MISS WALTON MADE OF ORDINARY CLAY
When Gregory awoke, the sun had sunk behind the mountains that he could
not even look toward now without a shudder, and the landscape, as seen
from the window, was growing obscure in the early dusk of an autumn
evening. But had the window opened on a vista in Paradise he would not
have looked without, for the one object of all the world most
attractive to him was present. Annie sat near the hearth with some
light crochet-work in her hands. She had evidently been out for a walk,
for she was drying her feet on the fender. How trim and cunning they
looked, peeping from under the white edge of her skirt, and what a
pretty picture she made sitting there in the firelight! The outline of
her figure surely did not suggest the "ethereal heroine," but rather
the presiding genius in a happy home, in which the element of comfort
abounded. She looked as if she would be a sweet-tempered, helpful
companion, in the every-day cares and duties of a busy life:
"A creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food."
"How dark and lustrous her eyes are in the firelight!" Gregory thought.
"It seems as if another and more genial fire were burning in them. What
can she be thinking of, that such happy, dreamy smiles are flitting
across her face? If I had such a hearth as that, and such a good angel
beside it to receive me after the day's work was over, I believe I
could become at least a man, if not a Christian;" and he sighed so
deeply that Annie looked hastily up, and encountered his wistful gaze.
"What a profound remark you just made!" she said. "What could have led
to it?"
"You."
"I do not think that I am an object to sigh over. I'm perfectly well, I
thank you, and have had my dinner."
"You have no idea what a pretty picture you made."
"Yes, in this poor light, and your disordered imagination. But did you
sigh on that account?"
"No, but because to me it is only a picture--one that shall have the
chief place in the gallery of my memory. In a few days I shall be in my
cheerless bachelor apartments, with nothing but a dusty register in the
place of this home-like hearth."
"Come, Mr. Gregory, you are growing sentimental. I will go and see if
supper is ready."
"Please stay, and I will talk of the multiplication table."
"No, that led to the 'Nebular Hypothesis.' You had better prepare for
supper;" and she vanished.
"It's my fate," he said, rising, "to drive away every good and pleasant
thing."
He went to the fire and stood where she had sat, and again thought was
busy.
"She seems so real and substantial, and yet so intangible! Her
defensive armor is perfect, and I cannot get near or touch her unless
she permits it. The sincerest compliment glances off. Out of her
kindness she helps me and does me good. She bewitches and sways me by
her spells, but I might as well seek to imprison a spirit of the air as
to gain any hold upon her. I wonder whom or what she was thinking of,
that such dreamy, tender smiles should flit across her face."
How his face would have darkened with wrath and hate, if he had known
that his detestation, Hunting, had inspired them!
The tea-bell reminded him how time was passing, and he went to his room
with an elastic step that one would suppose impossible after seeing him
in the morning. But, as is usual with nervous organizations, he sank or
rallied rapidly in accordance with circumstances. When he appeared at
the table, Mr. Walton could hardly believe his eyes.
"It is again the result of Miss Walton's witchcraft," explained
Gregory. "The moment I felt her hand upon my brow, there came a sense
of relief. In Italy they would make a saint of her, and bring out the
sick for her to touch."
"And so soon lose their saint by some contagious disease," said Annie,
laughing.
"I fear, sir, I was very rude to you this morning, but in truth I was
beside myself with pain."
"Annie has a wonderful power of magnetism; I don't know what else to
call it," said Miss Eulie. "She can drive away one of my headaches
quicker than all other remedies combined."
"You are making out," said Annie, "that my proper calling is that of a
nurse. If you don't change the subject, I'll leave you all to take care
of yourselves, and go down to Bellevue."
"If you do," laughed Gregory, "I'll break every bone in my body, and be
carried into your ward as a homeless stranger."
The supper-hour passed away in light and cheerful conversation. As if
by common consent, the scenes on the mountain were not mentioned in the
presence of the children, and they evidently had had their curiosity
satisfied on the subject.
Annie seemed tired and languid after supper and Miss Eulie volunteered
to see the children safely to their rest. Mr. Walton insisted that
Annie should take his easy-chair, and Gregory placed a footstool at her
feet, and together they "made a baby of her," she said. The old
gentleman then took his seat, and seemed to find unbounded content in
gazing on his beloved daughter. Their guest appeared restless and began
to pace the room. Suddenly he asked Mr. Walton, "Have you heard
anything of the fugitives?"
"Not a word beyond the fact that they bought tickets for New York and
took the train. I have telegraphed to the City Police Department, and
forwarded the description of their persons which Annie gave me. Their
dwelling has been examined by a competent person, but evidently he is
an old and experienced criminal and knows how to cover up his tracks. I
think it extremely providential that they did nothing worse than send
you over on the other side of the mountain in order to clear a way for
escape. Such desperate people often believe only in the silence of
death. They might have caused that dog to tear you to pieces and have
appeared blameless themselves. If caught, only your testimony could
convict them, though I suspect Mrs. Tompkins and her son. Young
Tompkins brought them with their luggage to the depot. He says the man
called 'Vight' met him returning from the delivery of a load of wood,
and engaged his services. As he often does teaming for people in those
back districts his story is plausible; and he swears he knew nothing
against the man. But he is a bad drinking fellow, and just the one to
become an accomplice in any rascality. I fear they will all escape us,
and yet I am profoundly grateful that matters are no worse."
While Mr. Walton was talking, Gregory was looking intently at Annie.
She was conscious of his scrutiny, and her color rose under it, but she
continued to gaze steadily at the fire.
"And I am going to increase that gratitude a hundred-fold, sir," he
said, earnestly.
Annie looked up at him with a startled, deprecatory air. "No, Miss
Walton," he said, answering her look, "I will not be silent. While it
is due to your generosity that the world does not hear of your heroism
as the story would naturally be told, it is your father's right that he
should hear it, and know the priceless jewel that he has in his
daughter. I know that appearances will be against me. If you can take
her view of the matter, sir, I shall be glad, otherwise I cannot help
it;" and he related the events as they had actually occurred, softening
or palliating his course in not the slightest degree.
Mr. Walton turned ashen pale as he thus for the first time learned the
desperate nature of his daughter's peril. Then rising with a sudden
impulse of pride and affection he clasped her in his arms.
Gregory was about to leave the room, when Mr. Walton's voice detained
him.
"Do not go, sir. You will pardon a father's weakness."
"Father, I give you my word and honor," cried Annie, eagerly, "that Mr.
Gregory did not act the part of a coward. He scarcely does himself
justice in his story. He did not realize the principle involved, and
saw in the promise he gave the readiest way out of an awkward and
dangerous predicament. He did not think the man's crime was any of our
business--"
"There is no need of pleading Mr. Gregory's cause so earnestly, my
dear," interrupted her father. "I think I understand his course fully,
and share your view of it. I am too well accustomed to the taking of
evidence not to detect the ring of truth."
"I cannot tell you, sir, what a relief it is to me that you and Miss
Walton can judge thus correctly of my action. This morning and
yesterday I believed that you and all the world would regard me as the
meanest of cowards, and the bitterness of death was in the thought."
"No, sir," said Mr. Walton, kindly but gravely; "your course did not
result from cowardice. But permit an old man and your father's friend
to say that it did result from the lack of high moral principle. Its
want in this case might have been fatal, for the world, as you feared,
would scarcely do you justice. Let it be a lesson to you, my dear young
friend, that only the course which is strictly right is safe, even as
far as this world is concerned."
Gregory's face flushed deeply, but he bowed his head in humility at the
rebuke.
"At the same time," continued Mr. Walton, "it was manly in you to state
the case frankly to me as you have done; for you knew that you might
shield yourself behind Annie's silence."
"It was simply your right to know it," said Gregory, in a low tone.
After a few moments of musing silence, Annie said, earnestly, "I do so
pity that poor woman!"
"I imagine she is little better than her companion," said Mr. Walton.
"Indeed she is, father," said Annie, eagerly. "I cannot tell you how I
feel for her, and I know from her manner and words that her guilty life
is a crushing burden. It must be a terrible thing to a woman capable of
good (as she is), and wishing to live a true life, to be irrevocably
bound to a man utterly bad."
"She is not so bound to him," said her father; "can she not leave him?"
"Ah! there comes in a mystery," she replied, and the subject dropped.
Soon after, they separated for the night.
But Gregory had much food for painful thought. After the experience of
that day his chief desire was to stand well in Miss Walton's esteem.
And yet how did he stand--how could he stand, being what he was? He was
not conscious of love for her as yet. He would have been satisfied if
she had said, "I will be your friend in the truest sense of the word."
He had no small vanity, and understood her kindness. She was trying to
do good to him as she would to any one else. She was sorry for him as
for the wretched woman who also found an evil life bitter, but she
could never think of him as a dear, congenial, trusted friend. Even her
father, in her presence, had rebuked his lack of principle, asserting
that his nature was like the vile weed; and this had been proved every
day of his visit. If she should come to know of his purpose and effort
to tempt her into the display of petty weakness and lack of principle
herself, would she not regard him as "utterly bad," and shrink with
loathing even from the bonds of friendship?
He was learning the lesson that wrong sooner or later will bring its
own punishment, and that the little experiment upon which he had
entered as a relief from ennui might become the impassable gulf between
him and happiness; for he knew that, if their relations ever verged
toward mutual confidence, she would ask questions that would render
lies his only escape. He could not sink to that resort. It was late
before he found in sleep refuge from painful thoughts.
The next day he was much alone. The news of their adventure having got
abroad, many because of their sincere regard for Annie, and not a few
out of curiosity, called to talk the matter over. After meeting one or
two of these parties, and witnessing the modesty and grace with which
Annie satisfied and foiled their curiosity at the same time, he was
glad to escape further company in a long and solitary ramble. The air
was mild, so that he could take rest in sunny nooks, and thus he spent
most of the day by himself. His conscience was awakened, and the more
pure and beautiful Annie's character grew in his estimation, the more
dastardly his attempt upon it seemed. Never before had his evil life
appeared so hideous and hateful.
And yet his remorse had nothing in it of true penitence. It was rather
a bitter, impotent revolt at what he regarded as cruel necessity. Now
that he had been forced to abandon his theory that people are good as
they are untempted, he adopted another, which, if it left him in a
miserable predicament, exonerated him from blame. He had stated it to
Annie when he said, "You are made of different clay from other people."
He tried hard to believe this, and partially succeeded. "It is her
nature to be good, and mine to be evil," he often said to himself that
long and lonely day. "I have had a fatal gravitation toward evil ever
since I can remember."
But this was not true. Indeed, it could be proved out of his own memory
that he had had as many good and noble impulses as the majority, and
that circumstances had not been more adverse to him than to numerous
others. He was dimly conscious of these facts, though he tried to shut
his eyes to them.
A man finally gets justice at the bar of his own conscience, but it is
extorted gradually, reluctantly, with much befogging of the case.
Still this theory would not help him much with Annie Walton, for he
knew that she would never entertain it a moment.
Thus he wandered for hours amid old scenes and boyish haunts, utterly
oblivious of them, brooding more and more darkly and despondingly over
his miserable lot. He tried to throw off the burden of depressing
thought by asking, in sudden fierceness, "Well, what is Annie Walton to
me? I have only known her a short time, and having lived thus long, can
live the rest of my days--probably few--without her."
But it was of no use. His heart would not echo the words, but in its
very depths a voice clear and distinct seemed to say, "I want to be
with her--to be near her. With her, the hours are winged; away, they
are leaden-footed. She awakens hope, she makes it appear possible to be
a man."
He remembered her hand upon his aching brow, and groaned aloud in view
of the gulf that his own life had placed between them.
"'Neither can they pass to us,'" he said, unconsciously repeating the
words of Scripture. "With her nature what I know it to be, she cannot
in any way ally it to mine."
As the shadows of evening deepened he sauntered wearily and
despondingly to the house. There were still guests in the parlor, and
he passed up to his room. For the first time he found it chilly and
fireless. It had evidently been forgotten, and he felt himself
neglected; and it seemed that he could drop out of existence unnoted
and uncared for. In what had been his own home, the place where for so
many years he had experienced the most thoughtful tenderness, there
came over him a sense of loneliness and desolation such as he had never
before known or believed possible. He felt himself orphaned of heaven
and earth, of God and man.
But a process had commenced in Annie's mind that would have surprised
him much. Unconsciously as yet even to herself, she was disproving his
"superior clay" theory. Though carefully trained, and though for years
she had prayerfully sought to do right, still she was a true daughter
of Eve, and was often betrayed by human weakness. She had not the
small, habitual vanity of some pretty women, who take admiration and
flattery as their due, and miss it as they do their meals. Still there
were pride and vanity in her composition, and the causes that would
naturally develop them were now actively at work. She considered
herself plain and unattractive personally, and so she was to the
careless glance of a stranger, but she speedily became beautiful, or,
what was better, fascinating, to those who learned to know her well.
All are apt to learn their strong points rather than their weak ones,
and Annie had no little confidence in her power to win the attention
and then the respect and regard of those whose eyes turned away
indifferently after the first perception of her lack of beauty. She did
not use this power like a coquette, but still she exulted in it, and
was pleased to employ it where she could innocently. She was amused by
Gregory's sublime indifference at first, and thought she could soon
change that condition of his mind. She did not know that she was
successful beyond her expectation or wishes.
But while she rejected and was not affected by the fulsome flattery
with which he at first plied her, detecting in it the ring of
insincerity, she had noted, with not a little self-gratulation, how
speedily she had made him conscious of her existence and developed a
growing interest. She knew nothing of his deliberate plot against her,
or of its motive. Therefore his manner had often puzzled her, but she
explained everything by saying, "He has lived too long in Paris."
Still it is justice to her to say that while, from the natural love of
power existing in every breast, she had her own little complacencies,
and often times of positive pride and self-glorification, yet she
struggled against such tendencies, and in the main she earnestly sought
to use for their own good the influence she gained over others.
But of late there had been enough to turn a stronger head than hers.
Gregory's homage and admiration were now sincere, and she knew it, and
it was no trifling thing to win such unbounded esteem from a man who
had seen so much of the world and was so critical. "He may be bad
himself, but he well knows what is good and noble," was a thought that
often recurred to her. Then, in a moment of sudden and terrible peril,
she had been able to master her strong natural timidity, and be true to
conscience, and while she thanked God sincerely, she also was more and
more inclined to take a great deal of credit to herself. Gregory's
words kept repeating themselves, "You are made of different clay from
others." While she knew that this was not true as he meant it, still
the tempter whispered, "You are naturally superior, and you have so
schooled yourself that you are better than many others." Her father's
intense look of pride and pleasure when he first learned of her
fortitude, and his strong words of thankfulness, she took as incense to
herself. Then came a flock of eager, curious, sympathizing people, who
continued to feed her aroused pride by making her out a sort of
heroine. Chief of all she was complacent in the consciousness of so
generously shielding Gregory when, if she had told the whole story,
she, in contrast with him, would appear to far greater advantage.
Altogether, her opinion of Annie Walton was rising with dangerous
rapidity; and the feeling grew strong within her that, having coped
successfully with such temptations, she had little to fear from the
future. And this feeling of overweening self-confidence and
self-satisfaction was beginning to tinge her manner. Not that she would
ever show it offensively, for she was too much of a lady for that. But
at the supper-table that evening she gave evident signs of elation and
excitement. She talked more than usual, and was often very positive in
matters where Gregory knew her to be wrong; and she was also a little
dictatorial. At the same time the excitement made her conversation more
brilliant and pointed, and as Gregory skilfully drew her out, he was
surprised at the force and freshness of her mind.
And yet there was something that jarred unpleasantly, a lack of the
sincere simplicity and self-forgetfulness which were her usual
characteristics. He had never known her to use the pronoun "I" with
such distinctness and emphasis before. Still all this would not have
seemed strange to him in another, but it did in her.
She did not notice the cloud upon his brow, or that he spoke only in
order to lead her to talk. She was too much preoccupied with herself
for her customary quick sympathy with the moods of others. She made no
inquiries as to how he had spent the day, and seemingly had forgotten
him as completely as he had been absorbed in her. He saw with a deeper
regret than he could understand that, except when he awakened her pity
by suffering, or entertained her by his conversation as any stranger
might, he apparently had no hold upon her thoughts.
After supper, in answer to the children's demand for stories, she said
almost petulantly that she was "too tired," and permitted Aunt Eulie to
take them with sorrowful faces away to bed earlier than usual.
"I need a little rest and quiet," she said.
Gregory was eager for further conversation in order that he might
obtain some idea how mercy would tinge her judgment of him if she
should ever come to know the worst, but she suddenly seemed disinclined
to talk, or give him any attention at all.
Taking the arm-chair he usually occupied, and leaving the other for her
father, she leaned back luxuriously and gazed dreamily into the fire.
Mr. Walton politely offered Gregory his. Then Annie, suddenly, as if
awakening, rose and said, "Excuse me," and was about to vacate her seat.
But Gregory insisted upon her keeping it, saying, "You need it more
than I, after the unusual fatigues of the day. I am no longer an
invalid. Even the ache in my bones from my cold has quite disappeared."
She readily yielded to his wish, and again appeared to see something in
the fire that quite absorbed her. After receiving a few courteous
monosyllables he apparently busied himself with a magazine.
Suddenly she said to her father, "Are you sure the steamer is due
to-day?"
He replied with a nod and a smile that Gregory did not understand, and
he imagined that she also gave him a quick look of vexed perplexity.
She did, for by that steamer she expected her lover, Mr. Hunting, who
had been abroad on a brief business visit, and she hoped that in a day
or two he would make his appearance. Conscious of the bitter enmity
that Gregory for some unknown reason cherished toward him, she dreaded
their meeting. As Gregory watched her furtively, her brow contracted
into a positive frown. The following thoughts were the cause: "It will
be exceedingly stiff and awkward to have two guests in the house who
are scarcely on speaking terms, and unless I can make something like
peace, it will be unendurable. Moreover, I don't want any strangers
around, much less this one, while Charles is here."
Thus in the secret of her soul Annie's hospitality gave out utterly,
and in spirit she had incontinently turned an unwelcome guest out of
doors. Now that she had really won a vantage-ground that could be used
effectively, all her Christian and kindly purposes were forgotten in
the self-absorption that had suddenly mastered her.
The evening was a painful one to Gregory. His sense of loneliness was
deepened, and nowhere is such a feeling stronger than at a fireside
where one feels that he has no right. Mr. Walton was occupied that
evening with some business papers. He had not a thought of discourtesy
toward his guest. Indeed, in the perfection of hospitality, he had
adopted Gregory so completely into his household that he felt that he
could treat him as one of the family. And yet Mr. Walton was also
secretly uneasy at the prospect of entertaining hostile guests, and,
with his knowledge of the world, was not sure that peace between them
could be made in an hour.
The disposition of those around us often creates an atmosphere, nothing
tangible but something felt; and the impression on Gregory's mind, that
he belonged not to this household, but to the outside world--that the
circle of their lives did not embrace him, and that his visit might
soon come to an end without much regret on their part--was not without
cause. And yet they would have consciously failed in no duty of
hospitality had he stayed for weeks.
But never before had Gregory so felt his isolation. He had but few
relatives, and they were not congenial. His life abroad, and neglect,
had made them comparative strangers. But here, in the home of his
childhood, the dearest spot of earth, were those who might become
equally loved with it. In a dim, obscure way the impression was growing
upon him that his best chance for life and happiness still centred in
the place where he had once known true life and happiness. Annie Walton
seemed to him the embodiment of life. She was governed and sustained by
a principle which he could not understand, and which from his soul he
was beginning to covet.
His good father and mother had been like old Mr. Walton. Their voyage
of life was nearly over as he remembered them, and they were entering
the quiet, placid waters of the harbor. Whether they had reached their
haven of rest through storm and temptation, he did not know, but felt
that they never could have had his unfortunate experience or been
threatened with utter wreck. They belonged to his happier yet vanished
past, which could never return.
But Annie unexpectedly awakened hope for the present and future. This
eager-eyed, joyous girl, looking forward with almost a child's delight
to the life he dreaded--this patient woman already taking up the cares
and burdens of her lot with cheerful acceptance--this strong,
high-principled maiden, facing and mastering temptation in the spirit
of the olden time--this daughter of nature was full of inspiration.
Never had he found her society a weariness. On the contrary she had
stirred his slow, feeble pulse, and revived his jaded mind, from the
first. Her pure, fresh thought and feeling had been like a breath from
an oasis to one perishing in the desert. But chiefly had her kindness,
delicacy, and generosity, when in his moral and physical weakness he
had been completely at her mercy, won his deepest gratitude. Also he
felt that in all his after life he could never even think of her touch
upon his aching temples without an answering thrill of his whole nature
that appeared to have an innate sympathy with hers.
And yet the exasperating mystery of it all! While she was becoming the
one source of life and hope for him, while his very soul cried out for
her friendship and sisterly regard (as he would then have said), she
seemed, in her preoccupation, unconscious of his existence, and he
instinctively felt that she would bid him "good-by" on the following
day, perhaps, with a sense of relief, and the current of her life flow
on as smoothly and brightly as if he had never caused a passing
agitation.
With gnawing remorse he inwardly cursed his evil life and unworthy
character, for these he believed formed the hopeless gulf that
separated them.
"It is the same," he said, in his exaggerating way, "as if a puddle
should mirror the star just above it, and, becoming enamored, should
wish it to fall and be quenched in its foul depths."
But he did himself great wrong; for in the fact that Annie so attracted
him he proved that he possessed large capabilities of good.
He could not bear to see her sitting there so quietly forgetful of him,
and so made several vain attempts during the evening to draw her into
conversation. Finding her disinclined to talk, he at last ventured to
ask her to sing. With something like coldness she replied, "Really, Mr.
Gregory, I am not in the mood for it this evening; besides, I am
greatly fatigued."
What a careless, indifferent shrug he usually gave when fair ladies
denied his requests! Now, for some unaccountable reason, he flushed
deeply and a sharp pain came into his heart. But he only said, "Pardon
me, Miss Walton, for not seeing this myself. But you know that I am
selfishness embodied, and your former good-nature leads me to presume."
Annie gave him a hurried smile, as she answered, "Another time I will
try to keep up my character better"; and then she was absorbed again in
a picture among the hickory coals.
Like many who live in the country and are much alone, she was given to
fits of abstraction and long reveries. She had no idea how the time was
passing, and meant to exert herself before the evening was over for the
benefit of her father and guest. But her lively imagination could not
endure interruption till it had completed some scenes connected with
him she hoped so soon to see. Moreover, as we have said, the tendency
to self-absorption had been developing rapidly.
After the last rebuff, Gregory was very quiet, and soon rose and
excused himself, saying that he had taken longer walks than usual and
needed rest.
Annie awakened, as if out of a dream, with a pang of self-reproach, and
said, "I have been a wretched hostess this evening. I hope you will
forgive me. The fact is, I've been talked out to-day."
"And I had not the wit to entertain and interest you, so I need
forgiveness more. Good-night."
Mr. Walton looked up from his business papers and smiled genially over
his spectacles and then was as absorbed as before.
Annie sat down with a vague sense of discontent. With their guest, her
dreams also had gone, and she became conscious that she had treated him
with almost rude neglect, and that he had borne it in a spirit
different from that which he usually showed. But she petulantly said to
herself, "I can't always be exerting myself for him as if he were a
sick child."
But conscience replied, "You have so much to make you happy, and he so
little! You are on the eve of a great joy, and you might have given him
one more pleasant evening."
But she met these accusations with a harshness all unlike herself.
"It's his own fault that he is not happy. He had no business to spoil
his life."
"Yes," retorted conscience, "but you have promised and purposed to help
him find the true life, and now you wish him out of the way, and have
lost one of your best opportunities and perhaps your last; for he will
not stay after Hunting comes;" and, self-condemned, she felt that she
had spent a very selfish and profitless evening.
For some reason she did not feel like staying to prayers with her
father and Miss Eulie, who now came in, but, printing a hasty kiss on
Mr. Walton's cheek, said, "Good-night. I'm tired, and going to bed."
Even in her own room there was a malign influence at work that made her
devotion formal and brief, and she went to sleep, "out of sorts."