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The Late Mrs. Null, a fiction by Frank R Stockton |
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Chapter 25 |
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_ CHAPTER XXV When Mr Croft and Miss Annie got into the spring-wagon, and the head of the sorrel was turned away from the church, Lawrence looked at his watch, and remarked that, as it was still quite early, there might be time for a little drive before going back to the house for dinner. The face of the young lady beside him was still slightly pale, and the thought came to him that it would be very well for her if her mind could be diverted from the abnormally inspiriting scene she had just witnessed. "Dinner will be late to-day," she said, "for I saw Letty doing her best among the Jerusalem Jumpers." "Very well," said he, "we will drive. And now, where shall we go?" "If we take the cross-road at the store," said Miss Annie, "and go on for about half a mile, we can turn into the woods, and then there is a beautiful road through the trees, which will bring us out on the other side of Aunt Keswick's house. Junius took me that way not long ago." So they turned at the store, much to the disgust of the plodding sorrel, who thought he was going directly home, and they soon reached the road that led through the woods. This was hard and sandy, as are many of the roads through the forests in that part of the country, and it would have been a very good driving road, had it not been for the occasional protrusion of tree roots, which gave the wheels a little bump, and for the branches which, now and then, hung down somewhat too low for the comfort of a lady and gentleman, riding in a rather high spring-wagon without a cover. But Lawrence drove slowly, and so the root bumps were not noticed; and when the low-hanging boughs were on his side, he lifted them so that his companion's head could pass under and, when they happened to be on her side, Annie ducked her head, and her hat was never brushed off. But, at times, they drove quite a distance without overhanging boughs, and the pine trees, surrounded by their smooth carpet of brown spines, gave forth a spicy fragrance in the warm, but sparkling air; the oak trees stood up still dark and green; while the chestnuts were all dressed in rich yellow, with the chinquepin bushes by the roadside imitating them in color, as they tried to do in fruit. Sometimes a spray of purple flowers could be seen among the trees, and great patches of sunlight which, here and there, came through the thinning foliage, fell, now upon the brilliantly scarlet leaves of a sweet-gum, and now upon the polished and brown-red dress of a neighboring black-gum. The woods were very quiet. There was no sound of bird or insect, and the occasional hare, or "Molly Cotton-tail," as Annie delightedly called it, who hopped across the road, made no noise at all. A gentle wind among the tops of the taller trees made a sound as of a distant sea; but, besides this, little was heard but the low, crunching noise of the wheels, and the voices of Lawrence and Miss Annie. Reaching a place where the road branched, Lawrence stopped the horse, and looked up each leafy lane. They were completely deserted. White people seldom walked abroad at this hour on Sunday, and the negroes of the neighborhood were at church. "Is not this a frightfully lonely place?" he said. "One might imagine himself in a desert." "I like it," replied Annie. "It is so different from the wild, exciting tumult of that church. I am glad you took me away. At first I would not have missed it for the world, but there seemed to come into the stormy scene something oppressive, and almost terrifying." "I am glad I took you away," said Lawrence, "but it seems to me that your impression was not altogether natural. I thought that, amid all that mad enthusiasm, you were over-excited, not depressed. A solemn solitude like this would, to my thinking, be much more likely to lower your spirits. I don't like solitude, myself, and therefore, I suppose it is that I thought an impressible nature, like yours, would find something sad in the loneliness of these silent woods." Annie turned, and fixed on him her large blue eyes. "But I am not alone," she said. As Lawrence looked into her eyes he saw that they were as clear as the purest crystal, and that he could look through them straight into her soul, and there he saw that this woman loved him. The vision was as sudden as if it had been a night scene lighted up by a flash of lightning, but it was as clear and plain as if it had been that same scene under the noonday sun. There are times in the life of a man, when the goddess of Reasonable Impulse raises her arms above her head, and allows herself a little yawn. Then she takes off her crown and hangs it on the back of her throne; after which she rests her sceptre on the floor, and, rising, stretches herself to her full height, and goes forth to take a long, refreshing walk by the waters of Unreflection. Then her minister, Prudence, stretches himself upon a bench, and, with his handkerchief over his eyes, composes himself for a nap. Discretion, Worldly Wisdom, and other trusted officers of her court, and even, sometimes, that agile page called Memory, no sooner see their royal mistress depart than, by various doors, they leave the palace and wander far away. Then, silently, with sparkling eyes, and parted lips, comes that fair being, Unthinking Love. She puts one foot upon the lower step of the throne; she looks about her; and, with a quick bound, she seats herself. Upon her tumbled curls she hastily puts the crown; with her small white hand she grasps the sceptre; and then, rising, waves it, and issues her commands. The crowd of emotions which serve as her satellites, seize the great seal from the sleeping Prudence, and the new Queen reigns! All this now happened to Lawrence. Never before had he looked into the eyes of a woman who loved him; and, leaning over towards this one, he put his arm around her and drew her towards him. "And never shall you be alone," he said. She looked up at him with tears starting to her eyes, and then she put her head against his breast. She was too happy to say anything, and she did not try. It was about a minute after this, that the sober sorrel, who took no interest in what had occurred behind him, and a great deal of interest in his stable at home, started in an uncertain and hesitating way; and, finding that he was not checked, began to move onward. Lawrence looked up from the little head upon his breast, and called out, "Whoa!" To this, however, the sorrel paid no attention. Lawrence then put forth his right hand to grasp the reins, but having lately forgotten all about them, they had fallen out of the spring-wagon, and were now dragging upon the ground. It was impossible for him to reach them, and so, seizing the whip, he endeavored with its aid to hook them up. Failing in this, he was about to jump out and run to the horse's head; but, perceiving his intention, Annie seized his arm. "Don't you do it!" she exclaimed. "You'll ruin your ankle!" Lawrence could not but admit to himself that he was not in condition to execute any feats of agility, and he also felt that Annie had a very charming way of holding fast to his arm, as if she had a right to keep him out of danger. And now the sorrel broke into the jog-trot which was his usual pace. "It is very provoking," said Lawrence, "I don't think I ever allowed myself to drop the reins before." "It doesn't make the slightest difference," said Annie, comfortingly. "This old horse knows the road perfectly well, and he doesn't need a bit of driving. He will take us home just as safely as if you held the reins, and now don't you try to get them, for you will only hurt yourself." "Very well," said Lawrence, putting his arm around her again, "I am resigned. But I think you are very brave to sit so quiet and composed, under the circumstances." She looked at him with a smile. "Such a little circumstance don't count, just now," she said. "You must stop that," she added, presently, "when we get to the edge of the woods." Before long, they came out into the open country and found themselves in a lane which led by a wide circuit to the road passing Mrs Keswick's house. The old sorrel certainly behaved admirably; he held back when he descended a declivity; he walked over the rough places; and he trotted steadily where the road was smooth. "It seems like our Fate," said Annie, who now sat up without an arm around her, the protecting woods having been left behind, "he just takes us along without our having anything to do with it." "He is not much of a horse," said Lawrence, clasping, in an unobservable way, the little hand which lay by his side, "but the Fate is charming." Fortunately there was no one upon the road to notice the reinless plight in which these two young people found themselves, and they were quite as well satisfied as if they had been doing their own driving. After a little period of thought, Annie turned an earnest face to Lawrence, and she said: "Do you know that I never believed that you were really in love with Roberta March." Lawrence squeezed her hand, but did not reply. He knew very well that he had loved Roberta March, and he was not going to lie about it. "I thought so," she continued, "because I did not believe that any one, who was truly in love, would want to send other people about, to propose for him, as you did." "That is not exactly the state of the case," he said, "but we must not talk of those things now. That is all passed and gone." "But if there ever was any love," she persisted, "are you sure that it is all gone?" "Gone," he answered, earnestly, "as utterly and completely as the days of last summer." And now the sorrel, of his own accord, stopped at Mrs Keswick's outer gate; and Lawrence, getting down, took up the reins, opened the gate, and drove to the house in quite a proper way. When Mr Croft helped Annie to descend from the spring-wagon, he did not squeeze her hand, nor exchange with her any tender glances, for old Mrs Keswick was standing at the top of the steps. "Have you seen Letty?" she asked. "Letty?" said Miss Annie. "Oh, yes," she added, as if she suddenly remembered that such a person existed, "Letty was at church, and she was very active." "Well," said the old lady, "she must have taken more interest in the exercises than you did, for it is long past the time when I told her she must be home." "I do not believe, madam," said Lawrence, "that any one could have taken more interest in the exercises of this morning, than we have." At this, Annie could not help giving him a little look which would have provoked reflection in the mind of the old lady, had she not been very earnestly engaged in gazing out into the road, in the hope of seeing Letty. When Lawrence had gone into the office, and had closed the door behind him, he stood in a meditative mood before the empty fireplace. He was making inquiries of himself in regard to what he had just done. He was not accusing himself, nor indulging in regrets; he was simply investigating the matter. Here he stood, a man accepted by two women. If he had ever heard of any other man in a like condition, he would have called that man a scoundrel, and yet he did not deem himself a scoundrel. The facts in the case were easy enough to understand. For the first time in his life he had looked into the eyes of a woman who loved him, and he had discovered to his utter surprise that he loved her. There had been no plan; no prudent outlook into her nature and feelings; no cautious insight into his own. He had taken part in a most unpremeditated act of pure and simple love; and that it was real and pure love on each side, he no more doubted than he doubted that he lived. And yet, had he been an impostor when, on that hill over there, he told Roberta March he loved her? No, he had been honest, he had loved her; and, since the time that he had been roused to action by the discovery of Junius Keswick's intentions to renew his suit, it had been a love full of a rare and alluring beauty. But its charm, its fascination, its very existence, had disappeared in the first flash of his knowledge that Annie Peyton loved him. Had his love for Roberta been a perfect one, had he been sure that she returned it, then it could not have been overthrown; but it had gone, and a love, complete and perfect, stood in its place. He had seen that he was loved, and he loved. That was all, but it would stand forever. This was the state of the case, and now Lawrence set himself to discover if, in all ways, he had acted truly and honestly. He had been accepted by Miss March, but what sort of acceptance was it? Should he, as a man true to himself, accept such an acceptance? What was he to think of a woman who, very angry as he had been informed, had sent him a message, which meant everything in the world to him, if it meant anything, and had then dashed away without allowing him a chance to speak to her, or even giving him a nod of farewell. The last thing she had really said to him in this connection were those cruel words on Pine Top Hill, with which she had asked him to choose a spot in which to be rejected. Could he consider himself engaged? Would a woman who cared for him act towards him in such a manner? After all, was that acceptance anything more than the result of pique? And could he not, quite as justly, accept the rejection which she had professed herself anxious to give him. A short time before, Lawrence had done his best to explain to his advantage these peculiarities of his status in regard to Miss March. He had said to himself that she had threatened to reject him because she wished to punish him, and he had intended to implore her pardon, and expected to receive it. Over and over again, had he argued with himself in this strain, and yet, in spite of it all, he had not been able to bring himself into a state of mind in which he could sit down and write to her a letter, which, in his estimation, would be certain to seal and complete the engagement. "How very glad I am," he now said to himself, "that I never wrote that letter!" And this was the only decision at which he had arrived, when he heard Mrs Keswick calling to him from the yard. He immediately went to the door, when the old lady informed him, that as Letty had not come back, and did not appear to be intending to come back, and that as none of the other servants on the place had made their appearance, he might as well come into the house, and try to satisfy his hunger on what cold food she and Mrs Null had managed to collect. The most biting and spicy condiments of the little meal, to which the three sat down, were supplied by Mrs Keswick, who reviled without stint those utterly thoughtless and heedless colored people, who, once in the midst of their crazy religious exercises, totally forgot that they owed any duty whatever to those who employed them. Lawrence and Annie did not say much, but there was something peculiarly piquant in the way in which Annie brought and poured out the tea she had made, and which, with the exception of the old lady's remarks, was the only warm part of the repast; and there was an element of buoyancy in the manner of Mr Croft, as he took his cup to drink the tea. Although he said little at this meal, he thought a great deal, listening not at all to Mrs Keswick's tirades. "What a charmingly inconsiderate affair this has been!" he said to himself. "Nothing planned, nothing provided for, or against; all spontaneous, and from our very hearts. I never thought to tell her that she must say nothing to her aunt, until we had agreed how everything should, be explained, and I don't believe the idea that it is necessary to say anything to anybody, has entered her mind. But I must keep my eyes away from her if I don't want to bring on a premature explosion." Whatever might be the result of the reasoning which this young man had to do with himself, it was quite plain that he was abundantly satisfied with things as they were. It was beginning to be dark, when Letty and Uncle Isham returned and explained why they had been so late in returning. Old Aunt Patsy had died in church. _ |
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