GREGORY'S FINAL CONCLUSION IN REGARD TO MISS WALTON
Annie Walton was now no longer an enigma to Gregory. He had changed his
views several times in regard to her. First, she was a commonplace,
useful member of the community, in a small way, and part of the
furniture of a well-ordered country-house--plain furniture too, he had
said to himself. But one evening in her company had convinced him that
such a Miss Walton was a fiction of his own mind, and he who had come
to regard average society girls as a weariness beyond endurance was
interested in her immediately.
Then her truth and unselfishness, and the strong religious element in
her character, had been a constant rebuke to him, but he had soothed
himself with the theory that she differed from others only in being
untempted. He then had resolved to amuse himself, ease his conscience,
and feed his old grudge against her sex, by teaching the little saint
that she was only a weak, vain creature. Yet she had sustained not only
his temptations, but another ordeal, so searching and terrible that it
transformed her into a heroine, a being of superior clay to that of
ordinary mortals. "It's her nature to be good, mine to be bad," he had
said; "I'm a weed, she is a flower." But Annie herself had rudely
dispelled this illusion.
Now he saw her to be a woman who might, did she yield to the evil
within her and without, show all the vanity, weakness, and folly
generally, of which he had at first believed her capable, but who, by
prayer and effort, daily achieved victories over herself. In addition,
she had manifested the most beautiful and God-like trait that can
ennoble human character--the desire to save and sweeten others' lives.
To have been lectured and talked to on the subject of religion in any
conventional way by one outside of his sympathies would have been as
repulsive as useless, but Annie had the tact to make her effort appear
like angelic ministry.
There is that about every truly refined woman with a large loving heart
which is irresistible. The two qualities combined give a winning grace
that is an "open sesame" everywhere. The trouble is that culture and
polish are too often the sheen of an icicle.
He believed he saw just her attitude toward him. It reminded him of
Miss Bently's efforts in his behalf, but with the contrast that existed
between Miss Bently and Annie. He now wondered that he could have been
interested in such a vain, shallow creature as Mrs. Grobb had proved
herself, and he excused himself on the ground that he had idealized her
into something that she was not. All that Annie said and did had the
solidity of truth, and not the hollowness of affectation. And yet there
was one thing that troubled him. While her effort to help him out of
his morbid, unhappy state was so sincere, she showed no special
personal interest in himself, such as he had in her. If he should now
go away, she would place him merely in the outer circle of her friends
or acquaintance, and make good the old saying, "Out of sight, out of
mind." But already the conviction was growing strong that it would be
long before she would be out of his mind. Though he had plenty of
pride, as we have seen, he was not conceited, and from long familiarity
with society could readily detect the difference between the regard she
would feel for a man personally attractive and the interest of aroused
sympathies which she might have in any one, and which her faith and
nature led her to have in every one. Of course he was not satisfied
with the latter, and it was becoming one of his dearest hopes to awaken
a personal feeling, though of just what kind he had not yet even
defined to himself.
When the tea-bell rang, much later than usual on account of the chaos
of the day, he was glad to go down. Her society was far pleasanter than
his own, and future events might make everything clearer.
His supposition in regard to Johnny was correct. As he descended the
stairs, the boy came out of the sitting-room, holding Annie tightly by
the hand and beaming upon her like the sun after a shower, and when he
found by his plate a huge apple that had been roasted specially for
him, his cup of happiness was full and he was ready for another
shaking. If the apple once caused discord it here confirmed peace.
The supper was as inviting as the dinner had been forbidding,
indicating a change of policy in the kitchen cabinet. In fact, after
Zibbie cooled off, she found that she was not ready for "the world to
come to an end" (or its equivalent, her leaving the Waltons after so
many years of service and kindness). She had not yet reached the point
of abject apology, though she knew she would go down on her old
rheumatic knees rather than leave her ark of refuge and go out into the
turbulent waters of the world; still she made propitiating overtures in
the brownest of buttered toast, and a chicken salad that might have
been served as ambrosia on Mount Olympus. Zibbie was a guileless
strategist, for in the success of the supper she proved how great had
been her malign ingenuity and deliberation in spoiling the dinner. She
could never claim that it was accidental. Hannah no longer waited as if
it were a funeral occasion, and the domestic skies were fast
brightening up, except in one quarter: Mr. Walton's chair was vacant,
and Gregory noticed that Annie often looked wistfully and sadly toward
it.
With the sensitiveness of one who habitually hid his deeper feeling
from the world, Gregory tried to act as if his last conversation with
Annie had been upon the weather; and as might be expected of refined
people, no allusion was made to the unpleasant features of the day.
Neither then nor afterward was a word adverse to the Camdens spoken.
They had been guests, and that was enough for the Waltons' nice sense
of courtesy. Only Susie, with a little sigh of relief, gave expression
to the general feeling by saying, "Somehow I feel kind of light
to-night. I felt dreadfully heavy this morning."
Annie, with a smile on her lips and something like a tear in her eye,
noticed the child's remark by adding, "I think we should all feel light
if grandpa were only here."
After supper she sung to the children and told them a bedtime story,
and then with a kiss of peace sent them off to their dream-wanderings.
During Annie's absence from the parlor, Gregory remained in his room.
He was in no mood to talk with any one else. Even Miss Eulie's gentle
patter of words would fall with a sting of pain.
When Annie came down to the parlor she said, "Now, Mr. Gregory, I will
sing as much as you wish, to make up for last evening. Indeed I must do
something to get through the hours till father's return, for I feel so
anxious and self-reproachful about him."
"And so make happiness for others out of your pain," said he. "Why
don't you complain and fret all the evening and make it uncomfortable
generally?"
"I have done enough of that for one day. What will you have?"
An impulse prompted him to say "You," but he only said, "Your own
choice," and walked softly up and down the room while she sung, now a
ballad, now a hymn, and again a simple air from an opera, but nothing
light or gay.
He was taking a dangerous course for his own peace. As we have seen,
Annie's voice was not one to win special admiration. It was not
brilliant and highly cultivated, and had no very great compass. She
could not produce any of the remarkable effects of the trained
vocalist. But it was exceedingly sweet in the low, minor notes. It was
sympathetic, and so colored by the sentiment of the words that she made
a beautiful language of song. It was a voice that stole into the heart,
and kept vibrating there long hours after, like an Aeolian harp just
breathed upon by a dying zephyr.
As was often the case, she forgot her auditor, and began to reveal
herself in this mode of expression so natural to her, and to sing as
she did long evenings when alone. At times her tones would be tremulous
with pathos and feeling, and again strong and hopeful. Then, as if
remembering the great joy that soon would be hers in welcoming back her
absent lover, it grew as tender and alluring as a thrush's call to its
mate.
"O'er the land and o'er the sea
Swiftly fly my thoughts to thee;
Haste thee and come back to me:
I'm waiting.
"Thou away, how sad my song!
When alone, the days are long;
Soon thou'lt know how glad and strong
My welcome.
"Haste thee, then, o'er sea and land:
Quickly join our loving band,
Waiting here to clasp thy hand
In greeting."
"Indeed, Miss Walton," said Gregory, leaning upon the piano, "that
would bring me from the antipodes."
She did not like his tone and manner, and also became conscious that in
her choice of a ballad she had expressed thoughts that were not for
him; so she tried to turn the matter lightly off by saying, "Where you
probably were in your thoughts. What have you been thinking about all
this long time while I have fallen into the old habit of talking to
myself over the piano?"
"You, I might say; but I should add, in truth, what you have said to me
this evening."
"I hope only the latter."
"Chiefly, I've been enjoying your singing. You have a very peculiar
voice. You don't 'execute' or 'render' anything, any more than a bird
does. I believe they have been your music teachers."
"Crows abound in our woods," she answered, laughing.
"So do robins and thrushes."
Her face suddenly had an absent look as if she did not hear him. It was
turned from the light, or the rich color that was mantling it would
have puzzled him, and might have inspired hope. With some abruptness
and yet hesitation, such as is often noted when a delicate subject is
broached, she said, "Mr. Gregory, I wish I could make peace between you
and Mr. Hunting. I think you are not friendly."
As she looked to see the effect of her remark the light shone on his
face, and she was again deeply pained to see how instantly it darkened.
For a moment he did not reply; then in a cold, constrained voice, he
said, "He is a friend of the family, I suppose."
"Yes," she replied, eagerly.
"I too would like to be regarded as a friend, and especially to you; so
I ask it as a great personal favor that you will not mention that
gentleman's name again during the brief remnant of my visit."
"Do you mean any imputation against him?" she asked, hotly.
Policy whispered, "Don't offend her. Hunting may be a near relation;"
so he said, quietly, "Gentlemen may have difficulties concerning which
they do not like to speak. I have made no imputation against him
whatever, but I entreat you to grant my request."
Annie was not satisfied, but sat still with knit brows. At that moment
she heard her father's step and ran joyfully to meet him. He had come
home chilled from a long ride in the raw wind, and she spent the rest
of the evening in remorseful ministrations to his comfort. As she
flitted around him, served his tea and toast, and petted him generally,
Gregory felt that he would ride for a night after the "Wild Huntsman"
to be so treated.
He also rightly felt that Annie's manner was a little cool toward him.
It was not in her frank, passionate nature to feel and act the same
toward one who had just expressed such bitter hostility toward her
lover. But the more he thought of it the more determined he was that
there should be no alienation between them on account of Hunting.
"Curse him!" he muttered, "he has cost me too much already."
He had the impression that Hunting was a relative of the family. That
he was the accepted lover of the pure and true girl that he himself was
unconsciously learning to love was too monstrous a thought to be
entertained. Still Annie's words and manner caused him some sharp pangs
of jealousy, till he cast the very idea away in scorn as unworthy of
both himself and her.
"Evil as my life has been, it is white compared with his," he said to
himself.
In accordance with his purpose to keep the vantage-ground already
gained, he was geniality itself, and so entertained Miss Eulie and Mr.
Walton that Annie soon relented and smiled upon him as kindly as ever.
She was in too humbled and softened a mood that evening to be
resentful, except under great provocation, and she was really very
grateful to Gregory for his readiness to overlook her weakness and give
her credit for trying to do right. Indeed, his sincere admiration and
outspoken desire for her esteem inclined her toward him, for was she
not a woman?
"After all," she thought, "he has said nothing against Charles. They
have had a quarrel, and he no doubt is the one to blame. He is
naturally very proud and resentful, and would be all the more so in
that degree that he was wrong himself. If I can help him become a
Christian, making peace will be an easy affair; so I will not lose the
hold that I have gained upon him. When Charles comes he will tell me
all about it, and I will make him treat Gregory in such a way that
enmity cannot last."
How omnipotent girls imagine themselves to be with those who swear they
will do anything under heaven to please them, but who usually go on in
the old ways!
It was late when the family separated for the night, but later far when
Gregory retired. The conclusion of his long revery was that in Annie
Walton existed his only chance of life and happiness. She seemed to
possess the power to wake up all the man left in him, and if there were
any help in God, she only could show him how to find it.
Thus his worldly wisdom had taught him, as many others had been taught,
to lean on a human arm for his main support and chief hope, while
possibly in the uncertain future some help from heaven might be
obtained. He was like a sickly plant in the shade saying to itself,
"Yonder ray of sunlight would give me new life," while it has no
thought of the sun from which the ray came. He truly wished to become a
good man for his own sake as well as Annie's, for he had sufficient
experience in the ills of evil; but he did not know that a loving God
does not make our only chance dependent on the uncertain action and
imperfect wisdom of even the best of earthly friends. The One who began
His effort of saving man by dying for him will not afterward neglect
the work, or commit it wholly to weak human hands.
The next morning, being that of Saturday, brought Annie many duties,
and these, with callers, so occupied her time that Gregory saw but
little of her. The shadow between them seemed to have passed away, and
she treated him with the utmost kindness. But there was a new shadow on
her face that he could not understand, and after breakfast he said to
her as they were passing to the parlor, "Miss Walton, you seem out of
spirits. I hope nothing painful has happened."
"Jeff found my lost letter this morning," she said, "and I have been
deservedly punished anew, for it brought me unpleasant tidings;" and
she hastily left the room, as if not wishing to speak further on the
matter.
It had indeed inflicted a heavy disappointment, for it was from
Hunting, stating that business would detain him some days longer in
Europe. But she had accepted it with resignation, and felt that it was
but a light penalty for all her folly of the two preceding days.
Gregory was not a little curious about it, for he was interested now in
everything connected with her; but as she did not speak of it again,
good taste required that he should not. An uncomfortable thought of
Hunting as the possible writer crossed his mind, but he drove it from
him with something like rage.
As Gregory sat brooding by his fire, waiting till the sun should grow
higher before starting for a walk, Jeff came up with an armful of wood,
and seemed bubbling over with something. He, too, had suffered sorely
in the storm he had helped to raise the preceding day, and had
tremblingly eaten such dinner as the irate Zibbie had tossed on the
table for him, as a man might lunch in the vicinity of a bombshell. He
seemed to relieve himself by saying, with his characteristic grin, as
he replenished the fire, "It was dreadful 'pestuous yesterday, but de
winds is gone down. I'se glad dat ole hen is done for, but she hatch a
heap ob trouble on her las' day."
Jeff belonged to that large school of modern philosophers who explain
the evils of the day on very superficial grounds. The human heart is
all right. It's only "dat ole hen" or unfavorable circumstances of some
kind, that do the mischief.