University of Virginia Library

23. CHAPTER XXIII.
GREGORY'S FINAL CONCLUSION IN REGARD TO MISS
WALTON.

ANNIE WALTON was now no longer an enigma
to Gregory. He had changed his views several
times in regard to her. First, she was a common-place,
useful member of the community, in a small
way, and part of the furniture of a well-ordered
country house—plain furniture too, he had said to
himself. But one evening in her company had convinced
him that such a Miss Walton was a fiction of
his own mind, and he who had come to regard society
girls as they average, as a weariness beyond
endurance, was interested in her immediately.

Then her truth and unselfishness, and the strong
religious element in her character, had been a constant
rebuke, but he had soothed himself with the
theory that she differed only in being untempted.
He then had resolved to amuse himself, ease his conscience,
and feed his old grudge against her sex, by
teaching the little saint that she was only a weak,
vain creature. But she had not only sustained his
temptations, but another ordeal so searching and terrible
that it transformed her into a heroine, a being
of different and superior clay from ordinary mortals.

“It's her nature to be good, mine to be bad,”
he had said; “I'm a weed, she a flower.”

But Annie herself had rudely dispelled this illusion.

Now he saw her to be a woman who might, did
she yield to the evil within her and without, show
all the vanity, weakness, and folly generally, of
which he had at first believed her capable, but who,
by prayer and effort, daily achieved victories over
herself. In addition, she had manifested the most
beautiful and God-like trait that can ennoble human
character—the desire to save and sweeten other
lives. To have been lectured and talked to on the
subject of religion in any conventional way by one
outside of his sympathies would have been as repulsive
as useless, but Annie had the tact to make her
effort appear like angelic ministry.

But there is that about every truly refined woman
with a large loving heart which is irresistible. The
two things combined give a winning grace that is
an `open sesame' everywhere. The trouble is that
culture and polish are too often the sheen of an
icicle.

He believed he saw just her attitude toward him.
It reminded him of Miss Bently's efforts in his behalf;
but with the contrast that existed between
Miss Bently and Annie. He now wondered that he
could have been interested in such a vain, shallow
creature as Mrs. Grobb had proved herself, and
excused himself on the ground that he idealized her
into something that she was not. All that Annie

said and did had the solidity of truth, and not the
hollowness of affectation. And yet there was one
thing that troubled him. While her effort to help him
out of his morbid, unhappy state was so sincere, she
showed no special personal interest in himself, such as
he had in her. If he should now go away, she would
place him merely in the outer circle of her friends or
acquaintance, and make good the old saying, “out
of sight out of mind.” But already the conviction
was growing strong that it would be long before she
would be out of his mind. Though he had plenty
of pride, as we have seen, he was not conceited, and
from long familiarity with society, could readily
detect the difference between the regard such as
she would feel for a man personally attractive, and
the interest of aroused sympathies which she might
have in any one, and such as her faith and nature
led her to have in every one. Of course he was not
satisfied with the latter, and it was becoming one of
his dearest hopes to awaken a personal feeling,
though just what kind he had not yet even defined
himself.

When the tea-bell rang, much later than usual on
account of the chaos of the day, he was glad to go
down. Her society was far pleasanter than his own,
and future events might make everything clearer.

His supposition in regard to Johnnie was correct.
As he descended the stairs, the boy came out of the
sitting-room, holding Annie tightly by the hand and
beaming upon her like the sun after a shower, and
when he found by his plate a huge apple that had

been roasted specially for him, his cup of happiness
was full as the great pippin would make him, and he
was ready for another shaking. If the apple once
caused discord it here confirmed peace.

The supper was as inviting as the dinner had
been forbidding, indicating a change of policy in the
kitchen cabinet. In fact, after Zibbie cooled off, she
found that she was not ready for “the world to come
to an end” (or its equivalent, her leaving the Waltons
after so many years of service and kindness).
She had not yet reached the point of abject apology,
though she knew she would go down on her old
rheumatic knees, rather than leave her ark of refuge
and go out into the turbulent waters of the world;
still she made propitiating overtures in the brownest
of buttered toast, and a chicken salad that might
have been served as ambrosia on Mount Olympus.
Zibbie was a guileless strategist, for in the success
of the supper she proved how great had been her
malign ingenuity and deliberation in spoiling the
dinner. She could never claim that it was accidental.
Hannah no longer waited as if it were a
funeral occasion, and the domestic skies were fast
brightening up, with one exception. Mr. Walton's
chair was vacant, and Gregory noticed that Annie
often looked wistfully and sadly toward it.

With the sensitiveness of one who habitually hid
his deeper feeling from the world, Gregory tried to
act as if his last conversation with Annie had been
upon the weather; and as might be expected of
refined people, no allusion was made to the unpleasant

features of the day. Neither then nor afterward
was a word adverse to the Camdens spoken.
They had been guests, and that was enough for the
Waltons' nice sense of courtesy. Only Susie, with a
little sigh of relief, gave expression to the general
feeling by saying:

“Somehow I feel kind of light to-night. I felt
dreadfully heavy this morning.”

Annie, with a smile on her lips and something
like a tear in her eye, noticed the child's remark by
adding:

“I think we would all feel light if Grandpa were
only here.”

After supper she sang to the children and told
them a bed-time story, and then sent them off to
their dream-wanderings with a kiss of peace.

During Annie's absence from the parlor, Gregory
returned to his room. He was in no mood to talk
with any one else. Even Miss Eulie's gentle patter
of words would fall with a sting of pain.

When Annie came down to the parlor she said:

“Now, Mr. Gregory, I will sing as much as you
wish, to make up for last evening. Indeed, I must
do something to get through the hours till father's
return, for I feel so anxious and self-reproachful
about him.”

“And so make happiness for others out of your
pain,” said he; “why don't you complain and fret all
the evening and make it uncomfortable generally?”

“I have done enough of that for one day. What
will you have?”

An impulse prompted him to say “You,” but he
only said, “Your own choice,” and walked softly up
and down the room while she sang, now a ballad,
now a hymn, and again a simple air from an opera,
but nothing light or gay.

He was taking a dangerous course for his own
peace. As we have seen, Annie's voice was not one
to win special admiration. It was not brilliant and
highly cultured, and had no very great compass.
She could not produce any of the remarkable effects
of the trained vocalist. But it was exceedingly
sweet in the low, minor notes. It was sympathetic,
and so colored by the sentiment of the words, that
she made a beautiful language of song. It was a
voice that stole into the heart and kept vibrating
there long hours after, like an æolian harp just
breathed upon by a dying zephyr.

As was often the case, she forgot her auditor, and
began to reveal herself in this mode of expression so
natural to her, and to sing as she did long evenings
when alone. At times her tones would be tremulous
with pathos and feeling, and again strong and
hopeful. Then, as if remembering the great joy that
soon would be hers in welcoming back her absent
lover, it grew as tender and alluring as a thrush's
call to its mate.

“Indeed, Miss Walton,” said Gregory, leaning
upon the piano, “that would bring me from the
antipodes.”

She did not like his tone and manner, and also
became conscious that in her choice of a ballad she
was expressing thoughts that were not for him; so
she tried to turn the matter lightly off by saying:

“Where you probably were in your thoughts.
What have you been thinking about all this long
time while I have fallen into the old habit of talking
to myself over the piano?”

“You, I might say; but I should add in truth,
what you have said to me this evening.”

“I hope only the latter.”

“Chiefly I've been enjoying your singing. You
have a very peculiar voice. You don't `execute' or
`render' anything, any more than a bird does. I
believe they have been your music teachers.”

“Crows abound in our woods,” she answered
laughing.

“So do robbins and thrushes.”

Her face suddenly had an absent look as if she
did not hear him. It was turned from the light, or

the rich color that was mantling it would have puzzled
him, and might have inspired hope. With some
abruptness and yet hesitation, such as is often noted
when a delicate subject is broached, she said:

“Mr. Gregory, I wish I could make peace between
you and Mr. Hunting. I think you are not
friendly.”

The light shone on his face as she looked to see
the effect of her remark, and she was again deeply
pained to see how instantly it darkened. For a
moment he did not reply; then in a cold, constrained
voice said:

“He is a friend of the family I suppose.”

“Yes,” she replied eagerly.

“I too would like to be regarded as a friend, and
especially by you; so I ask it as a great personal
favor that you will not mention that gentleman's
name again during the brief remnant of my visit.”

“Do you mean any imputation against him?”
she asked hotly.

Policy whispered, “Don't offend her. Hunting
may be a near relation,” so he said quietly:

“Gentlemen may have difficulties concerning
which they do not like to speak. I have made no
imputation against him whatever, but I entreat you
to grant my request.”

Annie was not satisfied, but sat still with knit
brows. At that moment she heard her father's step
and ran joyfully to meet him. He had come home
chilled from a long ride in the raw wind, and she
spent the rest of the evening in remorseful ministrations

to his comfort. As she flitted around him,
served his tea and toast, and petted him generally,
Gregory felt that he would ride for a night after the
“Wild Huntsman” to be so treated.

He also rightly felt that Annie's manner was a
little cool toward him. It was not in her frank, passionate
nature to feel and act the same toward one
who had just expressed such bitter hostility toward
her lover. But the more he thought of it the more
determined he was that there should be no alienation
between them on account of Hunting.

“Curse him!” he muttered, “he has cost me too
much already.”

He had the impression that Hunting was a relative
of the family. That he was the accepted lover
of the pure and true girl that he himself was unconsciously
learning to love, was too monstrous a
thought to be entertained. Still Annie's words and
manner caused him some sharp pangs of jealousy, till
he cast the very idea away in scorn as unworthy of
both himself and her.

“Evil as my life has been, it is white compared
with his,” he said to himself.

In accordance with his purpose to keep the vantage
ground already gained with Annie, he was
geniality itself, and so entertained Miss Eulie and
her father that she soon relented and smiled upon
him as kindly as ever. She was in too humble and
softened a mood that evening to be resentful except
under great provocation, and she was really
very grateful to Gregory for his readiness to overlook

her weakness and give her credit for trying to
do right. Indeed, his sincere admiration and outspoken
desire for her esteem inclined her toward him.
for was she not a woman?

“After all,” she thought, “he has said nothing
against Hunting. They have had a quarrel, and he
no doubt is the one to blame. He is naturally very
proud and resentful, and would be all the more so in
that degree that he was wrong himself. If I can
help him become a good Christian, making peace
will be an easy affair; so I will not lose the hold that
I have gained upon him. When Charles comes he
will tell me all about it, and I will make him treat
Gregory in such a way that enmity cannot last.”

How omnipotent girls imagine themselves to be
with those who swear they will do anything under
heaven to please them, but usually go on in the old
ways.

It was late before the family separated for the
night, but later far before Gregory retired. The
conclusion of his long revery was that in Annie Walton
existed his only chance of life and happiness.
She seemed to possess the power to wake up all the
man left in him, and if there were any help in God,
she only could show him how to find it.

Thus his worldly wisdom taught him, as many
others, to lean on a human arm for his main support
and chief hope, while possibly in the uncertain
future some help from Heaven might be obtained.
He was like a sickly plant in the shade saying to itself,
“Yonder ray of sunlight would give me new

life,” but it had no thought of the sun from whence
the ray came. He truly wished to become a good
man for his own sake as well as Annie's, for he had
sufficient experience in the ills of evil; but he did
not know that a loving God does not make our only
chance dependent on the uncertain action and imperfect
wisdom of even the best of earthly friends.
The One who began His effort of saving man by dying
for him will not afterward neglect the work, nor
commit it wholly to weak human hands.

The next morning, being that of Saturday,
brought Annie many duties, and these, with callers,
so occupied her time that Gregory saw but little of
her. The shadow between them seemed to have
passed away, and she treated him with the utmost
kindness. But there was a new shadow on her face
that he could not understand, and after breakfast he
said to her as they were passing to the parlor:

“Miss Walton, you seem out of spirits. I hope
nothing painful has happened.”

“Jeff found my lost letter this morning,” she
said, “and I have been deservedly punished anew,
for it brought me unpleasant tidings,” and she hastily
left the room, as if not wishing to speak further on
the matter.

It had indeed inflicted a heavy disappointment,
for it was from Hunting, stating that business would
detain him some days longer in Europe. But she
had accepted it in meekness, and felt that it was but
a light penalty for all her folly of the preceding two
days.

Gregory was not a little curious about it, for he
was interested now in everything connected with
her; but as she did not speak of it again, good taste
required that he should not. An uncomfortable
thought of Hunting being the possible writer crossed
his mind, but he drove it from him with something
like rage.

As Gregory sat brooding by his fire, waiting till
the sun grew higher before starting for a walk, Jeff
came up with an armful of wood, and seemed bubbling
over with something. He, too, had suffered
sorely in the storm he had helped to raise the preceding
day, and had tremblingly eaten such dinner
as the irate Zibbie had tossed on the table for him,
as a man might lunch under the concentrated fire
of a fort. He seemed to relieve himself by saying,
with his characteristic grin, as he replenished the
fire:

“It was drefful 'pestuous yesterday, but de winds
is gone down. I'se glad dat ole hen is done for, but
she hatch a heap ob trouble on her last day.”

Jeff belonged to that large school of modern
philosophers who explain the evils of the day on
very superficial grounds. The human heart is all
right. It's only “dat ole hen,” or unfavorable circumstances
of some kind, that do the mischief.