THE OLD HOME IN DANGER--GREGORY RETRIEVES HIMSELF
Gregory made desperate efforts to keep up at the supper-table, but
could not prevent slight evidences of physical pain, which Annie
silently noticed. After tea he hoped to escape to his room, for he
could not endure to show even his physical weakness so soon again. On
the contrary, he was longing intensely for an opportunity to manifest a
little strength of some kind. After his recent interview he felt that
he could even bear one of his nervous headaches alone. But as he was
about to excuse himself, Annie interrupted, saying, "Now, Mr. Gregory,
that is not according to agreement. Do you suppose I cannot see that
you are half beside yourself with one of your old headaches? Was I such
a poor physician the last time that you seek to escape me now? Come
back to the parlor. I will not go out to church this evening, but
devote myself to you."
"Miss Walton," he replied, in a low tone, "when can I make any return
for all your kindness? I must seem weakness itself in every respect,
and I dread to appear to you always in that light."
"Your pride needs bringing down, sir; see how towering it is. Here you
would go off by yourself, and endure a useless martyrdom all night
perhaps, when by a few simple remedies I can relieve you, or at least
help you forget the pain. I have not the slightest objection to your
being a martyr, but I want some good to come out of it." "But I shall
spoil your evening."
"Certainly you will, if I think of you groaning up there by yourself,
while I am singing, perhaps:
"'I love to steal awhile away
From every cumbering care!'"
"Then I'm a cumbering care!"
"Whether you are or not, I'm not going to steal away from you to-night.
Come, do as I bid you."
He was only too glad to submit to her delicious tyranny. She wheeled
the lounge up to the fire, and placed her chair beside it, while the
rest of the family, seeing that he had his old malady, went to the
sitting-room.
"I have great pride in my nursing powers," she continued, in her cheery
way. "Now, if I were a man, I'd certainly be a doctor."
"Thank Heaven you are not!" he said, with a devout earnestness that
quite startled her.
"What? A doctor?" she asked, quickly.
"Yes--no; I mean a man, and doctor too."
"I see no reason why you should show such bitter opposition to my being
a man or a doctor either. Why should you?"
"O--well--I think you are just right as a woman. You make me believe in
the doctrine of election, for it seems to me that you were destined
from all eternity to be just what you are."
"What a strange, unfathomable doctrine that is!" said Annie, softly and
musingly.
"It's nothing but mystery all around us," he replied, wearily and
dejectedly.
"No, not 'all around us,'" she answered, quickly. "It's clear when we
look up. Faith builds a safe bridge to God, and to Him there are no
mysteries."
Her touch upon his brow thrilled him, and her presence was both
exhilarating and restful.
At last she said, "I am sorry you have these dreadful headaches so
often."
"I shall never be again."
"Why so?"
"Because they have led to this evening. It has been so many long,
miserable years since I experienced anything like this."
"Ah, I see, you have been very lonely. You have had no one to care for
you, and that I believe has been the cause of half your trouble--evil,
I mean. Indeed, they are about the same thing. Don't you see? The world
is too large a place for a home. You need a nook in it, with some one
there to look after you and for you to think about."
He looked at her searchingly, and then turned away his face in pain.
She could not utter such words in that placid style, were she not
utterly devoid of the feeling that was filling his soul with an ecstasy
of hope and fear.
"Do not think that even many of our sex are like Miss Bently. You will
see and choose more wisely hereafter, and find that, in exchanging that
wretched club-life for a cosey home of your own, you take a good step
in all respects."
"Would to Heaven that I had met such a girl as you at first!" he
ventured to say. "How different then all might have been!"
"There is no use in dwelling on the past," she replied, innocently.
"You are now pledged to make the future right."
"God helping me, I will. I will use every means in my power," he said,
in a tone of deep earnestness; and, as principal part of the means,
determined to take her advice, but with reference to herself. After a
few moments he said, "Miss Walton, as I promised to be perfectly frank
with you, I want to ask an explanation of something that I do not
understand, and which has been almost a heavenly surprise to me. I was
nearly certain before this afternoon that when you came to know what a
stained, evil man I am--"
"Was," interrupted Annie.
"No, what I am. Character is not made in a moment. As yet, I only hope
and purpose to do better. I can hardly understand why you do not shrink
from me in disgust. It seemed that both your faith and your nature
would lead you to do this. I thought it possible that out of your
kindness you might try to stand at a safe distance and give me some
good advice across the gulf. But that which I feared would drive you
from me forever has only brought you nearer. Again I say, it has been a
heavenly surprise."
"You use the word 'heavenly' with more appropriateness than you think,"
she replied, gravely. "All such surprises are heavenly in their origin,
and my course is but a faint reflection of Heaven's disposition toward
you, and was prompted by the duty I owe to God as well as to you.
Self-righteousness would have led me in Pharisaic pride to say, 'Stand
aside, I am holier than thou.' But you have only to read the life of
the perfect One to know that in so doing I should not have been like
Him. He laid His rescuing hands on both the physical and the moral
leper--"
"As you have upon me," said Gregory, with a look of such intense
gratitude that she was embarrassed.
"I deserve no great credit, for it was only right that I should do the
utmost in my power to help you. How else could I be a Christian in any
real sense? But there is nothing strange about it. Christianity is not
like false religions, that require unnatural and useless sacrifices. If
I were a true physician, and found you suffering from a terrible and
contagious disease, while I feared and loathed the disease, I might
have the deepest sympathy for you and do my best to cure you. I do
loathe the sin you confessed, inexpressibly. See how near it came to
destroying you. While God hates the sin, He ever loves the sinful."
"I hope you will always be divine in that respect," he could not
forbear saying, with rising color.
But her thoughts were so intent on what was uppermost in her heart that
she did not notice his covert meaning, and said, innocently, "I will
give you honest friendship so long as you honestly try to redeem the
pledges of to-day."
"Then I have your friendship for life, be it long or short," said he,
decisively.
With more lightness in her tone she continued, "And I too will ask a
question that has a bearing on a little theory of my own. Supposing I
had shrunk from you, and tried to give some good advice from a safe
distance, what would you have done?"
"Left for New York to-morrow, and gone straight to the devil as one of
his own imps," he replied, without a moment's hesitation.
She sighed deeply, and said, "I fear you would--that is, if left to
yourself. And the worst of it is, it seems to me that this is the way
the Church is trying to save the world. Suppose a doctor should address
his patients through a speaking-trumpet and hand them his remedies on
the end of a very long rod. Death would laugh at his efforts. People
can be saved only as Christ saved them. We must go where they are, lay
our hands upon them, and look sympathy and hope right into their eyes.
If Christ's followers would only do this, how many more might be
rescued who now seem hopelessly given over to evil!"
"Those who won't do it," said Gregory, bitterly, "are in no sense His
true followers, but are merely the 'hangers on' of His army, seeking to
get out of it all they can for self. Every general knows that the
'camp-followers' are the bane of an army."
"Come, Mr. Gregory," said she, gently, "we are not the general, and
therefore not the judge. After this I shall expect to see you in the
regular ranks, ready to give and take blows."
They now joined Mr. Walton and Miss Eulie in the sitting-room, and
Gregory professed to feel, and indeed was, much better, and after a
little music they separated for the night. Although still suffering,
Gregory sat by his fire a long time, forgetful of pain.
High, blustering winds prevailed all the following day, but they only
made the quiet and cosiness of Mr. Walton's fireside more delightful.
Gregory did not care to go out if he went alone. He wished to be where
he could see Annie as often as possible, for every word and smile from
her in the intervals of her duties was precious. He did honestly mean
to become a good man if it were possible, but he saw in her the only
hopeful means. He did not pretend to either faith in God or love for
Him as yet, but only felt a glow of gratitude, a warming of his heart
toward Him in view of His great mercy in sending to his aid such a
ministering spirit as Annie had proved. He took it as an omen that God
meant kindly by him, and through this human hand might save at last.
And he clung to this hand as the drowning do to anything that keeps
them from sinking into dark and unknown depths. He saw in Annie Walton
earthly happiness certainly, and his best prospect of heaven. What
wonder then that his heart lay at her feet in entire consecration?
Apart from the peculiar fascination that she herself had for him, he
had motives for loving her that actuate but few. If she had saved him
from physical death it would have been a little thing in comparison,
but he shuddered to think of the precipice from which she had drawn him
back.
He was cautious in revealing himself to her. The presence of others was
a restraint, and he plainly saw that she had no such regard for him as
he felt for her. But he hoped with intense fervor--yes, he even prayed
to that God whom he had so long slighted--that in time she might return
his love. To-day he would close his eyes on the past and future. She,
the sunshine of his soul, was near, and he was content to bask in her
smiles.
Annie had given her father and aunt to understand that their conspiracy
promised to result in success, and they treated him with marked but
delicate kindness. The day passed in music, reading, and conversation,
and it was to Gregory the happiest he remembered--one of the sweet May
days that, by some happy blunder of nature, occasionally bless us in
March--and he made the very most of it. Its close found Annie Walton
enthroned in his heart.
As for Annie, he perplexed her a little, but she explained everything
peculiar in his words and manner on the ground of his gratitude only,
and the glow of his newly awakened moral nature. If she had been an
experienced belle, she might have understood his symptoms better, but
she was one of the last in the world to imagine people falling in love
with her. Never having received much admiration from strangers, with no
long list of victims, and believing from her own experience that love
was a gradual growth resulting from long knowledge and intimacy with
its object, she could not dream that this critical man, who had seen
the beauties of two continents, would in a few days be carried away by
her plain face. Nor was he by her face, but by herself.
Men of mind are rarely captivated by a face merely, however beautiful,
but by what it represents, or what they imagine it does. Woe be to the
beauty who has no better capital than her face! With it she can allure
some one into marrying her; but if he marries for an intelligent
companion, he is likely to prove the most disappointed and indifferent
of husbands on discovering the fraud. The world will never get over its
old belief that the fair face is the index of graces slightly veiled,
and ready to be revealed when the right to know is gained. In nursery
rhymes, fairy tales, and the average novel, the beautiful heroine is
also lovely, and so in spite of adverse experience the world will ever
expect wisdom and truth from red lips, till they say too much--till the
red lips themselves prove the contrary. Then come the anger and disgust
which men ever visit upon those who deceive and disappoint them. Beauty
is a dainty and exquisite vestibule to a temple; but when a worshipper
is beguiled into entering, only to find a stony, misshapen idol and a
dingy shrine, this does not conduce to future devotion.
Annie's face would not arrest passers-by, and so she had not been
spoiled by too much homage, which is not good for man or woman. But
after passing the plain, simple portico of externals into the inner
temple of her sweet and truthful life, the heart once hers would
worship with undying faith and love.
Gregory had come to interest her deeply, not only on the ground of his
need, but because she saw in him great capabilities for good. In all
his evil, his downright honesty and lack of conceit inspired a kind of
respect. She also saw that this excessively fastidious man had learned
to admire and esteem her greatly. It was not in her woman's nature to
be indifferent to this fact. She felt that if he could be redeemed from
his evil he might become a congenial and valuable friend indeed, and if
she could be the means of rescuing the son of her father's friend it
would ever be one of her happiest memories. But with her heart already
occupied by a noble ideal of Hunting, the possibility of anything more
than friendship never entered her mind. The very fact that her
affections were so engaged made her blind to manifestations on the part
of Gregory which might otherwise have awakened suspicion. Still the
confidential relations growing up between them made her wish that she
might reveal to him her virtual engagement to Hunting; and she would
have done so, had he not resented the slightest allusion in that
direction. It now seemed probable that Hunting would return before
Gregory took his departure, and if so, she felt that she could
immediately reconcile them. She came to the conclusion that her best
course was to wait till she could bring them together, and so make the
reconciliation certain by her own presence and influence; for now, in
her increasing regard for Gregory, she was determined that they all
should be on good terms, so that in the city home to which she looked
forward the man she was trying to lead to true life might be a frequent
and welcome visitor.
But it is a difficult thing to keep such friendships Platonic in their
nature under any circumstances, and in view of Gregory's feelings,
Annie's pretty dreams of the future would be but baseless visions.
Monday evening brought one of those genial domestic experiences that
make home more satisfying in its pleasures than all the excitements of
the world. Mr. Walton had a slight cold, and Annie was nursing and
petting him, while contributing to the general enjoyment by reading the
daily paper and singing some new ballads which she had just obtained
from New York. Her father's indisposition was so slight that it merely
called for those little attentions which are pleasant for affection to
bestow and receive. The wind howled dismally without, only to enhance
the sense of peace and comfort within, and at the usual hour all
retired to rest, without even the passing thought that anything might
disturb them before they should meet again at the cheerful
breakfast-table.
Some time during the night Gregory seemed to hear three distinct peals
of thunder, wrathful and threatening, and then a voice like that of
Annie Walton calling him to escape a great danger. But it seemed that
he was paralyzed, and strove in vain to move hand or foot. Again and
louder pealed the thunder, and more urgent came the call of the warning
voice. By a desperate effort he sprung with a bound upon the floor, and
then realized that what seemed thunder in the exaggeration of his dream
was loud knocking at his door. Annie's voice again called, "Mr.
Gregory, awake, dress. There is a fire. There may be danger."
He assured her that he would be out in a few moments, and had only to
open a shutter to obtain plenty of light, though he could not see
whence it came. In five minutes he hastened downstairs and found Mr.
Walton just issuing from his room; and all went out on the front
piazza. Gregory then saw that a large factory some distance up the
stream was burning, and that the fire was under such headway that
nothing could save the building. The wind had increased during the
night and fanned the flames into terrific fury. The building was old
and dry, inviting destruction in every part.
For a while they gazed with that fearful awe which this terrible
element, when no longer servant, but master, always inspires. Susie had
not been well during the night, and in waiting on her, Annie had
discovered the disaster.
A warning cough from Mr. Walton revealed to Annie the danger of staying
out in the raw winds; but from the windows everything was apparent, and
silently they watched the rapid progress of the flames. The fire had
caught in the lower part of the building, and was advancing up from
floor to floor with its horrid illumination at the windows.
"Do you think I can do any good by going there?" asked Gregory.
"Not at all," said Mr. Walton. "The whole of the New York Fire
Department could not save it now; and from the sounds I hear, there
will soon be throngs of people there. Indeed, I am anxious about my own
place. When that shingle roof begins to burn there is no telling how
far the wind will carry the cinders."
Annie looked at her father in quick alarm, then drew Miss Eulie aside,
and they immediately went upstairs.
With a more painful interest, Gregory now watched the scene. The tall
ladders which had first been raised against the building were
withdrawn. They were useless for the whole interior seemed ablaze.
Great tongues of fire began leaping from the windows, mocking every
effort. The rapid steps of those hastening to the scene resounded along
the road, and the startling cry of "Fire! Fire!" was heard up and down
the valley till all merged in the shouts and cries around the burning
building. Mingling with the deeper, hoarser tones of men were the
shrill voices of women, showing that they too had been drawn to witness
a destruction that meant to them loss of bread. The foliage near was
red as blood in the dreadful glare, and the neighboring pines tossed
their tasselled boughs like dark plumes at a torch-light funeral. With
a sudden roar a pyramid of flame shot up through the roof, and was
echoed by a despairing cry from those whose vocation now indeed was
gone. A moment later a fiery storm of flakes and burning shingles
filled the sky.
To the great joy of our friends the wind was from such a quarter as to
carry this destructive tempest past them into the woodland back of the
house, which happily had been rendered damp by recent rains.
But a cinder frequently sailed by unpleasantly near, reminding one of
scattering shots in a battle. A slight change of wind would be their
destruction, and a single stray fire-brand would endanger them.
Just as they began to breathe somewhat freely, hoping that danger was
past, a sudden side-eddy of the gale scattered a shower of sparks and
burning shingles over the house and out-buildings. Mr. Walton
immediately rushed forth, and, with a little whistle which he usually
carried, gave a shrill summons for Jeff, who lived in a cottage near.
But Jeff was off to the fire, and so did not appear. Gregory and Annie
also hastened out, and the former ran to the barn and out-buildings
first, as from their nature they were most inflammable. To his and Mr.
Walton's joy, no traces of fire were seen. One or two smoking brands
lay in the door-yard, where they could cause no injury. But a cry of
alarm from Annie, who had stayed nearer the house, brought Mr. Walton
and Gregory to her side instantly. Pointing to the roof of their house,
she said, in tones of strong excitement, "See there--oh, see there!"
A burning piece of wood had caught on the highest part near the ridge,
and was smoking and smouldering in a way that, with the strong wind
fanning it, would surely cause destruction if it were not dislodged.
"Oh, what shall we do?" she cried, wringing her hands. "Can a ladder
reach it?"
"The roof is too steep, even if it did," said Mr. Walton.
"Where is the ladder?" cried Gregory.
"By the carriage-house. But I fear it is useless."
"Will you help me bring it, sir?"
They instantly brought the longest ladder on the place, but saw that
though it might touch the eaves, it would not reach the ridge. The roof
was so steep that one could not keep footing on it; and when they took
time to look and consider, both gentlemen admitted that an effort in
that direction would fail, and probably at the cost of life.
"Is there no scuttle by which to get out on the roof?" asked Gregory.
"No. Quick, Annie, get out what you can, for we shall soon be homeless."
"Wait," said Gregory. "Is there no way to reach the roof?"
"None that we can use. A light and daring climber might possibly reach
the ridge by the lighting-rod, after leaving the ladder."
"Where is it?" cried Gregory, eager to do something to make impossible
even the thought that he was cowardly; for the memory of his course in
the counterfeiter's den rankled deeply.
"No," cried both Mr. Walton and Annie, laying their hands on him. "Your
life is worth more than the house."
"My life is my own," he answered. "I _will_ make an effort to save the
old place. Quick, help me. Here, girls" (to Zibbie and Hannah, who now
stood beside them in dismay), "take hold of that end of the ladder and
carry it out there. Now push it up while I hold its foot. There, that's
it. I will do it. You cannot hinder, but only help. Miss Walton, get me
a rope. Hurry, while I prepare to climb."
With the help of the stout women, whose strength was doubled by their
fears and excitement, he placed the ladder against the lightning-rod
and siding of the house just under the ridge. His tones were determined
and authoritative.
He was now acting as Annie would if she were a man, and she admired and
respected him as never before. In two or three moments she and her
father returned with a line, but again expostulated.
"Mr. Gregory, the risk is too great."
"You can't prevent it," said he, firmly. "I absolve you from all
responsibility. I take the risk in spite of you. Make haste--see how
it's burning. There, that will do. Stand back."
Even as he spoke he was climbing.
"Now that's generous," said Annie; "but if you are injured, I shall
never forgive myself."
He turned, and for a second smiled down upon her.
The strength of his new-born love made him glad to endanger even life
in her service, and the thought, "I can at last win a little respect,
as well as sympathy," nerved him to double his ordinary powers. Like
most country boys, he had been a bold, active climber, and his
knowledge and former skill made the attempted feat possible. The main
question was whether in his feeble state his strength would hold out.
But the strong excitement of the moment would serve him in place of
muscle. He had thrown off his coat and boots, and, with a small rope
fastened about his waist, he swiftly ascended to the top of the ladder.
But there were three or four feet that he must overhand up the
lightning-rod in order to reach the ridge. It was large and twisted,
and gave him a good hold, but he had to take the risk of its being
strong enough in its fastening to sustain his weight. Fortunately it
was, and he unhesitatingly commenced the perilous effort. He made good
progress till he was within a foot of the ridge. Then his strength
began to fail, and plainly to those below he wavered.
With white face, clasped hands, and lips moving in prayer, Annie
watched him. Her heart almost stood still with dread; and when toward
the last he slowly and still more slowly overhanded upward, plainly
indicating that his strength was ebbing, she cried, in an agony of
fear, "Come back, oh come back! What is all here to your life?" A
second before it seemed to him that he must fail, that he might
suddenly fall at her feet a crushed and lifeless mass; but her voice
revived him, and the passionate thought came with inspiring power, "I
can do more to win her love now than by years of effort"; and he made a
desperate struggle, gained the ridge, and crawled out upon it, panting
for a moment, and powerless to do more than cling for support.
The burning cinder was now but little in advance of him, and he saw
that there was not a second to lose. It had charred and blackened the
roof where it had caught, and, fanned by the wind, was a live, glowing
coal. The shingles under it were smoking--yes, smouldering. Had it not
been for their dampness and mossy age, they would have been blazing. In
a few moments nothing could have saved the house.
As soon as he got his breath, he crept along the ridge within reach of
the fiery flake. There seemed no place where he could lay hold of it
without burning himself. It would not do to simply detach it, as it
might catch further down the steep roof where it could not be reached.
Above all, there was not a moment to spare. He did not hesitate, but
with sufficient presence of mind to use his left instead of his right
hand, he seized the fatal brand and hurled it, a fiery meteor, clear of
the house. It hurt him cruelly, and for a moment he felt sick and
faint; but a round of applause from those below (for now Miss Eulie and
the children were out, looking tremblingly on), and Annie's cry of joy
and encouragement, again gave him strength.
But as he looked closely at the spot where the cinder had laid, his
fears were realized. It had ignited the roof. A little water would
extinguish it now, but in a few moments, under the wild wind that was
blowing, all would be ablaze.
He crawled to the end of the ridge and shouted, "Tie a light pail of
water to the cord--not much at a time, or I can't draw it up."
Annie darted to the house for a lighter pail than Hannah had brought,
and to Gregory's joy he found that he had strength enough to lift it,
though with his burned band it was agony to do so. But with the now
good prospect of finishing his work successfully, his spirits rose. He
grew more familiar and confident in his dangerous position. He did not
look down from his giddy height, and permitted himself to think of
nothing but his task. Indeed, in his strong excitement, he felt that it
would not be a bitter thing to die thus serving the woman he loved; and
in his false philosophy he hoped this brave act might atone for the
wrong of the past.
It is the nature of noble, generous deeds to exalt a man's soul so that
he can fearlessly face death, when in calm moments he would shrink back
appalled. In the excitement of the hour, and under the inspiration of
his strong human love, Gregory was not afraid to die, though life
seemed, with its new possibilities, sweeter than ever before. He knew
that his strength was failing fast, that reaction would soon set in,
and that he would be helpless, and his great hope was that he could
save the house first.
He determined therefore not to waste a drop of water, and to make this
one pail answer if possible. He therefore poured it slowly out, and let
it run over the burning part. The continued hissing and smoke proved
that the fire had penetrated deeper than he thought. The last drop was
gone, and still the place smoked. A little more was absolutely
necessary.
"Will my strength hold out?" he asked himself, in almost an agony of
doubt.
Crawling back to the end of the ridge, he once more lowered the pail.
"Fill it again," he cried.
"Can you stand it?" Mr. Walton asked.
"I must, or all is useless," was his answer.
Again, but more slowly and painfully, he pulled the water up.
Annie wrung her hands in anguish as she saw in the red glare of the
still burning factory how pale and exhausted he was.
But he once more managed to reach the point above the still smouldering
spot, and caused the water to trickle down upon it. By the time he had
half emptied the pail the smoke ceased.
After a moment it again faintly exuded, but another little stream of
water quenched the fire utterly. But for five minutes he watched the
place to make sure that there was not a lingering spark, and then let
the rest of the water flow over the place to saturate it completely.
He was now certain that the house was saved. But he was satisfied from
his sensations that he had but little time in which to save himself.
Reaction was fast setting in.
He untied the rope from his waist, and let pail and all roll clattering
down the roof. This noise was echoed by a cry of alarm from those
below, who feared for a moment that he was falling. They all had the
sickening dread which is felt when we look at one in great peril, and
yet can do nothing to help.
At first Gregory thought that he would lie down upon the ridge and
cling to it, thus gaining strength by a little rest. But he soon found
that this would not answer. His overtaxed frame was becoming nerveless,
and his only hope was to escape at once. In trembling weakness he
crawled back to the edge and looked over. Annie stepped forward to the
foot of the ladder and extended her hands as if to catch him.
"Stand back," he cried; "if I fall, I shall kill you."
"I will not stand back," she answered. "You shall not take all the
risk."
But her father, who still kept his presence of mind in the terrible
excitement of the moment, forced her away, and saved her from the
danger of this useless sacrifice. As soon as she could do nothing, her
fortitude vanished, and she covered her face with her hands and wept
bitterly.
The chief point of difficulty in Gregory's weak state was to get off
the ridge upon the lightning-rod without losing his hold and falling at
once. If he could turn the edge and begin to descend in safety, his
strength might hold out till he reached the ladder and so the ground.
But he realized the moment of supreme peril, and hesitated.
Then, with something like a prayer to God and with a wistful look at
Annie, he resolutely swung himself over. His hands held the weight of
his body, and he commenced the descent. Annie's glad cry once more
encouraged him. He gained the ladder and descended till not far from
the ground.
Suddenly everything turned black before his eyes, and he fell.