MISS WALTON MADE OF DIFFERENT CLAY FROM OTHERS
Simple remedies and prolonged rest were sufficient to restore Annie
after the serious shock and strain she had sustained. She rose even
earlier than usual, and hastily dressed that she might resume her
wonted place as mistress of her father's household. In view of her
recent peril and the remediless loss he might have suffered, she was
doubly grateful for the privilege of ministering to his wants and
filling his declining years with cheer and comfort.
She had not been awake long before Gregory's irregular steps in the
adjoining room aroused her attention and caused anxious surmises. But
she was inclined to think that his restlessness resulted from mental
distress rather than physical. Still she did not pity him less, but
rather more. Though so young, she knew that the "wounded spirit" often
inflicts the keener agony. Her strong womanly nature was deeply moved
in his behalf. As we have seen, it was her disposition to be helpful
and sustaining, rather than clinging and dependent. She had a heart "at
leisure from itself, to soothe and sympathize." From the depths of her
soul she pitied Gregory and wished to help him out of a state which the
psalmist with quaint force describes as "a horrible pit and the miry
clay."
She was a very practical reformer, and determined that a dainty
breakfast should minister to the outer man before she sought to apply a
subtler balm to the inner. Trusting not even to Zibbie's established
skill, she prepared with her own hands some inviting delicacies, and
soon that which might have tempted the most exacting of epicures was
ready.
Mr. Walton shared the delight of the children at seeing Annie bustling
round again as the good genius of their home, and Miss Eulie's little
sighs of content were as frequent as the ripples on the shore. Miss
Eulie could sigh and wipe a tear from the corner of her eye in the most
cheerful and hope-inspiring way, for somehow her face shone with an
inward radiance, and, even in the midst of sorrow and when wet with
tears, reminded one of a lantern on a stormy night, which, covered with
rain-drops, still gives light and comfort.
Breakfast was ready, but Gregory did not appear. Hannah, the waitress,
was sent to his room, and in response to her quiet knock he said,
sharply, "Well?"
"Breakfast is waiting."
"I do not wish any," was the answer, in a tone that seemed resentful,
but was only an expression of the intolerable pain he was suffering.
Hannah came down with a scared look and said she "guessed something was
amiss with Mr. Gregory."
Annie looked significantly at her father, who immediately ascended to
his guest's door.
"Mr. Gregory, may I come in?" he asked.
"Do not trouble yourself. I shall be better soon," was the response.
The door was unlocked, and Mr. Walton entered, and saw at once that a
gentle but strong will must control the sufferer for his own good.
Mental and nervous excitement had driven him close to the line where
reason and his own will wavered in their decisions, and his irregular,
tottering steps became the type of the whole man. His eyes were wild
and bloodshot. A ghastly pallor gave his haggard face the look of
death. A damp dullness pervaded the heavy air of the room, which in his
unrest he had greatly disordered. The fire had died out, and he had not
even tried to kindle it again. His broodings had been so deep and
painful during the earlier part of the night that he had been oblivious
of his surroundings, and then physical anguish became so sharp that all
small elements of discomfort were unnoted.
With fatherly solicitude Mr. Waiton stepped up to his guest, who stood
staring at him as if he were an intruder, and taking his cold hand,
said, "Mr. Gregory, you must come with me."
"Where?"
"To the sitting-room, where we can take care of you and relieve you.
Come, I'm your physician for the time being, and doctors must be
obeyed."
Gregory had not undressed the night before, and, wrapped in his rich
dressing-gown and with dishevelled hair, he mechanically followed his
host to the room below and was placed on the lounge.
"Annie has prepared you a nice little breakfast. Won't you let me bring
it to you?" said Mr. Waiton, cheerily.
"No," said Gregory, abruptly, and pressing his hands upon his throbbing
temples, "the very thought of eating is horrible. Please leave me.
Indeed I cannot endure even your kindly presence."
Mr. Walton looked perplexed and scarcely knew what to do, but after a
moment said, "Really, Mr. Gregory, you are very ill. I think I had
better send for our physician at once."
"I insist that you do not," said his guest, starting up. "What could a
stupid country doctor do for me, with his owl-like examination of my
tongue and clammy fingering of my pulse, but drive me mad? I must be
alone."
"Father," said Annie, in a firm and quiet voice, "I will be both nurse
and physician to Mr. Gregory this morning. If I fail, you may send for
a doctor."
Unperceived she had entered, and from Gregory's manner and words
understood his condition.
"Miss Waiton," said Gregory, hastily, "I give you warning. I am not
even the poor weak self you have known before, and I beg you leave me
till this nervous headache passes off, if it ever does. I can't control
myself at such times, and this is the worst attack I ever had. I am low
enough in your esteem. Do not add to my pain by being present now at
the time of my greatest weakness."
"Mr. Gregory," she replied, "you may speak and act your worst, but you
shall not escape me this morning. It's woman's place to remove pain,
not fly from it. So you must submit with the best grace you can. If
after I have done all in my power you prefer the doctor and another
nurse, I will give way, but now you have no choice."
Gregory fell back on the sofa with a groan and a muttered oath. At a
sign from his daughter, Mr. Walton reluctantly and doubtfully passed
through the open door into the parlor, where he was joined by Miss
Eulie.
Annie quietly stepped to the hearth and stirred the fire to a cheerful
blaze. She then went to the parlor and brought the afghan, and without
so much as saying, "by your leave," spread it over his chilled form.
Gregory felt himself helpless, but there was something soothing in this
assertion of her strong will, and like a sick child he was better the
moment he ceased to chafe and struggle.
She left the room a few moments, and even between the surges of pain he
was curious as to what she would do next. He soon learned with a thrill
of hope that he was to experience the magnetism of her touch, and to
know the power of the hand that had seemed alive in his grasp on the
day of their chestnutting expedition. Annie returned with a quaint
little bottle of German cologne, and, taking a seat quietly by his
side, began bathing his aching temples.
"You treat me like a child," he said, petulantly.
"I hope for a while you will be content to act like one," she replied.
"I may, like a very bad one."
"No matter," she said, with a laugh that was the very antidote of
morbidness; "I am accustomed to manage children."
But in a very brief time he had no disposition to shrink from her touch
or presence. Her hand upon his brow seemed to communicate her own
strong, restful life; his temples throbbed less and less violently.
Silent and wondering he lay very still, conscious that by some subtle
power she was exorcising the demons of pain. His hurried breathing
became regular; his hands unclinched; his form, which had been tense
and rigid, relaxed into a position of comfort. He felt that he was
under some beneficent spell, and for an hour scarcely moved lest he
should break it and his torment return. Annie was equally silent, but
with a smile saw the effects of her ministry. At last she looked into
his face, and said, with an arch smile, "Shall I send for Doctor
Bludgeon and Sairy Gamp to take my place?"
He was very weak and unstrung, and while a tremulous smile hovered
about his mouth, his eyes so moistened that he turned toward the wall.
After a moment he said, "Miss Walton, I am not worthy of your kindness."
"Nor are you unworthy. But kindness is not a matter of business--so
much for so much."
"Why do you waste your time on me?"
"That is a childish question. What a monster I should be if I
heedlessly left you to suffer! The farmers' wives around would mob me."
"I am very grateful for the relief you are giving me, even though mere
humanity is the motive."
"Mere humanity is not my motive. You are our guest, the son of my
father's dearest friend, and for your own sake I am deeply interested
in you."
"Miss Walton, I know in the depths of your soul you are disgusted with
me. You seek to apply those words to my spirit as you do cologne to my
head."
"I beg your pardon. It is not the cologne only that relieves your
headache."
"I know that well. It is your touch, which seems magical."
"Well then, you should know from my touch that I am not sitting here
telling fibs. If I should bathe your head with a wooden hand, wouldn't
you know it?"
"What an odd simile! I cannot understand you." "It is not necessary
that you should, but do not wrong me by doubting me again."
"I have done nothing but wrong you, Miss Walton."
"I'm not conscious of it, so you needn't worry, and I assure you I find
it a pleasure to do you good."
"Miss Walton, you are the essence of goodness."
"Oh, no, no; why say of a creature what is only true of God? Mr.
Gregory, you are very extravagant in your language."
A scowl darkened his face, and he said, moodily, "God seems to me the
essence of cruelty."
"'Seems, seems!' An hour since I seemed a torment, and you were driving
me away."
"Yes, but you soon proved yourself a kind, helpful, pitiful friend. I
once thought my cheek would flame with anger even if I were dying,
should I be regarded as an object of pity. But you, better than any
one, know that I am one."
"I, better than any one, know that you are not, in the sense you mean."
"Come, Miss Walton, you cannot be sincere now. Do you think I can ever
forget the miserable scene of Monday evening, when you placed yourself
beside the martyrs and I sank down among the cowards of any age? I
reached the bottom of the only perdition I believe in. I have lost my
self-respect."
"Which I trust God will help you regain by showing you the only sure
and safe ground on which self-respect can be maintained. Much that is
called self-respect is nothing but pride. But, Mr. Gregory, injustice
to one's self is as wrong as injustice to another. Answer me honestly
this question. Did you act that evening only from fear--because you
have it not in you to face danger? or did you promise secrecy because
you felt the man's crime was none of your business, and supposed I
would take the same view?"
Gregory started up and looked at her with a face all aglow with honest,
grateful feeling, and said, "God knows the latter is the truth."
"And I know it too. I knew it then."
"But the world could never be made to see it in that light."
"Now pride speaks. Self-respect does not depend upon the opinion of the
world. The world has nothing to do with the matter. You certainly do
not expect I am going to misrepresent you before it."
He bent a look upon her such as she had never sustained before. It was
the look of a man who had discovered something divine and precious
beyond words. It was a feeling such as might thrill one who was
struggling in darkness, and, as he supposed, sinking in the deep sea,
but whose feet touched something which seemed to sustain him. The
thought, "I can trust her--she is true," came to him at that time with
such a blessed power to inspire hope and give relief that for a moment
he could not speak. Then he began, "Miss Walton, I cannot find words--"
"Do not find them," she interrupted, laughingly. "See, your temples are
beginning to throb again, and I am a sorry nurse, a true disciple of
Mrs. Gamp, to let you excite yourself. Lie down, sir, at once, and let
your thoughts dwell the next half-hour on your breakfast. You have much
reason for regret that the dainty little tidbits that I first prepared
are spoiled by this time. I doubt whether I can do so well again."
"I do not wish any breakfast. Please do not leave me yet."
"It makes no difference what you wish. The idea of an orthodox
physician consulting the wishes of his patient! My practical skill sees
your need of breakfast."
"Have you had any yourself?" he asked, again starting up, and looking
searchingly at her.
"Well, I have had a cup of coffee," she replied, coloring a little.
"What a brute I am!" he groaned.
"In that charge upon yourself you strongly assert the possession of an
animal nature, and therefore of course the need of a breakfast."
"May I be choked by the first mouthful if I touch anything before I
know you have had your own."
"What an awful abjuration! How can you swear so before a lady, Mr.
Gregory?"
"No, it is a solemn vow."
"Then I must take my breakfast with you, for with your disposition to
doubt I don't see how you can 'know' anything about it otherwise."
"That is better than I hoped. I will eat anything you bring on those
conditions, if it does choke me--and I know it will."
"A fine compliment to my cooking," she retorted and laughingly left the
room.
Gregory could not believe himself the haggard wretch that Mr. Walton
had found two hours since. Then he was ready to welcome death as a
deliverer. Insane man! As if death ever delivered any from evil but the
good! But so potent had been the sweet wine of Annie's ministry that
his chilled and benumbed heart was beginning to glow with a faint
warmth of hope and comfort. Morbidness could no more exist in her
presence than shadows on the sunny side of trees. With her full
knowledge of the immediate cause of his suffering, and with her unusual
tact, she had applied balm to body and spirit at the same time. The
sharp, cutting agony in his head had been charmed away. The paroxysm
had passed, and the dull ache that remained seemed nothing in
comparison--merely the heavy swell of the departed storm.
He forgot himself, the source of all his trouble, in thinking about
Miss Walton. The plain girl, as he had at first regarded her, with a
weak, untried character that he had expected to topple over by the
breath of a little flattery, now seemed divinely beautiful and strong.
She reminded him of the graceful, symmetrical elm, which, though
bending to the tempest, is rarely broken or uprooted.
He hardly hoped that she would give him credit for the real state of
his mind which had led to his ready promise of secrecy. To the
counterfeiter's wretched companion he had seemed the weakest and
meanest of cowards, and if the story were generally known he would
appear in the same light to the world. To his intensely proud nature
this would be intolerable. And why should it not be known? If Miss
Walton chose to regard his choice as one of cowardice, how could he
prove, even to her, that it was not?
Moreover, his low estimate of human nature led him to believe that even
Annie would use him as a dark background for her heroism; and he well
knew that when such a story is once started, society's strongest
tendency is to exaggerate man's pusillanimity and woman's courage. He
shuddered as he saw himself growing blacker and meaner in every
fireside and street corner narration of the strange tale, till at last
his infamy should pass into one of the traditions of the place. A man
like Gregory could not long have endured such a prospect. He would have
died, either by every physical power speedily giving way under mental
anguish, or by his own hand; or, if he had lived, reason would have
dropped its sceptre and become the sport of wild thoughts and fancies.
Little wonder that Annie appeared an angel of light when she stood
between him and such a future. The ugliest hag would have been
glorified and loved in the same position. But when she did this with
her own peculiar grace and tact, as a matter of justice, his gratitude
and admiration knew no bounds. He was in a fair way to become an
idolater and worship the country girl he had once sneered at, as no
pictured Madonna was ever revered even in superstitious Italy. Besides
placing him under personal obligation, she had, by tests certain and
terrible, proved herself true and strong in a world that he believed to
be, in the main, utterly false at heart. It is one of our most natural
instincts to trust and lean upon something, and Annie Walton seemed one
whose friendship he could value above life.
He did not even then realize, in his glad sense of relief, that in
escaping the charge of cowardice he fell upon the other horn of the
dilemma, namely, lack of principle--that the best explanation of his
conduct admitted that he was indifferent to right and wrong, and even
to the most serious crime against society, so long as he was not
personally and immediately injured. He had acted on the selfish creed
that a man is a fool who puts himself to serious trouble to serve the
public. The fact that he did not even dream that Annie would make the
noble stand she did proves how far selfishness can take a man out of
his true course when he throws overboard compass and chart and lets
himself drift.
But in the world's code (which was his) cowardice is the one deadly
sin. His lack of anything like Christian principle was a familiar fact
to him, and did not hurt him among those with whom he associated.
Even Annie, woman-like, could more readily forgive all his faults than
a display of that weakness which is most despised in a man. But she too
was sufficiently familiar with the world not to be repelled or shocked
by a life which, compared with all true, noble standards, was sadly
lacking. And yet she was the very last one to be dazzled by a fast,
brilliant man of the world. She had been too well educated for that,
and had been early taught to distinguish between solid worth and mere
tinsel. Her native powers of observation were strong, and her father,
and mother also before she died, had given her opportunities for
exercising them. Instead of mere assertions as to what was right and
wrong and general lecturing on the subject, they had aimed to show her
right and wrong embodied in human lives. They made her feel that God
wanted her to do right for the same reason that they did, because He
loved her. First in Bible narrative told in bedtime stories, then in
history and biography, and finally in the experience of those around
them, she had been shown the happy contrast of good, God-pleasing life
with that which is selfish and wicked. So thorough and practical had
been the teaching in this respect, and so impressed was she by the
lesson, that she would as soon have planted in her flower-bed the seeds
of tender annuals on the eve of autumn frosts, and expected bloom in
chill December, as to enter upon a course that God frowns upon, and
look for happiness. Her father often said, "A human being opposing
God's will is like a ship beating against wind and tide to certain
wreck."
An evil life appeared therefore to her a moral madness, under the
malign influence of which people were like the mentally deranged who
with strange perversity hate their best friends and cunningly watch for
chances of self-destruction. While on one hand she shrunk from them
with something of the repulsion which many feel toward the unsound in
mind, on the other she cherished the deepest pity for them. Knowing how
full a remedy ever exists in Him whose word and touch removed
humanity's most desperate ills, it was her constant wish and effort to
lead as many as possible to this Divine Friend. If she had been like
many sincere but selfish religionists, she would have said of Gregory,
"He is not congenial. We have nothing in common," and, wrapped in her
own spiritual pleasures and pursuits, would have shunned, ignored, and
forgotten him. But she chiefly saw his pressing need of help, and said
to herself, "If I would be like my Master, I must help him."
Gregory at first had looked upon himself as immeasurably superior to
the plain country girl. He little imagined that she at the same time
had a profound pity for him, and that this fact would become his best
chance for life. She had not forgotten the merciful conspiracy entered
into the second evening after his arrival, but was earnestly seeking to
carry out its purposes. In order to do this, she was anxious to gain
his good-will and confidence, and now saw with gratitude that their
adventure on the mountain, that had threatened to end in death, might
be the beginning of a new and happy life. She exulted over the hold she
had gained upon him, not as the selfish gloat over one within their
power, whom they can use for personal ends--not as the coquette smiles
when another human victim is laid upon the altar of her vanity, but as
the angels of heaven rejoice when there is even a chance of one
sinner's repentance.
And yet Annie had no intention of "talking religion" to him in any
formal way, save as the subject came up naturally; but she hoped to
live it, and suggest it to him in such an attractive form that he would
desire it for his own sake.
But her chief hope was in the fact that she prayed for him; and she no
more expected to be unheard and unanswered than that her kind father
would listen with a stony face to some earnest request of hers.
But Annie was not one to go solemnly to work to compass an event that
would cause joy in heaven. She would ask one to be a Christian as she
would invite a captive to leave his dungeon, or tell the sick how to be
well. She saw that morbid gloom had become almost a disease with
Gregory, and she proposed to cure him with sunshine.
And sunshine embodied she seemed to him as she returned, her face
glowing with exercise and close acquaintance with the kitchen-range. In
each hand she carried a dish, while Hannah followed with a tray on
which smoked the most appetizing of breakfasts.
"Your rash vow," she said, "has caused you long waiting. I'm none of
your ethereal heroines, but have a craving for solids served in
quantity and variety. And while I could have soon got your breakfast it
was no bagatelle to get mine."
How fresh and bright she looked saying all this! and he ejaculated,
"Deliver me from the ghastly creatures you call 'ethereal heroines.'"
"Indeed, sir," she retorted, "if you can't deliver yourself from them
you shall have no help from me. But let us at once enter upon the
solemnities, and as you have a spark of gallantry, see to it that you
pay my cookery proper compliment."
"Your 'cookery,' forsooth!" said he, with something of her own light
tone. "That I should find Miss Walton stealing Zibbie's laurels!"
"Chuckle when you find her doing it. Hannah, who prepared this
breakfast?"
"Yourself, miss," answered the woman, with an admiring grin.
"That will do, Hannah; we will wait upon ourselves. Shame on you, sir!
You are no connoisseur, since you cannot tell a lady's work from a
kitchen-maid's. Moreover, you have shown that wretched doubting
disposition again."
Now that they were alone, Gregory said, earnestly, "I shall never doubt
you again."
"I hope you never will doubt that I wish to do you good, Mr. Gregory,"
she replied, passing him a cup of tea.
"You have done me more good in a few brief hours than I ever hoped to
receive. Miss Walton, how can I repay you?"
"By being a better friend to yourself. Commence by eating this."
He did not find it very difficult to comply. After a little time he
said, "But my conscience condemns me for caring too much for myself."
"And no doubt your conscience is right. The idea of being a friend to
yourself and going against your conscience!"
"Then I have ever been my own worst enemy."
"I can believe that, and so you'll continue to be if you don't take
another piece of toast."
"And yet there has always seemed a fatal necessity for me to do wrong
and go wrong. Miss Walton, you are made of different clay from me and
most people that I know. It is your nature to be good and noble."
"Nonsense!" said Annie, with a positive frown. "Different clay indeed!
I imagine you do wrong for the same reason that I do, because you wish
to; and you fail in doing right because you have nothing but your weak
human will to keep you up."
"And what keeps you up, pray?"
"Can you even suppose that I or any one can be a Christian without
Christ?"
He gave one of his incredulous shrugs.
"Now what may that mean?" she asked.
"Pardon me if I say that I think yours is a pretty and harmless
superstition. This world is one of inexorable law and necessity down to
the minutest thing. A weed is always a weed. A rose is always a rose.
It's my misfortune to be a weed. It's your good fortune to be a rose."
Annie looked as if she might become a briery one at that moment, for
this direct style of compliment, though honest, was not agreeable.
Conscious of many struggles with evil, it was even painful, for it did
her injustice in two aspects of the case. So she said, dryly, "What an
automaton you make me out to be!"
"How so?" "If I merely do right as the rose grows, I deserve no credit.
I'm but little better than a machine."
"Not at all. I compared you to something that has a beautiful life of
its own. But I would willingly be a machine, and a very angular,
uncouth one too, if some outside power would only work me right and to
some purpose."
"Such talk seems to me idle, Mr. Gregory. I know that I have to try
very hard to do right, and I often fail. I do not believe that our very
existence begins in a lie, as it were, for from earliest years
conscience tells us that we needn't do wrong and ought not to. Honestly
now, isn't this true of your conscience?"
"But my reason concludes otherwise, and reason is above
conscience--above everything, and one must abide by its decisions."
For a moment Annie did not know how to answer. She was not versed in
theology and metaphysics, but she knew he was wrong. Therefore she
covered her confusion by quietly pouring him out another cup of tea,
and then said, "Even my slight knowledge of the past has taught me how
many absurd and monstrous things can be done and said in the name of
reason. Religion is a matter of revelation and experience. But it is
not contrary to reason, certainly not to mine. If your reason should
conclude that this tea is not hot, what difference would that make to
me? My religion is a matter of fact, of vivid consciousness."
"Of course it is. It's your life, your nature, just as in my nature
there is nothing akin to it. That is why I say you are made of
different clay from myself; and I am very glad of it," he added with an
air of pleasantry which she saw veiled genuine earnestness, "for I wish
you the best of everything now and always."
Annie felt that she could not argue him out of his folly; and while she
was annoyed, she could not be angry with him for expressions that were
not meant as flattery, but were rather the strong language of his
gratitude. "Time will cure him of his delusions," she thought, and she
said, lightly, "Mr. Gregory, from certain knowledge of myself which you
cannot have I disclaim all your absurd ideas in regard to the
new-fangled clay of my composition. I know very well that I am ordinary
flesh and blood, a fact that you will soon find out for yourself. As
your physician, I pronounce that such wild fancies and extravagant
language prove that you are out of your head, and that you need
quieting sleep. I am going to read you the dullest book in the library
as a sedative."
"No, please, sing rather."
"What! after such a breakfast! Do you suppose that I would ruin the
reputation of my voice in one fell moment? Now what kind of clay led to
this remark? Do as your doctor says. Recline on the lounge. Close your
eyes. Here is a treatise on the Nebular Hypothesis that looks
unintelligible enough for our purpose."
"Nebular Hypothesis! Another heavenly experience such as you are ever
giving me."
"Come, Mr. Gregory, punning is a very bad symptom. You must go to sleep
at once." And soon her mellow voice was finding its way into a
labyrinth of hard scientific terms, as a mountain brook might murmur
among the stones. After a little time she asked of Gregory, whose eyes
remained wide open, "How does it sound?"
"Like the multiplication table set to music."
"Why don't you go to sleep?"
"I'm trying to solve a little nebular hypothesis of my own. I was
computing how many million belles such as I know, and how many ages,
would be required to condense them into a woman like yourself."
Annie shut the book with a slam, and with an abrupt, half-vexed
"good-by," left the room. For a brief time Gregory lay repenting of his
disastrous levity, and then slept.