THE LATE MRS NULL

BY

FRANK R. STOCKTON

1886




CHAPTER I.


There was a wide entrance gate to the old family mansion of Midbranch,
but it was never opened to admit the family or visitors; although
occasionally a load of wood, drawn by two horses and two mules, came
between its tall chestnut posts, and was taken by a roundabout way among
the trees to a spot at the back of the house, where the chips of several
generations of sturdy wood-choppers had formed a ligneous soil deeper
than the arable surface of any portion of the nine hundred and fifty
acres which formed the farm of Midbranch. This seldom opened gate was in
a corner of the lawn, and the driving of carriages, or the riding of
horses through it to the porch at the front of the house would have been
the ruin of the short, thick grass which had covered that lawn, it was
generally believed, ever since Virginia became a State.

But there had to be some way for people who came in carriages or on
horseback to get into the house, and therefore the fence at the bottom
of the lawn, at a point directly in front of the porch, was crossed by a
set of broad wooden steps, five outside and five inside, with a platform
at the top. These stairs were wide enough to accommodate eight people
abreast; so that if a large carriage load of visitors arrived, none of
them need delay in crossing the fence. At the outside of the steps ran
the narrow road which entered the plantation a quarter of a mile away,
and passed around the lawn and the garden to the barns and stables at
the back.

On the other side of the road, undivided from it by hedge or fence,
stretched, like a sea gently moved by a groundswell, a vast field,
sometimes planted in tobacco, and sometimes in wheat. In the midst of
this field stood a tall persimmon tree which yearly dropped its
half-candied fruit upon the first light snow of the winter. It is true
that persimmons, quite fit to eat, were to be found on this tree at an
earlier period than this, but such fruit was never noticed by the people
in those parts, who would not rudely wrench from Jack Frost his one
little claim to rivalry with the sun as a fruit-ripener. To the right of
the field was a wide extent of pasture land, running down to a small
stream, or "branch," which, flowing between two other streams of the
same kind a mile or two on either side of it, had given its name to the
place. In front, to the left, lay a great forest of chestnut, oak,
sassafras, and sweet gum, with here and there a clump of tall pines,
standing up straight and stiff with an air of Puritanic condemnation of
the changing fashions of the foliage about them.

On one side of the platform of the broad stile, which has been
mentioned, sat one summer afternoon, the lady of the house. She was a
young woman, and although her face was a good deal shadowed by her
far-spreading hat, it was easy to perceive that she was a handsome one.
She was the niece of Mr Robert Brandon, the elderly bachelor who owned
Midbranch; and her mother, long since dead, had called her Roberta,
which was as near as she could come to the name of her only brother.

Miss Roberta's father was a man whose mind and time were entirely given
up to railroads; and although he nominally lived in New York, he was,
for the greater part of the year, engaged in endeavors to forward his
interests somewhere west of the Mississippi. Two or three months of the
winter were generally spent in his city home. At these times he had his
daughter with him, but the rest of the year she lived with her uncle,
whose household she directed with much good will and judgment. The old
gentleman did not keep her all the summer at Midbranch. He knew what was
necessary for a young lady who had been educated in Germany and
Switzerland, and who had afterwards made a very favorable impression in
Paris and London; and so, during the hot weather, he took her with him
to one of the fashionable Southern resorts, where they always stayed
exactly six weeks.

The gentleman who was sitting on the other side of the platform, with
his face turned towards her, had known Miss Roberta for a year or more,
having met her at the North, and also in the Virginia mountains; and
being now on a visit to the Green Sulphur Springs, about four miles from
Midbranch, he rode over to see her nearly every day. There was nothing
surprising in this, because the Green Sulphur, once a much frequented
resort, had seen great changes, and now, although the end of the regular
season had not arrived, it had Mr Lawrence Croft for its only guest.
There was a spacious hotel there; there was a village of cottages of
varying sizes; there were buildings for servants and managers; there was
a ten-pin alley and a quiet ground; there were arbors and swings; and a
square hole in a stone slab, through which a little pool of greenish
water could be seen, with a tin cup, somewhat rusty, lying by it. But
all was quiet and deserted, except one cottage, in which the man lived
who had charge of the place, and where Mr Croft boarded. It was very
pleasant for him to ride over to Midbranch and take a walk with Miss
Roberta; and this was what they had been doing to-day.

Horseback rides had been suggested, but Mr Brandon objected to these. He
knew Mr Croft to be a young man of good family and very comfortable
fortune, and he liked him very much when he had him there to dinner, but
he did not wish his niece to go galloping around the country with him.
To quiet walks in the woods, and through the meadows, he could, of
course, have no objection. A good many of Mr Brandon's principles, like
certain of his books, were kept upon a top shelf, but Miss Roberta
always liked to humor the few which the old gentleman was wont to
have within easy reach.

This afternoon they had rambled through the woods, where the hard,
smooth road wound picturesquely through the places in which it had been
easiest to make a road, and where the great trunks of the trees were
partly covered by clinging vines, which Miss Roberta knew to be either
Virginia creeper or poison oak, although she did not remember which of
these had clusters of five leaves, and which of three.

The horse on which Mr Croft had ridden over from the Springs was tied to
a fence near by, and he now seemed to indicate by his restless movements
that it was quite time for the gentleman to go home; but with this
opinion Mr Croft decidedly differed. He had had a long walk with the
lady and plenty of opportunities to say anything that he might choose,
but still there was something very important which had not been said,
and which Mr Croft very much wished to say before he left Miss Roberta
that afternoon. His only reason for hesitation was the fact that he did
not know what he wished to say.

He was a man who always kept a lookout on the bows of his daily action;
in storm or in calm, in fog or in bright sunshine that lookout must be
at his post; and upon his reports it depended whether Mr Croft set more
sail, put on more steam, reversed his engine, or anchored his vessel. A
report from this lookout was what he hoped to elicit by the remark
which he wished to make. He desired greatly to know whether Miss Roberta
March looked upon him in the light of a lover, or in that of an intimate
acquaintance, whose present intimacy depended a good deal upon the
propinquity of Midbranch and the Green Sulphur Springs. He had
endeavored to produce upon her mind the latter impression. If he ever
wished her to regard him as a lover he could do this in the easiest and
most straightforward way, but the other procedure was much more
difficult, and he was not certain that he had succeeded in it. How to
find out in what light she viewed him without allowing the lady to
perceive his purpose was a very delicate operation.

"I wish," said Miss Roberta, poking with the end of her parasol at some
half-withered wild flowers which lay on the steps beneath her, "that you
would change your mind, and take supper with us."

Mr Croft's mind was very busy in endeavoring to think of some casual
remark, some observation regarding man, nature, or society, or even an
anecdote or historical incident, which, if brought into the
conversation, might produce upon the lady's countenance some shade of
expression, or some variation in her tone or words which would give him
the information he sought for. But what he said was: "Are they really
suppers that you have, or are they only teas?"

"Now I know," said the lady, "why you have sometimes taken dinner with
us, but never supper. You were afraid that it would be a tea."

Lawrence Croft was thinking that if this girl believed that he was in
love with her, it would make a great deal of difference in his present
course of action. If such were the case, he ought not to come here so
often, or, in fact, he ought not to come at all, until he had decided
for himself what he was going to do. But what could he say that would
cause her, for the briefest moment, to unveil her idea of himself. "I
never could endure," he said, "those meals which consist of thin
shavings of bread with thick plasters of butter, aided and abetted by
sweet cakes, preserves, and tea."

"You should have reserved those remarks," she said, "until you had found
out what sort of evening meal we have."

He could certainly say something, he thought. Perhaps it might be some
little fanciful story which would call up in her mind, without his
appearing to intend it, some thought of his relationship to her as a
lover--that is, if she had ever had such a notion. If this could be
done, her face would betray the fact. But, not being ready to make such
a remark, he said: "I beg your pardon, but do you really have suppers in
the English fashion?"

"Oh, no," answered Miss Roberta, "we don't have a great cold joint, with
old cheese, and pitchers of brown stout and ale, but neither do we
content ourselves with thin bread and butter, and preserves. We have
coffee as well as tea, hot rolls, fleecy and light, hot batter bread
made of our finest corn meal, hot biscuits and stewed fruit, with plenty
of sweet milk and buttermilk; and, if anybody wants it, he can always have
a slice of cold ham."

"If I could only feel sure," thought Mr Croft, "that she looked upon me
merely as an acquaintance, I would cease to trouble my mind on this
subject, and let everything go on as before. But I am not sure, and I
would rather not come here again until I am." "And at what hour," he
asked, "do you partake of a meal like that?"

"In summer time," said Miss Roberta, "we have supper when it is dark
enough to light the lamps. My uncle dislikes very much to be deprived,
by the advent of a meal, of the out-door enjoyment of a late afternoon,
or, as we call it down here, the evening."

"It would be easy enough," thought Mr Croft, "for me to say something
about my being suddenly obliged to go away, and then notice its effect
upon her. But, apart from the fact that I would not do anything so
vulgar and commonplace, it would not advantage me in the slightest
degree. She would see through the flimsiness of my purpose, and, no
matter how she looked upon me, would show nothing but a well-bred regret
that I should be obliged to go away at such a pleasant season." "I think
the hour for your supper," said he, "is a very suitable one, but I am
not sure that such a variety of hot bread would agree with me."

"Did you ever see more healthy-looking ladies and gentlemen than you
find in Virginia?" asked Miss March.

"It is not that I want to know if she looks favorably upon me," said
Lawrence Croft to himself, "for when I wish to discover that, I shall
simply ask her. What I wish now to know is whether, or not, she
considers me at all as a lover. There surely must be something I can say
which will give me a clew." "The Virginians, as a rule," he replied,
"are certainly a very well-grown and vigorous race."

"In spite of the hot bread," she said with a smile.

Just then Mr Croft believed himself struck by a happy thought. "You are
not prepared, I suppose, to say, in consequence of it; and that recalls
the fact that so much in this world happens in spite of things, instead
of in consequence of them."

"I don't know that I exactly understand," said Miss Roberta.

"Well, for instance," said Mr Croft, "take the case of marriage. Don't
you think that a man is more apt to marry in spite of his belief that he
would be much better off as a bachelor, than in consequence of a
conviction that a Benedict's life would suit him better?"

"That," said she, "depends a good deal on the woman."

As she said this Lawrence glanced quickly at her to observe the
expression of her countenance. The countenance plainly indicated that
its owner had suddenly been made aware that the afternoon was slipping
away, and that she had forgotten certain household duties that devolved
upon her.

"Here comes Peggy," she said, "and I must go into the house and give out
supper. Don't you now think it would be well for you to follow our
discussion of a Virginia supper by eating one?"

At this moment, there arrived at the bottom of the inside steps, a small
girl, very black, very solemn, and very erect, with her hands folded in
front of her very straight up-and-down calico frock, her features
expressive of a wooden stolidity which nothing but a hammer or chisel
could alter, and with large eyes fixed upon a far-away, which,
apparently, had disappeared, leaving the eyes in a condition of idle
out-go.

"Miss Rob," said this wooden Peggy, "Aun' Judy says it's more'n time to
come housekeep."

"Which means," said Miss Roberta, rising, "that I must go and get my key
basket, and descend into the store-room. Won't you come in? We shall
find uncle on the back porch."

Mr Croft declined with thanks, and took his leave, and the lady walked
across the smooth grass to the house, followed by the rigid Peggy.

The young man approached his impatient horse, and, not without some
difficulty, got himself mounted. He had not that facility of
sympathetically combining his own will and that of his horse which comes
to men who from their early boyhood are wont to consider horses as
objects quite as necessary to locomotion as shoes and stockings. But
Lawrence Croft was a fair graduate of a riding school, and he went away
in very good style to his cottage at the Green Sulphur Springs. "I
believe," he said to himself, as he rode through the woods, "that Miss
March expects no more of me than she would expect of any very intimate
friend. I shall feel perfectly free, therefore, to continue my
investigations regarding two points: First, is she worth having? and:
Second, will she have me? And I must be very careful not to get the
position of these points reversed."

When Miss Roberta went into the store-room, it was Peggy, who, under the
supervision of her mistress, measured out the fine white flour for the
biscuits for supper. Peggy was being educated to do these things
properly, and she knew exactly how many times the tin scoop must fill
itself in the barrel for the ordinary needs of the family. Miss Roberta
stood, her eyes contemplatively raised to the narrow window, through
which she could see a flush of sunset mingling itself with the outer
air; and Peggy scooped once, twice, thrice, four times; then she
stopped, and, raising her head, there came into the far-away gloom of
her eyes a quick sparkle like a flash of black lightning. She made
another and entirely supplementary scoop, and then she stopped, and let
the tin utensil fall into the barrel with a gentle thud.

"That will do," said Miss Roberta.

That night, when she should have been in her bed, Peggy sat alone by the
hearth in Aunt Judy's cabin, baking a cake. It was a peculiar cake, for
she could get no sugar for it, but she had supplied this deficiency with
molasses. It was made of Miss Roberta's finest white flour, and eggs there
were in it and butter, and it contained, besides, three raisins, an olive,
and a prune. When the outside of the cake had been sufficiently baked, and
every portion of it had been scrupulously eaten, the good little Peggy
murmured to herself: "It's pow'ful comfortin' for Miss Rob to have sumfin'
on her min'."




CHAPTER II.


About a week after Mr Lawrence Croft had had his conversation with Miss
March on the stile steps at Midbranch, he was obliged to return to his
home in New York. He was not a man of business, but he had business;
and, besides this, he considered if he continued much longer to reside
in the utterly attractionless cottage at the Green Sulphur Springs, and
rode over every day to the very attractive house at Midbranch, that the
points mentioned in the previous chapter might get themselves reversed.
He was a man who was proud of being, under all circumstances, frank and
honest with himself. He did not wish, if it could be avoided, to deceive
other people, but he was prudent and careful about exhibiting his
motives and intended course of action to his associates. Himself,
however, he took into his strictest confidence. He was fond of the idea
that he went into the battle of life covered and protected by a great
shield, but that the inside of the shield was a mirror in which he could
always see himself. Looking into this mirror, he now saw that, if he did
not soon get away from Miss Roberta, he would lay down his shield and
surrender, and it was his intent that this should not happen until he
wished it to happen.

It was very natural when Lawrence reached New York, that he should take
pleasure in talking about Miss Roberta March and her family with any one
who knew them. He was particularly anxious, if he could do so delicately
and without exciting any suspicion of his object, to know as much as
possible about Sylvester March, the lady's father. In doing this, he did
not feel that he was prying into the affairs of others, but he could not
be true to himself unless he looked well in advance before he made the
step on which his mind was set. It was in this way that he happened to
learn that about two years before, Miss March had been engaged to be
married, but that the engagement had been broken off for reasons not
known to his informants, and he could find out nothing about the
gentleman, except that his name was Junius Keswick.

The fact that the lady had had a lover, put her in a new light before
Lawrence Croft. He had had an idea, suggested by the very friendly
nature of their intercourse, that she was a woman whose mind did not run
out to love or marriage, but now that he knew that she was susceptible
of being wooed and won, because these things had actually happened to
her, he was very glad that he had come away from Midbranch.

The impression soon became very strong upon the mind of Lawrence that he
would like to know what kind of man was this former lover. He had known
Miss March about a year, and at the time of his first acquaintaince with
her, she must have come very fresh from this engagement. To study the
man to whom Roberta March had been willing to engage herself, was, to
Lawrence's mode of thinking, if not a prerequisite procedure in his
contemplated course of action, at least a very desirable one.

But he was rather surprised to find that no one knew much about Mr
Junius Keswick, or could give him any account of his present
whereabouts, although he had been, at the time when his engagement was
in force, a resident of New York. To consult a directory was, therefore,
an obvious first step in the affair; and, with this intent, Mr Croft
entered, one morning, an apothecary's shop in a street which, though a
busy one, was in a rather out-of-the-way part of the city.

"We haven't any directory, sir," said the clerk, "but if you will step
across the street you can find one at that little shop with the green
door. Everybody goes there to look at the directory."

The green door on the opposite side of the street, approached by a
single flat step of stone, had a tin sign upon it, on which was painted:

"INFORMATION
OF EVERY VARIETY
FURNISHED WITHIN."

Pushing open the door, Lawrence entered a long, narrow room, not very
well lighted, with a short counter on one side, and some desks,
partially screened by a curtain, at the farther end. A boy was behind
the counter, and to him Lawrence addressed himself, asking permission to
look at a city directory.

"One cent, if you look yourself; three cents, if we look," said the boy,
producing a thick volume from beneath the counter.

"One cent?" said Lawrence, smiling at the oddity of this charge, as he
opened the book and turned to the letter K.

"Yes," said the boy, "and if the fine print hurts your eyes, we'll look
for three cents."

At this moment a man came from one of the desks at the other end of the
room, and handed the boy a letter with which that young person
immediately departed. The new-comer, a smooth-shaven man of about
thirty, with the air of the proprietor or head manager very strong upon
him, took the boy's position behind the counter, and remarked to
Lawrence: "Most people, when they first come here, think it rather queer
to pay for looking at the directory, but you see we don't keep a
directory to coax people to come in to buy medicines or anything else.
We sell nothing but information, and part of our stock is what you get
out of a directory. But it's the best plan all round, for we can afford
to give you a clean, good book instead of one all jagged and worn; and
as you pay your money, you feel you can look as long as you like, and
come when you please."

"It is a very good plan," said Lawrence, closing the book, "but the name
I want is not here."

"Perhaps it is in last year's directory," said the man, producing
another volume from under the counter.

"That wouldn't do me much good," said Lawrence. "I want to know where
some one resides this year."

"It will do a great deal of good," said the other, "for if we know where
a person has lived, inquiries can be made there as to where he has gone.
Sometimes we go back three or four years, and when we have once found a
man's name, we follow him up from place to place until we can give the
inquirer his present address. What is the name you wanted, sir? You were
looking in the K's."

"Keswick," said Lawrence, "Junius Keswick."

The man ran his finger and his eyes down a column, and remarked: "There
is Keswick, but it is Peter, laborer; I suppose that isn't the party."

Lawrence smiled, and shook his head.

"We will take the year before that," said the man with cheerful
alacrity, heaving up another volume. "Here's two Keswicks," he said in a
moment, "one John, and the other Stephen W. Neither of them right?"

"No," said Lawrence, "my man is Junius, and we need not go any farther
back. I am afraid the person I am looking for was only a sojourner in
the city, and that his name did not get into the directory. I know that
he was here year before last."

"All right, sir," said the other, pushing aside the volume he had
been consulting. "We'll find the man for you from the hotel books, and
what is more, we can see those two Keswicks that I found last. Perhaps
they were relations of his, and he was staying with them. If you put the
matter in our hands, we'll give you the address to-morrow night,
provided it's an ordinary case. But if he has gone to Australia or
Japan, of course, it'll take longer. Is it crime or relationship?"

"Neither," replied Lawrence.

"It is generally one of them," said the man, "and if it's crime we carry
it on to a certain point, and then put it into the hands of the
detectives, for we've nothing to do with police business, private or
otherwise. But if it's relationship, we'll go right through with it to
the end. Any kind of information you may want we'll give you here;
scientific, biographical, business, healthfulness of localities,
genuineness of antiquities, age and standing of individuals, purity of
liquors or teas from sample, Bible items localized, china verified; in
fact, anything you want to know we can tell you. Of course we don't
pretend that we know all these things, but we know the people who do
know, or who can find them out. By coming to us, and paying a small sum,
the most valuable information, which it would take you years to find
out, can be secured with certainty, and generally in a few days. We know
what to do, and where to go, and that's the point. If it's a new bug, or
a microscope insect we put it into the hands of a man who knows just
what high scientific authority to apply to; if it's the middle name of
your next door neighbor we'll give it to you from his baptismal record.
I'm getting up a pamphlet-circular which will be ready in about a week,
and which will fully explain our methods of business, with the charges
for the different items, etc."

"Well," said Lawrence, taking out his pocket-book, "I want the address
of Junius Keswick, and I think I will let you look it up for me. What is
your charge?"

"It will be two dollars," said the man, "ordinary; and if we find
inquiries run into other countries we will make special terms. And then
there's seven cents, one for your look, and two threes for ours. You
shall hear from us to-morrow night at your hotel or residence, unless
you prefer to call here."

"I will call the day after to-morrow," said Lawrence, producing a
five-dollar note.

"Very good," replied the proprietor. "Will you please pay the cashier?"
pointing at the same time to a desk behind Lawrence which the latter had
not noticed.

Approaching this desk, the top of which, except for a small space in
front, was surrounded by short curtains, he saw a young girl busily
engaged in reading a book. He proffered her the note, the proprietor at
the same time calling out: "Two, seven."

The girl turned the book down to keep the place; then she took the note,
and opened a small drawer, in which she fumbled for some moments.
Closing the drawer, she rose to her feet and waved the note over the
curtain to her right. "Haven't any change, eh?" said the man, coming
from behind the counter, and putting on his hat. "As the boy's not here,
I'll step out and get it."

The girl turned up her book, and began to read again, and Lawrence stood
and looked at her, wondering what need there was of a cashier in a place
like this. She appeared to be under twenty, rather thin-faced, and was
plainly dressed. In a few moments she raised her eyes from her book, and
said: "Won't you sit down, sir? I am sorry you have to wait, but we are
short of change to-day, and sometimes it is hard to get it in this
neighborhood."

Lawrence declined to be seated, but was very willing to talk. "Was it
the proprietor of this establishment," he asked, "who went out to get
the money changed??"

"Yes, sir," she answered. "That is Mr Candy."

"A queer name," said Lawrence, smiling.

The girl looked up at him, and smiled in return. There was a very
perceptible twinkle in her eyes, which seemed to be eyes that would like
to be merry ones, and a slight movement of the corners of her mouth
which indicated a desire to say something in reply, but, restrained
probably by loyalty to her employer, or by prudent discretion regarding
conversation with strangers, she was silent.

Lawrence, however, continued his remarks. "The whole business seems to
me very odd. Suppose I were to come here and ask for information as to
where I could get a five-dollar note changed; would Mr Candy be able to
tell me?"

"He would do in that case just as he does in all others," she said;
"first, he would go and find out, and then he would let you know. Giving
information is only half the business; finding things out is the other
half. That's what he's doing now."

"So, when he comes back," said Lawrence, "he'll have a new bit of
information to add to his stock on hand, which must be a very peculiar
one, I fancy."

The cashier smiled. "Yes," she said, "and a very useful one, too, if
people only knew it."

"Don't they know it?" asked Lawrence. "Don't you have plenty of custom?"

At this moment the door opened, Mr Candy entered, and the conversation
stopped.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, sir," said the proprietor, passing some
money to the cashier over the curtain, who, thereupon, handed two
dollars and ninety-three cents to Lawrence through the little opening in
front.

"If you call the day after to-morrow, the information will be ready for
you," said Mr Candy, as the gentleman departed.

On the appointed day, Lawrence came again, and found nobody in the place
but the cashier, who handed him a note.

"Mr Candy left this for you, in case he should not be in when you
called," she said.

The note stated that the search for the address of Junius Keswick had
opened very encouragingly, but as it was quite evident that said person
was not now in the city, the investigations would have to be carried on
on a more extended scale, and a deposit of three dollars would be
necessary to meet expenses.

Lawrence looked from the note to the cashier, who had been watching him
as he read. "Does Mr Candy want me to leave three dollars with you?" he
asked.

"That's what he said, sir."

"Well," said Lawrence, "I don't care about paying for unlimited
investigation in this way. If the gentleman I am in search of has left
the city, and Mr Candy has been able to find out to what place he went,
he should have told me that, and I would have decided whether or not I
wanted him to do anything more."

The face of the cashier appeared troubled. "I think, sir," she said,
"that if you leave the money, Mr Candy will do all he can to discover
what you wish to know, and that it will not be very long before you have
the address of the person you are seeking."

"Do you really think he has any clew?" asked Lawrence.

This question did not seem to please the cashier, and she answered
gravely, though without any show of resentment: "That is a strange
question after I advised you to leave the money."

Lawrence had a kind heart, and it reproached him. "I beg your pardon,"
said he. "I will leave the money with you, but I desire that Mr Candy
will, in his next communication, give me all the information he has
acquired up to the moment of writing, and then I will decide whether it
is worth while to go on with the matter, or not."

He, thereupon, took out his pocket-book and handed three dollars to the
cashier, who, with an air of deliberate thoughtfulness, smoothed out the
two notes, and placed them in her drawer. Then she said: "If you will
leave your address, sir, I will see that you receive your information as
soon as possible. That will be better than for you to call, because I
can't tell you when to come."

"Very well," said Lawrence, "and I will be obliged to you if you will
hurry up Mr Candy as much as you can." And, handing her his card, he
went his way.

The way of Lawrence Croft was generally a very pleasant one, for the
fortunate conditions of his life made it possible for him to go around
most of the rough places which might lie in it. His family was an old
one, and a good one, but there was very little of it left, and of its
scattered remnants he was the most important member. But although
circumstances did not force him to do anything in particular, he liked
to believe that he was a rigid master to himself, and whatever he did
was always done with a purpose. When he travelled he had an object in
view; when he stayed at home the case was the same.

His present purpose was the most serious one of his life: he wished to
marry; and, if she should prove to be the proper person, he wished to
marry Roberta March; and as a preliminary step in the carrying out of
his purpose, he wanted very much to know what sort of man Miss March had
once been willing to marry.

When five days had elapsed without his hearing from Mr Candy, he became
impatient and betook himself to the green door with the tin sign.
Entering, he found only the boy and the cashier. Addressing himself to
the latter, he asked if anything had been done in his business.

"Yes, sir," she said, "and I hoped Mr Candy would write you a letter
this morning before he went out, but he didn't. He traced the gentleman
to Niagara Falls, and I think you'll hear something very soon."

"If inquiries have to be carried on outside of the city," said Lawrence,
"they will probably cost a good deal, and come to nothing. I think I
will drop the matter as far as Mr Candy is concerned."

"I wish you would give us a little more time," said the girl. "I am sure
you will hear something in a few days, and you need not be afraid there
will be anything more to pay unless you are satisfied that you have
received the full worth of the money."

Lawrence reflected for a few moments, and then concluded to let the
matter go on. "Tell Mr Candy to keep me frequently informed of the
progress of the affair," said he, "and if he is really of any service to
me I am willing to pay him, but not otherwise."

"That will be all right," said the cashier, "and if Mr Candy is--is
prevented from doing it, I'll write to you myself, and keep you
posted."

As soon as the customer had gone, the boy, who had been sitting on the
counter, thus spoke to the cashier: "You know very well that old
Mintstick has given that thing up!"

"I know he has," said the girl, "but I have not."

"You haven't anything to do with it," said the boy.

"Yes, I have," she answered. "I advised that gentleman to pay his money,
and I'm not going to see him cheated out of it. Of course, Mr Candy
doesn't mean to cheat him, but he has gone into that business about the
origin of the tame blackberry, and there's no knowing when he'll get
back to this thing, which is not in his line, anyway."

"I should say it wasn't!" exclaimed the boy with a loud laugh. "Sendin'
me to look up them two Keswicks, who was both put down as cordwainers in
year before last's directory, and askin' 'em if there was any Juniuses
in their families."

"Junius Keswick, did you say? Is that the name of the gentleman Mr Candy
was looking for?"

"Yes," said the boy.

Presently the cashier remarked: "I am going to look at the books." And
she betook herself to the desk at the back part of the shop.

In about half an hour she returned and handed to the boy a memorandum
upon a scrap of paper. "You go out now to your lunch," she said, "and
while you are out, stop at the St. Winifred Hotel, where Mr Candy found
the name of Junius Keswick, and see if it is not down again not long
after the date which I have put on this slip of paper. I think if a
person went to Niagara Falls he'd be just as likely to make a little
trip of it and come back again as to keep travelling on, which Mr Candy
supposes he did. If you find the name again, put down the date of arrival
on this, and see if there was any memorandum about forwarding letters."

"All right," said the boy. "But I'll be gone an hour and a half. Can't
cut into my lunch time."

In the course of a few days Lawrence Croft received a note signed Candy
& Co. "per" some illegible initials, which stated that Mr Junius Keswick
had been traced to a boarding-house in the city, but as the
establishment had been broken up for some time, endeavors were now being
made to find the lady who had kept the house, and when this was done it
would most likely be possible to discover from her where Mr Keswick had
gone.

Lawrence waited a few days and then called at the Information Shop.
Again was Mr Candy absent; and so was the boy. The cashier informed him
that she had found--that is, that the lady who kept the boarding-house
had been found--and she thought she remembered the gentlemen in
question, and promised, as soon as she could, to look through a book, in
which she used to keep directions for the forwarding of letters, and in
this way another clew might soon be expected.

"This seems to be going on better," said Lawrence, "but Mr Candy doesn't
show much in the affair. Who is managing it? You?"

The girl blushed and then laughed, a little confusedly. "I am only the
cashier," she said.

"And the laborious duties of your position would, of course, give you no
time for anything else," remarked Lawrence.

"Oh, well," said the girl, "of course it is easy enough for any one to
see that I haven't much to do as cashier, but the boy and Mr Candy are
nearly always out, looking up things, and I have to do other business
besides attending to cash."

"If you are attending to my business," said Lawrence, "I am very glad,
especially now that it has reached the boarding-house stage, where I
think a woman will be better able to work than a man. Are you doing this
entirely independent of Mr Candy?"

"Well, sir," said the cashier, with an honest, straightforward look
from her gray eyes that pleased Lawrence, "I may as well confess that I
am. But there's nothing mean about it. He has all the same as given it
up, for he's waiting to hear from a man at Niagara, who will never write
to him, and probably hasn't any thing to write, and as I advised you to
pay the money I feel bound in honor to see that the business is done, if
it can be done."

"Have you a brother or a husband to help you in these investigations and
searches?" asked Lawrence.

"No," said the cashier with a smile. "Sometimes I send our boy, and as
to boarding houses, I can go to them myself after we shut up here."

"I wish," said Lawrence, "that you were married, and that you had a
husband who would not interfere in this matter at all, but who would go
about with you, and so enable you to follow up your clew thoroughly. You
take up the business in the right spirit, and I believe you would
succeed in finding Mr Keswick, but I don't like the idea of sending you
about by yourself."

"I won't deny," said the cashier, "that since I have begun this affair I
would like very much to carry it out; so, if you don't object, I won't
give it up just yet, and as soon as anything happens I'll let you know."




CHAPTER III.


Autumn in Virginia, especially if one is not too near the mountains, is
a season in which greenness sails very close to Christmas, although
generally veering away in time to prevent its verdant hues from tingeing
that happy day with the gloomy influence of the prophetic proverb about
churchyards. Long after the time when the people of the regions watered
by the Hudson and the Merrimac are beginning to button up their
overcoats, and to think of weather strips for their window-sashes, the
dwellers in the land through which flow the Appomattox and the James may
sit upon their broad piazzas, and watch the growing glories of the
forests, where the crimson stars of the sweet gum blaze among the rich
yellows of the chestnuts, the lingering green of the oaks, and the
enduring verdure of the pines. The insects still hum in the sunny air,
and the sun is now a genial orb whose warm rays cheer but not excoriate.

The orb just mentioned was approaching the horizon, when, in an
adjoining county to that in which was situated the hospitable mansion of
Midbranch, a little negro boy about ten years old was driving some cows
through a gateway that opened on a public road. The cows, as they were
going homeward, filed willingly through the gateway, which led into a
field, at the far end of which might be dimly discerned a house behind a
mass of foliage; but the boy, whose head and voice were entirely too big
for the rest of him, assailed them with all manner of reproaches and
impellent adjectives, addressing each cow in turn as: "You, sah!" When
the compliant beasts had hustled through, the youngster got upon the
gate, and giving it a push with one bare foot, he swung upon it as far
as it would go; then lifting the end from the surface of the ground he
shut it with a bang, fastened it with a hook, and ran after the cows,
his wild provocatives to bovine haste ringing high into the evening air.

This youth was known as Plez, his whole name being Pleasant Valley, an
inspiration to his mother from the label on a grape box, which had
drifted into that region from the North. He had just stooped to pick up
a clod of earth with which to accentuate his vociferations, when, on
rising, he was astounded by the apparition of an elderly woman wearing a
purple sun-bonnet, and carrying a furled umbrella of the same color.
Behind the spectacles, which were fixed upon him, blazed a pair of fiery
eyes, and the soul of Plez shrivelled and curled up within him. His
downcast eyes were bent upon his upturned toes, the clod dropped from
his limp fingers, and his mouth which had been opened for a yell,
remained open, but the yell had apparently swooned.

The words of the old lady were brief, but her umbrella was full of jerky
menace, and when she left him, and passed on toward the outer gate,
Plez followed the cows to the house with the meekness of a suspected
sheep dog.

The cows had been milked, some by a rotund black woman named Letty, and
some, much to their discomfort, by Plez himself, and it was beginning to
grow dark, when an open spring wagon driven by a colored man, and with a
white man on the back seat came along the road, and stopped at the gate.
The driver having passed the reins to the occupant on the back seat, got
down, opened the gate, and stood holding it while the other drove the
horse into the road which ran by the side of the field to the house
behind the trees. At this time a passer-by, if there had been one, might
have observed, partly protruding from behind some bushes on the other
side of the public road, and at a little distance from the gate, the
lower portion of a purple umbrella. As the spring wagon approached, and
during the time that it was turning into the gate, and while it was
waiting for the driver to resume his seat, this umbrella was
considerably agitated, so much so indeed as to cause a little rustling
among the leaves. When the gate had been shut, and the wagon had passed
on toward the house, the end of the umbrella disappeared, and then, on
the other side of the bush, there came into view a sun-bonnet of the
same color as the umbrella. This surmounted the form of an old lady, who
stepped into the pathway by the side of the road, and walked away with a
quick, active step which betokened both energy and purpose.

The house, before which, not many minutes later, this spring wagon
stopped, was not a fine old family mansion like that of Midbranch, but
it was a comfortable dwelling, though an unpretending one. The gentleman
on the back seat, and the driver, who was an elderly negro, both turned
toward the hall door, which was open and lighted by a lamp within, as if
they expected some one to come out on the porch. But nobody came, and,
after a moment's hesitation, the gentleman got down, and taking a valise
from the back of the wagon, mounted the steps of the porch. While he was
doing this the face of the negro man, which could be plainly seen in the
light from the hall door, grew anxious and troubled. When the gentleman
set his valise on the porch, and stood by it without making any attempt
to enter, the old man put down the reins and quickly descending from his
seat, hurried up the steps.

"Dunno whar ole miss is, but I reckon she done gone to look after de
tukkies. She dreffle keerful dat dey all go to roos' ebery night. Walk
right in, Mahs' Junius." And, taking up the valise, he followed the
gentleman into the hall.

There, near the back door, stood the rotund black woman, and, behind
her, Plez. "Look h'yar Letty," said the negro man, "whar ole miss?"

"Dunno," said the woman. "She done gib out supper, an' I ain't seed her
sence. Is dis Mahs' Junius? Reckon' you don' 'member Letty?"

"Yes I do," said the gentleman, shaking hands with her; "but the Letty
I remember was a rather slim young woman."

"Dat's so," said Letty, with a respectful laugh, 'but, shuh 'nuf, my
food's been blessed to me, Mahs' Junius."

"But whar's ole miss?" persisted the old man. "You, Letty, can't you go
look her up?"

Now was heard the voice of Plez, who meekly emerged from the shade of
Letty. "Ole miss done gone out to de road gate," said he. "I seen her
when I brung de cows."

"Bress my soul!" ejaculated Letty. "Out to de road gate! An' 'spectin'
you too, Mahs' Junius!"

"Didn't she say nuffin to you?" said the old man, addressing Plez.

"She didn't say nuffin to me, Uncle Isham," answered the boy, "'cept if
I didn't quit skeerin' dem cows, an' makin' 'em run wid froin' rocks
till dey ain't got a drip drap o' milk lef' in 'em, she'd whang me ober
de head wid her umbril."

"'Tain't easy to tell whar she done gone from dat," said Letty.

The face of Uncle Isham grew more troubled. "Walk in de parlor, Mahs'
Junius," he said, "an' make yourse'f comf'ble. Ole miss boun' to be back
d'reckly. I'll go put up de hoss."

As the old man went heavily down the porch steps he muttered to himself:
"I was feared o' sumfin like dis; I done feel it in my bones."

The gentleman took a seat in the parlor where Letty had preceded him
with a lamp. "Reckon ole miss didn't spec' you quite so soon, Mahs'
Junius, cos de sorrel hoss is pow'ful slow, and Uncle Isham is mighty
keerful ob rocks in de road. Reckon she's done gone ober to see ole Aun'
Patsy, who's gwine to die in two or free days, to take her some red an'
yaller pieces for a crazy quilt. I know she's got some pieces fur her."

"Aunt Patsy alive yet?" exclaimed Master Junius. "But if she's about to
die, what does she want with a crazy quilt?"

"Dat's fur she shroud," said Letty. "She 'tends to go to glory all wrap
up in a crazy quilt, jus chockfull ob all de colors of the rainbow. Aun'
Patsy neber did 'tend to have a shroud o' bleached domestic like common
folks. She wants to cut a shine 'mong de angels, an' her quilt's most
done, jus' one corner ob it lef'. Reckon ole miss done gone to carry her
de pieces fur dat corner. Dere ain't much time lef', fur Aun' Patsy is
pretty nigh dead now. She's ober two hunnerd years ole."

"What!" exclaimed Master Junius, "two hundred?"

"Yes, sah," answered Letty. "Doctor Peter's old Jim was more'n a hunnerd
when he died, an' we all knows Aun' Patsy is twice as ole as ole Jim."

"I'll wait here," said Master Junius, taking up a book. "I suppose she
will be back before long."

In about half an hour Uncle Isham came into the kitchen, his appearance
indicating that he had had a hurried walk, and told Letty that she had
better give Master Junius his supper without waiting any longer for her
mistress. "She ain't at Aun' Patsy's," said the old man, "and she's jus'
done gone somewhar else, and she'll come back when she's a mind to, an'
dar ain't nuffin else to say 'bout it."

Supper was eaten; a pipe was smoked on the porch; and Master Junius went
to bed in a room which had been carefully prepared for him under the
supervision of the mistress; but the purple sun-bonnet, and the umbrella
of the same color did not return to the house that night.

Master Junius was a quiet man, and fond of walking; and the next day he
devoted to long rambles, sometimes on the roads, sometimes over the
fields, and sometimes through the woods; but in none of his walks, nor
when he came back to dinner and supper, did he meet the elderly mistress
of the house to which he had come. That evening, as he sat on the top
step of the porch with his pipe, he summoned to him Uncle Isham, and
thus addressed the old man:

"I think it is impossible, Isham, that your mistress started out to meet
me, and that an accident happened to her. I have walked all over this
neighborhood, and I know that no accident could have occurred without my
seeing or hearing something of it."

Uncle Isham stood on the ground, his feet close to the bottom step; his
hat was in his hand, and his upturned face wore an expression of
earnestness which seemed to set uncomfortably upon it. "Mahs' Junius,"
said he, "dar ain't no acciden' come to ole miss; she's done gone cos she
wanted to, an' she ain't come back cos she didn't want to. Dat's ole
miss, right fru."

"I suppose," said the young man, "that as she went away on foot she must
be staying with some of the neighbors. If we were to make inquiries, it
certainly would not be difficult to find out where she is."

"Mahs' Junius," said Uncle Isham, his black eyes shining brighter and
brighter as he spoke, "dar's culled people, an' white folks too in dis
yer county who'd put on dere bes' clothes an' black dere shoes, an' skip
off wid alacrousness, to do de wus kin' o sin, dat dey knowed for sartin
would send 'em down to de deepes' and hottes' gullies ob de lower
regions, but nuffin in dis worl' could make one o' dem people go
'quirin' 'bout ole miss when she didn't want to be 'quired about."

The smoker put down his pipe on the top step beside him, and sat for a
few moments in thought. Then he spoke. "Isham," he began, "I want you to
tell me if you have any notion or idea----"

"Mahs' Junius," exclaimed the old negro, "scuse me fur int'ruptin', but
I can't help it. Don' you go, an ax an ole man like me if I tinks dat
ole miss went away cos you was comin' an' if it's my true b'lief dat
she'll neber come back while you is h'yar. Don' ask me nuffin like dat,
Mahs' Junius. Ise libed in dis place all my bawn days, an' I ain't neber
done nuffin to you, Mahs' Junius, 'cept keepin' you from breakin' you
neck when you was too little to know better. I neber 'jected to you
marryin' any lady you like bes', an' 'tain't f'ar Mahs' Junius, now Ise
ole an' gittin' on de careen, fur you to ax me wot I tinks about ole
miss gwine away an' comin' back. I begs you, Mahs' Junius, don' ax me
dat."

Master Junius rose to his feet. "All right, Isham," he said; "I shall
not worry your good old heart with questions." And he went into the
house.

The next day this quiet gentleman and good walker went to see old Aunt
Patsy, who had apparently consented to live a day or two longer; gave
her a little money in lieu of pieces for her crazy bed-quilt; and told
her he was going away to stay. He told Uncle Isham he was going away to
stay away; and he said the same thing to Letty, and to Plez, and to two
colored women of the neighborhood whom he happened to see. Then he took
his valise, which was not a very large one, and departed. He refused to
be conveyed to the distant station in the spring wagon, saying that he
much preferred to walk. Uncle Isham took leave of him with much sadness,
but did not ask him to stay; and Letty and Plez looked after him
wistfully, still holding in their hands the coins he had placed there.
With the exception of these coins, the only thing he left behind him was
a sealed letter on the parlor table, directed to the mistress of the
house.