 | CHAPTER XXXI.
“LIVE, LIVE”—ANNIE'S APPEAL. Opening a chestnut burr |  |
31. CHAPTER XXXI.
“LIVE, LIVE”—ANNIE'S APPEAL.
ANNIE'S swoon was so prolonged that both her
Aunt and Hunting were quite alarmed. It
was the reaction from the deep and peculiar excitements
of the last few days. Every power of mind
and body had been under the severest strain, and
nature now gave way.
The doctor, when he came to make his morning
call, was most welcome. He said there was nothing
alarming about Miss Walton's symptoms, but added
very decisively that she would need rest and quiet
of mind for a long time in order to regain her former
tone and health.
When Annie revived he gave something that
would tend to quiet her nervous system and produce
sleep.
“I now understand Mr. Walton's case,” he said
to Miss Eulie. “I could not see why his severe cold,
which we had apparently cured, should result as it
did; but now it's plain that it was complicated with
heart difficulties.”
His visit to Gregory was not at all satisfactory,
for his patient's depression was so great that he
was sinking under it. Mr. Walton's death, leaving
Annie defenceless, as it were, in the hands of a man
mysteries which to him made up human life. The
death that had given Daddy Tuggar such an impulse
toward faith and hope, only led him to say with
intense bitterness:
“God has forgotten his world, and the devil
rules it.”
“Mr. Gregory,” said the physician gravely, “do
you know that you are about the same as taking
your own life? All the doctors in the world cannot
help you unless you try to live. Drugs cannot
remove your apathy and morbid depression.”
“Very well, doctor,” he replied coldly; “do not
trouble yourself to come any more. I absolve you
of all blame.”
“But I cannot absolve myself. Besides, it's not
manly to give up in this style.”
“I make no pretence to being manly or anything
else. I am just what you see. Can a broken reed
stand up like a sturdy oak? Can such a thing as I
reverse fate? Thank you, doctor, for all you have
done, but waste no more time upon me. I knew,
weeks ago, that the end was near, and would like to
die in the old place.”
The doctor looked at him a moment in deep perplexity,
and then silently left the room.
“Internal injuries that I can't get at,” he muttered
as he drove away.
Miss Eulie came to Gregory's side, and laying her
hand gently on his brow said, “You are mistaken,
my young friend. You are going to live.”
“Why do you think so?” he asked.
“The dying often have almost prophetic vision,”
and she told him all that Mr. Walton had said,
though nothing of the contemplated marriage. She
dwelt with special emphasis on the facts that he had
told Annie to be a sister to Gregory and had gone
to heaven with the assurance to his old friend that
his son would join him there.
Gregory was strongly moved, and turning his face
upon the pillow, gave way to a passion of tears; but
they were despairing, bitter, regretful tears. He
soon seemed ashamed of them, and when he again
turned his face toward Miss Eulie, it had a hard,
stony look.
With almost sternness he said, “If the dying have
supernatural insight, why could not Mr. Walton
see what kind of a man Hunting is? Please leave
me now. I know how kind and well-meant your
words are, but they are mockery to me,” and he
turned his face to the wall.
Miss Eulie sighed very deeply, but felt that his
case was beyond her skill.
Daddy Tuggar was at first grievously disappointed.
He had wrought himself up into the hope
of a celestial scene, and the abrupt and quiet termination
of Mr. Walton's life seemed inadequate to the
occasion. But Miss Eulie comforted him by saying
that “the Christian walked by faith, and not by
sight—that God knew what was best, better than we
his little children.”
“Death had not even the power to cause him a
surprise, by letting him in the gates before he was
aware.”
Thus she led the strange old man to think it was
for the best after all. The Rev. Mr. Ames, who had
come on such a different mission, also tried to make
clearer what Mr. Walton had said to him. But
Daddy Tuggar would not permit his mind to wander
a moment from the simple truth, which he kept saying
over and over to himself:
“I'm a dreadful sinner, and the good Lord come
after just such.”
Another thing that greatly perplexed the old
man was that Mr. Walton had not been permitted
to live long enough to see his daughter married.
As an old neighbor, and because of his strong attachment
to Annie, he had been invited with the rest of
the family to be present.
“'Pears to me that the Lord might have spared
him a few minutes longer,” he said.
“It appears to you so,” replied Mr. Ames, “but
the Lord knows why he did not.”
“Well, parson,” said Daddy Tuggar, “I thank
you very kindly for what you have said, but John
Walton has done the business for me. I'm just
goin' to trust—I'm just goin' to let myself go limber
and fall right down on the Lord Jesus' word. I
don't believe it will break with me. Anyhow, it's all
I can do, and John Walton told me to do it, and I
alers found he was about right.” And thus late in
staff and started homeward.
As soon as Hunting recovered from his bitter
disappointment and almost superstitious alarm at
the sudden thwarting of his purpose, his wily and
scheming mind fell to work on a new combination.
If he still could induce Annie to be married almost
immediately, as he greatly hoped, all would be well.
If not, then he would assume that they were the
same as married, and at once take his place as far
as possible at the head of the household, as Mr.
Walton had designed. On one hand, by tender
care and thoughtfulness for them all, he would place
Annie under the deepest obligation; on the other,
he would gain, to the extent he could, control of
her affairs and property. In the latter purpose Mr.
Walton had greatly aided by naming him one of the
executors of his will, and Miss Eulie, his sister-in-law,
only was united with him as executrix. Thus he
would substantially have his own way. Indeed, Mr.
Walton, in his perfect trust, meant that he should.
Having seen Annie quietly sleeping, he started
for New York to make arrangements for the funeral,
and look after some personal matters that had already
been neglected too long.
His feelings on the journey were not enviable.
He had enough faith to fear God, but not to trust
and obey. The thought recurred with disheartening
frequency, “If God is against this, He will thwart
me every time.”
The day had closed in thick darkness and a
the sedative had prolonged. Though weak and languid,
she insisted on getting up. Her aunt almost
forced her to take a little supper, and then she went
instinctively and naturally to that room that had
always been a place of refuge, but which now was the
chamber of death.
She turned up the light that she might look at
the dear, dear face. How calm and noble it was in
its deep repose. It did not suggest death—only
peaceful sleep.
With a passionate burst of sorrow she moaned,
“Oh, father, let me sleep beside you, and be at rest.”
Then she took his cold hand, and sat down mechanically
to watch, as in the day and nights just
passed. But as she became composed and thought
grew busy, the deep peace of the sleeper seemed imparted
to her. In vivid imagination she followed
him to the home and greetings that he had so joyously
anticipated. She saw him meet her mother
and sister, and other loved ones who had gone
before. She saw him at his Saviour's feet, blessed
and crowned. She heard the wild storm raging
without in the darkness, and then thought of his
words, “There is no night there.”
“Dear father,” she murmured, “I would not
call you back if I could. God give me patience to
come to you in His own appointed way.”
Then she dwelt upon the strange events of the
day. How near she had come to being a wife. Why
had she not? Some curious thoughts flitted through
suddenly and unexpectedly prevented on the very
eve of consummation.
“It is enough to know that it was God's will,”
she said, “and my future is still in His hands. Poor
Charles, it will be a disappointment to him; and yet
what difference will a few weeks or months make?”
Then her father's words, “Be a sister to Gregory,”
recurred to her, and she reproached herself
that she had so long forgotten him.
“Father is safe home,” she said, “and I am
leaving him to wander farther and farther away. Father
told me to be a sister to him, and I will. When
he gets well and strong, if he ever does, he will feel
very differently; and if he is to die (which God forbid),
what more sacred duty can I have than to plead
with him and for him to the last?”
Pressing a kiss on her father's silent lips, she went
to fulfil one of their last requests. She first asked her
aunt if it would be prudent to visit Gregory.
“I hardly know, Annie, what to say,” said Miss
Eulie in deep perplexity; and she told her of what
had occurred between Gregory, the doctor, and herself,
omitting his words in regard to Hunting. “If
he is not roused out of his gloom and apathy, I fear
he will die,” concluded her aunt; “and if you can't
rouse him, I don't know who can.”
Annie gave her a quick, questioning glance.
“Yes, Annie, I understand,” she said quietly.
“He received his worst injury before the ladder fell.”
“Oh, auntie, what shall I do?”
“Indeed, my dear child, I can hardly tell you.
You are placed in a difficult and delicate position.
Perhaps your father's words were wisest, `Be a sister
to him.' At any rate, you have more power with
him than any one else, and you owe it to him to do
all you can to save him.”
“I am ready to do anything, auntie, for it seems
I could never be happy if he should die an unbeliever.”
Annie stole noiselessly to Gregory's side, and
motioned to the young man who was in charge to
withdraw to the next room. Gregory was still asleep.
She sat down by his side. She was greatly shocked
to see how emaciated and pale he was. It would
seem that he had suffered from an illness of weeks
rather than days.
“He will die,” she murmured, with all her old
terror at the thought returning. “He will die, and
for me. Though innocent, I will always feel that his
blood is upon me.” And she buried her face in her
hands, and her whole frame shook with a passion of
grief.
Her emotion awoke him, and he recognized with
something like awe the bowed head at his side.
Her grief for her father, as he supposed, seemed
such a sacred thing. And yet he could not bear to
see her intense sorrow. His heart ached to comfort
her, but what words of consolation could such as he
offer? Still had she not come to him as if for comfort?
This thought touched him deeply, and he almost
cursed his unbelieving soul that made him dumb at
commonplaces in regard to a bereavement like hers?
He did not say anything, but merely reached out
his hand and gently stroked her bowed head.
Then she knew he was awake, and she took his
hand and bowed her head upon it.
“Miss Walton,” he said, in a husky voice, “it
cuts me to the heart to see you grieve so. But alas,
I do not know how to comfort you, and I can't say
trite words which mean nothing. After losing such
a father as yours, what can any one say?”
She raised her head and said impetuously, “It's
not for father I am grieving. He is in heaven—he
is not lost to me. It's for you—you. You are breaking
my heart.”
“Miss Walton,” he began, in much surprise, “I
don't understand—”
“Why don't you understand?” she interrupted.
“What do you think I am made of? Do you think
that you can lie here and die for me and I go serenely
on? Do you not see that you would blight the life
you have saved?”
His apathy was gone now. But he was bewildered,
so sudden and overpowering was her emotion.
He only found words to say:
“Miss Walton, God knows I am yours, body and
soul. What can I do?”
“Live—live,” she continued, with the same passionate
earnestness. “I impose no conditions, I ask
nothing else. Only get well and strong again. If
you will do this, I have such confidence in your better
feel sure that all will come out right. But if you
will just lie here and die, you will imbitter my life.
What did the doctor tell you this morning? And
yet I will feel that I am partly the cause. Oh, Mr.
Gregory, you may think me foolish, but that strange
little omen of the chestnut burr is in my mind
so often. I never was superstitious before, but it
haunts me. Don't you remember how you stained
my hand with your blood? I can't get it out of my
mind, and it has for me now a strange significance.
If I had to remember through coming years that you
died for me all hopeless and unbelieving, do you
think so poorly of me as to imagine I could be
happy? Why can't you be generous enough to
brighten the life you have saved? Among my father's
last words he said I must be a sister to you.
How can I if you die? You would make this dear
old place, that we both love, full of terrible memories.”
He was deeply moved, and after a moment said,
“I did not know that you felt in this way. I thought
the best thing that I could do was to get out of the
world and out of the way. I thought I knew you,
but I do not half understand your large, generous
heart. For your sake I will try to get well, nor will
I impose any conditions whatever. But pardon me:
I am going to ask one thing, which you can grant or
not as you choose. Please do not wrong me by
thinking that I have any personal end in view. I
have given all that up as truly as if I were dead. I
—not till you are sure you know him.”
“Oh dear,” exclaimed Annie in real distress,
“this dreadful quarrel! What trouble it makes all
around!”
“If your father,” continued Gregory with grave
earnestness, “told you to be a sister to me, then I
have some right to act as a brother toward you.
But as an honest man, with all my faults, and with
your interests nearest my heart, I entreat you to
heed my request. Nay, more: I am going to seem
ungenerous, and refer for the first and last time to
the obligation you are under to me. By all the
influence I gained by that act, I beg of you to hesitate
before you marry Charles Hunting. Believe
me, I would not lay a straw in the way of your marrying
a good man.”
“Your words pain me more than I can tell
you,” said Annie sadly. “I do not understand them.
Once they would have angered me. But, however
mistaken you are, I cannot do injustice to your
motive.
“I do not see how your request can injure
Charles,” she continued musingly. “I have no
wish to marry now for a long time—not till these sad
scenes have faded somewhat from memory. If you
will only promise to live, I will not marry him till
you get strong and well—till you can look upon this
matter as a man—as a brother ought. But your
hostility must not be unreasonable or implacable.
I know you do Mr. Hunting great injustice.
what almost seems to me disloyal. But I know
that I owe a great deal to you as well as Charles.”
“What I ask is for your sake, not mine. I only
used the obligation as a motive.”
“Well,” said Annie, “I yield; and surely a sister
could not do more than I have to-night.”
“And I have simply done my duty,” he answered
quietly. “And yet I thank you truly. You also
may see the time when you will thank me more
than when I interposed my worthless person between
you and danger.”
“Please never call yourself `worthless' to me
again. We never did agree, and I fear we will be
gray before we do. But mark this: I am never going
to give you up, whatever happens. I shall obey dear
father's last words both from duty and inclination.
But let us end this painful conversation. What have
you eaten to-day?”
“I'm sure I don't know,” he said.
“Will you eat something if I bring it?”
“I will do anything you ask.”
“Now you give me hope,” and she vanished,
sending the regular watcher back to his post.
Gregory found it no difficult task to eat the
dainty little supper she brought. She had broken
the malign spell he was under. As we have seen,
his was a physical nature peculiarly subject to mental
conditions.
Soon after she said, in a low tone meant only for
his ear, “Good night, my poor suffering brother.
God's good time.”
“I hope so,” he said, with a different meaning.
“You have made me feel that I am not alone and
uncared for in the world, though I cannot call you
sister yet. Good night.”
Annie went back to her father's side, and remained
till her aunt almost forced her away.
It is not necessary to dwell on the events of the
next few days. Such is our earthly lot, nearly all can
foresee them by recalling their own sad experience:
the hushed and solemn household, even the children
speaking low and treading softly, as if they
might awake one whom only “the last trump” could
arouse.
John Walton's funeral was no formal pageant, but
an occasion of sincere and general mourning. Even
those whose lives and character were the opposite of
his, had the profoundest respect for him, and the entire
community united in honoring his memory.
Perhaps the most painful time of all to the stricken
family was the evening after their slow, dreary
ride to the village cemetery. Then, as not before,
they realized their loss.
Annie felt that her best solace would be in trying
to cheer others. She had seen Gregory but seldom
and briefly since her last interview, but had been
greatly comforted by his decided change for the
better. He had kept his word. Indeed, it was
only the leaden hand of despondency that kept him
down, and he rallied from the moment it was lifted.
As she entered, in her deep mourning, his look
was so wistful and kind, so eloquent with sympathy,
that instead of cheering him, as she intended, she
sat down on a low ottoman, and burying her face
in her hands, cried as if her heart would break.
“Oh that I knew how to comfort you!” said
Gregory in the deepest distress. “I cannot bear to
see you suffer.”
He rose with difficulty and came to her side,
saying, “What can I do, Miss Walton? Would that
I could prevent you from ever shedding another tear
at any cost to myself!”
His sympathy was so true and strong, that it was
a luxury for her to receive it; and she had kept up so
long, that tears were nature's own relief.
At last he said timidly, hesitatingly, as if venturing
on forbidden ground, “I think the Bible says
that in heaven all tears will be wiped away. Your
father is surely there.”
“Would that I were there with him,” she sobbed.
“Not yet, Annie, not yet,” he said gently.
“Think how dark this world would be to more than
one if you were not in it.”
“But will you never seek this dear home of rest?”
she asked.
“The way of life is closed to me,” he said sadly:
“Oh, Mr. Gregory! Who is it that says, `I am
the way'?”
“But he says to me, `Depart.'”
“And yet I, knowing all—I, a weak, sinful creature
kinder than He who died for us all! What strange,
sad logic. Good night, Walter. You will not always
so wrong your best Friend.”
Gregory's despairing conviction that his day of
mercy was past was hardly proof against her words
and manner, but he was in thick darkness and saw
no way out.
Annie went down to her aunt and Hunting in
the parlor. “Why will Mr. Gregory be so hard and
unbelieving?” she said tearfully.
“If you knew him as well as I do you would understand,”
said Hunting politicly, and then changed
the conversation.
He was consumed by a jealousy which he dared
not show. Annie's manner toward him was all he
could ask, and he felt sure of her now. But it was
the future he dreaded. He felt sure that Gregory
had formed an attachment for Annie, whether she
knew it or not; and unless he could secure her by
marriage, his enemy might find means of tearing off
his mask. With desperate earnestness he resolved
to press his suit.
His course since Mr. Walton's death had been
such as to win Annie's sincerest gratitude. When
action rather than moral support was required, he
was strong, and no one could be more delicately
thoughtful of her feelings and kind to all than he
had been.
“Dear Charles,” said Annie when they were
alone. “What would I have done without you in
from all painful contact with the world!”
“And so I ever wish to shield you,” said Hunting.
“Will you not, as your father purposed, give
me the right at once?”
“You have the right, Charles. I ask no more than
you have done and are doing. But do not urge
marriage now. I yielded then for father's sake, not
my own. My heart is too sore and crushed to think
of it now. After all, what difference can a few
months make to you? Be generous. Give me a
respite, and I will make you a better wife and a
happier home.”
“But it looks, Annie, as if you could not trust
me,” he said gloomily.
“No, Charles,” she said gravely, “it looks rather
as if you distrusted me; and you must learn to trust
me implicitly. Both out of love for you as well as
justice to myself I exercise my woman's right of
naming the day. In the mean time I give you my
perfect confidence. No words of others—nothing
but your own acts, can disturb it, and of this I have
no fear.”
He did not seek to disguise his deep disappointment.
While she felt sorry for him, she remained
firm, and he felt that it would not be wise to urge
her.
Annie was not one to carelessly give pain to any,
much less to those she loved. And yet her mind
was strong and well-balanced. She knew it was
no great misfortune to Hunting to wait a few months
required it. “When Gregory gets strong and well
and back to business,” she thought, “he will wonder
at himself. I have no right to almost destroy him
now in his weakness by doing that which can be
done better at another time; and indeed, for my
own sake, I should have required delay.”
The next day Hunting was reluctantly compelled
to go to the city. Somewhat to Annie's surprise,
Gregory made no effort to secure her society. In
her frank, sisterly regard she was slow in understanding
that her presence caused regretful pain to him.
But he seemed resolutely bent upon getting well,
and was gaining rapidly. He walked out a little
while during the middle of the day, and her eyes followed
him wistfully as he moved slowly and feebly
along the narrow garden walk. She saw, with quickly
starting tears, that he went to the rustic seat by the
brook where they had spent that memorable Sunday
afternoon, and that he stood in long, deep
thought.
When he came back she offered to read for him.
“Not now—not yet,” he said sadly. “I know
my weakness, and would be true to my word.”
“Why do you shun me so?” she asked.
“May you never understand from experience,”
he said, with a smile that was sadder than tears, and
passed on up to his room.
And yet, though he did not know it, his course
was the best policy, for it awakened stronger respect
and sympathy on her part.
The next morning ushered in the first of the
dreamy Indian-summer days, when nature, as if
grieved over the havoc of the frost, would hide the
dismantled trees and dead flowers by a purple haze,
and seek, as do fading beauties, to disguise the
ravages of time by drawing over her withered face a
deceptive vail.
Gregory felt so much better that he thought he
could venture to make a parting call on Daddy Tuggar.
He found the old man smoking on his porch,
and his reception was as warm and demonstrative as
his first had been, a month ago, though of a different
nature. Gregory lighted a cigar and sat down
beside him.
“I'm wonderful glad to see you,” said Mr. Tuggar.
“To think that I should have cussed you,
when it was the good Lord that brought you
here?”
“Do you think so?” asked Gregory.
“Certain I do. Would that house be there?
Wouldn't all our hearts be broke for Miss Annie if it
wasn't for you?”
Gregory felt that his heart was “broke” for her
as it was, but he said:
“It was my taking her out to walk that caused
her danger. So you wouldn't have lost her if I had
not come.”
“You didn't knowingly get her in danger, and
you did knowingly get her out, and that's enough
for me,” said the old man.
“Well, well, Mr. Tuggar, if I had broken my
with saving the life of such a woman as Miss Walton.
Still, I fear the Lord has not much to do with
me.”
“And have you been all this time with John
Walton and Miss Annie and still feel that way?”
“It's not their fault.”
“I believe that. Are you willing to say you are
a great sinner?”
“Of course. What else am I?”
“That's it—that's it,” cried the old man delightedly.
“Now you're all right. That's just where
I was. When John Walton bid me good-by, he
asked one question that let more light into my thick
head than all the readin' and preachin' and prayin'
I ever heard. He asked, `Whom did Jesus Christ
come to save?' Answer that.”
“The Bible says he came to save sinners,” replied
Gregory, now deeply interested.
“Well, I should think that meant you and me,”
said Mr. Tuggar emphatically. “Anyhow, I know it
means me. John Walton told me that all I had to
do was to just trust the Saviour—not of good people—but
of sinners, and do the best I could; and
I've just done it, and I'm all right Mr. Gregory, I'm
all right. I don't know whether I can stop swearin',
but I'm a-tryin'. I don't know whether I can ever
get under my old ugly temper, but I'm a-tryin' and
a-prayin'. But whether I can or not, I'm all right,
for the good Lord came to save sinners; and if that
don't mean me, what's the use of words?”
“But can you trust Him?” asked Gregory.
“Certain I can. Wasn't John Walton an honest
man? Wasn't Jesus Christ honest? Didn't he
know what He come for?”
“Admitting that He came to save sinners, how
can you be sure He will save all? He might save
you, and not me.”
“Well,” said Mr. Tuggar, “I hadn't been home
long afore that question come up to me, and I
thought on it a long time. I smoked well-nigh a
hundred pipes on it afore I got it settled, but 'tis
settled, and when I settle a thing I don't go botherin'
back about it. But like enough 't won't satisfy
you.”
“At any rate, I would like to hear your conclusion.”
“Well, I argued it out to myself. I says, suppose
there's some sinners too bad, or too somethin'
or other, for the Lord to save, and suppose you
are one of them, ain't 'lected, as my wife says.
If I could be an unbelievin' sinner for eighty years,
it seemed to me that if any body wasn't 'lected I
wasn't. I was dreadfully down, I tell yer, for I'd set
my heart on bein' John Walton's neighbor again.
I'd smoked a good many pipes; I cussed myself for
an old fool. There, you've brought your case into
court, I says, and your're goin' to give it up afore it's
argued. Then I argued it. I was honest, you may
be sure. It wouldn't do me any good to pettifog in
this matter. First I says, if there was any doubt
about the Lord savin' all sinners who wanted him
what I know of the man he would. Then I says,
arter all it's the Lord I've got to deal with. Now
what kind of a Lord is he? Then I commenced
rememberin' all that Miss Eulie and Miss Annie had
read to me about Him, and all I'd heard, and I got
my wife to read some, and my hopes grew every
minute. I tell you what, Mr. Gregory, it was a
queer crowd He often had around him. I'd kinder
felt at home among 'em, specially with that swearin'
fisherman, Peter. Well, the upshot of it was, I
couldn't find that he ever turned one sinner away.
Then why should he me? Then my wife, as she
was readin', come across the words, `Him that
cometh to me I will in no wise cast out.' I'd heard
them words afore often, but it seemed now as the
first time, and I just shouted, `I've got his word
for it,' and my wife thought I was crazy sure 'nuff,
for she didn't know what I was drivin' at. And
now, Mr. Gregory, you're just shut up to two things,
just two things. Either the Lord Jesus will save
every sinner that comes to Him, or He ain't honest,
and don't mean what he says, and won't do as he
used to. I tell yer I'm settled, better settled than
yonder mountain. I just let myself go limber right
down upon the promise, and it's all right. I'm going
to be John Walton's neighbor again.”
Gregory was more affected by the old man's
quaint talk than he would have believed possible.
It seemed true that he was “shut up” to one or the
other of the alternatives presented. He commenced
Mr. Tuggar puffed away at his pipe with such vigor
that he was exceedingly beclouded, however clear his
mind. At last Gregory said:
“I shall think over what you have said, very carefully,
for I admit it has a great deal of force to my
mind.”
“That's right,” said Mr. Tuggar, “argue it out,
just as I did. Show yourself no favors, and be fair
to yourself, and you can't get away from my conclusion.
You've got to come to it.”
“I should be very glad to come to it,” said Gregory
gravely.
“I should think you would. There'll be some
good neighbors up there, Mr. Gregory; these Waltons
are all bound to be there. Miss Annie would
be kinder good company, eh, Mr. Gregory?”
In spite of himself he flushed deeply under the
old man's keen scrutiny.
“There's one thing that's mighty 'plexing to me,”
said Mr. Tuggar, led to the subject by its subtle connection
with Gregory's blush, “and that's why the
Lord didn't keep John Walton alive a few minutes
longer, so that the marriage could take place.”
Gregory gave a great start. “What marriage?”
he asked.
“Why, don't you know about it?” said Mr
Tuggar in much surprise.
“No, nothing at all.”
“Then perhaps I orter not speak of it.”
“Certainly not, if you don't think it right.”
“Well, I've said so much I might as well say it
all,” said the old man musingly. “It's no secret, as
I know of,” and he told Gregory how nearly Annie
became being a wife.
Gregory drew a long breath and looked deathly
pale and faint.
“Well, now, I'd no idea that you'd be so struck
of a heap,” said the old man, in still deeper surprise.
“God's hand was in that,” murmured Gregory,
“God's hand was in that.”
“Do you think so, now? Well, it does seem
kinder cur'us, and per'aps it was, for somehow I
nevertook to that Hunting, though he seems all
right.”
“Good-by, Mr. Tuggar,” said Gregory rising;
“you have given me a good deal to think about,
and I'm going to think, and act, too, if I can. I am
going to New York to-morrow, and one of the first
things I do will be to fill your pipe for a long time,”
and he pressed the old man's hand most cordially.
“Let yourself go limber when you come to trust,
and it will be all right,” were Daddy Tuggar's last
words as he balanced himself on his crutches on
parting.
Gregory found Annie in the parlor, and he said,
“I have good news for you, Daddy Tuggar is a
Christian.”
Annie sprang joyfully up and said, “I'm going
over to see him at once.”
When she returned, Gregory was quietly reading
avoid her.
She came directly to him and said, “Daddy Tuggar
says that you propose going home to-morrow.”
“Well, really, Miss Walton, I have no home to go
to; but I expect to return to the city.”
“Now I protest against it.”
“I'm glad you do.”
“Then you won't go.”
“Yes, I must; but I'm glad you don't wish me
to go.”
“Why need you go yet? You ought not. You
should wait till you are strong.”
“That is just why I go—to get strong. I never
could here, with you looking so kindly at me as you
do now. You see I am as frank as I promised to be.
So please say no more, for you cannot and you ought
not to change my purpose.”
“Oh dear,” cried Annie, “how one's faith is
tried. Why need this be so?”
“On the contrary,” he said, “what little faith I
ever had has been quite revived this afternoon.
Daddy Tuggar has been `talking religion' to me,
and pardon me for saying it, I found his words
more convincing than even yours.”
“I am not jealous of him,” said Annie gladly.
“I can't help thinking that God does see and care,
in that he prevented your marriage.”
Annie blushed deeply, and said coldly, “I am
sorry you touched upon that subject,” and she left
the room.
Gregory went quietly on with his reading, or
seemed to. Indeed, he made a strong effort, and
succeeded, for he was determined to master himself
outwardly.
She soon relented and came back. When she
saw him apparently so undisturbed, the thought
came to her, “He has given me up truly. There is
nothing of the lover in that calmness, and he makes
no effort to win my favor.” But she said, “Mr.
Gregory, I fear I hurt your feelings. You certainly
did mine. I cannot endure the injustice you persist
in doing Mr. Hunting.”
“I only repeat your own words, `We all three
will understand each other in God's good time;' and
after what I heard to-day I have the feeling that He
is watching over you.”
“Won't you promise not to speak any more on
this subject?”
“Yes, for I have done my duty.”
She took up his book and read to him, thus giving
one more hour of mingled pain and pleasure;
though when he thought how long it would be
before he heard that sweet voice again, if ever, his
pain almost reached the point of anguish. As she
turned toward him and saw his look of suffering,
she realized somewhat the effort he made to keep
up before her.
She came to him and said, “I was about to ask
a favor, but perhaps it's hardly right.”
“Ask it, any way,” he said with a smile.
“I don't urge it, but I expect Mr. Hunting this
him?”
“For your sake I will, now that I have gained
some self-control. I am not one to quarrel in a
lady's parlor under any provocation. For your sake
I will treat Mr. Hunting like a gentleman, and make
my last evening with you as little of a restraint as
possible.”
“Thank you—thank you. You now promise to
make it one of peculiar happiness.”
Annie drove to the depot for Hunting, and told
of Gregory's consent to meet him. She said, “Now
is your opportunity, Charles. Meet him in such a
way as to make enmity impossible.”
His manner was not very reassuring, but, in his
pleasure at hearing that Gregory was soon to leave,
and that in his absence he had not been able to disturb
Annie's confidence in him, promised to do the
best he could.
Annie was nervously excited as the moment of
meeting approached, and, somewhat to her surprise,
Hunting seemed to share her uneasiness.
Gregory did not come down till the family were
all in the supper-room. Annie was struck with his
appearance as he entered. Though his left arm was
in a sling, there was a graceful and almost courtly
dignity in his bearing, a brilliancy in his eyes and
firmness about his mouth which proved that he had
nerved himself for the ordeal and would maintain himself.
Instantly she thought of the time when he
first appeared in that room, a half-wrecked, blasé man
man.
Hunting, on the contrary, had a shuffling and
embarrassed manner; but he approached Gregory
and held out his hand, saying:
“Come, Mr. Gregory, let by-gones be by-gones.”
But Gregory only bowed with the perfection of
distant courtesy, and said:
“Good evening, Mr. Hunting,” and took his
seat.
Both Hunting and Annie blushed deeply and
resentfully. After they were seated, Annie looked
toward Hunting to say “grace” as usual, but he
could not before the man who knew him so well,
and there was another moment of deep embarrassment,
while a sudden satirical light gleamed from
Gregory's eyes. Annie saw it, and it angered her.
Then Gregory broke the ice with quiet, well-bred
ease. In natural tones he commenced conversation,
addressing now one, now another, in such a way that
they could not but answer him in like manner. He
asked Hunting after the news and gossip of the city
as naturally as if they had met that evening for the
first time. He even had pleasant repartee with Johnnie
and Susie, who had now come to like him very
much; and his manner toward Miss Eulie was
peculiarly gentle and respectful, for he was deeply
grateful to her. Indeed, that good lady could scarcely
believe her eyes and ears; but Gregory had always
been an enigma to her. At first he spoke to Annie
less frequently than to any one, for he dreaded the
and he was determined the evening should pass off
as he had planned. Though so crippled that his food
had to be prepared for him, he only made it a matter
of graceful jest, and gave ample proof that a highly
bred and cultured man can be elegant in manners
under circumstances the most adverse.
Even Annie thawed and relented under his
graceful tact, and felt that perhaps he was doing all
she could expect in view of his simple promise to
“treat Hunting like a gentleman, for her sake.”
But it had pained her deeply that he had not met
Hunting's advances; and she saw that though perfectly
courteous, he was not committing himself in
the slightest degree toward reconciliation.
Moreover, she was excessively annoyed that
Hunting acted so poor a part. It is as natural for a
woman to take pride in her lover as to breathe, but
she could have no pride in Hunting that evening.
He seemed annoyed both with himself and Gregory
beyond endurance, though he strove to disguise it.
He knew that he was appearing to disadvantage,
and this increased his embarrassment, and he was
most unhappy in his words and manner. Yet he
could take exception at nothing, for Gregory's polished
armor was perfect, and he grew more brilliant
and entertaining as he saw his adversary losing
ground.
But all were glad when the supper-hour was
over and they could adjourn to the parlor. Here
Gregory changed his tactics, and drawing the children
souvenir, thus causing deep regret on their part for
his departure. He next drew Miss Eulie into an
animated discussion upon a subject he knew her to
be interested in. From this he made the conversation
general, and continued to speak to Hunting as
naturally as if there were no differences between
them. But all saw that he was growing very weary,
and early in the evening he quietly rose and excused
himself, saying that he needed rest for his journey
on the morrow. There was the same polite, distant
bow to Hunting as at first, and in deep disappointment
Annie admitted that nothing had been gained
by the interview from which she hoped so much.
They were no nearer reconciliation. Even while
Gregory's manner had compelled respect and even
admiration, it had annoyed her excessively, for he
had made her lover appear to disadvantage, and she
was almost vexed with Hunting that he had not
been equal to the occasion. She was sorry that she
had asked Gregory to come down while Hunting
was present, and yet courtesy seemed to require that
he should be present, since he was now sufficiently
well. Altogether it was a silent little group that
Gregory left in the parlor, as all were busy with their
own thoughts.
Hunting determined to remain the following day
and see Gregory off and out of the way forever, he
hoped.
The next morning Gregory did not come down
to breakfast. But at about ten o'clock he started
Annie joined him in the garden.
“I do not think you were generous last evening,”
she said. “Mr. Hunting met you halfway.”
“Did I not do just what I promised?”
“But I was in hopes you would do more, especially
when the way was opened.”
“Do you think, Miss Walton, that Mr. Hunting's
manner and feelings toward me were sincerely cordial
and friendly? Was it the promptings of his
heart, or your influence, that led him to put out his
hand?”
Annie blushed in conscious confusion. “I fear I
will never reconcile you,” she said sadly.
“I fear not,” he replied. “There must be a
great change in us both before you can. Though
the reason I give was a sufficient one for not taking
his hand in friendly feeling, it was not the one that
influenced me. I would not have taken it under any
circumstances.”
“Mr. Gregory, you grieve me most deeply,” she
said in a tone of real distress. “Won't you, when
you come to part, take his hand for my sake, and let
a little of the ice thaw?”
“No,” he said almost sternly; “not even for your
sake, for whom I would die, will I be dishonest with
myself or him, and you are not one to ask me to act
a lie.”
“You wound me deeply, sir,” she said coldly.
“Faithful are the wounds of a friend,” he replied.
She did not answer.
“We shall not part in this way, Annie,” he said
in a low, troubled voice.
“The best I can do is to give you credit for very
mistaken sincerity,” she answered sadly.
“That is all now, I fear,” replied he gently.
“Good-by, Annie Walton. We are really parting
now. My mission to you is past, and we go our different
ways. You will never believe anything I can
say on this painful subject, and I would not have
spoken of it again of my own accord. Keep your
promise to me, and all yet will be well, I believe.
As that poor woman who saved us in the mountains
said, `There will at least be one good thing about me.
Whether I can pray for myself or not, I shall daily
pray for you;' and I feel that God, who shielded you
so strangely once, will still guard you. Do not
grieve because I go away with pain in my heart.
It's a better kind of suffering than that with which
I came, and lasting good may come out of it, for my
old reckless despair is gone. If I ever do become a
good man—a Christian—I shall have you to thank;
and even heaven would be happier if you were the
means of bringing me there.”
“When you speak that way, Walter,” she said,
tears starting to her eyes, “I must forgive every
thing; and when you become a real Christian you
will love even your enemy. Please take this little
package from me, but do not open it till you reach the
quiet and seclusion of your own rooms. Good-by,
my brother, for as such my father told me to act
and feel toward you, and from my heart I obey.”
He looked at her with moistened eyes, but did
not trust himself to answer, and without another
word they returned to the house.
Gregory's leave-taking from the rest of the household
was no mere form. Especially was this true of
Miss Eulie, to whom he said most feelingly:
“Miss Morton, my mother could not have been
kinder or more patient with me.”
When he pressed Zibbie's hand and left a bank-note
in it, she broke out in the broadest Scotch:
“Maister Gregory, an' when I think me ould
gray head would ha' been oot in the stourm wi' na
home to cover it, I pray the gude God to shelter
yours fra a' the cold blasts o' the wourld.'
Silent Hannah, alike favored, seemed afflicted
with a sudden attack of St. Vitus' dance, so indefinite
was the number of her courtesies: while Jeff, on
the driver's seat, looked as solemn as if he were to
drive Gregory to the cemetery instead of the depot.
At the moment of final parting, Gregory merely
took Annie's hand and looked into her eyes with an
expression that caused them speedily to droop, tear-blinded.
To Hunting he had bowed his farewell in the
parlor.
When the last object connected with his old home
was hidden from his wistful, lingering gaze, he said,
with the sorrow of one who watches the sod placed
above the grave of his dearest:
“So it all ends.”
But when in his city apartments, which never
before seemed such a cheerless mockery of the idea
of home, he opened the package Annie had given
him—when he found a small, worn Bible, inscribed
with the words, “To my dear little daughter Annie
from mother,” and written beneath, in a child's hand,
“I thank you, dearmother. I will read it every day,”
he sprang up, and exclaimed in strongest feeling,
“No, all has not ended yet.”
When he became sufficiently calm he again
took up the Bible, and found the leaves turned
down at the 14th chapter of St. John, with the
words:
“Commence here.”
He read, “Let not your heart be troubled: ye
believe in God, believe also in me.”
“In my Father's house are many mansions: if it
were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare
a place for you.”
“How sweetly—with what exquisite delicacy she
points me beyond the shadows of time,” he said musingly.
“I believe in God. I ever have. Then why
not trust the `Man of Sorrows,' who also must be
God? Both Annie and her quaint old friend are
right. He never turned one away who came sincerely.
In Him who forgave the outcast and thief
there glimmers hope for me. How thick the darkness
as I look elsewhere. Lord Jesus,” he cried,
with a rush of tears, “I am palsied through sin: lift
me up, that I may come to Thee.”
Better for him that night than a glowing hearth
with genial friends around it, was Annie's Bible.
Looking at it fondly, he said, “It links me to her
happy childhood before that false man came, and it
may join me to her in the `place' which God is preparing,
when he who now deceives her is as far removed
as sin.”
| CHAPTER XXXI.
“LIVE, LIVE”—ANNIE'S APPEAL. Opening a chestnut burr | |