 | CHAPTER XXVI.
CHANGES IN GREGORY. Opening a chestnut burr |  |
26. CHAPTER XXVI.
CHANGES IN GREGORY.
WHEN Gregory became conscious, he was lying
on the ground with his head in Miss Eulie's
lap, and Annie was bending over him with a small
flask. She again gave him a teaspoonful of brandy,
and after a moment he lifted himself up, and passing
his hand across his brow, looked around.
“You are not hurt. Oh, please say you are not
hurt,” she exclaimed, taking his hand.
He looked at her a moment, and then it all came
back to him, and he smiled and said:
“Not much, I think; and if I am, it does not signify.
You've helped me on my feet once or twice
before. Now see if you can't again;” and he attempted
to rise.
As Daddy Tuggar had intimated, there was
plenty of muscle in Annie's round arms, and she
almost lifted him up, but he stood unsteadily. Mr.
Walton gave him his arm on one side and Annie on
the other, and in a few moments he was on the sofa
in the sitting-room, where soon a fire was kindled.
Zibbie was told to make coffee, and provide something
more substantial.
They were all profuse in expressions of gratitude,
matter off by saying:
“Think of me as well as you can, for heaven
knows I have need to retrieve my character. But
please do not speak as if I had done more than I
ought. For a young man to stand idly by, and see
the home of his childhood, the place where he had
received the perfection of hospitality, destroyed,
would be simply base. If I had not been reduced
by months of ill-health, the thing would not have
been difficult at all. But you, Miss Walton, displayed
the real heroism in the case, when you stood
beneath with your arms out to catch me. I took a
risk, but you took the certainty of destruction if I
had fallen. Still,” he added, with a humorous look as
if in jest, though he was only too sincere, “the prospect
was so inviting that I would have liked to have
fallen a little way.”
“And so you did,” cried innocent Johnnie eagerly.
“You fell ever so far, and Aunt Annie caught
you.”
“What!” exclaimed Gregory, rising. “Is this
true? And are you not hurt?”
“That's the way with children,” said Annie, with
heightened color and a reproachful look at the boy,
who in the excitement of the time was permitted to
stay up for an hour or more; “they let everything
all out. No, I'm not hurt a bit. You didn't fall
very far. I'm so thankful that your strength did
not give out till you almost reached the ground.
Oh dear! I shudder to think of what might have
thrill of superstitious dread, of your chestnut-burr
omen, when you stained my hand with your blood.
If you had fallen—if—” and she put her hand over
her eyes to hide the dreadful vision her imagination
presented. “If anything had happened,” she continued,
“my hands would have been stained, in that
they had not held you back.”
“What a tender, innocent conscience you have!”
he replied, looking fondly at her. “I confess I'd
rather be here listening to you than somewhere
else.”
She gave him a troubled, startled look. To her,
that “somewhere else” had a sad and terrible meaning.
She sat near him, and could not help saying in
a low, earnest tone:
“Mr. Gregory, you can't tell how I wish you
were a Christian.”
“I, too, wish I were,” he answered sadly; “but I
am not, as you know well. Thanks to your influence,
I hope to be one, I shall try to be one. But I will
deceive neither myself nor you. As yet the way of
life is utterly dark. You have done much for me
though, for you have convinced me of the reality
and value of your faith.”
“How could you, how could you take such a risk
without—” She did not finish the sentence, which
was plain enough in its meaning, however.
On the impulse of the moment, Gregory was
about to reply indiscreetly—in a way that would have
revealed more of his feelings toward her than he
Hannah came in with the lunch, and the attention
of the others, who had been talking eagerly on the
other side of the room, was directed toward them.
He checked some rash words as they rose to his lips,
and Annie, suspecting nothing of the wealth of love
that he already was lavishing upon her, rose with
alacrity, glad to serve one who had just served her so
well. The generous coffee and the dainty lunch,
combined with feelings to which he had long been a
stranger, revived Gregory greatly, and he sprang up
and walked the room, declaring that with the exception
of his burned hand, which had been carefully
dressed, he felt better than he had for a long
time.
“I'm so thankful,” said Annie, with glistening
eyes.
“We all have cause for thankfulness,” said Mr.
Walton with fervor. “Our kind Father in heaven
has dealt with us all in tender mercy. Home, and
more precious life, have been spared. Before we
again seek a little rest, let us remember all his goodness;”
and he led them in such simple, fervent prayer,
that Gregory's reviving spiritual nature was still more
powerfully quickened. It seemed to him then the
Divine Father did care for his earthly children, and
that more than human strength had carried him
through his perilous ordeal.
The effect of the prayer was heightened by Mr.
Walton saying, after he rose from his knees:
“Annie, we must see that none of our poor neighbors
has so suddenly been taken away.”
That is acceptable devotion to God which leads
to practical, active charity toward men, and the most
unbelieving are won by such a religion.
Annie noticed with some anxiety that her father's
voice was very hoarse, and that he put his hand upon
his chest several times, and she expressed the fear
that the exposure would greatly add to his cold.
He treated the matter lightly, and would do nothing
more that evening than take some simple remedies.
When Gregory bade them good-night, Annie followed
him to the foot of the stairs, and giving his
hand one of her warm grasps, said:
“Mr. Gregory, I can't help feeling that your
mother knows what you have done to-night, and
that you have added to her happiness even in
heaven.”
Tears started to his eyes. He did not trust
himself to answer, but, with a strong answering pressure,
hastened to his room happier than he had been
in all his past.
It was late the next morning when they assembled
at the breakfast table, and they noted with pain
that Mr. Walton did not appear at all well, though
he made great effort to keep up. He was very
hoarse, and complained of a tightness in his chest.
“Now, father,” said Annie, “you must stay in
the house, and let me nurse you.”
“I'm very willing to submit,” he replied, “and
hope I will need no other physician.” But he was
ordinary remedies. Still, more than a little natural
solicitude, no anxiety was felt.
Gregory was a different man. Even his sincere
human love for so worthy an object had lifted him
out of the miserable depths into which he had been
sinking. It had filled his heart with pure longings,
and made him capable of noble deeds.
As a general thing a woman inspires a love in
accordance with her own character. Of course we
recognize the fact that there are men with natures
so coarse that they are little better than animals.
These men may have a passing passion for any pretty
woman, but the holy word love should not be used
in such connection. But of men—of those possessing
true manhood, even in humblest station—the
above assertion I think will be found true. The
woman who gains the boundless power which the
undivided homage of an honest heart confers, will
develop in his breast, and quicken into life, traits
and feelings corresponding to her own. If the great
men of the world have generally had good mothers,
so as a parallel fact will it be found that the strong,
useful, successful men—men who sustain themselves,
and more than fulfil the promise of their youth—
have been supplemented and continually inspired to
better things by the ennobling companionship of a
true woman.
Good-breeding, the ordinary restraints of self-respect,
and fear of the world's adverse opinion,
greatly reduce the outward diversities of society.
much alike in the public eye. But there is an inner
life, a real character, upon which happiness here
and heaven hereafter depend, which results largely
from that tie and intimacy that is closest of all. A
woman of the world tends to make even her Christian
husband worldly, and of course the reverse is
true. A shallow, frivolous girl, having faith in little
else save her pretty face and dress-makers' art, may
unfortunately inspire a good, talented man, who
imagines her to possess all that the poets have portrayed
in woman, with a true and strong affection,
but she will disappoint and dwarf him, and be a millstone
around his neck. She will cease to be his companion.
She may be thankful if, in his heart, he
does not learn to despise her, though a man can
scarcely do this and be guiltness toward the mother
of his children.
What must be the daily influence on a man who
sees in his closest friend, to whom he is joined for
life, a passion for the public gaze, a boundless faith
in externals, a complete devotion to artificial enhancing
of ordinary and passé charms, combined with
contemptuous neglect of graces of mind and heart
which alone can keep the love which outward appearance
may at first have won in part. Mere dress
and beauty are very well to skirmish with during first
approaches; but if a woman wishes to hold the conquered
province of a man's heart, and receive from
it rich revenues of love and honor, she must possess
some queenly traits akin to Divine royalty, otherwise
ruled, and leaves it a blighted waste.
As we have seen, Annie's actual character rebuked
and humiliated the evil-minded Gregory from
the first. He could not rest in her presence. To
relieve himself from self-condemnation, he must prove
her goodness a sham or an accident—mere chance
exemption from temptation. Her safety and happy
influence did not depend upon good resolutions, wise
policy, and careful instruction, but upon her real
possession of a character that had been formed long
before, and which met and foiled him at every point.
Lacking this, though a well-meaning, good girl in the
main, she would have been a plaything in the hands
of such a man. Her absolute truth and crystal
purity of principle encased her in heaven's armor, and
neither he nor any evil-disposed person could harm
her. She would not listen to the first insidious suggestion
of the tempter. Thus, the man who expected
to go away despising, now honored, reverenced,
loved her, and through her strong but gentle ministry
had turned his back on evil, and was struggling
to escape its degrading bondage.
It will ever be true that we are strong ourselves
and useful to others only in proportion to what God
— not the world—sees we really are. Specious pretence
will fail—the mask will drop, and those bad at
heart will one day undo all their seeming good.
But Gregory was making a grave mistake. In
the absorption of his human love, he forgot the
Divine love. He was practically looking to Annie
as an instrument.
In the co-working of God and man for the rescue
of the lost, that Christian best succeeds who best
obeys orders. But there comes a time when his
delegated part ceases, and for pardon, absolution,
and the power to remain loyal, he must point directly
to the Throne and stand reverently aside.
That time had come in Annie's effort. She felt
it, but Gregory did not. She knew that she could
not make him a Christian, though she might, through
God's blessing upon her influence, awaken and inspire
the honest effort to be one. As at first with physical,
so now only God could give the breath of spiritual
life.
Therefore on Tuesday and Wednesday following
the fire, Annie did not seek theological or religious
conversation with him, but only aimed by sympathy
and kindness to confirm impressions already made.
In the mean time she prayed with all her heart that
the Divine spirit would apply the truth and do the
work which He alone could accomplish.
God ever hears such prayers, but answers them
in a way and time that he knows to be best.
Gregory was right in thinking that such a woman
as Annie could help him to an extent hard to estimate,
but fatally wrong in looking to her alone.
The kind Father, who regards the well-being of his
children for eternity rather than the moments of
time, must effectually cure him of this error.
But those two days were memorable ones to him.
The cold and stormy weather shut them all in the
house, and that meant to him Annie's society. He
was seldom alone with her. He noted with pain
that her manner was too frank and kindly, too free
from all consciousness, to indicate anything more
than the friendship she had promised; but not knowing
how her heart was preoccupied, he hoped that
the awakening of deeper feelings was only a question
of time. His present peace and rest were so blessed,
her presence so satisfying, and his progress in her
favor so apparent as he revealed his better nature,
that he was content to call his love friendship until
he saw her friendship turning into love.
Had not Annie expected Hunting every day she
would have told Gregory all about her relation with
him, but now she determined that she would bring
them together under the same roof, and not let them
separate till she had banished every trace of their
difficulty. A partial reconciliation might result in
future coolness and estrangement. This she would
regard as a misfortune, even did it have no unfavorable
influence on Gregory, for he now proved
himself the best of company. Indeed, they both
seemed to have a remarkable gift for entertaining
each other.
While Wednesday did not find Mr. Walton
seriously ill apparently, he was still far from being
well. He employed himself with his papers, reading,
and seemed to enjoy Gregory's conversation
very much.
“He now grows very like his father, and reminds
me constantly of him,” he said more than once to
Annie.
Mr. Walton's indisposition was evidently not
trivial. There was a soreness about the lungs that
made it painful for him to talk much, and he had a
severe, racking cough. They were all solicitude in
his behalf. The family physician had been called,
and it was hoped that a few days of care would
remove his cold.
As he sat in his comfortable arm-chair by the fire
he would smilingly say he “was having such a good
time and so much petting that he did not intend to
get well very soon.”
Though the burn on Gregory's hand was quite
painful, and both were bruised and cut from climbing,
he did not regret the suffering, since it also
secured from Annie some of the attention she gave
her father.
Wednesday afternoon was quite pleasant, and
Gregory went out for a walk. He did not return
till quite late, and, coming down to supper, found
a letter by his plate, which clouded his face instantly.
Annie was radiant, for the same mail brought her
one from Hunting, stating that he might be expected
any day now. As she saw Gregory's face darken,
she said:
“I fear your letter has brought you unpleasant
news.”
“It has,” he replied. “Mr. Burnett, the senior
immediately.”
“I'm so sorry,” she said, with such hearty emphasis
that he looked at her earnestly and said:
“Are you really?”
“You shouldn't ask such a question,” she answered
reproachfully.
“Why, Miss Walton, I've made a very long
visit.”
“So much has happened that it does seem a
long time since you came. But I wish it were to
be longer before you left us. We shall miss you
exceedingly. Besides,” she added, with rising color,
“I have a special reason for wishing you to stay a
little longer.”
His color rose instantly also; and she puzzled
him, while he perplexed her.
“I hope Mr. Gregory's visit has taught him,”
said Mr. Walton kindly, “that he has not lost his
former home through our occupation, and that he
can run up to the old place whenever he finds
opportunity.”
“I can say sincerely,” he responded, “that I
have enjoyed the perfection of hospitality;” adding,
in a low tone and with a quick remorseful look at
Annie, “though little deserving it.”
“You have richly repaid us,” said Mr. Walton
heartily. “It would be very hard for me at my
years to have had to seek a new home. I have
become wedded to this old place with my feelings
and fancies, and the old, you know, dislike change.
“Now, father,” said Annie with glistening eyes,
“you must not talk that way. You know well that
we cannot spare you even to go to heaven.”
“Well, my child,” answered he fondly. “I am
content to leave that in our best Friend's hands.
But I cannot say,” he added with a touch of humor,
“that it's a heavy cross to stay here with you.”
“Would that such a cross were imposed upon
me,” echoed Gregory with sudden devoutness.
“Miss Walton, did not my business imperatively
demand my presence, I would break anything save
my neck, in order to be an invalid on your hands.
If one could only find a decent excuse to stay in
this beau ideal of a home a little longer—”
“Come,” cried Annie, half vexed. “A truce to
this style of remark. I think it's verging toward the
sentimental, and I'm painfully matter-of-fact. Father,
you must not think of going to heaven yet, and
I don't like to hear you talk about it. Mr. Gregory
can break his little finger, if he likes, so we may keep
him longer. But do let us all be sensible, and not
think of anything sad till it comes. Why should
we? Mr. Gregory surely can find time to run up and
see us, if he wishes, and I think he will.”
Before he could reply, an anxious remark from
little Susie enabled them to leave the table in midst
of one of those laughs that banish all embarrassment.
“But we'll be burned up if Mr. Gregory goes
away.”
| CHAPTER XXVI.
CHANGES IN GREGORY. Opening a chestnut burr | |