University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.
WITCHCRAFT.

MISS Eulie was doomed to disappointment, for
Walter came down late to breakfast the following
morning with not a trace of his softened feelings.
Indeed, because of pride, or for some reason,
he chose to seem the very reverse of all she had
hoped. The winter of his unbelief could not pass
away so easily.

Even in January there are days of sudden relenting,
when the frost's icy grasp upon nature seems to
relax. Days that rightfully belong to spring drop
down upon us with birds that have come before their
time. But such days may end in a northeast snowstorm
and the birds perish.

The simile appeared true of Gregory. As far as
he took part in the table talk he was a cold, finished
man of the world, and the gloom of the early morning
seemed resting on his face. But Annie noticed
that he made an indifferent breakfast and did not
appear well.

After he had retired to his room to write some
letters, as he said, she remarked to her father when
alone with him:

“I suppose you remember Mr. Gregory's manner

when you spoke of Mr. Hunting. They evidently
are acquainted and not on good terms. What could
have occurred between them?”

“Some quarrel resulting from business perhaps,”
said Mr. Walton musingly.

“I believe Charles has been trying to restrain Mr.
Gregory in some of his fast ways,” said Annie emphatically,
“and they have had hot words. Men
have so little discretion in their zeal.”

“Business men are not apt to interfere with each
other's foibles unless they threaten their pockets,”
said Mr. Walton. “It is more probable that Gregory
has borrowed money of Hunting, and been compelled
to pay it against his will—and yet I have no
right to surmise anything of the kind.”

“But Mr. Hunting is not a mere business man,
father. He is bent on doing good wherever he can
find opportunity. I incline to my solution. But it
is clear that we must be silent in regard to him
while Mr. Gregory is with us, for I never saw such
bitter enmity expressed in any face. It is well
Charles is to be absent for some time, and we in no
prospect of a visit from him while our guest is here.
I feel sure that we should have an awkward time if
he came. Oh dear! I wish Charles would come and
make such a visit instead of this moody, wayward
stranger.”

“I can echo that wish heartly, Annie, for in the
son I find little of my old friend, his father. But
remember what you said last night. It may be that

he was sent to us in order that we should help him
become what his father was.”

“I will do my best, father; but I do not look
forward to his society with much pleasure. Still if
there should be any such result as we hope for, I
would feel repaid a thousand-fold.”

Walter finished his letters and then paced restlessly
up and down his room.

“That this country girl should have so moved
and shaken me?” he muttered. “What does it
mean? What is there about her that takes hold of
my attention and awakens my interest? I wish to
go down stairs now, and talk to her, and have her
read to me, and am provoked with myself that I do.
Yesterday at this time I wished to avoid her.”

Tramp, tramp, back and forth.

“Why should I wish to avoid her? If she amuses
me, diverts my mind, beguiles my pain, or more
dreary apathy, why not let her exert her power to
the utmost and make herself useful? Yes, but she
will try to do more than amuse. Well, suppose she
does; a man like yourself can coolly foil such efforts.
Not so sure of that. If I were dealing with
a man of the world I could, but one must be worse
than a clod to hear her sing and not feel. I suppose
I made a weak fool of myself before them all last
night, and they thought I was on the eve of conversion.
I half wish I were, or on the eve of any
thing else. Any change from my present state
would seem a relief. But a man cannot go into these
things like an impulsive girl, even if he believes in

them, which is more than I do. I seem to have
fallen into a state of moral and physical imbecility,
in which I can only doubt, suffer, and chafe.”

Tramp, tramp, back and forth.

“I won't avoid her. I will study and analyze
her character. I doubt whether she is as good, fresh,
and original as she seems. Such girls exist only in
moral stories, and I've met but few even there. I
will solve her mystery. Probably it is not a very
deep one, and after a day or two she will become an
old story and life resume its normal monotony.”
And he at once descended the stairs to carry out his
purpose.

The children were just coming from the sitting-room
where they had their school, exclaiming:

“Oh, Auntie, what shall we do this awful rainy
day?”

“Wait till I have given some directions to Zibbie,
and I will read you a fairy story, and then you can
go up into the wide old garret until dinner time.”

“May I listen to the fairy story also?” asked
Walter.

Miss Walton looked up with a smile and said,
“You must be half dead from your imprisonment to
take up with such solace. But if you can wait till
I have kept my word to the children I will read
something more to your taste.”

“I think I would like to hear how a fairy story
sounds once again after all these years.”

“As Shakespeare may sound to us some time in
the future,” she replied, smiling.

“I can't believe we shall ever outgrow Shakespeare,”
he said.

“I can believe it, but cannot understand how it
is possible. As yet I am only growing up into
Shakespeare.”

“You seem very ready to believe what you cannot
understand.”

“And that is woman's way, I suppose you would
like to add,” she answered, smiling over her shoulder,
as she turned to the kitchen department. “You
men have a general faith that there will be dinner
at two o'clock, though you understand very little
how it comes to pass, and if you are disappointed
the best of your sex have not fortitude enough to
wait patiently, so I must delay no longer in propitiating
the kitchen divinity.”

“There!” he said, “I have but crossed her steps
in the hall, and she has stirred me and set my nerves
tingling like an October breeze. She is a witch.”

After a few minutes Miss Walton entered. Each
of the children called for a story, and each clamored
for their favorite.

“Johnnie,” said Miss Walton, “it is manly to
yield to the least and weakest, especially if she be a
little lady.”

The boy thought a moment, and then with an
amusing assumption of dignity said: “You may
read Susie's story first, Auntie.”

“Susie, promise Johnnie that his story shall
be read first next time;” which Susie promptly
did with a touch of the womanly grace with which

favors are bestowed after the feminine will has triumphed.

“Now, little miniature man and woman, listen!”
and their round eyes were ready for the world of
wonders.

And this sweet, pure child of nature was at the
same time showing Gregory a world as new and
strange—a world that as a boy he had caught
glimpses of, but since had lost hopelessly. She
carried the children away into fairyland. She suggested
to him a life in which simplicity, truth, and
genuine goodness might bring peace and hope to
the heart.

“Well, what do you think of the fairy story?”
she asked after she had finished and the children had
drawn sighs of intense relief at the happy denouement
in which the ugly ogre was slain and the prince
and princess married.

“I did not hear it,” he said.

“That's complimentary. But you appeared listening
very closely.”

“You have heard of people reading a different
meaning between the lines, and I suppose one can
listen to a different meaning.”

“And what could you find between the lines of
this fairy tale?” she asked with interest.

“I would find it difficult to explain—something
too vague and indefinite for words, I fear. But if
you will read me something else I shall listen to the
text itself.”

“Come, children, scamper off to the garret,” said

Annie, “and remember you are nearer heaven up
there, and so must be very kind and gentle to each
other.”

“You fill those youngsters' heads with beautiful
superstitions.”

“Superstition and faith are not so very far apart,
though so unlike.”

“Yes, it is hard to tell where one leaves off and
the other begins.”

“Is it?”

“Isn't it?”

“I don't like to contradict you, sir.”

“You have contradicted me, and I suppose `it is
manly to yield to a lady.'”

“Not in manners of principle and honest conviction.”

“Alas! if one has not very much of either.”

“It is a very great misfortune, and, I suppose I
ought to add, fault.”

“I have no doubt it is a misfortune, Miss Walton;
but you are not reading.”

“Well, make your choice.”

“I leave it entirely to you.”

“You don't look very well to-day. I will select
something light and cheerful from Dickens.”

“Excuse me please. I am in no mood for his
deliberate purpose to make one laugh.

“Then here is Irving. His style flows like a
meadow brook.”

“No, he is too sentimental.”

“Walter Scott, then, will form a happy medium.”

“No, he wearies one with explanations and history.”

“Some of Tennyson's dainty idyls will suit your
fastidious taste.”

“I couldn't abide to-day his affected, stilted
language.”

“Shakespeare, then; you regard him as perfect.”

“No, he makes me think, and I do not wish to.”

“Well, here are newspapers, the latest magazine,
and some new novels.”

“Modern rubbish—a mushroom growth. They
will soon kindle kitchen fires instead of thought.”

“Then I must make an expedition to the library.
What shall I bring? There is Mosheim's `Ecclesiastical
Ancient History;' that has a solid, venerable
sound. Or, if you prefer poetry, I will get
Grey's `Elegy.' That cannot be a literary mushroom,
for he was twenty years writing it. But perhaps
it is Tupper you would like—that would suit
your mood exactly. Tupper's `Proverbial Philosophy.'”

“You are growing satirical, Miss Walton. Why
don't you assert plainly that I am as full of whims
as a ——”

“Woman, would you like to say?”

“Present company excepted. The fact is, I am
two-thirds ill to-day, and the most faultless style and
theme in our language would weary me. I am possessed
by the evil spirits of ennui, unrest, and disgust
at myself and all the world, present company always

excepted. Do you know of any spells that can exorcise
these demons?”

“Yes, a very simple one. Will you put yourself
absolutely in my power and obey?”

“I am your slave.”

Miss Walton left the room and soon returned
with a large Afghan. “You must take a horizontal
position in order that my spell may work.”

“Pshaw! you are prescribing an ordinary nap.”

“I am glad to say the best things in this world
are ordinary and common. But permit me to suggest
that in view of your pledged word you have
nothing to do in this matter but to obey.”

“Very well;” and he threw himself on the sofa.

“The day is chilly, sir, and I must throw this
Afghan over you;” and she did so with a little touch
of delicacy which is so grateful when one is indisposed.

Her manner both soothed and pleased, and he
noticed as she bent over him that her eyes were
honestly kind. He was more lonely than he realized,
for it had been years since he had experienced
woman's gentle care and ministry; and Annie
Walton had a power possessed by few to put
jangling nerves at rest. Suddenly he said;

“I wish I had a sister like you.”

“My creed, you know,” she replied, “makes all
mankind kindred.”

“Nonsense!” said Walter, irritably; “deliver
me from your church sisters.”

“Take care!” she answered with a warning nod.

“I'm a church sister; so don't drive me away, for I
am going to sing you to sleep.”

I'm half inclined to join your church that I may
call you sister.”

“You would be disciplined and excommunicated
within a month. But hush; you must not talk.”

“How would you treat me after I had been anathematized?”

“If you were as ill as you are to day I would
make you sleep. Hush; not another word. I am
going to sing.”

A luxurious sense of comfort stole over him, and
he composed himself to listen and criticise, little imagining,
though, that he would fall asleep. He saw
through the window a lowering sky with leaden
clouds driven wildly across it. The wind moaned
and soughed around the angles of the house, and
the rain beat against the glass. All without seemed
emblematic of himself. But now he had a brief but
blessed sense of shelter both from the storm and
himself. The fire blazed cheerily on the hearth.
The Afghan seemed to envelop him like a genial atmosphere.
Had Miss Walton bewitched it by her
touch? And now she has found something to suit
her, or rather him, and is singing.

“What an unusual voice she has,” he thought.
“Truly the spirit of David's harp, that could banish
the demon from Saul, dwells in it. I wonder if she
is as good and real as she seems, or whether, under
the stress of temptation or the poison of flattery,
she would not show herself a true daughter of Eve?

I must find out, for it is about the only remaining
question that interests me. If she is like the rest of
us—if she is a female Hunting—then good-by to all
hope. I shall not live to find anybody or anything
to trust. If she is what she seems it's barely possible
that she might help me out of this horrible
`slough of despond,' if she would take the trouble.
I wish that she were my sister, or that my sister
had lived and been just like her.”