University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.
A PLOT AGAINST MISS WALTON.

WALTER was soon off for his ramble. The
storm had cleared away so warmly and genially
as to suggest spring rather than fall; but he was
quite oblivious of the outer world, and familiar
scenes had not the power to awaken either pleasant
or painful associations. He was trying to account
for the influence that Annie Walton had suddenly
gained over him, but it was beyond his philosophy.
This provoked him. His cool, worldly nature questioned
everything and especially everybody. He
believed in the inherent weakness of humanity, and
that if people were exceptionally good it was because
they had been exceptionally fortunate in escaping
temptation. He also had a cynical pleasure in seeing
such people tripping and stumbling, so that he
might say in self-excusing:

“We are all alike.”

And yet he was complled to admit that if Annie's
goodness was seeming it was more perfect art than
he had known before. There was also an unconscious
assertion of superiority in her manner that he
did not like. True, things had turned out far better
than he had expected. There was no cant about

her. She did not lecture him or “talk religion” in
what he regarded as the stereotyped way, and he
was sure she would not, even if they became better
acquainted. But there is that in genuine goodness
and nobility of character that always humiliates the
bad and makes them feel their degradation. A real
pity and sympathy for him tinged her manner, but
these qualities are not agreeable to pride. And it
must be admitted that she had a little self-righteous
satisfaction that she was so much better than this
sadly robbed and wounded man suddenly appearing
at the wayside of her life. In human strength there
is generally a trace of arrogance. Only Divine
strength and purity can say with perfect love and
full allowance for all weakness and adverse influences—

“Neither do I condemn thee. Go, and sin no
more.”

Walter had now reached a rustic bridge across a
little stream that, swollen from the recent rain, came
gurgling and clamoring down from the hills. Leaning
upon the rail he seemed to watch the foaming
water glide under his feet. But the outward vision
made no impression on his mind.

At last in the consciousness of solitude he said:
“She told me I must find her out. I will. I will
know whether she is as free from human frailty as
she seems. I have little doubt that before many
days I can cause her to show all the inherent weaknesses
of her sex; and I should think New York and
Paris had taught me what they are. She has never

been tempted. She has never been subjected to the
delicate flattery of an accomplished man of the world.
I am no gross libertine. I could not be in this place.
I could not so wrong hospitality and the household
of my father's friend. But I would like to prove to
that girl her delusion, and show her that she is a
weak woman like the rest; that she is a pretty
painted ship that has never been in a storm,
and therefore need not sail so confidently. We all
start on the voyage of life as little skiffs and pleasure-boats
might cross the ocean. If any get safely over,
it is because they were lucky enough not to meet
dangerous currents or rough weather. I would like
her better with her piquant ways if she were more
like myself. Saints and Madonnas are well enough
in pictures, but such as I would find them very
uncomfortable society”

With sudden power the thought flashed upon him.
“Why not let her make you as she is?” Where did
the thought come from? Tell me not that the Divine
Father forgets his children. He is speaking to
them continually, only they will not hear. There
was a brief passionate wish on the part of this bad
man that she might be what she seemed and that he
could become like her. As the turbulent, muddy
Jordan divided that God's people might pass through,
so this thought from Heaven found passage through
his heart and then the current of sinful impulse and
habit flowed on as before. With the stupidity of
evil he was breaking the clue that God had dropped
in his hand even when desperately weary of his lost

state. He is wrecked and helpless on the wide
ocean. A ship is coming to his rescue, and his first
effort is that this vessel may be also wrecked or
greatly injured in the attempt.

There is no insanity like that of a perverted
heart. The adversary of souls has so many human
victims doing his work that he can fold his hands
in idleness. And yet according to the world's practice,
and we might almost say its code, Gregory
purposed nothing that would be severely condemned
—nothing more than an ordinary flirtation, such as
are as common in society as idleness, love of excitement,
and that power over others which ministers to
vanity. He had no wish to be able to say anything
worse of her than that under temptation she would
be as vain and heartless a coquette as many others
that he knew in what is regarded as good society.
He would have cut off his right hand, as he then
felt, rather than have sought to lead her into gross
sin.

And yet what did Gregory purpose in regard to
Annie but to take the heavenly bloom and beauty
from her character? As if a person can be lovely
to either God or man of whom it can be said only,
They commit no overt crime. What is the form of
a rose without its beauty and fragrance? They who
tempt to evil are the real iconoclasts. They destroy
God's image.

But the supreme question of the selfish heart is,
“What do I want now?”

Walter wished to satisfy himself and Miss Walton

that she had no grounds for claiming any special
superiority over him, and he turned on his heel and
went back home to carry out his purpose. Nature,
purified and beautiful by reason of its recent baptism
from heaven, had no attractions. Gems of
moisture sparkled unseen. He was planning and
scheming how he might “turn her head with vanity,
make her quiet life of ministry to others odious, and
draw her into a fashionable flirtation.”

Annie did not appear until the supper-bell summoned
her, and then said:

“Mr. Gregory, I hope you will not think it rude
if father and I leave you to your books and Aunt
Eulie's care this evening. It is our church prayer-meeting
night, and father never likes to be absent.”

“I shall miss you beyond measure. The evening
will seem an age.”

Something in his tone caused her to give him a
quick glance, but she only said, with a smile:

“You are very polite to say so, but I imagine
the last magazine will be a good substitute.”

“I doubt whether there is a substitute for you,
Miss Walton. I am coming to believe that your
absence would make that vacuum which nature so
dreads. You shall see how good I will be this evening,
and you shall read me everything you please,
even to that `Ancient Ecclesiastical History.' If
you will only stay I will be your slave; and you
shall rule me with a rod of iron or draw me with
the silken cords of kindness, according to your
moods.”

“It is not well to have too many moods, Mr.
Gregory,” said Annie quietly. “In reply to all your
alluring reasons for staying home I have only to say
that I have promised father to go with him; besides,
I think it is my duty to go.”

“`Duty' is a harsh, troublesome word to be
always quoting. It is a kind of strait-jacket which
we poor moral lunatics are compelled to wear,”

“`Duty' seems to me a good solid road on which
one may travel safely. One never knows where the
side paths lead: into the brambles or a morass like
enough.”

“Indeed, Miss Walton, such austerity is not becoming
to your youth and beauty.”

“What am I to think of your sincerity when you
speak of my beauty, Mr. Gregory?”

“Beauty is a question of taste,” answered Walter
gallantly. “It is settled by no rigid rules or principle,
but by the eyes of the observer.”

“Oh! I understand now. My beauty this evening
is the result of your bad taste.”

“Calling it `bad' does not make it so. Well,
since you will not stay home with me will you not
let me go with you to the prayer-meeting? If I'm
ever to join your church, it is time I entered on the
initiating mysteries.”

“I think a book will do you more good in your
present mood.”

“What a low estimate you make of the `means
of grace.' Why, `certain of your own poets have
said—'

“The quotation does not apply to you, Mr.
Gregory. For even if you can doubt the power and
truth of Christianity your childhood will prevent you
from scoffing at it,”

A sudden shadow came across his face, but after
a moment he said in his old tones:

“Will you not let me go to the prayer-meeting?”

“Father will be glad to have you go with us, if
you think it prudent to venture out in the night air.”

“Prudence to the dogs! What is the use of living
if we cannot do as we please. But will you be
glad to have me go?”

“That depends upon your motives and the uses
you make of the sacred hour.”

“If I should confess you wouldn't let me go,” he
replied with a bow. “But I will try to be as good as
possible, just to reward your kindness.”

The rest of the family now joined them in the
supper-room, and during the meal Walter exerted
himself to show how entertaining he could be if
he chose. Anecdotes, incidents of travel, graphic
sketches of society, and sallies of wit, made an hour
pass before any one was aware.

Even the children listened with wondering eyes,
and Mr. Walton and Miss Eulie were delighted with
the vivacity of their guest. Annie seemingly had
no reason to complain of him, for his whole manner
toward her during the hour was that of delicately
sustained compliment. When she spoke he listened
with deference, and her words usually had point and
meaning. He also gave to her remarks the best and

most brilliant meanings of which they were capable,
and by skilfully drawing her out made her surpass
even herself, so that Miss Eulie said:

“Why, Annie, there surely is some witchcraft
about. You and Mr. Gregory are as brilliant as fireworks.”

“It is all Miss Walton's work, I assure you,”
said Walter. “As Pat declared, `I'm not meself
any more,' and shall surprise you, sir, by asking if
I may go to the prayer-meeting? Miss Walton says
I can if I will behave myself. The last time I went
to the old place I made faces at the girls. I suppose
that would be wrong.”

“That is the sin of our age—making faces,” said
Annie. “Many have two, and some can make for
themselves even more.”

“Now that was a barbed arrow,” said Walter,
looking at her keenly. “Did you let it fly at a venture?”

“Bless me!” said Mr. Walton rising hastily,
“We should have been on the road a quarter of an
hour ago. You mustn't be so entertaining another
prayer-meeting night, Mr. Gregory. Of course we
shall be glad to have you accompany us if you feel
well enough. I give you both but five minutes
before joining me at the wagon.”

Walter again mounted the stairs with something
of his old boyish bouyancy, and Annie followed.
looking curiously after him,

It was not in human nature to be indifferent to
that most skilful flattery which can be addressed to

woman—the recognition of her cleverness, and the
enhancing of it by adroit and suggestive questions—
and yet all his manner was tinged by a certain insincere
gallantry rather than a manly, honest respect.
She vaguely felt this, though she could not distinctly
point it out. He puzzled her. What did he
mean, and what was he aiming at?