, but it is here now. Here now," she repeated,
putting the hand with the umbrella in it on her breast.

"Madam," exclaimed the old gentleman, "you must be raving crazy! Those
things to which you allude, happened nearly half a century ago; and
since that you have been married and settled, and----"

"Robert," interrupted the Widow Keswick, "you are mistaken. It is not
quite forty-five years since that morning, and why should hearts like
ours allow the passage of time or the mere circumstance of what might
be called an outside marriage, but now extinct, to come between them?
There is many a spring, Robert, which does not show when a man first
begins to dig, but it will bubble up in time. And, Robert, it bubbles
now." And with her head bent a little downwards, although her eyes
were still fixed upon him, she made another step in his direction.

Mr Brandon now backed himself flat against some book-shelves in his
rear. The perspiration began to roll from his face, and his whole form
trembled. "Mrs Keswick! Madam!" he exclaimed, "You will drive me mad!"

The old lady dropped the end of her umbrella on the floor, rested her
two hands on the head of it, settled herself into an easy position to
speak, and, with her head thrown back, fixed a steady gaze upon the
trembling old gentleman. "Robert," she said, "do not try to crush
emotions which always were a credit to you, although in those days
gone by I didn't tell you so. Your hair was black then, Robert, and
you looked taller, for you hadn't a stoop, and your face was very
smooth, and so was mine, and I remember I had on a white dress with a
broad ribbon around the waist, and neither of us wore specs. What you
said to me was very fresh and sweet, Robert, and it all comes to me
now as it never came before. You have never loved another, Robert, and
you don't know how happy it makes me to think that, and to know that I
can come to you and find you the same true and constant lover that you
were when, forty-five years ago, you went down on your knees to me by
the branch. We can't stifle those feelings of by-gone days which well
up in our bosoms, Robert. After all these years I have learned what a
prize your true love is, and I return it. I am yours."

At this Mr Brandon opened his mouth with a spasmodic gasp, but no word
came from him. He looked to the right and left, and then made a lunge
to one side, as if he would run around the old lady and gain the door.
But Mrs Keswick was too quick for him. With two sudden springs she
reached the door and put her back against it.

"Don't leave me, Robert," she said, "I have not told you all. Don't
you remember this breastpin?" unfastening the large silver brooch from
her shawl and holding it out to him. "You gave it to me, Robert; there
were almost tears of joy in your eyes on the first day I wore it,
although I was careful to let you know it meant nothing. Where are
those tears to-day, Robert? It means something now. I have kept it
all these years, although in the lifetime of Mr Keswick it was never
cleaned, and I wore it to-day, Robert, that your eyes might rest upon
it once again, and that you might speak to me the words you spoke to
me the day after I let you pin it on my white neckerchief. You waited
then, Robert, a whole day before you spoke, but you needn't wait now.
Let your heart speak out, dear Robert."

But dear Robert appeared to have no power to speak, on this or any
other subject. He was half sitting, half leaning on the corner of a
table which stood by a window, out of which he gave sudden agonized
and longing glances, as if, had he strength enough, he would raise the
sash and leap out.

The old lady, however, had speech enough for two. "Robert," she
exclaimed, "how happy may we be, yet! If you wish to give up, to a
younger couple, this spacious mansion, these fine grounds and noble
elms, and come to my humble home, I shall only say to you, 'Robert,
come!' I shall be alone there, Robert, and shall welcome you with joy.
I have nobody now to give anything to. The late Mrs Null, by which I
mean my niece, will marry a man who, if reports don't lie, is rich
enough to make her want nothing that I have; and as for Junius, he is
to have your property, as we all know. So all I have is yours, if you
choose to come to me, Robert. But, if you would rather live here, I
will come to you, and the young people can board with us until your
decease; after that, I'll board with them. And I'm not sure,
Robert, but I like the plan of coming here best. There are lots of
improvements we could make on this place, with you to furnish the
money, and me to advise and direct. The first thing I'd do would be
to have down those abominable steps over the front fence, and put a
decent gate in its place; and then we would have a gravelled walk
across the yard to the porch, wide enough for you and me, Robert,
to walk together arm-in-arm when we would go out to look over the
plantation, or stroll down to that spot on the branch, Robert, where
the first plightings of our troth began."