 | CHAPTER XXX.
KEPT FROM THE EVIL. Opening a chestnut burr |  |
30. CHAPTER XXX.
KEPT FROM THE EVIL.
WITH the light of the following day Annie gave
up all hope of her father's recovery. He was
sinking fast, and conscious himself that death was
near. But his end was like a stately ship coming into
harbor after a long, successful voyage. He looked
death in the face with that calmness and dignity,
that serene certainty that it was a change for the
better, which Christian faith alone can inspire. His
only solicitude was for those he was leaving, and yet
he had no deep anxiety, for his strong faith committed
them trustingly to God.
Annie tried to feel resigned, since it was God's
will. But the tie that bound her to him was so tender,
so interwoven with every fibre of her heart, that
she shrank with inexpressible pain from its sundering.
She knew that she was not losing her father,
that the worst before them was but a brief separation,
but how could she, who had lived so many
happy years at his side, endure even this? It
seemed as if she could not let him go, and in the
strong, passionate yearning of her heart, she was
almost ready to leave youth, friends, lover and all, to
go with him.
She was one who lived in her affections rather
than surroundings. The latter would matter little to
her could she keep her heart-treasures. It would
have touched the coldest to see how she clung to
him toward the last. All else was forgotten, even
Gregory, who might be dying also. The instinct of
nature was strong, and her father was first.
Moreover, the relation between this parent and
child was peculiarly close, for they were not only in
perfect sympathy in views, character, and faith, but
Annie had stepped to the side of the widowed man
years before and sought successfully to fill the place
of one who had reached home before him. Though
so young she had been his companion and daily
friend, interesting herself in that which interested
him, and thus he was saved from that terrible loneliness
which often breaks the heart even in the midst
of a household. It was therefore with a love beyond
words that his eyes rested most of the time on her
and followed her every movement.
She also had a vague and peculiar dread in looking
forward to her bereavement. An anticipating sense
of isolation and loneliness chilled her heart.
Though she would not openly admit it to herself,
Hunting had disappointed her since his return. She
did not get from him the support and Christian sympathy
she expected. She tried to excuse him, and
charged herself with being too exacting, and yet the
sense of something wanting pained her. She had
hoped that in these dark days he would be serene
and strong, and yet abounding in the tenderest sympathy.
that would have sustained her spirit, fainting
under a double and peculiar sorrow. She had felt
sure that before this his just gratitude, like a torrent,
would have overwhelmed and destroyed Gregory's
enmity. But all had turned out so differently. Instead
of being a help, he had almost added to her
burden by his hostile feeling toward her preserver,
which he had not been wholly able to disguise.
Such a feeling on his part seemed as unnatural as
wrong. He professed himself ready to do anything
she wished for Gregory, but it was in a half-hearted
way, to oblige her, and not for the sake of the injured
man. When she went to him for Christian consolation,
his words, though well-chosen, lacked heartiness
and the satisfying power of truth.
Why this was so can be well understood. Hunting
could not give what he did not possess. Of
necessity there would be a hollow ring when he
spoke of that he did not understand or feel. During
his brief visits, and in his carefully written letters,
he could appear all she wished. He could honestly
show his sincere love for her, and there was no
special opportunity to show anything else. In her
vivid, loving imagination she supplied all else, and
she believed that when more together, or in affliction,
he would reveal more distinctly his deeper and religious
nature, for such a nature he professed to have;
and his letters, which could be written deliberately,
abounded in Christian sentiment. Self-deceived, he
afford to give up his questionable speculations.
But when a man least expects it the test and
strain will come, that will clearly manifest the character
of his moral stamina. It had now come to
Hunting, and though he strove with all the force and
adroitness of a resolute will and a practised dissembler,
he was not equal to the searching demands of
those trying days, and steadily lost ground. The only
thing that kept him up was his sincere love for Annie.
That was so apparent and honest that, loving
him herself, she was able to forgive the rest. But it
formed no small part of her sorrow at that dark time,
that she must lower her lofty ideal of her lover.
Hunting and Gregory seemed nearer together morally
than she could have believed possible. Thus she
already had the dread that she would not be able to
“look up” to Hunting as she expected, and that it
would be her mission to deepen and develop his religious
life instead of “leaning” upon it.
It seemed strange to her as she thought of it
during her long hours of watching, that after all she
would have to do for Hunting something like what
poor Gregory had asked her to do for him. She
prayerfully purposed to do it, for the idea of being
disloyal to her engagement never entered her
mind.
“Unless men have a Christian home, in which
their religious life can be daily strengthened and fostered,
they cannot be what they ought,” she said
to herself. “In continued contact with the evil
that they act and feel as they do.”
Thus she was more disposed to feel sorry for
both Hunting and Gregory than to blame. And yet
she looked upon the former very differently from
the latter. She regarded Hunting as a true Christian
who simply needed warming and quickening
into positive life, while she thought of Gregory only
with fear and trembling. Her hope for the latter
were the prayers stored up in his behalf.
But now upon this day that would ever be so
painfully memorable she had thoughts only for
her father, and nothing could tempt her from his
side.
Hunting also saw that the crisis was approaching,
and made but a formal semblance of a breakfast.
He then entered the sick-room, and was thinking
how best to broach the subject of immediate marriage,
when a thumping of crutches was heard in the
hall.
Miss Eulie entered and said that Daddy Tuggar
had managed to hobble over, and had set his heart
upon seeing his old friend.
“Certainly,” said Mr. Walton; “he shall come
in at once.”
“Caution him to stay but a few minutes,” warned
Annie.
Miss Eulie helped the old man in, and he sat
down by Mr. Walton's side, with a world of trouble
on his quaint, wrinkled face.
But he said abruptly, as if he expected an
—yer on the mend?”
“Yes, my kind old neighbor,” said Mr. Walton
feebly. “I shall soon be well. It was kind of you,
in your crippled state, to come over to see me.”
“Well, now,” said Mr. Tuggar, greatly relieved,
“there is use of prayin'. I ain't much of a hand at
it, and didn't know how the Lord would take it from
me; but when I heard you was sick, I began to feel
like prayin', and when I heard you was gettin' wuss,
I couldn't help prayin'. When I heard how that
city chap as saved the house—(what an old fool I was
to cuss him when he first came! The Lord knew
what He was doin' when He brought him here)—
when I heard how he kept the ladder from falling
on Miss Annie, I prayed right out loud. My wife,
she thought I was gettin' crazy. But I didn't care
what anybody thought. I've been prayin' all night,
and it seemed as if the Lord must hear me, and I
kinder felt it in my bones that he had. So I expected
to hear you say you was goin' to get well; and Mr.
Gregory, he's better too. Ain't he?”
There was no immediate answer. Neither Miss
Eulie nor Annie seemed to know how to answer the
old man at first. But Mr. Walton reached slowly
out and took his neighbor's hand, saying:
“Your prayers will be answered, my friend.
Honest prayer to God always is. I shall be well
soon, never to be old, feeble, and sick any more.
I'm going where there's `no more pain.' Perhaps
I've seen my last night, for there is `no night there.'”
“But the Lord knows I didn't mean nothin' of
that kind. We need you here, and He orter know
it. What's the use of prayin' if you get just the
opposite of what you pray for?”
“Suppose the opposite is best. I'm an old man—
a shock of corn fully ripe. I'm ready to be gathered.”
“Are yer goin' to die?” asked the old man in an
awed whisper.
“No, Mr. Tuggar; I've been growing old and feeble,
I've been dying for a long time. Now I'm going
to live—to be strong and well, forever and ever. So
don't grieve, but rather rejoice with me.”
The old man sat musingly a moment, and then
said softly to himself, “This is what the Scripter
means when it tells about the `death of the righteous.'”
“Yes,” continued Mr. Walton, though more feebly,
“and the Scripture is true. The dear Lord doesn't
desert his people. He who has been my friend
and helper so many years, now tells me that my
sins, which are many, are all forgiven. It seems
that I have also heard Him say, `To-day thou shalt
be with me in Paradise.'”
Tears gathered in Daddy Tuggar's eyes, and
he said brokenly, “The Lord knows—I've alers
been a sort—of well-meanin' man—but I couldn't
talk that way—if I was where you be.”
“Mr. Tuggar,” said Mr. Walton, “I'm too weak
to say much more, but I want to ask you one question.
You have read the Bible. Whom did the Lord
Jesus come to save?”
“Sinners,” was the prompt response.
“Are you one?”
“What else be I?”
“Then, old neighbor, you are safe, if you will just
receive him as your Saviour. If you were sure you
were good enough and didn't need any Saviour, I
should despair of you. But according to the Bible,
you are just such as he came after. If you feel that
you are a sinner, all you have to do is trust Him and
do the best you can.”
“Is that all you did?”
“All. I couldn't do anything more. And now,
good-by, remember my last words—Whom did Jesus
come to save?”
“Why He come to save me,” burst out the old
man, rising up. “What a cussed old fool I was, not
to see it afore? I was alers thinkin' he came after the
good folks, and I felt that no matter how I tried I
could not be good enough. Good-by, John Walton.
If they are goin' to let sinners into heaven who are
willin' to come any way the Lord will let 'em come,
I'll be yer neighbor again 'fore long,” and with his
withered, bronzed visage working with an emotion
that he did not seek to control, he wrung the dying
man's hand, and hobbled out.
But he pleaded with Miss Eulie to let him stay.
“I want to see it out,” he said, “for if grim death
ain't goin' to get one square knock-down now, then he
never had it. I want to see the victory. 'Pears to
me that when the gates open the glory will shine
out upon us all.”
So she installed him in Mr. Walton's arm-chair by
the parlor fire, and made him thoroughly at home.
“I'm a-waitin' by the side of the river,” he said.
“I wish I could go over with him. 'Pears I'd feel
sure they wouldn't turn me back then.”
“The Lord Jesus will go over the river with
you,” she said gently, “and then they can't turn
you back.”
“I hope so, I hope so,” said this old child-like
man, “for I'm a dreadful sinner.”
After this interview, which greatly fatigued him,
Mr. Walton dozed for an hour, and then brightened
up so decidedly that Annie had faint hopes that he
was better.
The children were brought to him, and he kissed
and fondled them very tenderly. Then, in a way
that would make a deep impression on their childish
natures, he told them how he was going to see their
father and mother, and would tell what good children
they had been, and how they always meant to
be good, and how all would be waiting for them in
heaven.
Thus the little ones received no grim and terrible
impressions at that death-bed, but rather memories
and hopes that in all their future would hold
them back, like angel hands, from evil.
Hunting now believed that the time for him to
act had come. He had told Jeff to have the horse
and buggy ready so that he might send for the old
pastor at once.
He came to Annie's side, and taking her hand
said very gently, very tenderly:
“Annie, your father has told me that it would
be a great consolation to him to leave me in charge
of you all as his son, legally, and in the eyes of the
world, as I feel I am in reality. I could then do
everything for you, relieve you of every care, and
protect with unquestioned right all the interests of
the household. Again, the marriage tie, like that
of our betrothal, consummated here at his side,
would ever seem to us peculiarly tender and sacred.
It will almost literally be a marriage made in heaven.
I hope you will feel that you can grant this, your
father's last wish.”
Annie felt a sudden and strong repugnance to
the plan. In that hour of agonized parting she did
not wish to think of marriage, even to one she loved.
Her thoughts immediately recurred to Gregory, and
she felt that such an act in his weak state might
cause disastrous results. And yet if it were her
father's wish—his last wish, how could she refuse him
—how could she refuse him anything? The marriage
day would eventually come. If by making
this the day she could once more show her filial love
and add to his dying peace, did she not owe him her
first duty? The dying are omnipotent with us.
Who can refuse their last requests?
She looked inquiringly, but with tear-blinded
eyes, at her father.
“Yes, Annie,” he said, answering her look, “it
would be a great consolation to me, because I can
than you can now understand. It will enable
Charles to step in at once as head of the household,
and so you will be saved from many perplexities and
details of business which would be very trying to
you as you will feel. I want to save you and
sister from all this, and you have no idea how much
it will save your feelings, and add to your comfort,
to have one like Charles act for you with such
power as he would have as your husband. After
seeing you all thus provided for, it seems to me that
I could depart in perfect peace.”
“Dear father,” said Annie tenderly, “how can I
deny you anything! This seems to me no time for
marriage, but since you wish it, your will shall be
mine. It must be right or you would not ask it; and
yet—” she did not finish the sentence but buried
her face in her hands, weeping.
“That's my noble Annie,” Hunting exclaimed,
with a glad exultation in his voice that he could not
disguise; and hastening out, he told Jeff to bring the
minister as speedily as possible.
Miss Eulie was called, and acquiesced in her
brother's opinion; and hovered around Annie in a
tender flutter of maternal love.
Hunting now felt that he was master of destiny,
and in his heart bade defiance to Gregory and all
his fears. His elation and self-applause were great,
for had he not snatched his prize out of the hand
of death itself, and made events that would have
awed and disheartened other men combine for his
them all, though, in this case, for their interests as
well as his own, he believed. While he would naturally
wish the marriage to take place as soon as
possible, his chief reason was to forestall any revelations
which might come through Gregory, and this
motive made his whole course, though seemingly
dictated by the purest of feeling, a crafty trick. And
yet, such was the complex nature of the man, that
he honestly meant to fulfil all Mr. Walton's expectations,
and become Annie's loving shield from
every care and trial, and a faithful guardian of the
household. Nay, more, as soon as he was securely
intrenched, with all his coveted possessions, he purposed
that Annie should help him to be a true, good
man—a Christian in reality.
Well may the purest and strongest pray to be
“kept from the evil of the world.” It lurks where
least suspected, and can plot its wrongs in the
chamber of death, and on the threshold of heaven.
Annie and her father might at least suppose themselves
safe now. Were they, with God's minister on
his way to join truth with untruth—a pure-hearted
maiden to a man from whom she would shrink the
moment she came to know him? Not on the human
side. They were safe only as God kept them. If
Annie Walton had found herself married to a swindler,
hers would have been a life-long martyrdom.
But unconsciously she drew momentarily nearer the
edge of the precipice. Time was passing, and their
venerable pastor would soon be present. Annie had
take sweet counsel with her father rather than prepare
him for death, but now she had a strange, secret
dread of his coming.
Her father suddenly put his hand to his heart.
“Have you pain there?” asked Annie.
“It's gone,” he replied after a moment. “They
will soon be all past, Annie dear. How does Mr.
Gregory seem now?” he asked of Miss Eulie.
“Greatly depressed, I'm sorry to say,” she answered.
“He knows that you are no better, and it
seems to distress him very much.”
“God bless him for saving my darling's life,” he
said fervently, “and He will bless him. I have a
feeling that he will see brighter and better days. I
can send him almost a father's love and blessing, for
he now seems like a son to me. Say to him that I
shall tell his father of his noble deeds. Be a sister
to him, Annie. Carry on the good work you have
so wisely commenced. May the friendship of the
parents descend to the children. And you, Charles,
my son, will surely feel toward him as a brother, whatever
may have been the differences of the past.”
Innocent but deeply embarrassing words to both
Hunting and Annie.
Again Mr. Walton put his hand to his heart.
Hunting left the room, for it was surely time for
Jeff to return. With a gleam of exultant joy he
saw him driving toward the house with the white-haired
minister at his side. He returned softly to
the sick-room.
Mr. Walton had just taken Annie's hands, and
after a look of unutterable fondness, said:
“Before I give you to another—while you are
still my own little girl, let me thank you for having
been to me all and more than a father could ask.
How good God was to give me such a comfort in
your mother's place!”
“Dear father,” was all that Annie could say.
Even then the minister was entering the house.
“I bless thee, my child,” the father continued;
then turning his eyes heavenward he reverently
closed them in prayer, saying, “And God bless thee
also, and keep thee from every evil.”
God answered him.
His grasp on Annie's hand relaxed; without
even a sigh he passed away.
He was dead.
Annie started up with a look of alarm, and saw
the same expression on the faces of her aunt and
Hunting. They spoke to him—he did not answer.
Hunting felt his pulse. Its throb had ceased forever.
The chill of a great dread turned his own face like
that of the dead.
Miss Eulie put her hand on her brother's heart.
It was at rest. Annie stood motionless with dilating
eyes watching them. But when her aunt came
toward her with streaming eyes she realized the
truth and fell fainting to the floor.
Just then the old minister crossed the threshold,
but Hunting said to him almost savagely:
“You are too late.”
| CHAPTER XXX.
KEPT FROM THE EVIL. Opening a chestnut burr | |