CHANGES IN GREGORY
When Gregory became conscious, he was lying on the ground, with his
head in Miss Eulie's lap, and Annie was bending over him with a small
flask. She again gave him a teaspoonful of brandy, and after a moment
he lifted himself up, and, passing his hand across his brow, looked
around.
"You are not hurt. Oh, please say you are not hurt!" she exclaimed,
taking his hand.
He looked at her a moment, and then it all came back to him, and he
smiled and said, "Not much, I think; and if I am it does not signify.
You've helped me on my feet once or twice before. Now see if you can
again;" and he attempted to rise.
As Daddy Tuggar had intimated, there was plenty of muscle in Annie's
round arms, and she almost lifted him up, but he stood unsteadily. Mr.
Walton gave him his arm, and in a few moments he was on the sofa in the
sitting-room, where a fire was soon kindled. Zibbie was told to make
coffee, and to provide something more substantial.
They were all profuse in expressions of gratitude, in praises of his
heroism, but he waived the whole matter off by saying, "Think of me as
well as you can, for Heaven knows I have need to retrieve my character.
But please do not speak as if I had done more than I ought. For a young
man to stand idly by, and see the home of his childhood, the place
where he had received unbounded hospitality, destroyed, would be simply
base. If I had not been reduced by months of ill health, the thing
would not have been difficult at all. But you, Miss Walton, displayed
the real heroism in the case, when you stood beneath with your arms out
to catch me. I took a risk, but you took the certainty of destruction
if I had fallen. Still," he added, with a humorous look as if in jest,
though he was only too sincere, "the prospect was so inviting that I
should have liked to fall a little way."
"And so you did," cried innocent Johnny, eagerly. "You fell ever so
far, and Aunt Annie caught you."
"What!" exclaimed Gregory, rising. "Is this true? And are you not hurt?"
"That's the way with children," said Annie, with heightened color and a
reproachful look at the boy, who in the excitement of the hour was
permitted to stay up for an hour or more; "they let everything all out.
No, I'm not hurt a bit. You didn't fall very far. I'm so thankful that
your strength did not give out till you almost reached the ground. O
dear! I shudder to think what might have happened. Do you know that I
thought, with a thrill of superstitious dread, of your chestnut-burr
omen, when you stained my hand with your blood. If you had
fallen--if--" and she put her hand over her eyes to hide the dreadful
vision her imagination presented. "If anything had happened," she
continued, "my hands would have been stained, in that they had not held
you back."
"What a tender, innocent conscience you have!" he replied, looking
fondly at her. "I confess I'd rather be here listening to you than
somewhere else."
She gave him a troubled, startled look. To her that "somewhere else"
had a sad and terrible meaning. She sat near him, and could not help
saying in a low, earnest tone, "How could you, how could you take such
a risk without--" She did not finish the sentence, which was plain
enough in its meaning, however.
On the impulse of the moment, Gregory was about to reply indiscreetly
--in a way that would have revealed more of his feelings toward her
than he knew would be wise at that time. But just then Hannah came in
with the lunch, and the attention of the others, who had been talking
eagerly on the other side of the room, was directed toward them. He
checked some rash words as they rose to his lips, and Annie, suspecting
nothing of the wealth of love that he was already lavishing upon her,
rose with alacrity, glad to serve one who had just served her so well.
The generous coffee and the dainty lunch, combined with feelings to
which he had long been a stranger, revived Gregory greatly, and he
sprang up and walked the room, declaring that with the exception of his
burned hand, which had been carefully dressed, he felt better than he
had for a long time.
"I'm so thankful!" said Annie, with glistening eyes.
"We all have cause for thankfulness," said Mr. Walton, with fervor.
"Our kind Father in heaven has dealt with us all in tender mercy. Home,
and more precious life, have been spared. Before we again seek a little
rest, let us remember all His goodness;" and he led them in a simple,
fervent prayer, the effect of which was heightened by Mr. Walton
saying, after he rose from his knees, "Annie, we must see that none of
our poor neighbors lack for anything, now that their employment has so
suddenly been taken away."
That is acceptable devotion to God which leads to practical, active
charity toward men, and the most unbelieving are won by such a religion.
Annie noticed with some anxiety that her father's voice was very
hoarse, and that he put his hand upon his chest several times, and she
expressed the fear that the exposure would greatly add to his cold. He
treated the matter lightly, and would do nothing more that evening than
take some simple remedies.
When Gregory bade them good-night, Annie followed him to the foot of
the stairs, and giving his hand one of her warm grasps, said, "Mr.
Gregory, I can't help feeling that your mother knows what you have done
to-night."
Tears started to his eyes. He did not trust himself to reply, but, with
a strong answering pressure, hastened to his room, happier than he had
been in all his past.
It was late the next morning when they assembled at the
breakfast-table, and they noted with pain that Mr. Walton did not
appear at all well, though he made a great effort to keep up. He was
very hoarse, and complained of a tightness in his chest.
"Now, father," said Annie, "you must stay in the house, and let me
nurse you."
"I am very willing to submit," he replied, "and hope I shall need no
other physician." But he was feverish all day. His indisposition did
not yield to ordinary remedies. Still, beyond a little natural
solicitude, no anxiety was felt.
Gregory was a different man. Even his sincere human love for so worthy
an object had lifted him out of the miserable depths into which he had
been sinking. It had filled his heart with pure longings, and made him
capable of noble deeds.
As a general thing a woman inspires love in accordance with her own
character. Of course we recognize the fact that there are men with
natures so coarse that they are little better than animals. These men
may have a passing passion for any pretty woman; but the holy word Love
should not be used in such connection. But of men--of those possessing
true manhood, even in humblest station--the above assertion I think
will be found true. The woman who gains the boundless power which the
undivided homage of an honest heart confers will develop in it, and
quicken into life, traits and feelings corresponding to her own. If the
great men of the world have generally had good mothers, so as a
parallel fact will it be found that the strong, useful, successful
men--men who sustain themselves, and more than fulfil the promise of
their youth--have been supplemented and continually inspired to better
things by the ennobling companionship of true women.
Good breeding, the ordinary restraints of self-respect, and fear of the
world's adverse opinion, greatly reduce the outward diversities of
society. Well-bred men and women act and appear very much alike in the
public eye. But there is an inner life, a real character, upon which
happiness here and heaven hereafter depend, which results largely from
that tie and intimacy which is closest of all. A shallow, frivolous
girl, having faith in little else than her pretty face and the
dressmaker's art, may unfortunately inspire a good, talented man, who
imagines her to possess all that the poets have portrayed in woman,
with a true and strong affection, but she will disappoint and dwarf
him, and be a millstone about his neck. She will cease to be his
companion. She may be thankful if, in his heart, he does not learn to
despise her, though a man can scarcely do this and be guiltless toward
the mother of his children.
What must be the daily influence on a man who sees in his closest
friend, to whom he is joined for life, a passion for the public gaze, a
boundless faith in eternals, a complete devotion to the artificial
enhancing of ordinary and vanishing charms, combined with a
contemptuous neglect of the graces of mind and heart? These alone can
keep the love which outward appearance in part may have won at first.
Mere dress and beauty are very well to skirmish with during the first
approaches; but if a woman wishes to hold the conquered province of a
man's heart, and receive from it rich revenues of love and honor, she
must possess some queenly traits akin to divine royalty, otherwise she
only overruns the heart she might have ruled, and leaves it a blighted
waste.
As we have seen, Annie's actual character rebuked and humiliated the
evil-minded Gregory from the first. He could not rest in her presence.
To relieve himself from self-condemnation, he must prove her goodness a
sham or an accident--mere chance exemption from temptation. Her safety
and happy influence did not depend upon good resolutions, wise policy,
and careful instruction, but upon her real possession of a character
which had been formed long before, and which met and foiled him at
every point. Lacking this, though a well-meaning, good girl in the
main, she would have been a plaything in the hands of such a man. Her
absolute truth and crystal purity of principle incased her in heaven's
armor, and neither he nor any other evil-disposed person could harm
her. She would not listen to the first insidious suggestion of the
tempter. Thus the man who expected to go away despising now honored,
reverenced, loved her, and through her strong but gentle ministry had
turned his back on evil, and was struggling to escape its degrading
bondage.
Gregory was right in thinking that such a woman as Annie could help him
to an extent hard to estimate, but fatally wrong in looking to her
alone. The kind Father who regards the well-being of His children for
eternity rather than for the moments of time, must effectually cure him
of this error.
But those two days were memorable ones to him. The cold and stormy
weather shut them all in the house, and that meant to him Annie's
society. He was seldom alone with her; he noted with pain that her
manner was too frank and kindly, too free from all consciousness, to
indicate anything more than the friendship she had promised; but, not
knowing how her heart was preoccupied, he hoped that the awakening of
deeper feeling was only a question of time. His present peace and rest
were so blessed, her presence was so satisfying, and his progress in
her favor so apparent as he revealed his better nature, that he was
content to call his love friendship until he saw her friendship turning
into love.
Had not Annie expected Hunting every day she would have told Gregory
all about her relation with him, but now she determined that she would
bring them together under the same roof, and not let them separate till
she had banished every trace of their difficulty. A partial
reconciliation might result in future coolness and estrangement. This
she would regard as a misfortune, even if it had no unfavorable
influence on Gregory, for he now proved himself the best of company.
Indeed, they seemed to have a remarkable gift for entertaining each
other.
While Wednesday did not find Mr. Walton seriously ill to all
appearance, he was still far from being well. He employed himself with
his papers and seemed to enjoy Gregory's conversation greatly.
"He now grows very like his father, and reminds me constantly of him,"
he said more than once to Annie.
Mr. Walton's indisposition was evidently not trivial. There was a
soreness about the lungs that made it painful for him to talk much, and
he had a severe, racking cough. They were all solicitude in his behalf.
The family physician had been called, and it was hoped that a few days
of care would remove this cold.
As he sat in his comfortable arm-chair by the fire he would smilingly
say he was having such a good time and so much petting that he did not
intend to get well very soon.
Though Gregory's burn was painful, and both hands were bruised and cut
from climbing, he did not regret the suffering, since it also secured
from Annie some of the attention she would otherwise have given her
father.
Wednesday afternoon was pleasant, and Gregory went out for a walk. He
did not return till rather late, and, coming down to supper, found by
his plate a letter which clouded his face instantly.
Annie was radiant, for the same mail had brought her one from Hunting,
stating that he might be expected any day now. As she saw Gregory's
face darken, she said, "I fear your letter has brought you unpleasant
news."
"It has," he replied. "Mr. Burnett, the senior partner, is quite ill,
and it is necessary that I return immediately."
"I'm so sorry," she exclaimed, with such hearty emphasis that he looked
at her earnestly and said, "Are you really?"
"You shouldn't ask such a question," she answered, reproachfully.
"Why, Miss Walton, I've made a very long visit."
"So much has happened that it does seem a long time since you came. But
I wish it were to be longer. We shall miss you exceedingly. Besides,"
she added, with rising color, "I have a special reason for wishing you
to stay a little longer."
His color rose instantly also. She puzzled him, while he perplexed her.
"I hope Mr. Gregory's visit has taught him," said Mr. Walton, kindly,
"that he has not lost his former home through our residence here, and
that he can run up to the old place whenever he finds opportunity."
"I can say sincerely," he responded, "that I have enjoyed the
perfection of hospitality;" adding, in a low tone and with a quick,
remorseful look at Annie, "though little deserving it."
"You have richly repaid us," said Mr. Walton, heartily. "It would have
been very hard for me at my years to have to seek a new home. I have
become wedded to this old place with my feelings and fancies, and the
aged, you know, dislike change. I wish to make only one more, then rest
will be complete."
"Now, father," said Annie, with glistening eyes, "you must not talk in
that way. You know well that we cannot spare you even to go to heaven."
"Well, my child," answered he, fondly. "I am content to leave that in
our best Friend's hands. But I cannot say," he added, with a touch of
humor, "that it's a heavy cross to stay here with you."
"Would that such a cross were imposed upon me!" echoed Gregory, with
sudden devoutness. "Miss Walton, did not my business imperatively
demand my presence, I would break anything save my neck, in order to be
an invalid on your hands."
"Come," cried Annie, half-vexed; "a truce to this style of remark. I
think it's verging toward the sentimental, and I'm painfully
matter-of-fact. Father, you must not think of going to heaven yet, and
I don't like to hear you talk about it. Mr. Gregory can break his
little finger, if he likes, so we may keep him longer. But do let us
all be sensible, and not think of anything sad till it comes. Why
should we? Mr. Gregory surely can find time to run up and see us, if he
wishes, and I think he will."
Before he could reply, an anxious remark from little Susie enabled them
to leave the table in the midst of one of those laughs that banish all
embarrassment.
"But we'll be burned up if Mr. Gregory goes away."