 | CHAPTER XXXIV.
UNMASKED. Opening a chestnut burr |  |
34. CHAPTER XXXIV.
UNMASKED.
IT seemed that they passed through miles of water
that roared around them like a cataract. But
Annie and Gregory held to each other in their strong,
convulsive grasp, and her cork belt caused him to rise
with her to the surface again. A piece of the
wheel-house floated near; Gregory swam for it, and
pushing it to Annie helped her upon it. Hunting
also grasped it. But it would not sustain the
weight of all three, especially as Gregory had no
preserve on.
One must leave it that the other two might escape.
“Good-bye, Annie darling,” said Gregory. “We
will meet again in Heaven if not on earth. Cling
to your plank as long as you can, and a boat may
pick you up. Good-bye, poor Hunting, I'm sorry
for you.”
“What are you going to do?” gasped Annie.
“Don't you see that this won't float all three?
I will try to find something else.”
“No, no,” cried Annie, “don't leave me: you
have no belt on. If you go I will too.”
“I once lived for your sake; now you must
we will both drown. Good-bye, dearest. If I reach
home first, I'll watch and wait till you come.”
She felt him kiss her hand where she clung to
her frail support, and then he disappeared in the
darkness.
“Why did you let him go?” she said to Hunting—“you
who have a preserver on?”
“O God have mercy on me!” groaned the
wretched man.
Annie now gave up all hope of escape, and indeed
wished to die. She was almost sure that
Gregory had perished, and felt that her best loved
ones were in Heaven.
She would have permitted herself to be washed
away had not a sense of duty to live until God took
her life, kept her firm. But every moment it seemed
that her failing strength would give way, and her
benumbed hands loosen their hold.
“But,” she murmured, in the noblest triumph of
faith, “I will sink not inot these cold depths, but
in my Saviour's arms.”
Toward the last, when alone and in the very
presence of death, He seemed nearest and dearest.
She could not bear to look at the dark, angry, waters
strewn with floating corpses. She had a sickening
dread that Gregory's white face might float by. So
she closed her eyes, and only thought of Heaven,
that was so near that its music seemed to mingle
with the surging of the waves.
She tried to say a comforting word to Hunting,
“God, have mercy on me.”
Soon she began to grow numb all over. A
dreamy peace pervaded her mind, and she was but
partially conscious.
She was aroused by hearing her name called.
Did the voice come from that shore beyond all dark
waves of earthly trouble? At first she was not
sure.
Again and louder came the cry, but too full of
human agony to be a heavenly voice,
“Annie! Annie!”
“Here,” she cried, faintly, while Hunting, helpful
for once, shrieked aloud above the roar of the
waves.
Then she heard the sound of oars, and a moment
later strong hands lifted her into a boat,
and she found herself in Gregory's arms, her head
pillowed on his breast. Then all grew dark.
When she again became conscious she found
herself in a small cabin, with many others in like
pitiable plight. Her aunt was bending over her on
one side and Gregory on the other, chafing her
hands. At first she could not remember or understand,
and stared vacantly at them.
“Annie, darling,” said Miss Eulie, “don't you
know me?”
Then glad intelligence dawned in her face, and
she reached out her arms, and each clasped the
other as one might receive the dead back to life.
But quickly she turned and asked,
“Where is Mr. Gregory?”
“Here, safe and sound,” he said, joyously, “and
Hunting, too. I shall bless him all the days of my
life, for his cries drowned old ocean's hoarse voice
and brought us right to you.”
Hunting looked as if he did not exactly relish
the tribute, but he stooped down and kissed
Annie, who permitted rather than received the
caress.
“How did you escape?” she asked Gregory,
eagerly.
“Well, I swam toward the ship that struck us,
whose lights I saw twinkling in the distance, till
almost exhausted. I was on the point of giving
up, when a small piece of the wreck floated near.
By a great effort I succeeded in reaching it. Then a
little later a boat from this ship picked me up and we
started after you and any others that could be found.
I am glad to say that quite a number that went
down with the ship were saved.”
She looked at him in a way to bring the warm
blood into his face, and said in a low tone:
“How can I ever repay you?”
“By doing as you once said to me, `Live! get
strong and well.' Good-bye now, Miss Morton will
take care of you.”
Her eyes followed him till he disappeared, then
she turned and hid her face on Miss Eulie's shoulder.
The good old lady was a little puzzled, and so
was Hunting, though he had dismal forebodings.
not indulge in very bitter regrets just then. As his
mind recovered its poise, however, and he had time
to think it all over, there came a sickening sense of
humiliation.
In a few minutes Gregory returned and said to
Annie, “See how honored you are. I've been so
lucky as to get the Captain's best suit for you, and
those wet things that would chill you to death can
be taken off. You can give my coat to Hunting.
You see I was up at the time of the accident, and
so am dressed.”
“If I am to wear the Captain's suit,” said Annie,
“then, with some of his authority, I order you
to go and take care of yourself. You have done
enough for others for a little while.”
“Ay, ay, Captain,” said Gregory, smiling, as he
again vanished.
It would only be painful to dwell on the dreary
days and nights during which the comparatively
small sailing vessel was beating back against a
stormy wind to the port from which she had sailed.
She had been much injured by the collision, and
many were doubtful whether, after all, they would
ever see land. Thus, to the manifold miseries of
the rescued passengers, was added continued anxiety
as to their fate. It was, indeed, a sad company
that was crowded in that small cabin. Half-clothed,
bruised, sick, and fearful, what seemed an endless
experience was but a long night-mare of trouble,
while some, who had lost their best and dearest, refused
had perished also.
Annie's gratitude that their little party had all
been spared grew stronger every hour, and the one
through whose efforts, under God, they had been
saved grew daily dearer.
At first she let her strong affection go out to
him unchecked, not realizing whither she was drifting.
But a little characteristic event occurred
which revealed her to herself.
Her exposure had again caused quite a serious
illness, and she saw little of Gregory for a few days.
Hunting claimed his right to be with her as far as
it was possible. Though she would not admit it
to herself, she almost shrank from him. Of course
the sailing ship had been provisioned for only a comparatively
small crew, and the sudden and large accession
to the number threatened to add the terrors
of famine to their other misfortunes.
Annie had given almost all of her allowance
away. Indeed she had no appetite, and revolted at
the coarse food served. But she noticed that Hunting
ate all of his, or else put some quietly away, in
view of future need. She said to him, upon this
occasion,
“Can't you spare a little of your portion for those
poor people over there? They look half-famished.”
“I will do so if you wish,” he replied, “but it
would hardly be wise. Think what tremendous
business interests I represent, and it is of the first
importance that I keep up.”
“Mr. Gregory is almost starving himself,” said
Miss Eulie, quietly. “I feel very anxious about
him.”
“I represent a business of thousands where Mr.
Gregory does hundreds,” said Hunting, complacently.
“I wish you represented something else,” said
Annie, bitterly, turning away.
Her words and manner jostled him out of himself.
A principle that seemed to him so sound and
generally accepted, appeared sordid and selfish calculation
to Annie, and she felt that Gregory represented
infinitely greater riches in his self-denial for
others.
Hunting saw his blunder and instantly carried
all his portion to those whom Annie had pointed
out. But it was too late. He had shown his inner
nature again in a way that repelled Annie's very
soul. She turned sick at the thought of being
bound to such a man!
At first she had tried to excuse his helpless
terror on the ship by thinking it a physical trait.
But this was a moral trait. It was a sudden insight
into the cold dark depths of his nature.
Immediately after the disaster she had been too
sick and bewildered to realize her situation. Her
engagement was such an old and accepted fact, that
at first no thought of any other consummation than
marriage entered her mind. But she already looked
forward to it only as a duty, and felt that her love
for Hunting would be that of pity rather than trust
by her promises, that her engagement rested upon
her like a solemn obligation. Again, it had been
entered into under circumstances so tenderly sacred,
that even the wish to escape from it seemed like
sacrilege. But she said in intense bitterness:
“Dear father was deceived also. We did not
know him as we should.”
And yet she had nothing against Hunting, save
a growing lack of congeniality and his cowardice
at a time when few men could be heroic. In her
strong sense of justice she felt that she could not
condemn a man for an infirmity. And yet her
cheeks tingled with shame as she remembered his
weakness, and she felt that a professing Christian
ought to have done a little better under any circumstances.
But when, by the little event above described, she
saw his hard, calculating spirit, her whole nature
revolted from him in almost loathing.
After a little time she told him that she wanted
to be alone, and he went away cursing his own folly.
Miss Eulie, thinking she wished to sleep, also left her.
“How can I marry him?” she groaned, “and
yet, how can I escape such an engagement?”
When her aunt returned she found her sobbing
as if her heart would break.
“Why, Annie dear, what is the matter?” she
asked.
“Don't ask me,” she moaned in her pillow, and
buried her face.
Then that judicious lady looked very intelligent,
but said nothing more. She sat down and commenced
stroking Annie's brown, disheveled hair.
But instead of showing very great sympathy for
her niece, she had an unusually complacent expression.
Gregory had a strong but discreet friend in
the camp.
When Annie became calmer, she said hesitatingly,
“Do you think — is Mr. Gregory—doesn't he
eat scarcely anything?”
“No, he is really wronging himself. I heard it
said that the Captain had threatened, jokingly, to put
him in irons if he did not obey orders and eat his
allowance.”
“Do you think I could make—Do you think he
would do better if I should ask him?” again asked
Annie, with her face buried in the pillow.
“Well,” said Miss Eulie, very gravely, though
with a smile upon her face, “Mr. Gregory is very
self-willed, especially about some things, but, I do
think that you have more power over him than any
one else.”
“Won't you tell him that I want to see him?”
He was very glad to come. Annie tried hard to
be very firm and composed, but, with her red eyes
and full heart, did not succeed very well.
At first he was a little embarrassed by her close
scrutiny, for she had wrought herself up into the
expectation of seeing a gaunt, famine-stricken man.
But his cheeks, though somewhat hollow, were ruddy
and his faced bronzed by exposure. Instead of
impressed by his manly beauty; but she said,
“I have sent for you that I might give you a
scolding.”
“I'm all meekness,” he said a little wonderingly.
“Auntie tells me that you don't eat anything.”
“That is just what she says of you.”
“But I'm ill and can't eat.”
“Neither can I.”
“Why not?”
“How can a man eat when there are hungry
women aboard? It would choke me.”
Instead of scolding him, she again buried her
face in her pillow, and burst into tears.
He was a little perplexed, but said gently,
“Come, my dear little sister, I hope you are not
worrying about me. I assure you there is no cause.
I never felt better, and the worst that can happen
is a famine in England when I reach there. It
grieves me to the heart to see you so pale and
weak. The Captain says I have a bad conscience,
but it's only anxiety for you that makes me so restless.”
“Do you stay upon deck all night this bitter
weather?”
“Well, I want to be ready if anything should
happen.”
“O Walter, Walter, how I have wronged you?”
“No, beg your pardon, you have righted me.
What was I when I first knew you, Annie Walton?
There is some chance of my being a man now. But
you. If I had lost every dollar on that ship I would
still be rich, for your little Bible (I shall always call
it yours) remained safely in my over-coat pocket,
and you brought it aboard. Now, let me read you
something that will comfort you. I find a place
where it is written, `Commence here.' Can you
account for that?”
And he read that chapter, so old but inexhaustible,
beginning “Let not your heart be troubled.”
Having finished it, he said,
“I will leave my treasure with you, as you may
wish to read some yourself. In regard to the subject
of the `scolding,' which, by the way, I have
not yet received, if Miss Morton here can tell me
that you are eating more, I will. Good-bye.”
Annie's appetite improved that hour. She
seized upon the old Bible and turned its stained
leaves with the tenderest interest. As she did so,
her harsh note to Gregory, written when Hunting
complained that he had been insulted, dropped.
How doubly harsh and unjust her words seemed
now! Then she read his words, “Forgiven, my
dear, deceived sister.” She kissed them passionately,
then tore the note to fragments. Miss Eulie
watched her curiously, then stole away with another
smile. She liked the spell that was acting now, but
knew Annie too well to say much. Miss Eulie was
one of those rare women who could let a good work
of this kind go on without meddling.
Annie did not read the Bible, but only laid it
very discontented, for he had managed to catch
glimpses of her interview with Gregory.
“Shall I read to you from that book?” he said.
She shook her head.
“You seemed to enjoy having Mr. Gregory read
it to you,” he said, meaningly.
Color came into her pale face, but she only said,
“He did not stay long. I'm ill and tired.”
“It's rather hard, Annie,” he continued, with a
deeply injured air, “to see another more welcome
at your side than I am.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, in a sudden
passion. “How much time has Mr. Gregory been
with me since he saved both our lives? You heard
my father say that I should be a sister to him; and
yet I believe that you would like me to become a
stranger. Have you forgotten that but for him you
would have been at the bottom of the Atlantic?
There, there, leave me now, I'm weak and ill—leave
me till we can both get in better moods.”
Pale with suppressed shame and anger, he went
away, wishing in the depths of his soul, that Gregory
was at the bottom of the Atlantic.
Again she buried her face in her pillow and
sobbed and moaned: “How can I marry that man!
He makes my very flesh creep.”
Then for the first time came the swift thought,
“I could marry Gregory, I'm happy the moment
I'm near him,” and her face burned as did the
thought in her heart.
Then she turned pale with fear at herself. A
sudden sense of guilt alarmed her, for she had the
feeling that she belonged to Hunting. So solemn
had been her engagement that the thought of loving
another seemed almost like disloyalty to the
marriage-tie. With a despairing sigh, she murmured,
“Chained, chained.”
Then strongly arose the womanly instinct of
self-shielding and the purpose to hide her secret.
An hour before, Gregory could not come too often.
He might have stooped down and as a brother
kissed her lips, and she would not have thought it
strange or unnatural. Now, she dreaded to see him.
And yet when would he be out of her thoughts?
She hoped and half-believed that he was beginning
to regard her as a sister, and still, deep in her soul
this thought had an increasing sting of pain.
Ah! Annie, you thought you loved before, but a
master-spirit has now come who will stir depths in
your nature of which neither you nor Hunting
dreamed.
Hunting, seemingly, had no further cause to be
jealous of Gregory during the rest of the voyage.
With the whole strength of her proud, resolute nature,
Annie guarded her secret. She sent kind messages
to Gregory, and returned the Bible, but did
not ask him to visit her again. Neither did she
come on deck herself till they were entering a harbor
of an English port.
When Gregory came eagerly toward her, though
kind and gentle dignity, which, nevertheless, threw
a chill upon his heart. All the earnest words he
meant to say died upon his lips, and gave way to
mere common-places. Drawing her heavy shawl
about her, she sat down and looked back toward
the sea as if regretting leaving it with all its horrors.
He thought:
“When have I seen such a look of patient sorrow
on any human face? She saw the love I could not
hide at our last interview. I did not deceive her by
calling her `sister.' Her great generous heart is
grieving because of my hopeless love, while in the
most delicate manner, she reminds me how vain it
is. Now I know why she did not send for me
again.”
He walked away from the little group pale and
faint, and she could not keep back the hot tears as
she watched him. Miss Eulie was also observant,
and saw how they misunderstood each other. But
she acted as if blind, feeling that quickly coming
events would right everything better than any
words of hers.
Gregory went to another part of the vessel, and
leaned over the railing. Annie noticed with an
absorbing interest that he seemed as indifferent to
the delight of the passengers at the prospect of
soon being on land, and the bustle on the wharf, as
he had appeared at the commencement of the voyage.
But she rightly guessed that there was tumult
at his heart. There certainly was at hers. When
ashore, he turned with the resolve, “I will show
her that I can bear my hard lot like a man,” and
again came toward them, a proud and courteous
gentleman.
Annie saw and understood the change, and a
sense of loneliness and isolation chilled her heart
greater than if the stormy Atlantic rolled between
them. And yet his manner toward her was very
gentle, very considerate.
He took charge of Miss Eulie, and soon they
were at the best hotel in the place. The advent of
the survivors caused great excitement in the city,
and they were all overwhelmed with kindness and
sympathy.
After a few hours Gregory returned to the hotel,
dressed in quiet elegance, and he seemed to Annie
the very ideal of manhood; while she, in her new
mourning robes, seemed to him the perfection of
woman kind. But their manner toward each other
was very quiet, and only Miss Eulie guessed the
subterranean fires that were burning in each heart.
“Are you sure that you will be perfectly comfortable
here?” he asked.
“Entirely so,” Annie replied, “Mr. Hunting has
telegraphed to my uncle and we will await him here.
I do not feel quite strong enough to travel yet.”
“Then I can leave you for a day or two with a
quiet mind, I must go to Liverpool.”
She turned a shade paler, but only said, “I am
very sorry you must leave us so soon.”
“I missed a note from your Bible,” he said, in
a low tone.
“Forgive me! I destroyed it,” and she turned
and walked to the window to hide her burning
face.
Just then Hunting entered, and a few moments
later Gregory bade them a quiet farewell.
“How wonderful is her constancy!” he sighed
as he went away. “How can she love and cling to
that man after what he has shown himself! Well,
this is one of those times when a man must just
shut his eyes and trust God.”
He had utterly misunderstood her and believed
that she had destroyed the note, not because of her
own harsh words, but of his reflecting on Hunting.
Annie thought she knew what sorrow was, but
confessed to herself in bitterness, after he had gone,
that she had not before.
If Hunting secretly exulted that Gregory was
out of the way, and had been taught by Annie that
he must keep his distance, as he would express it,
he was secretly uneasy at her manner toward him.
She merely patiently endured his lavish attentions,
and seemed relieved when he was compelled to
leave her for a time. “She will feel and act differently,”
he thought, “when she gets well and strong,
and will be the same as before,” and the harrassing
fears and jealousy that tortured him at sea gave
way to complacent confidence. But he was greatly
provoked that he could scarcely ever see Annie
without the embarrassing presence of Miss Eulie.
felt sure that she did not like him. But Annie was
very grateful to her aunt for quietly shielding her
from caresses that every hour grew more unendurable.
Gregory was detained somewhat in Liverpool,
and on his return to the city where he had left Annie
and Miss Eulie, he met Mr. Kemp, whom he
had known well in New York, also seeking them.
This gentleman greeted him most warmly, for he
had read good accounts of Gregory's behavior in
the papers. In a few moments they entered the
hotel together. Fortunately, as Gregory thought,
but most unfortunately, as he learned afterward,
Hunting was out at the time.
The warm color came into Annie's face as he
greeted her, and she seemed so honestly and eagerly
glad to see him that his sore heart was comforted.
Mr. Kemp's manner toward his niece and sister
was affectionate in the extreme. Indeed, the good
old man seemed quite overcome by his feelings, and
Gregory was about to retire, but he said:
“No, please stay, sir. Forgive my weakness, if
it is such. You don't know how dear these people
are to me, and when I think of all they have passed
through, I can hardly control myself.”
“We would not be here, Uncle,” said Annie, in
a low, thrilling voice, “had it not been for Mr.
Gregory.”
Then the old gentleman came and gave Gregory's
hand such a grasp that it ached for hours after.
his conduct in the papers, but I did not know
that we were all under such deep personal obligations.
Come, Annie, you must tell me all about
it.”
“Not now, please,” said Gregory, “I start in a
few moments for Paris, and must even now say
good-bye, for a little time. I warn you, Mr. Kemp,
that Miss Walton will exaggerate my services. She
has a way of over-valuing what is done for her, and
under-valuing what she does for others.”
“Well,” said Mr. Kemp, with a significant nod,
“that's a trait that runs in the Walton blood.”
“I long ago came to regard their blood as of the
truest blue,” said Gregory, laughing.
“Must you leave us again, so soon?” said Annie,
with a slight tremble in her voice.
“Yes, Miss Walton, even now I should be on the
way to the train. But you are surrounded by those
who can best take care of you. Still I earnestly
hope that, before many days, I shall see you in
Paris, and in greatly improved health. So I won't
say good-bye, but only good-morning.”
Ah, he did not know, or he would have said
“farewell” with a heavy heart.
His parting from her was most friendly, and the
pressure of his hand warm and strong, but Annie felt,
with a deep, unsatisfied pain at heart, that it was
all too formal. Mr. Kemp was exceedingly demonstrative,
and said:
“Wait till I see you in Paris, and I will overwhelm
partner, my dear old friend, Mr. Burnett.”
But staid, quiet Miss Eulie surprised them all.
She just put her arms about his neck, and gave him
a hearty kiss, saying,
“Take that, Mr. Gregory, from one who loves
you like a mother.”
He returned the caress most tenderly, and
hastened away to hide his moistened eyes.
Then envious Annie bitterly reproached herself
that she had been so cold, and to make amends,
commenced giving a glowing account of all that
Gregory had done for them.
The old gentleman listened with an amused
twinkle in his eyes, secretly exulting over the
thought, “It is not going to break her heart to part
with Hunting.”
In the midst of her graphic story that unfortunate
man entered, and her words died upon her
lips. She rose quietly, and said,
“Charles, this is my uncle, Mr. Kemp.”
But she was amazed to see Mr. Kemp, who thus
far had seemed geniality itself, acknowledge her
affianced with freezing coldness, and Hunting turned
deathly pale with a presentiment of disaster.
“Be seated, sir,” said Mr. Kemp, stiffly, “I wish
to make a brief explanation, and after that will
relieve you of the care of these ladies.”
Hunting sank in a chair, and Annie saw something
of the same terror on his face which had sickened
her on the sinking ship.
“Annie,” said her uncle very gravely, “have
you entire confidence in me? Your father had.”
“Certainly,” said Annie, wondering beyond
measure at this most unaccountable scene.
“Will you take my word for it, that this man,
who seems most conscious of his guilt, deceived—
yes, lied to Burnett & Co., and swindled them out
of so large a sum of money that the firm would
have failed but for me? Because, if you cannot take
my word, I can give you absolute proof.”
Annie buried her face in her hands and said:
“Now I understand all this wretched mystery.
How I have wronged Mr. Gregory!”
“You could not do other than wrong him while
Mr. Hunting had any influence over you. I know
Mr. Gregory well. He is an honorable business
man, and always was, with all his faults. And now,
sir, for your satisfaction, let me inform you that Mr.
Burnett is one of my most intimate friends. He
told me all about it, and gave ample proof of the
nature of the entire transaction. I am connected
with the bank with which the firm deposited, and
through my influence I secured them such accommodation
as tided them over the critical time in
their affairs which your villainy had occasioned.”
Hunting now recovered himself sufficiently to
say, “I did nothing different from what often occurs
in business. I had a legal right to every cent
that I collected from Burnett & Co.”
“But how about moral right? Do we not all
know that often the most barefaced robberies take
your act. Even the hardened gamblers of the
street were disgusted.”
“You have no right to speak to me in this way,
sir,” said Hunting, trying to work up a little indignation.
“Mr. Walton trusted me, and I became
engaged to Miss Walton under circumstances the
most solemn and sacred; we are the same as married.”
“Come, sir,” interrupted Mr. Kemp, hotly,
“don't make me lose my temper. John Walton
was the soul of Christian honor. He would have
buried his daughter rather than have her marry
you, if he had known you as I do. I now insist
that you resign your executorship and relieve us of
your presence.”
“Annie,” cried Hunting, in a voice of anguish,
“can you sit quietly by and hear me so insulted?”
She sat with her face, burning with shame,
buried in her hands. With her intense Walton hatred
of deceit, the thought that she had come so near
marrying a swindler and liar, scorched her very soul.
He came to her side and tried to take her hand,
but she shrank from him in loathing, and, springing
up, said passionately, “When I think, sir, that with
this guilty secret you would have tricked me into
marriage at my father's death-bed, I am perfectly
appalled at your wickedness. God in mercy then
snatched me from a fate worse than death. Were
it not for the restraint of Christian principle I would
feel that I could annihilate you.”
She turned away for a moment and pressed her
hands upon her throbbing heart. Then turning her
dark and flashing eyes to where he stood, pale,
speechless, and trembling, she said more calmly,
“May God forgive you; I will when I can, and will
pray that in mercy He will keep you from sinking
into a deeper and darker gulf than yawned beneath
you on the sinking ship. Go.”
She proved what is often true, that the gentle,
when desperately wronged, are the most terrible.
He slunk cowering away without a word, and to
avoid exposure, Mr. Kemp at once compelled him
to sign papers that took from him all further power
of mischief. Mr. Kemp eventually became executor
in his stead.
As soon as Annie grew calmer she had a glad
sense of escape greater than that which followed
her rescue from the wrecked ship. Before, her
heart had been crying out with the Apostle, “Who
shall deliver me from this body of death?” Now
it sprang up within her bosom and sang for joy.
Then again she would shudder deeply at what she
had so narrowly avoided. Stronger than her gratitude
for life twice saved, was her feeling of obligation
to Gregory for his persistent effort to shield
her from this marriage. She was eager to start for
Paris at once that she might ask forgiveness for all
her injustice toward him. But in the excess of her
feelings she was far more unjust toward herself, as
he would have told her.
Still, had not Hunting's dishonesty been revealed
As soon as she would gain her mental strength and
poise—as soon as she realized that her love was
hopelessly gone from him, her true, strong nature
would revolt from the marriage as from a crime,
and she would have told him, in deepest pity, but
with rock-like firmness, that it could not be.
The next day she greatly relented toward him
and, in her deep pity, sent a kind farewell message
which it would be well for him to heed.
| CHAPTER XXXIV.
UNMASKED. Opening a chestnut burr | |