University of Virginia Library

19. CHAPTER XIX.
MISS WALTON MADE OF DIFFERENT CLAY FROM OTHERS.

SIMPLE remedies and prolonged rest were sufficient
to quite restore Annie after the serious
shock and strain she had sustained. She rose even
earlier than usual, and hastily dressed that she might
resume her wonted place as mistress of her father's
household. In view of her recent peril and the
remediless loss he might have suffered, she was
doubly grateful for the privilege of ministering to
his wants and filling his declining years with cheer
and comfort.

She had not been awake long before Gregory's
irregular steps in the adjoining room secured her
attention and caused anxious surmises. But she was
inclined to think that his restlessness resulted from
mental distress rather than physical. Still she did
not pity him less, but rather more. Though so
young, she knew that the “wounded spirit” often
inflicts the keener agony. Her strong womanly
nature was deeply moved in his behalf. As we have
seen, it was her disposition rather to help and sustain,
than cling and look up. She had a heart “at
leisure from itself to soothe and sympathize.” The
spirit of Christian love intensified this natural tendency,

and from the depths of her soul she pitied
Gregory and wished to help him out of a state which
the Psalmist with quaint force describes as a “horrible
pit and miry clay.”

Annie was a very practical reformer, and determined
that a dainty breakfast should minister to
the outer man, before she sought to apply a subtler
balm to the inner. Trusting not even to Zibbie's
established skill, she prepared with her own hands
some inviting delicacies, and soon that which might
have tempted the most exacting of epicures was
ready.

Old Mr. Walton shared and almost showed all
the delight of the children at seeing Annie bustling
round again as the good genius of their home, and
Miss Eulie's little sighs of content were as frequent
as ripples on the shore. Miss Eulie could sigh and
wipe a tear from the corner of her eye in the most
cheerful and hope-inspiring way, for somehow her
face shone with an inward light, and, even in the
midst of sorrow and wet with tears, reminded one
of a lantern on a stormy night, which, covered with
rain-drops, still gives light and comfort.

Breakfast was ready, but Gregory did not appear.
Hannah the waitress was sent to his room, and in
response to her quiet knock he said sharply:

“Well?”

“Breakfast is waiting.”

“I do not wish any,” was the answer, in a tone
that seemed resentful, but was only an expression
of the intolerable pain he was suffering. Hannah

came down with a scared look and said she “guessed
something was amiss with Mr. Gregory.”

Annie looked significantly at her father, who immediately
ascended to his guest's door.

“Mr. Gregory, may I come in?” he asked.

“Do not trouble yourself. I shall be better
soon,” was the response.

The door was unlocked, and Mr. Walton entered,
and saw at once that a gentle but strong will must
control the sufferer for his own good. Mental and
nervous excitement had driven him close to the line
where reason and his own will wavered in their decisions,
and his irregular, tottering steps became the
type of the whole man. His eyes were wild and
bloodshot. A ghastly pallor gave his haggard face
the look of death. A damp chillness pervaded the
heavy air of the room, which in his unrest he had
greatly disordered. The fire had died out and he
had not even tried to kindle it again. His broodings
had been so deep and painful the earlier half of
the night that he had been oblivious of outward surroundings,
and then physical anguish became so
sharp that all small elements of discomfort were
unnoted.

With fatherly solicitude Mr. Walton stepped up
to his guest, who stood staring at him as if he were
an intruder, and taking his cold hand, said:

“Mr. Gregory, you must come with me.”

“Where?”

“To the sitting-room, where we can take care of

you and relieve you. Come, I'm your physician for
the time being, and doctors must be obeyed.”

Gregory had not undressed the night before, and,
encased in his rich dressing-gown and with dishevelled
hair, mechanically followed his host to the
room below and was placed on the lounge.

“Annie has prepared you a nice little breakfast.
Won't you let me bring it to you?” said Mr. Walton
cheerily.

“No,” said Gregory abruptly and pressing his
hands upon his throbbing temples, “the very
thought of eating is horrible. Please leave me. Indeed
I cannot endure even your kindly presence.”

Mr. Walton looked perplexed and scarcely knew
what to do, but after a moment said:

“Really, Mr. Gregory, you are very ill. I think
I had better send for our physician at once.”

“I insist that you do not,” said his guest starting
up. “What could a stupid country doctor do
for me, with his owl-like examination of my tongue
and clammy fingering of my pulse, but drive me
mad? Will a nauseous dose help mental pain? I
must be alone.”

“Father,” said Annie, in a firm and quiet voice,
“I will be both nurse and physician to Mr. Gregory
this morning. If I fail, you may send for a doctor.”

Unperceived she had entered, and from Gregory's
manner and words understood his condition.

“Miss Walton,” said Gregory hastily, “I give
you warning. I am not even the poor weak self you
have known before, and I beg you leave me till this

nervous headache passes off, if it ever does. I can't
control myself at such times, and this is the worst
attack I ever had. I am low enough in your esteem.
Do not add to my pain by being present now at the
time of my greatest weakness.”

“Mr. Gregory,” she replied, “you may speak
and act your worst, but you shall not escape me this
morning. It's woman's place to remove pain, not fly
from it. So you must just submit with the best
grace you can. If after I have done all in my power
you prefer the doctor and another nurse, I will give
way, but now you have no choice.”

Gregory fell back on the sofa with a groan and
muttered oath. At a sign from his daughter, Mr.
Walton reluctantly and doubtfully left the room.

Annie quietly stepped to the hearth and stirred
the fire to a cheerful blaze. She then went to the
parlor and brought the afghan, and without so much
as saying “by your leave,” spread it over his chilled
form.

Gregory felt himself helpless, but there was something
soothing in this assertion of her strong will,
and like a sick child he was better the moment he
ceased to chafe and struggle.

She left the room a few moments, and even between
the surges of pain he was curious as to what
she would do next. He soon learned with a thrill
of hope that he was to experience the magnetism of
her touch, and to know the power of the hand that
seemed alive in his grasp the day of their chestnuting
expedition. Annie returned with a quaint little

bottle of German cologne, and taking a seat quietly
by his side, commenced bathing his aching temples.

“You treat me like a child,” he said petulantly.

“I hope for a while you will be content to act
like one,” she replied.

“I may, like a very bad one.”

“No matter,” she said, with a laugh that was the
very antidote of morbidness; “I am accustomed to
manage children.”

But in very brief time he had no disposition to
shrink from her touch or presence. Her hand upon
his brow seemed to communicate her own strong,
restful life, his temples throbbed less and less violently.
Silent and wondering he lay very still, conscious
that by some subtle power she was exorcising
the demons of pain. His hurried breathing became
regular, his hands unclenched; his form, that had
been tense and rigid, relaxed into a position of comfort.
He felt he was under some beneficent spell,
and for an hour scarcely moved lest he should break
it and his torment return. Annie was equally silent,
but with a smile saw the effects of her ministry. At
last she leaned over, and looking into his face, said
with an arch smile:

“Shall I send for Doctor Bludgeon and Sairy
Gamp to take my place?”

He was very weak and unstrung, and while a
tremulous smile hovered about his mouth, his eyes
so moistened that he turned toward the wall. After
a moment he said:

“Miss Walton, I am not worthy of your kindness.”

“Nor are you unworthy. But kindness is not a
matter of business. So much for so much.”

“Why do you waste your time on me?”

“Come, that is a childish question. What a
monster I should be if I heedlessly left you to suffer.
The farmers' wives around would mob me.”

“I am very grateful for the relief you are giving
me, even though mere humanity is the motive.”

“Mere humanity is not my motive. You are
our guest, the son of my father's dearest friend,
and for your own sake I am deeply interested in
you.”

“Miss Walton, I know in the depths of your
soul you are disgusted with me. You seek to apply
those words to my spirit, as you do cologne to my
head.”

“I beg your pardon. It is not the cologne only
that relieves your headache.”

“I know that well. It is your touch which
seems magical.”

“Well then, you should know from my touch
that I am not sitting here telling fibs. If I should
bathe your head with a wooden hand, wouldn't you
know it?”

“What an odd simile! I cannot understand you.”

“It is not necessary that you should, but do not
wrong me by doubting me again.”

“I have done nothing but wrong you, Miss
Walton.”

“I'm not conscious of it, so you needn't worry,
and I assure you, I find it a pleasure to do you
good.”

“Miss Walton, you are the essence of goodness.”

“Oh no, no; why say of a creature, what is only
true of God. Mr. Gregory, you are very extravagant
in your language.”

A scowl darkened his face, and he said moodily:

“God seems to me the essence of cruelty.”

“`Seems, seems!' An hour since I seemed a
torment, and you were driving me away.”

“Yes, but you soon proved yourself a kind, helpful,
pitiful friend. I once thought my cheek would
flame with anger even if I were dying, should I be
regarded as an object of pity. But you, better than
any one, know that I am one.”

“I, better than any one, know that you are not,
in the sense you mean.”

“Come, Miss Walton, you cannot be sincere now.
Do you think I can ever forget the miserable scene
of Monday evening, when you placed yourself beside
the martyrs, and I sank down among the cowards of
any age. I have reached the bottom of the only
perdition I believe in. I have lost my self-respect.”

“Which I trust God will help you regain by
showing you the only sure and safe ground on which
self-respect can be maintained. Much that is called
self-respect is nothing but pride. But, Mr. Gregory,
injustice to one's self is as wrong as injustice to another.
Answer me honestly this question. Did you
act that evening only from fear—because you have

it not in you to face danger; or did you promise
secrecy because you felt the man's crime was none
of your business, and supposed I would take the
same view?”

Gregory started up and looked at her with a face
all aglow with honest, grateful feeling, and said:

“God knows the latter is the truth.”

“And I know it too. I knew it then.”

“But the world could never be made to see it in
that light.”

“Now pride speaks. Self-respect does not depend
upon the opinion of the world. The world
has nothing to do with the matter. You certainly
do not expect I am going to misrepresent you before
it.”

Walter bent a look upon her, such as she had
never sustained before. It was the look of a man
who had discovered something divine and precious
beyond words. It was a feeling such as might thrill
one who was struggling in darkness, and as he supposed,
sinking in the deep sea, but whose feet
touched something which seemed to sustain. The
thought “I can trust her—she is true,” came to
him at that time with such a blessed power to
inspire hope and give relief, that for a moment he
could not speak. Then he began:

“Miss Walton, I cannot find words—”

“Do not find them,” she interrupted laughingly.
“See, your temples are beginning to throb
again, and I am a sorry nurse, a true disciple of Mrs.
Gamp, to let you excite yourself. Lie down, sir, at

once, and let your thoughts dwell the next half-hour
on your breakfast. You have much reason for regret
that the dainty little tidbits that I first prepared
are spoiled by this time. I doubt whether I can do
as well again.”

“I do not wish any breakfast. Please do not
leave me yet.”

“It makes no difference what you wish. The
idea of an orthodox physician consulting the wishes
of his patient! My practical skill sees you need
breakfast.”

“Have you had any yourself? he asked, again
starting up, and looking searchingly at her.

“Well, I have had a cup of coffee,” she replied,
coloring a little.

“What a brute I am!” he groaned.

“In that charge upon yourself you strongly assert
the possession of an animal nature, and therefore of
course need breakfast.”

“May I be choked by the first mouthful if I
touch anything before I know you have had your
own.”

“What an awful adjuration! How can you
swear so before a lady, Mr. Gregory?”

“No, it is a solemn vow.”

“Then I must take my breakfast with you, for
with your disposition to doubt I don't see how you
can `know' anything about it otherwise.”

“That is better than I hoped. I will eat anything
you bring on those conditions, if it does choke
me—and I know it will.”

“A fine compliment to my cooking,” she retorted,
and laughingly left the room.

Walter could not believe himself the haggard
wretch that Mr. Walton had found two hours since.
Then he was ready to welcome death as a deliverer.
Insane man! As if death ever delivered any but
the good from evil! But so potent had been the
sweet wine of Annie's ministry that his chilled and
benumbed heart was beginning to glow with a faint
warmth of hope and comfort. Morbidness could no
more exist in her presence than shadows on the
sunny side of trees. With her full knowledge of the
immediate cause of his suffering, and with her unusual
tact, she had applied balm to body and spirit
at the same time. The sharp, cutting agony in his
head had been charmed away. The paroxysm had
passed, and the dull ache that remained seemed nothing
in comparison—merely the heavy swell of the
departed storm.

He forgot himself, the source of all his trouble, in
thinking about Miss Walton. The plain girl, as he
had at first regarded her, with a weak, untried character
that he had expected to topple over by the
breath of a little flattery, now seemed divinely beautiful
and strong. She reminded him of the graceful,
symmetrical elm, which, though bending to the tempest,
is rarely broken or uprooted.

He hardly hoped that she would give him credit
for the real state of his mind which had led to his
ready promise of secrecy. To the counterfeiter's
wretched companion he had seemed the weakest and

meanest of cowards, and if the story were generally
known he would appear in the same light to the
world. To his intensely proud nature this would be
intolerable. And why should it not be known? If
Miss Walton chose to regard his choice as one of
cowardice, how could he prove, even to her, that it
was not?

Moreover, his estimate of human nature was much
too low not to believe that even Annie would use
him as a dark background for her heroism, and he
well knew that when such a story was once started,
society's strongest tendency is to exaggerate man's
pusillanimity and woman's courage. He shuddered
as he saw himself growing blacker and meaner in
every fire-side and street-corner narration of the
strange tale, till at last his infamy passed into one
of the traditions of the place. A man like Gregory
could not long endure such a prospect. He would
die, either by every physical power speedily giving
out under mental anguish, or by his own hand; or if
he had lived, reason would have dropped its sceptre
and become the sport of wild thoughts and fancies.

Little wonder then that Annie appeared an angel
of light when she stood between him and such a future.
The ugliest hag would have been glorified and
loved in the same position. But when she did this
with her own peculiar grace and tact, as a matter
of justice, his gratitude and admiration knew no
bounds. He was in a fair way to become an idolater
and worship the country girl he had once sneered at,
as no sculptured Madonna was ever revered even in

superstitious Italy. In addition to his personal obligation,
by tests certain and terrible she had proved
herself true and strong in a world that he believed
in the main utterly false at heart. It is one of our
most natural instincts to trust and lean upon something,
and Annie Walton seemed one whose friendship
he could value above life.

He did not even then realize, in his glad sense of
relief, that in escaping the dilemma of cowardice, he
fell upon the other, namely, lack of principle—that
the best explanation of his conduct admitted that he
was indifferent to right and wrong, and even to the
most serious crime against society, so long as he was
not personally and immediately injured. He had
acted on the selfish creed that a man is a fool who
puts himself to serious trouble to serve the public.
The fact that he did not even dream that Annie
would make the noble stand she did, proves how far
selfishness can take a man out of his true course
when he throws overboard compass and chart and
lets himself drift.

But in the world's code (which was his) cowardice
was the one deadly sin. His lack of anything like
Christian principle was a familiar fact to him, and did
not hurt him among those with whom he associated.

Even Annie, woman-like, could forgive all his
faults quicker than a display of that weakness which
is most despised in a man. But she too was sufficiently
familiar with the world not to be repelled or
shocked by a life which, compared with all true, noble
standards, was sadly lacking. And yet she was the

very last one to be dazzled by a fast, brilliant man
of the world. She had been too well educated for
that, and early had been taught to distinguish between
solid worth and mere tinsel. Her native
powers of observation were strong, and her father,
and mother also before she died, had given her
opportunities for exercising them. Instead of mere
assertions as to what was right and wrong and general
lecturing on the subject, they had aimed to
show her right and wrong embodied in human lives.
They made her feel that God wanted her to do right
for the same reason that they did, because he loved
her. First in Bible narrative told in bed-time stories,
then in history and biography, and finally in the
experience of those around them, she had been
shown the happy contrast of good, God-pleasing life,
with that which is selfish and wicked. So thorough
and practical had been the teaching in this respect,
and so impressed was she with the lesson, that she
would as soon have planted in her flower-bed the
seeds of tender annuals on the eve of autumn frosts
and expected bloom in chill December as to enter
upon a course that God frowns upon, and look for
happiness. Her father often said:

“Opposing God's will is like a ship beating against
wind and tide to certain wreck.”

An evil life appeared therefore to her a moral
madness, under the malign influence of which people
were like the mentally deranged who with strange
perversity hate their best friends and cunningly watch
for chances of self-destruction. While on one hand

she shrank from them with something of the repulsion
which many feel toward those who are unsound
in mind, on the other she cherished the deepest pity
for them. Knowing how full and complete a remedy
ever exists in Him whose word and touch removed
humanity's most desperate ills, it was her constant
wish and effort to lead as many as possible to this
Divine Friend. If she had been like many sincere
but selfish religionists, she would have said of Gregory,
“He is not congenial. We have nothing in common,”
and, wrapped in her own spiritual pleasures
and pursuits, would have shunned, ignored, and forgotten
him. But she chiefly saw his pressing need
of help, and said to herself:

“If I would be like my Master, I must help
him.”

Gregory at first had looked upon himself as immeasurably
superior to the plain, country Miss Walton.
He little imagined that she at the same time
had a profound pity for him, and that this fact
would become his best chance for life. She had not
forgotten the merciful conspiracy entered into the
second evening after his arrival, but was earnestly
seeking to carry it out. In order to do this, she was
anxious to gain his good-will and confidence, and
now saw with gratitude that their adventure on the
mountain, that had threatened to end in death, might
be the beginning of a new and happy life. She
exulted over the hold she gained upon him, not as
the selfish gloat over one within their power, and
whom they can use for personal ends—not as the

coquette smiles as she sees another human victim
upon the altar of her vanity, but as the angles of
heaven rejoice when there is even a chance of one
sinner's repentance.

And yet Annie had no intention of “talking
religion” to him in any formal way, save as the
subject came up naturally; but hoped to live it, and
suggest it to him in such an attractive form that he
would desire it for his own sake.

But her chief hope was in the fact that she prayed
for him, and she no more expected to be unheard
and unanswered than that her kind old father would
listen to some earnest request with a stony face.

But Annie was not one to go solemnly to work
to compass an event that would cause joy in heaven.
She would ask one to be a Christian as she would
invite a captive to leave his dungeon, or tell the sick
how to be well. She saw that morbid gloom had
become almost a disease with Gregory, and purposed
to cure him with sunshine.

And sunshine embodied she seemed to him as she
appeared, her face glowing with exercise and close
acquaintance with the kitchen-range. In each hand
she carried a dish, while Hannah followed with a tray
on which smoked the most appetizing of breakfasts.

“Your rash vow,” she said, “has caused you
long waiting. I'm none of your ethereal heroines,
but have a craving for solids served in quantity and
variety. And while I could have soon got your
breakfast, it was no bagatelle to get mine.”

How fresh and bright she looked saying all this;
and he ejaculated:

“Deliver me from the ghastly creatures you call
`ethereal heroines.'”

“Indeed, sir,” she retorted, “if you can't deliver
yourself from them you shall have no help from me.
But let us at once enter upon the solemnities, and as
you have a spark of gallantry, see to it that you pay
my cookery proper compliment.”

“Your `cookery,' forsooth,” said he, with something
of her own light tone. “That I should find
Miss Walton stealing Zibbie's laurels!”

“Chuckle when you find her doing it. Hannah,
who prepared this breakfast?”

“Yourself, Miss,” answered the woman with an
admiring grin.

“That will do, Hannah; we will wait upon ourselves.
Shame on you, sir. You are no connoisseur,
since you cannot tell a lady's delicate work from
a kitchen-maid's. Moreover, you have shown that
wretched doubting disposition again.”

Now that they were alone, Gregory said earnestly,
“I shall never doubt you again.”

“I hope you never will doubt that I wish to do
you good, Mr. Gregory,” she replied, passing him a
cup of tea.

“You have done me more good in a few brief
hours than I ever hoped to receive. Miss Walton,
how can I repay you?”

“By being a better friend to yourself. Commence
by eating this.”

He did not find it very difficult to comply. After
a little time he said:

“But my conscience condemns me for caring too
much for myself.”

“And no doubt your conscience is right. The
idea of being a friend to yourself and going against
your conscience!”

“Then I have ever been my own worst enemy.'

“I can believe that, and so you'll continue if you
don't take another piece of toast.”

“And yet there has always seemed a fatal necessity
for me to do wrong and go wrong. Miss Walton,
you are made of different clay from me and most
people that I know. It is your nature to be good
and noble.”

“Nonsense!” said Annie with a positive frown.
“Different clay indeed! I imagine you do wrong
for the same reason that I do, because you wish; and
you fail in doing right because you have nothing but
your weak human will to keep you up.”

“And what keeps you up, pray?”

“Can you even suppose that I or any one can be
a Christian without Christ?”

He gave one of his incredulous shrugs.

“Now what may that mean?” she asked.

“Pardon me if I say that I think yours is a
pretty and harmless superstition. This world is one
of inexorable law and necessity down to the minutest
thing. A weed is always a weed. The same
is true of a rose. It's my misfortune to be a weed.
It's your good fortune to be a rose.”

Annie looked as if she might become a briery
one at that moment, for this direct style of compliment,
though honest, was not agreeable. Conscious
of many struggles with evil, it was even painful, for
it did her injustice in two aspects of the case. So
she said dryly:

“What an automaton you make me out to be.”

“How so?”

“If I merely do right as the rose grows, I deserve
no credit. I'm but little better than a
machine.”

“Not at all. I compared you to something that
has a beautiful life of its own. But I would willingly
be a machine, and a very angular, uncouth one
too, if some outside power would only work me right
and to some purpose.”

“Such talk seems to me idle, Mr. Gregory. I
know that I have to try very hard to do right, and
often fail. I do not believe that our very existence
commences in a lie, as it were, for from earliest years
conscience tells us that we needn't do wrong and
ought not to. Honestly now, isn't this true of your
conscience?”

“But my reason concludes otherwise, and reason
is above conscience—above everything, and one
must abide by its decisions.”

For a moment Annie did not know how to answer.
She was not versed in theology and metaphysics,
but she knew he was wrong. Therefore
she covered her confusion by quietly pouring him
out another cup of tea, and then said:

“Even my slight knowledge of the past has
taught me how many absurd and monstrous things
can be done and said in the name of reason. Religion
is a matter of revelation and experience. But
it is not contrary to reason, certainly not to mine.
If your reason should conclude that this tea is not
hot, what difference would that make to me? My
religion is a matter of fact—of vivid consciousness.”

“Of course it is. It's your life—your nature,
just as in my nature there is nothing akin to it.
That is why I say you are made of different clay
from myself; and I am very glad of it,” he added,
with an air of pleasantry which she saw veiled genuine
earnestness, “for I wish you the best of everything
for ever and ever.”

Annie felt that she could not argue him out of
his folly; and while she was annoyed, she could not
be angry with him for expressions that were not
meant as flattery, but were rather the strong language
of his gratitude. “Time will cure him of his
delusions,” she thought, and said lightly:

“Mr. Gregory, from certain knowledge of myself
which you cannot have, I disclaim all your absurd
ideas in regard to the newfangled clay of my composition.
I know very well that I am ordinary flesh
and blood, a fact that you will soon find out for
yourself. As your physician, I pronounce that such
wild fancies and extravagant language prove that
you are out of your head, and that you need quieting
sleep. I am going to read you the dullest book in the
library as a sedative.”

“No, please, sing rather.”

“What! after such a breakfast! Do you suppose
that I would ruin the reputation of my voice in
one fell moment? Now what kind of clay led to
this remark? Do as your doctor says. Recline on
the lounge. Close your eyes. Here is a treatise on
the Nebular Hypothesis that looks unintelligible
enough for our purpose.”

“Nebular Hypothesis! Another heavenly experience
such as you are ever giving me.”

“Come, Mr. Gregory, punning is a very bad
symptom. You must go to sleep at once.” And
soon her mellow voice was finding its way into a
labyrinth of hard scientific terms, as a mountain
brook might murmur among the stones. After a
little time she asked of Gregory, whose eyes remained
wide open:

“How does it sound?”

“Like the multiplication table set to music.”

“Why don't you go to sleep?”

“I'm trying to solve a little nebular hypothesis
of my own. I was computing how many million
belles such as I know, and how many ages, would be
required to condense them into a woman like yourself.”

Annie shut the book with a slam, and with an
abrupt, half-vexed “good-by,” left the room. For a
brief time Gregory lay repenting of his disastrous
levity, and then slept.