 | CHAPTER XXI.
PASSION AND PENITENCE. Opening a chestnut burr |  |
21. CHAPTER XXI.
PASSION AND PENITENCE.
THE cloud on her brow had not disappeared on
the ensuing morning when she came down to
breakfast. Unless the causes are removed, the bad
moods of one day are apt to follow us into the next.
Annie was now entering upon one of those periods
when, in accordance with a common expression,
“everything goes wrong,” and the world develops a
sudden perverseness that distracts and irritates even
the patient.
The butcher had neglected to fill the order for
breakfast, and Jeff, also under the baleful spell, had
killed an ancient hen instead of a spring chicken, to
supply the sudden need.
“Couldn't cotch nothin else,” he answered stolidly
to Annie's sharp reprimand, so sharp that Gregory,
who was walking toward the barn, was surprised.
Zibbie was fuming in the broadest Scotch, and
had spoiled her coffee, and altogether it was a sorry
breakfast to which they sat down that morning; and
Annie's worried, vexed looks did not make it more
inviting. Gregory tried to appear unconscious, and
directed his conversation chiefly to Mr. Walton and
Miss Eulie.
“Annie,” said her father humorously, “it seems
to me that this fowl must have had reminiscences of
the ark.”
But she could not take a jest then, and pettishly
answered that “if he kept such stupid men as Jeff,
he could not expect anything else.”
Annie was Jeff's best friend, and had interceded
for him in some of his serious scrapes, but her mood
now was like a gusty day that gives discomfort
to all.
After a few moments she said suddenly:
“Oh, father, I forgot to tell you. I invited the
Camdens here to dinner to-day.”
His face clouded instantly, and he looked exceedingly
annoyed.
“I am very sorry to hear it,” he said.
“Why so?” asked Annie, with an accent that
Gregory never heard her use toward her father.
“Because I will have to be absent, for one reason.
I meant to tell you about it last evening, but you
seemed so occupied with your own thoughts, and disappeared
at last so suddenly, that I did not get a
chance. But there is no help for it. I have very
important business that will take me out to Woodville,
and you know it requires a good long day to go
and come.”
“It will never do in the world for you to be
away,” cried Annie.
“Can't help it, my dear; it's business that must be
attended to.”
“But, father,” she urged, “the Camdens are new
show them some attention. They were so cordial
yesterday, and spoke so handsomely of you, and said
how they wished to meet you and be very social, that
I felt that I could not do otherwise than invite them.
For reasons you understand it may not be convenient
to see them very soon after to-day.”
The old gentleman seemed to share his daughter's
vexation, but for a different cause, and after a moment
said:
“You are right, they are `new people' in more
senses than one, and appear to me to be assuming a
great deal more than good taste dictates in view of
the past. As mistress of my home I wish you to
feel that you have the right to invite any one you
please, within certain limits. The Camdens are people
that I would do any kindness to and readily help
if they were in trouble, but I do not wish to meet
them socially.”
Tears of shame and anger glistened in Annie's
eyes as she said:
“I'm sure you know very well that I wish to
entertain no vulgar, pushing people. I knew nothing
of their `past.' They seemed pleasant when they
called. They were said to have the means to be
liberal if they wished, and I thought they would
be an acquisition to our neighborhood, and that
we might interest them in our church and other
things.”
“In my view,” replied Mr. Walton a little hotly,
“the church and every good cause would be better
acquired in a way that you and I regard dishonorable.
I'm very sorry they've come to spend it in our
neighborhood. The fact may not be generally
known here, but it soon will be. I consider such
people the greatest demoralizers of the age, flaunting
their ill-gotten wealth in the faces of the honest, and
causing the young to think that if they only get
money, no matter how, society will receive them all
the same. I am annoyed beyond measure that we
should seem to give them any countenance whatever.
Moreover, it is necessary that I go to Woodville.”
“Oh dear,” exclaimed Annie, in a tone of real
distress, “what shall I do? If I had only known all
this before.” Then, turning with sudden irritation
to her father, she asked:
“Why did you not tell me about them?”
“Because you never asked, and I saw no occasion
to. I do not like to speak evil of my neighbors,
even if it be true. I did not know of your call upon
them till after it occurred, and then remarked, if
you will remember, that they were people that I did
not admire.”
“Yes,” she exclaimed in a tone of strong self-disgust,
“I do remember your saying so, though I
had no idea you meant anything like what you now
state. The wretched mystery of it all is, why could
I not have remembered it yesterday?”
“Well, my dear,” replied the father, with the
glimmer of a smile, “you were a bit preoccupied
yesterday; though I don't wonder at that.”
“I see it all now,” cried Annie impetuously.
“But it was with myself I was preoccupied, and
therefore I made a fool of myself. I was rude to you
last night also, Mr. Gregory, so taken up was I with
my own wonderful being.”
“Indeed, Miss Walton, I thought you were thinking
of another,” said he with a keen glance, and
she blushed so deeply that he feared she was; but
he added quickly, “You once told me that it was as
wrong to judge one's self harshly as another. I assure
you that I've no complaints to make, but rather
gratitude for all your kindness. As to this other
matter, it seems to me that in your ignorance of
these people, you have acted very naturally.”
“I'm sorry I did not tell you more about them,”
said her father. “I did intend to, but somehow
it escaped me.”
“Well,” said Annie with a long breath, “I am
fairly in the scrape. I've invited them, and the question
now is what shall we do?”
The old merchant, with his intense repugnance
to anything like commercial dishonesty, was deeply
perturbed. The idea of entertaining at his board as
guest a man with whom he would not have a business
transaction was exceedingly disagreeable. Leaving
the unsatisfactory breakfast half-finished, he rose
and paced the room in his perplexity. At last he
spoke, as much to himself as to his daughter:
“It shall never be said that John Walton was
deficient in hospitality. They have been invited by
one who had the right, so let them come, and be
is due to ourselves. But after to-day let our relations
be as slight as possible. Mr. Gregory, you are
under no obligation to meet such people, and need
not appear unless you wish.”
“With your permission I will be present, sir, and
help Miss Walton entertain them. Indeed, I can
claim such slight superiority to these Camdens or
any one else that I have no scruples.”
“How is that?” asked Mr. Walton, with a grave,
questioning look. “I trust you do not uphold the
theory that seems to prevail in some commercial
circles, that any mode by which a man can get money
and escape State prison is right?”
“I imagine I am the last one in the world to
uphold such a `theory,'” replied Gregory quickly,
with one of his expressive shrugs, “inasmuch as I
am a poor man to-day because this theory has been
put in practice against me. No, Mr. Walton,” he
continued, with the dignity of truth, “it is but justice
to myself to say that my mercantile life has
been as pure as your own, and that is the highest
encomium that I could pass upon it. At the same
time it has been evident to you from the first day I
came under your roof that I am not the good man
that you loved in my father.”
The old gentleman sighed deeply. He was too
straightforward to utter some trite, smooth remark,
such as a man of the world might make. Regarding
Gregory kindly, he said, almost as if it were a
prayer:
“May his mantle fall on you. You have many
traits and ways that remind me strongly of him, and
you have it in you to become like him.”
Gregory shook his head in deep dejection, and
said in a low tone:
“No, never.”
“You know not the power of God,” said Mr.
Walton gravely. “At any rate, thank Him that he
has kept you from the riches of those who I am
sorry to find must be our guests to-day.”
The children now came in from their early visit
to the chestnut-trees, and the subject was dropped.
Mr. Walton left the room, and Gregory also excused
himself. Miss Eulie had taken no part in the discussion.
It was not her nature to do so. She sat
beaming with sympathy on both Annie and her
brother-in-law, and purposing to do all she could to
help both out of the dilemma. She felt sorry for
them, and sorry for the Camdens and Gregory, and
indeed everybody in this troubled world; but such
were her pure thoughts and spiritual life that she
was generally on the wing, so far above earthly
things that they had little power to depress her.
The burden of the day fell upon Annie, and a
heavy one she found it. Her lack of peace within
was reflected upon her face, and in her satellites that
she usually managed with such quiet grace. Zibbie
was in one of her very worst tantrums, and when
she heard that there was to be company to dinner,
seemed in danger of flying into fragments. The
thistle, the emblem of her land, was a meek and
When she took up or laid down any utensil, it was
in a way that bid fair to reduce the kitchen to chaos
before night. Jeff had “got his back up” also about
the hen, and was as stupid and sullen as only Jeff
knew how to be; and even quiet Hannah was almost
driven to frenzy by Zibbie reproaching her for
being everything under heaven that she knew she
was not. In her usual state of mind Annie could
have partly allayed the storm, and poured oil on the
troubled waters, but now disquietude sat on her own
brow, and she gave her orders in the sharp, decisive
tone that compels reluctant obedience.
The day was raw and uncomfortable, and Gregory
resolved to make his easy-chair by the parlor
fire the point from which he would watch the development
of this domestic drama. He had no vulgar,
prying curiosity, but an absorbing interest in the
chief actor; and was compelled to admit that the
being that he had come to regard as faultless, was
growing human faster than he liked.
This impression was confirmed when the children
came tearing through the main hall past the parlor
to the dining-room opposite, which they entered,
leaving the door open. Annie was there preparing
the dessert. Country housekeepers can rarely leave
these matters to rural cooks, and Zibbie could be
trusted to sweeten nothing that day.
With exclamations of delight the children clamored
to help, or “muss” a little in their own way,
a privilege often given them at such times. But
manner that caused them to tip-toe back past the
parlor with a scared look on their little faces, and
the dining-room door was shut with a bang.
Gregory was puzzled. Here was one who had
foiled his most adroit temptations, and resisted
wrong in a way that was simply heroic, first showing
something very like vanity and selfishness, and then
temper and passion on what seemed but slight provocation.
He did not realize, as so many do not,
that the petty vexations of life will often sting one
who has the courage and strength to be a martyr,
into the most humiliating displays of weakness.
Generals who were as calm and grand in battle as
Mont Blanc in a storm, have been known to fume
like small beer, in camp, at very slight annoyances.
Annie's spirit was naturally quick and imperious,
brooking opposition from no one. She was also
fond of approbation. She rated Gregory's hollow
French gallantry at its true worth, but his subsequent
sincere respect and admiration, after their
mountain adventure, had unconsciously elated her,
especially as she felt that she had earned it well.
Thus, when he had not intended it, and had
given over his purpose to tempt her as hopeless, and
dropped it in self-loathing that he should ever have
entertained it, he had by his honest gratitude and
esteem awakened the dormant vanity, which was
more sensitive to tributes to her character than mere
compliments to her person. The attention she had
received the day before had developed this self-complacency
life had been disturbed.
It would seem that the tempter watches for
every vantage. At any rate, as she expressed it,
“everything went wrong” to-day. One weakness,
one wrong prepares the way for another as surely as
when one soldier of Diabolus gets within the city he
will open the gates to others; and Annie's temper,
that she had so long and prayerfully schooled, was
the weak point inevitably assailed. She was found
with her armor off. She had closed the preceding
and entered on the present day with the form and
not the reality of prayer. Therefore it was Annie
Walton alone who was coping with temptation. She
felt that all was wrong without and within. She
felt that she ought to go to God at once in acknowledgment
and penitence, and regain her peace; but
pride and passion were aroused. She was hurried
and worried, full of impotent revolt at herself and
everything. She was in no mood for the sacred
quiet of her closet, and dreaded the self-examination
that she knew must come. She was like a little
wayward child, that, while it loves its parents, yet
grieves and wrongs them by lack of obedience and
simple trust; and having wronged them, partly from
pride and partly from fear, does not humbly seek
reconciliation.
The obnoxious guests came, and the dinner followed.
Mr. Walton was the embodiment of stately
courtesy, but it was a courtesy due to John Walton
rather than to them, and it somewhat awed and
to spoil the dinner, and, in spite of Annie, had succeeded
tolerably well. Only the dessert, which Annie
had made, did credit to her housekeeping. Hannah
waited on them as she might if she were assisting at
their obsequies. Altogether it was a rather heavy
affair, though Gregory honestly did his best to entertain,
and talked on generalities and life abroad,
which the Camdens were glad to hear about, so incessantly
that he scarcely had time to eat. But he
was abundantly rewarded by a grateful look from
Annie.
As for herself, she could not converse connectedly
or well. She was trammelled by her feeling toward
the guests; she was so vexed with herself, mortified
with the dinner, and angry with Zibbie, whom she
mentally vowed to discharge at once, that she felt
more like crying than talking graceful nonsense; for
the Camdens soon proved themselves equal only to
chit-chat. She sat at her end of the table, red, flurried,
and nervous, as different from the refined, elegant
hostess that she could be, as she herself differed
from the Annie of other days.
Gregory was also much interested in observing
how one so truthful would act under the circumstances,
and he saw that she was sorely puzzled continually
between her effort to be polite and honest.
The Camdens were puzzled also, and severely
criticised their entertainers, mentally concluding and
afterward asserting with countless variations, that
“Miss Walton was wonderfully overrated—that she
little accustomed to good society.”
“I never saw a girl so flustered,” Mrs. Camden
would remark complacently. “Perhaps our city
style rather oppressed her; and as for Mr. Walton,
he put on so much dignity that he leaned over
backward. They evidently don't belong to our
set.”
That was just the trouble, and Mrs. Camden was
right and wrong at the same time.
Their early departure was a relief to both parties.
Mr. Walton drew a long breath of immeasurable
relief, and then called briskly to Jeff, who was coming
up from the garden:
“Harness Dolly to my buggy.”
“Why, father, where are you going?” exclaimed
Annie.
“To Woodville.”
“Now father—” began Annie, laying hold of his
arm.
“Not a word, my dear; I must go.”
“But it will be late in the night before you can
get back. The day is cold and raw, and it looks as
if it would rain.”
“I can't help it. It's something I can't put off.
Hurry Jeff, and get ready to go with me.”
“Oh dear!” cried Annie; “this is the worst of
all. Let me go for you—please do.”
“I'm not a child,” said the old gentleman irritably.
“Since I could not go this morning, I must go
now. Please don't worry me. It's public business
should be attended to to-day;” and with a hasty
“good-by” he took his overcoat and started.
Annie was almost beside herself with vexation
and self-reproach, and her feelings must find vent
somewhere. Gregory prudently retired to his room.
“There's Zibbie,” she thought; “I'll teach her
one lesson.” And she went to the kitchen and discharged
the old servant on the spot.
Zibbie was in such a reckless state of passion that
she didn't care if the world came to an end. The
only comfort Annie got in this direction was a volley
of impudence.
“I hod discharged mesel afore ye spoke,” said
the irate dame. “An' ye think I'm gang to broil an
ould hen for a spring chicken in peace and quietness
ye're a' wrong. An' then to send that dour nagur a
speerin roun among my fowl that I've raised from
babies—I'll na ston it. I'll go, I'll go, but ye'll greet
after the ould 'ooman for a' o' that.”
Annie then retreated to the sitting-room, where
Miss Eulie was placidly mending Susie's torn apron,
and poured into her ears the story of her troubles.
“To be sure—to be sure,” Aunt Eulie would
answer soothingly; “but then, Annie dear, it all
won't make any difference a hundred years from
now.”
This only irritated Annie more, and at the same
time impressed her with her own folly in being so
disturbed by comparative trifles.
Gregory found his room chill and comfortless,
walk, full of surprised and painful musings. As he
was descending the stairs, Johnnie came running in,
crying in a tone of real distress:
“Oh, Aunt Annie, Aunt Annie, I'm so sorry, so
very sorry—”
Annie came running out of the sitting-room door,
exclaiming sharply:
“What on earth is the matter now! Hasn't
there been trouble enough for one day?”
“I'm so sorry,” sobbed the little boy, “but I
got a letter at the post-office, and I—I—lost it coming
across the lots, and I—I—can't find it.”
This was too much. This was the ardently
looked-for letter that had glimmered like a star of
hope and promise of better things throughout this
miserable day, and Annie lost all control of herself.
Rushing upon the child, she cried:
“You naughty, careless boy! I'll give you one
lesson,” and she shook him violently, when Gregory's
indignation so got the better of him that he
said, in a low, deep tone:
“Miss Walton, the child says he is `very, very
sorry.' He has not meant to do wrong, and he is an
orphan.”
Annie started back as if she were committing
sacrilege, and covered her face with her hands. Her
back was toward Gregory, but he could see the hot
blood mantling her very neck. She stood there for
a moment, trembling like a leaf, and he, repenting of
his hasty words, was about to apologize, when she
him, up the stairs to her own room.
To his dying day he would never forget the
expression of her face.
It cannot be described. It was the look of a
noble spirit, deeply wounded, profoundly penitent.
Her intense feeling was contagious, and the rough
October winds brushed a tear from his own eyes
more than once before he returned.
| CHAPTER XXI.
PASSION AND PENITENCE. Opening a chestnut burr | |