 | CHAPTER XXVIII.
WHAT A LOVER COULD DO. Opening a chestnut burr |  |
28. CHAPTER XXVIII.
WHAT A LOVER COULD DO.
WITHOUT a word they descended the hill.
Gregory was very pale, and this, with a certain
firmness about his mouth, were the only indications
of feeling on his part. Otherwise, he was the same
finished man of the world that he appeared when he
came. Annie's face grew more and more troubled
with every glance at him.
“He is hardening into stone,” she thought; and
she was already reproaching herself for speaking so
harshly. “I might have known,” she thought, “that
his rash, bitter words were only incoherent cries of
pain and disappointment.
“He perplexed her still more by saying at the
foot of the hill in his old light tone:
“See, Miss Walton, our `well meaning friend' has
not been here to put up the bars, and we can take
the shorter way through the orchard. I would like
to see them picking apples once more. By the way,
you must say good-by for me to your old neighbor,
and tell him that out of respect for his first honest
greeting, I'm going to fill his pipe for the winter.”
But Annie's heart was too full to answer.
“How familiar these mossy-trunked trees are!”
awkward pauses, no traces to the eyes of others of
what had occurred. “How often I've picked apples
from this one and that one—indeed from all. Good-by,
old friends.”
“Do you never expect to come back to these
`old friends,' and others that would be friends
again?” she asked in low, trembling tones. “Mr.
Gregory, you are cruel. You are saying good-by as
if it were a very ordinary matter.”
He did not trust himself to look at her, but he
said firmly:
“Miss Walton, in a few moments we shall be
under the eyes of others, and perhaps I shall never
have another chance to speak to you alone. Let
me say a few plain, honest words before I go. I am
not ashamed of my love for you, nor to have it
known. I am glad there was man enough in me to
love such a woman as you are. You are not one of
those belles who wish to boast of their conquests.
I merely wish to leave in a manner that will save
you all embarrassing questions and surmises, and
enable you to go back to your father as if nothing
had happened. The best I can do is to maintain
the outward semblance of a gentleman with which I
came. In regard to Charles Hunting—please listen
patiently—I know that you will not believe any
statements of mine. It is your nature to trust
implicitly those you love. But since I have had
time to think, even the little conscience I possess
will not permit me to go away in silence in regard
I have given you up. You are as unattainable by
me as heaven. But that man is not worthy of you.
Think well before you—”
“You are right,” she interrupted hotly. “I will
not believe anything against him whom I have
known and loved for years. If sincere, you are mistaken.
But I entreat you, for my own sake as well
as yours, never speak a word against him again.
Because if you do, it will be hard for me to forgive
you. If you place the slightest value on my
good opinion and continued regard, you will not
throw them away so uselessly. I do feel—I ever
wish to feel, a deep and friendly interest in you,
therefore speak for yourself, and I will listen with honest
sympathy. Give me hope, if possible, that you
will think better of all this folly—that you will visit
your old home and those who wish to be true friends
—that you will give me a chance to make you better
acquainted with one whom you now greatly wrong.
Please give me something better than this parting
promises to end in.”
He merely bowed and said:
“I supposed it would be so. It is like you. As
for myself—I do not know what my future will be,
save that it will be full of pain. Rest assured of one
thing, however. I can never be a common, vulgar
sinner again, after having loved you. That would be
sacrilege. Your memory will blend with that of my
mother, and shine like a distant star in my long
night. But you have no right to ask me to come here
it's a reality nevertheless, and I cannot inflict upon
myself the unbearable pain of seeing you, yet hedged
about with that which must ever keep me at a distance.
With my feelings, even my poor sense of
honor forbids my seeking your presence. Can I
visit you feigning friendship, while my heart is consuming
with love? Come, Miss Walton, we shall
have our real leave-taking here, and our formal one
at the house. I don't think gratitude will ever
fade out of my heart for all you have tried to do
for me, wherever I am. Even the `selfish' Walter
Gregory can honestly wish you happiness unalloyed.
And you will have it, too, in spite of—well, in spite
of everything, for your happiness is from within, not
without. Give me your hand, and say good-by
under the old mossy trees.”
Annie burst into tears and said:
“I can't say good-by and have you leave us so
unhappy—so unbelieving. Mr. Gregory, will you
never trust in God?”
“I fear not—not after what I know to-day. He
seems wronging you who are so true to Him, as
well as me. You see I am honest with you, as I said
I would be. Can you take the hand of such as I?”
She did take it in both of hers, and said with
passionate earnestness:
“Oh that I could save you from yourself by main
force!”
He was deeply moved, but after a moment said
gently, “That is like your warm heart. But you
brave, noble life to the end, and then heaven will be
the better for your coming.”
“Will you forgive my harsh words?”
“They were more true than harsh. They were
forgiven when spoken.”
“Mr. Gregory,” she cried, “I will not say farewell
as you say it. I have prayed for you, and so has
your mother. I will still pray for you unceasingly.
You cannot prevent it, and I will not doubt God's
promise to hear.”
“I cannot share your faith. I am saying good-by
in the saddest sense.”
He stooped and kissed her hand, and then said,
firmly:
“The end has come. We really part here. I
leave you as I came.”
“Alas,” she said, “the omen of the chestnut burr
seems almost true. Your blood is upon my hand.
I thought of it when you were on the roof, and it
comes to me now again.”
“You are wrong,” he replied decidedly. “The
snow just fallen is not so white. Come.”
With eyes downcast and blinded with tears she
accompanied him out of the deep shade to the farther
side of the orchard nearest the house. Jeff was
on a tall ladder that leaned against a heavily laden
tree, and was just about to descend.
“That's right,” cried Gregory; “come down with
your basket and give me a taste of those apples.
sixteen years ago.”
Jeff obeyed with alacrity. Walter accompanied
him a few steps away, and dropped a bank-note into
the basket, saying:
“That's for the jolly wood-fires you made for me,”
and then turned quickly toward Annie to escape the
profuse thanks impending.
He had turned none too soon. The boughs of
the tree, relieved from the weight of the fruit, and
Jeff's solid person, threw out the heavy ladder that
had been placed too near a perpendicular position at
first. It had trembled and wavered a moment, but
was even now inclining over the very spot where
Annie was standing.
“Miss Walton!” he cried with a look of horror;
rushed toward her, and stood with head bent down
between her and the falling ladder.
She heard a rushing sound, and then with a
heavy thud it struck him, glanced to one side, grazing
her shoulder, and fell to the ground.
He lay motionless beneath it.
For a moment she gazed vacantly at him, too
stunned to think or speak.
But Jeff ran and lifted the ladder off Gregory,
exclaiming:
“Lor' bless him, Miss Annie, he jus' done save
your life.”
She knelt at his side and took his hand, but it
seemed that of the dead. She moaned:
“The omen's true. His blood is on me now—his
called him selfish.”
She took his head into her lap, and put her hand
over his heart.
She thought she felt a faint pulsation.
In a moment all trace of weakness vanished, and
her face became resolute and strong.
“Jeff,” she said, in clear-cut, decided tones, “go
to the house, tell Hannah and Zibbie to come here;
tell Hannah to bring brandy and a strong double blanket.
Not a word of this to my father. Go, quick.”
Jeff ran, as he did once before when the blood-hounds
were after him, saying under his breath all
the way:
“Lor' bless him. He save Miss Annie's life; he
orter have her sure 'nuff.”
Annie was left alone with the unconscious man.
She pushed his hair from his damp brow, and bending
down, impressed a tender, remorseful kiss upon it.
“God forgive me that I called you selfish,” she
murmured. “Where is your spirit wandering that
I cannot call it back? Oh, live, live; I can never be
happy if you die. Can this be the end? God keep
my faith from failing.”
Again she put her hand over his heart, whose
love she could doubt no more. Did it beat, or was
it only the excited throbbing of her own hand?”
She tried to breathe her own breath into his
parted lips. She chafed his hands with an energy
that would have imparted warmth to marble; but he
lay still and breathless
Jeff now returned, and, with white, scared faces,
the women soon followed. Annie tried to give
Gregory brandy, but he did not seem to swallow
it. They then lifted him on the blanket and carried
him to the house, and up the back stairway to his
room, so that Mr. Walton might not know.
“Now, Jeff,” whispered Annie, “harness the fastest
horse to the buggy, and bring the doctor—mind,
bring him. Don't tell him to come. Hannah, tell
Miss Eulie to come here—quietly now. Zibbie,
bring hot water.”
Again she poured a teaspoonful of brandy into
his mouth, and this time he seemed to swallow it.
She bathed his face and hands with spirits, while her
every breath was a prayer.
Miss Eulie did not want a long explanation.
Annie's hurried words, “A ladder fell on him,” satisfied
her, and she set to work, and more effectively
with her riper experience. She took off his collar
and opened his shirt at the throat, and soon, with a
look of joy to Annie, said:
“His heart beats distinctly.”
Again they gave him brandy, and this time he
made a conscious effort to swallow it.
With eyes aglow with excitement and hope they
redoubled their exertions, Hannah and Zibbie helping,
and at last they were rewarded by seeing their
patient make a faint movement.
Now with every breath Annie silently sent the
words heavenward, “O God, I thank thee.”
She bent over him, and said in a low, thrilling
upon his face, but this was the only response.
“Do you think he is conscious?” she whispered
to her aunt.
“I hardly know. Let me give a little more stimulant.”
After receiving it he suddenly opened his eyes
and looked fearfully around. Then he tried to rise,
but fell back, and asked faintly:
“Where is Miss Walton? Is she safe? I
heard her voice.”
“You did. I'm here. Don't you know me?”
“Are you really here unhurt?”
“Yes, yes,” she answered eagerly; “thanks to
you.”
Again he closed his eyes with a strange and
quiet smile.
“Can't you see me?” she asked.
“There seems a blur before my eyes. It does
not signify. I know your voice, so true and kind.”
“Why can't he see?” she asked, drawing her
aunt aside.
“I don't know. What I fear most are internal
injuries. Did the ladder strike his head?”
“O merciful Heaven,” said Annie, again in an
agony of fear. “I don't know. Oh, if he should die—
if he should die—” and she wrung her hands with
terror at the thought.
The doctor now stepped lightly in. Jeff had
told him enough to excite the gravest apprehensions.
He made a few inquiries and felt Gregory's pulse.
“It's very feeble,” he said. “More brandy.”
Then he said, “I must make such examination
as I can now without disturbing him much. Miss
Morton, you and Jeff stay and help me.”
Annie went down to her father with a greater
anxiety as to the result of the examination than if
the danger were her own.
She found her father awake, and wondering at
the sounds in the room above.
“Annie,” he said feebly, “what is going on in
Mr. Gregory's room?”
As she looked at him, she saw that he was not
better, as she hoped, but that his face had a shrunken
look, betokening the rapid failing of the vital forces.
The poor girl felt that trouble was coming like an
avalanche, and in spite of herself she sat down, and
burying her face in her father's bosom, sobbed aloud.
But she soon realized the injury she might do him
in thus giving way, and by a great effort controlled
herself so as to tell him in softened outlines
of the accident. But the ashen hue deeped on the
old man's face, as he said fervently:
“God bless him, God bless him. He has saved
my darling's life. What should I have done in these
last days without you?”
“But, father, don't you think he will get well?”
she asked eagerly.
“I hope so. I pray so, my child. But I know
the ladder, and it is a heavy one. This is time for
faith in God. We cannot see a hand's-breadth in the
darkness before us. He has been very merciful to us
good purpose in these trials and dangers. Just cling
to Him, my child, and all will be well.”
“Oh, father, how you comfort me. We must just
leave everything in His hands. But, father, you feel
better, do you not?”
“Yes, much better; not much pain now; and yet
for some reason I feel that I shall soon be where pain
never comes. How otherwise can I explain my
almost mortal weakness?”
Annie again hid her tearful eyes on the bedside.
Her father placed his hand upon her bowed head and
said:
“It won't break your heart, my little girl, will it,
to have your father go to heaven?”
But she could not answer him.
At last the doctor came down, and said:
“His injuries are certainly serious, and may be
more so than I can yet discover. The ladder grazed
his head, inflicting some injury, and struck him on the
shoulder, which is much bruised, and the collar-bone
is badly broken. The whole system has received a
tremendous shock, but I hope that with good care
he will pull through. But he must be kept very
quiet in mind and body. And so must you, sir.
Now you know all, and have nothing to suspect
It's often injurious kindness to half hide something
from the sick.”
“Well, doctor, do your very best by him, as if he
were my own son. You know what a debt of gratitude
we owe him. Spare no expense. If he needs
around; but the Lord wills it otherwise.”
Annie followed the physician out and said:
“You have told us the very worst then?”
“Yes, Miss Walton, the very worst. Unless
there are injuries that I cannot now detect I think
he will get better. I will send a young man whom I
can trust to take care of him. Rest assured I will do
all that is possible, for I feel very grateful to this
stranger for saving my much-esteemed little friend.
I suppose you know we all think a great deal of you
in our neighborhood, and I shudder to think how
near we came to a general mourning. You see he
was nearer the base of the ladder than you, Jeff says.
The ladder therefore would have struck you with
greater force, and you would not have had a ghost
of a chance. You ought to be very grateful, eh,
Miss Annie?” he added, with a little sly fun in his
face.
But she shook her head sadly, and only said with
deep feeling:
“I am very, very grateful.” Then she added
quickly, “What about father?”
The doctor's face changed instantly and became
grave.
“I don't quite understand his case. He was
threatened with pneumonia; but there seems no
acute disease now, and yet he appears failing. The
excitement and exposure of the other night was too
much for him. You must make him take all the
nourishment possible. Medicine is of no use.”
Agitated by conflicting fears and hopes, Annie
went to the kitchen to make something that might
tempt her father's appetite.
Blessed are the petty and distracting cares of the
household, the homely duties of the sick-room.
They divert the mind and break the force of the
impending blow. If, when illness and death invade
a house, the fearing and sorrowing ones had nought
to do but sit down and watch the remorseless approach
of the destroyer, they might go mad.
When Annie stole noiselessly back to Gregory's
room he was sleeping, though his breathing seemed
difficult.
What a poor mockery the dinner-hour was!
Even the children were oppressed by the general
gloom and talked in whispers. But before it was
over there came a bright ray of light to Annie in the
form of a telegram from Hunting, saying that he had
arrived in New York safely, and would be at the village
on the 5 P.M. train.
“Oh, I am so glad,” cried Annie; “never was he
so needed before.”
And yet there was a remorseful twinge at her
heart as she thought of Gregory. But she felt sure
of reconciliation now, for would not Hunting overwhelm
her preserver with gratitude, and forgive
everything in the past?
She said to Jeff:
“Have Dolly and the low buggy ready for me at
half-past four.”
Her father seemed peculiarly glad when he heard
be his son, was coming.
“It's all turning out for the best,” he said softly.
The hour soon came, for it was already late, and
Annie slipped away, leaving both her father and
Gregory sleeping. To her great joy Hunting stepped
down from the train and was quickly seated by
her side. As they drove away in the dusk he could
not forbear a rapturous kiss and embrace, which she
did not resist.
“Oh, Charles, I'm so glad you've come—so very
glad,” she exclaimed almost breathlessly; “and I've
so much to tell you that I hardly know where to
commence. How good God is to send you to me
now, just when I need you most.”
“So you find that you can't do without me altogether.
That's grand news. How I've longed for
this hour. If I'd had my own way I would have
exploded the boilers in my haste to reach port to
see you again. It was real good of you to come,
and not send for me. Come, Annie, celebrate my
return by the promise that you will soon make a
home for me. I am happy to say that I can now
give you the means of making it a princely one.”
“I haven't the time nor the heart to think about
that now, Charles. Father is very ill. I'm exceedingly
anxious about him.”
“Indeed,” said Hunting, “that is bad news;”
and yet his grief was not very deep, for he thought,
“If she is left alone she will come to me at once.”
“What is more,” cried Annie, a little hurt at the
instead of meeting me strong and well, you had
found me a crushed and lifeless corpse to-night?”
“Annie,” he said, “what do you mean?”
“I mean that this would have been true but for
one with whom I am sorry you are on bad terms.
Walter Gregory is at our house.”
He gave a great start at the mention of this
name, and even in the deep twilight his face seemed
very white.
“I don't understand,” he almost gasped.
“I knew you would be deeply affected,” said the
unsuspicious Annie. “He stood between me and
death to-day, and it may cost him his own life.
He was severely injured—how badly we can hardly
tell yet;” and she rapidly told him all that had
occurred. “And now Charles,” she concluded, “no
matter what he may have done, or how deeply he
may have wronged you, I'm sure you'll do everything
in your power to effect a complete reconciliation,
and cement a lasting friendship. If possible,
you must become his untiring nurse. How much
you owe him!”
She noticed that he was trembling. After a
moment he asked, hesitatingly:
“Has he—how long has he been here did you
say?”
“About three weeks. You know our place was
his old home, and his father was a very dear friend
of my father.”
“If I knew it I had forgotten it,” he answered,
“Did he—has he said anything about our difficulties?”
“Nothing definite,” said she, a little wonderingly
at Hunting's manner. “Father happened to mention
your name the first evening of his arrival, and
the bitter enmity that came out upon his face quite
startled me. You know well that I wouldn't hear
a word against you. He once commenced saying
something to your prejudice, but I stopped him and
said I would neither listen to nor believe him—that
he did not know you, and was entirely mistaken in
his judgment. It was evident to us that Mr. Gregory
was not a good man. Indeed, he made no pretence
to being one; but he has changed since, as you
can well understand, or he could'nt have done what
he did to-day. I told father that I thought the
cause of your trouble arose from your trying to restrain
him in some of his fast ways, but he thought it
resulted from business relations.”
“You were both right,” said Hunting slowly, as
if he were feeling his way along. “He was inclined
to be very dissipated, and I used to remonstrate
with him; but the immediate cause was a business
difficulty. He would have kept me out of a great
deal of money if he could.”
His words were literally true, but they gave an
utterly false impression. Annie was satisfied, however.
It seemed a natural explanation, and she
trusted Hunting implicitly. Indeed, with her nature,
love could scarcely exist without trust.
“That's all past now,” said Annie eagerly.
“You surely will not let it weigh with you a moment.
Indeed, Charles, I shall expect you to do everything
in your power to make that man your friend.”
“Oh, certainly, I could not act otherwise,” he said
rather absently. He was scheming with desperate
earnestness how to meet and avert the impending
dangers. Annie's frank and cordial reception
showed him that he was safe as yet as far as she was
concerned. But he knew her well enough to feel
sure that if she detected falsehood in him, his case
would be nearly hopeless. He recognized that he
was walking on a mine that at any moment might
be sprung. With his whole soul he loved Annie
Walton, and it would be worse than death to lose
her. The thought of her had made every gross
temptation fall harmless at his feet, and even his
insatiate love of wealth had been mingled with the
dearer hope that it would eventually minister to her
happiness. But he had lived so long in the atmosphere
of Wall Street that his ideas of commercial
integrity had become exceedingly blurred. When a
questionable course opened by which he could make
money, he could not resist the temptation. He tried
to satisfy himself that business required such action,
and called his sharp practice by the fine names of
skill, sagacity. But when on his visits to Annie,
which of late, during the worst of his transactions, had
been frequent rather than prolonged, he had a growing
sense of humiliation and fear. He saw that she
could never be made to look upon his affair with Burnett
the soul of commercial honor. Though Mr. Walton's
fortune was not large, not a penny had come to him
stained. He would go back to the city, resolved to
quit everything illegitimate and become in his business
and other relations just what he seemed to them.
But some glittering temptation would assail him.
He would make one more adroit shuffle of the cards,
and then from being hollow, would become morally
and religiously sound at once.
Thus the devil dupes his victims.
During his voyage home, there was time for
thought. A severe gale, while lashing the sea into
threatening waves, had also disturbed his guilty conscience.
He had amassed sufficient to satisfy even
his greed of gold for the present, and his calculating
soul hinted that it was time he began to put away a
little stock in heaven as well as earth. He resolved
that he would withdraw from the whirlpool of Wall
Street speculation and engage in only legitimate operations.
Moreover, he began to long for the refuge
and more quiet joys of home, and he felt, as did poor
Gregory, that Annie of all others could do most to
make him happy here and fit him for the future life.
Therefore he had returned with the purpose of pressing
his suit for a speedy marriage as strongly as safe
policy would permit.
The bright October day of his arrival in New
York seemed emblematic of his hopes and prospects,
and now again the deepening night, the rising wind
and wildly hurrying clouds but mirrored back himself.
His safest and wisest course would have been
to have made an honest confession to Annie of the
wrong he had done Gregory. As his mind recovered
from its first confusion this thought occurred to
him. But he had already given her the impression
that he had received, or rather that the wrong had
been attempted against him. Moreover, by any
truthful confession he would stand convicted of
deceiving and swindling Burnett & Co. He justly
feared that Annie would break with him the moment
she learned this. So, as with all schemers, he temporized,
and left his course open to be decided by
circumstances rather than principle.
His first course was to learn of Annie all that he
could concerning Gregory and his visit, so that he
might act in view of the fullest knowledge possible.
She told him frankly what had occurred, as far as
time permitted during their ride home. But of
Gregory's love she did not speak, and was perplexed
what to do. Loyalty to her lover seemed to require
that he should know all, and yet she felt sure that
Gregory would not wish her to speak of it, and she
owed so much to him that she felt she could not
do what was contrary to his wishes. But Hunting
well surmised that whether Annie knew it or
not, Gregory could not have been in her society
three weeks and go away an indifferent stranger.
“Jeff can give me more light,” he thought.
Conscious of deceit himself, he distrusted every
one, even crystal-souled Annie.
| CHAPTER XXVIII.
WHAT A LOVER COULD DO. Opening a chestnut burr | |