DEEPENING SHADOWS
Mr. Walton received Hunting in a fatherly way. Indeed, he looked upon
the young man as a son, and the thought of leaving Annie to his
protection was an unspeakable comfort.
Altogether Hunting was reassured by his reception, which proved that
his relations were as yet undisturbed. But in the depths of his soul he
trembled at the presence of Gregory in the house; and when Miss Eulie
came down and said, after an affectionate greeting, that Gregory was in
something like a stupor, he was even base enough to wish that he might
never come out of it.
At the word "stupor," Annie's face grew pale. She had a growing
dissatisfaction with Hunting's manner in regard to Gregory, and felt
that he did not feel or show the interest or gratitude that he ought;
but there was nothing tangible with which she could tax him.
The doctor, who came early in the evening, reassured her, and said that
the state of partial consciousness was not necessarily a dangerous
symptom, as it might be the result of a severe shock. The young man he
brought was installed as nurse under Miss Eulie's charge, and Annie
said that Mr. Hunting would also take his turn as watcher.
Then she, Mr. Hunting, and her father had a long talk over what had
happened in his absence, Mr. Walton dwelling most feelingly on what he
regarded as the providential character of the visit from the son of his
old friend.
"If he never leaves our house alive, I have a strong assurance that he
will join his father in the better home. Indeed, I may soon be there
with them."
"Please don't talk so, father," pleaded Annie.
"Well, my child, perhaps it's best I should, and prepare your minds for
what may be near. It's a great consolation to see Charles again, and he
will help you bear whatever is God's will."
"You can trust her to me," said Hunting, fervently. "I have ample means
to gratify her most extravagant wish, and my love will shelter her and
think for her even as yours would. But I trust you will soon share our
home with us."
"I expect to, my children, but it will be our eternal home."
Annie strove bravely to keep her tears back, for her father's sake, but
they would come.
"Annie," said Hunting, "won't you please let your father put this ring
on your engagement finger?" and he gave Mr. Walton a magnificent
solitaire diamond.
Mr. Walton took his daughter's hand, and looked earnestly into her
tearful, blushing face.
"Annie," he said, in a grave, sweet tone, "I hope for your sake that I
may be wrong, but I have a presentiment that my pilgrimage is nearly
ended. You have made its last stage very happy. A good daughter makes a
good wife, Mr. Hunting; and, Annie, dear, I shall tell your mother that
you supplied her place, as far as a daughter could. It will add greatly
to my peace if I can leave you and my sister, and the dear little ones,
under the care of one so competent to protect and provide for you all.
Mr. Hunting, do you feel that you can take them to your home and heart,
with my daughter?"
"Certainly," said Hunting. "I had no other thought; and Annie's will
shall be supreme in her future home."
"But, after all, the chief question is, Does this ring join your
hearts? I'm sure I'm right in thinking so, Annie?"
"Yes," she said, in a low tone.
Slowly, with his feeble, trembling hands he put the flashing gem on
Annie's finger, and then placed her hand in Hunting's, and, looking
solemnly to heaven, said, "May God bless this betrothal as your father
blesses it."
Hunting stooped and kissed her hand and then her lips. With mingled
truth and policy, he said, "This ceremony is more solemn and binding to
me than the one yet to come at the altar."
Annie was happy in her engagement. It was what she expected, and had
been consummated in a way that seemed peculiarly sweet and sacred; and
yet her thoughts, with a remorseful tinge, would keep recurring to the
man who even then might be dying for her sake.
After they had sat a little while in silence, which is often the best
expression of deep feeling, she suddenly said, with an involuntary
sigh, "Poor Mr. Gregory! I'm so sorry for him!"
Thus Hunting knew where her thoughts were, and instantly the purpose
formed itself in his mind to induce her through her father to consent
to an immediate marriage. He saw more plainly than Annie the great
change in her father, and based his hope on the fact that the parent
might naturally wish to give his child a legal protector before he
passed away.
Mr. Walton now showed such signs of weariness that they left him in
Miss Eulie's care, who seemed to flit like a ministering spirit between
the two patients.
After the great excitement of the day, Annie, too, was very weary, and
soon the household sought such rest as was possible with two of its
inmates apparently very near the boundaries that separate the known
world from the unknown. Glimmering all night long, like signals of
distress at sea, the faint lights of the watchers reminded late
passers-by of the perilous nature of earthly voyaging.
Annie had gone with Miss Eulie to take a parting look at Gregory. She
bent over him and said, "Mr. Gregory," but his spirit seemed to have
sunk into such far depths that even her voice could not summon him.
"Oh, if he should die now!" she moaned, shudderingly, and on the night
of her engagement sobbed herself to sleep.
The next morning saw little change in the patients, save that Mr.
Walton was evidently weaker. Miss Eulie said that Gregory had roused up
during the night and seemed perfectly conscious. He had inquired after
Mr. Walton and Annie, but toward morning had fallen into his old
lethargy.
After breakfast Annie took Hunting up to see him, but was pained at the
darkening of her lover's face as he looked at the prostrate and
unconscious man. She could not understand it. He seemed to have no wish
to remain. She felt almost indignant, and yet what could she say more
than she had said? Gregory's condition, and the cause, should naturally
plead for him beyond all words.
Annie spent most of the day with her father, and purposed watching with
him that night. The doctor came and reported more favorably of Gregory,
but said that everything depended upon his being quiet. Annie purposed
that Hunting should commence the duties of watcher as soon as possible.
Therefore she told her aunt to tell Gregory, as soon as she thought it
would answer, that Hunting had arrived. In the afternoon, Gregory
seemed to come out of his lethargy more decidedly than he had before,
and took some nourishment with marked relish. Then he lay quietly
looking at the fire.
"Do you feel better now?" Miss Eulie asked, gently.
"I'm sure I don't know," he answered, wearily. "I have a numb, strange
feeling."
"Would you like to see Miss Walton?"
"No, not now; I am satisfied to know she is well."
"She wished me to tell you that Mr. Hunting had arrived."
He turned away his face with a deep scowl, but said nothing.
After some time she came to his side and said, "Is there anything you
would like?"
"Nothing," he replied, gently. "I appreciate your great kindness."
Miss Eulie sighed and left the room, feeling dimly that there were
internal injuries after all, but such as were beyond the doctor's skill.
Annie echoed her sigh when she heard how he received Miss Eulie's
information. She determined to prepare and take him his supper.
When she noiselessly entered, he was again looking fixedly at the fire.
But she had not advanced far into the room before he recognized her
step and looked up quickly.
"See," she said, cheerily, coming to his side, "I've prepared and
brought you this supper with my own hands, and shall expect in return
that you compliment it highly. Now, isn't it a good supper?" she asked,
holding it before him.
But his eyes fastened on the glittering and significant ring, whose
meaning he too well understood. With an expression of intense pain he
turned his face to the wall without a word.
"Mr. Gregory," pleaded Annie, "I never thought you would turn away from
me."
"Not from you, not from you," he said, in a low tone, "but I'm very
weak, and the light of that diamond is too strong for me yet."
"Forgive me," she said, in a tone of deep reproach; "I did not think."
"No, forgive me. Please leave me now, and remember in charity how weak
I am."
She put the tray down and hastened from the room. He ate no supper that
night, neither did she. Hunting watched her gloomily, with both fear
and jealousy at heart. The latter, however, was groundless, for Annie's
feeling was only that of profound sorrow for something she could not
help. But lack of strongly manifested interest and sympathy for Gregory
injured him in her estimation; for woman-like she unconsciously took
the side of the one he wronged. She could understand Gregory's enmity,
but it seemed to her that Hunting should be full of generous enthusiasm
for one who was suffering so much in her behalf.
"Men are so strange!" she said, half-vexedly. "They fall in love
without the slightest provocation, and hate each other forever, when a
woman would have sharp words and be over with it. They never do what
you would naturally expect."
During the day Hunting had found time to see Jeff alone, but had found
him inclined to be sullen and uncommunicative. Jeff had changed sides,
and was now an ardent adherent of Gregory's, who had given him five
dollars without imposing any conditions; and then, what was of far
greater import, had saved the house and Annie's life, and, according to
Jeff's simple views of equity, he ought to have both. And yet a certain
rude element of honesty made him feel that he had made a bargain with
Hunting, and that he must fulfil his part and then they would be quits.
But he was not disposed to do it with a very good grace. So when
Hunting said, "Well, Jeff, I suppose you've seen a good deal since I
was last here."
"Yes, I've seen a mighty lot," said Jeff, sententiously.
"Well, Jeff, you remember our agreement. What did you see? Only the
truth now."
"Sartin, sah, only de truf. I'se belong to de Walton family, and yous
doesn't get nothin' but de truf from dem."
"All right, Jeff; I'm glad your employers have so good an influence on
you. Well?"
"I'se seen Misser Gregory on de roof," said Jeff, drawing on his
imagination, as he had only heard about that event through Zibbie's
highly colored story, "where some other folks wouldn't dar go, and now
I'se see dat house dar, which I wouldn't see dar, wasn't it for Misser
Gregory."
"Well, well," said Hunting, impatiently, "I've heard all about that.
What else?"
"I'se seen Miss Annie roun' all day bloomin' and sweet as a rose, and
I'se seen how she might have been a crushed white lily," Jeff
continued, solemnly, with a rhetorical wave of the hand.
There existed in Jeff the raw material of a colored preacher, only it
was very crude and undeveloped. But upon any important occasion he
always grew rhetorical and figurative in his language.
"Come, come, Jeff, tell me something new."
"Well," said Jeff, "since I'se promised to tell you, and since I'se
spent de ten dollars, and hasn't got it to give you back again, I'se
seen Misser Gregory las' Sunday evenin', a kneelin' afore Miss Annie as
if he was a sayin' his prayers to her, and I shouldn't wonder if she
heard 'em (with a chuckle); anyhow she wasn't lofty and scornful, and
Misser Gregory he's looked kinder glorified ever since; afore that he
looked glum, and Miss Annie, she's been kinder bendin' toward him since
dat evenin', like a rosebud wid de dew on it."
Hunting's face darkened with suppressed anger and jealousy. After a
moment he said, "Is that all?"
"Dat's all."
"Well, Jeff, here's ten dollars more, and look sharper than ever now."
"'Scuse me, Misser Hunting. We'se squar' now. I'se done what I agreed,
and now I'se gwine out ob de business."
"Has Gregory engaged your services?" asked Hunting, quickly.
"No, sah, he hab not. I reckon Misser Gregory tink he doesn't need any
help."
"Why won't you do as I wish, then?"
"Well, Mr. Hunting, it kinder makes me feel bad here," said Jeff,
rubbing his hand indefinitely over several physical organs. "I don't
jes' believe Miss Annie would like it, and after seein' Mr. Gregory
under dat pesky ladder, I couldn't do nothin' dat he wouldn't like. If
it hadn't been for him I'd sorter felt as if I'd killed Miss Annie by
leavin' dat doggoned ladder so straight up, and I nebber could hab gone
out in de dark agin all my life."
"Why, you old black fool," said Hunting, irritably, "don't you know I'm
going to marry Miss Annie? You'd better keep on the right side of me."
"Which is de right side?" Jeff could not forbear saying, with a
suppressed chuckle.
"Come, sir, no impudence. You won't serve me any more then?"
"Oh yes, Misser Hunting. I'se black yer boots, make de fire, harness de
hoss, do anything dat won't hurt in here," with a gesture that seemed
to indicate the pit of his stomach. "Anything more, please 'scuse me."
"You will not speak of what has passed between us?"
"I'se given my word," said Jeff, drawing himself up, "de word ob one
dat belongs to de Waltons."
Hunting turned on his heel and strode away. Annie had given one aspect
to the scene on that Sabbath evening, and Jeff had innocently given
another. Hunting was not loyal enough even to such a woman as Annie to
believe her implicitly. But it is the curse of conscious deceit to
breed suspicion. Only the true can have absolute faith in the truth of
others. Moreover, Hunting, in his hidden selfishness and worldliness
could not understand Annie's ardent effort to save a fellow-creature
from sin. Skilled in the subtle impulses of the heart, he believed that
Annie, unconsciously even to herself, was drifting toward the man he
hated all the more because he had wronged him, while the danger of his
presence made him almost vindictive. Yet he realized the necessity of
disguising his feelings, for if Annie discovered them he might well
dread the consequence. But the idea of watching alone with Gregory was
revolting. It suggested dark thoughts which he tried to put from him in
horror, for he was far from being a hardened villain. He was only a man
who had gradually formed the habit of acting from expedience and
self-interest, instead of principle. Such a rule of life often places
us where expedience and self-interest require deeds that are black
indeed.
But he was saved from the ordeal of spending hours alone with a man who
even in his helplessness might injure him beyond remedy, for on the
following morning Annie again sought Gregory's room bent on securing
reconciliation at once. She felt that she could endure this
estrangement no longer.
The young man employed as watcher was out at the time.
Gregory was gazing at the fire with the same look of listless apathy. A
deep flush overspread his deathly pale face as she came and sat down
beside him, but he did not turn from her.
"Mr. Gregory," she said, very gently, "it seems that I can do nothing
but receive favors from you, and I've come now to ask a great one."
He suspected something concerning Hunting, and his face darkened
forbiddingly. Though Annie noted this, she would not be denied.
"Do you think," she said, earnestly, "that, after your sacrifice for
me, I can ever cease to be your friend in the truest and strongest
sense?"
"Miss Walton," he said, calmly, "I've made no sacrifice for you. The
thought of that episode in the orchard is my one comfort while lying
here, and will be through what is left of life. But please do not speak
of it, for it will become a pain to me if I see the obligation is a
burden to you."
"It is not," she said, eagerly. "I'm glad to owe my life to you. But do
you think I can go on my way and forget you?"
"It's the very best you can do, Miss Walton."
"But I tell you it's impossible. Thank God, it's not my nature to do
it!"
He turned toward her with a wistful, searching look.
"We must carry out our old agreement," continued Annie. "We must be
close and lasting friends. You should not blame me for an attachment
formed years ago."
"I do not blame you."
"Then you should not punish me so severely. You first make your
friendship needful to me, and then you deny it."
"I am _your_ friend, and more."
"How can we enjoy a frank and happy friendship through coming years,
after--after--you feel differently from what you do now, when you will
not even hear the name of him who will one day be my second self?"
Again his face darkened; but she continued rapidly, "Mr. Hunting is
deeply grateful to you, and would like to express his feelings in
person. He wishes to bury the past--"
"He will, with me, soon," interrupted Gregory, gloomily.
"No; please do not speak in that way," she pleaded. "He wishes to make
what little return he can, and offers to watch with you night and day."
He turned upon her almost fiercely, and said, "Are you too in league
with my evil destiny, in that you continually persecute me with that
man? Miss Walton, I half doubt whether you know what love means, or you
would not make such a proposition. Let me at least die quietly. With
the memory of the past and the knowledge of the present, his presence
in my room would be death by torture. Pardon me, but let us end this
matter once for all. We have both been unfortunate, you in inspiring a
love that you cannot return; I in permitting my heart to go from me,
beyond recall, before learning that my passion would be hopeless. I do
not see that either of us has been to blame, you certainly not in the
slightest degree. But, however vain, my love is an actual fact, and I
cannot act as if it were not. As well might a man with a mortal wound
smile and say it's but a scratch. I cannot change my mind merely in
view of expedience and invest such feelings in another way. The fact of
my love is now a past disaster, and I must bear the consequences with
such fortitude as I can. But what you ask would drive me mad. If I
should live, possibly in the future I might meet you often without the
torturing regret I now feel. But to make a smiling member of Charles
Hunting's friendly circle would require on my part the baldest
hypocrisy; and I can't do it, and won't try. If that man comes into my
room, I will crawl out if I can."
He was trembling with excitement, his face flushed and feverish, and
his eyes unnaturally bright.
"And you banish me too," said Annie, hurt and alarmed at the same time.
"Yes, yes; forgive me for saying so. Yes; till I'm stronger. See how
I've spoken to you. I've no self-control."
She was most reluctant to go, and stood a moment, hesitating. Timidly
she ventured to quote the line:
"Earth has no sorrows that Heaven cannot cure."
"That's a comforting fact for those who are going there," he said,
coldly.
With a sudden burst of passionate grief she stooped and kissed his
hand, then fled to her own room, and cried as if her heart would break.
It seemed as if he were lost to her and heaven, and yet he was capable
of being so noble and good!
Miss Eulie entered Gregory's room soon after, and was alarmed at his
feverish and excited appearance. She decided that Annie's visits must
cease for the present. However, she took no apparent notice of his
disturbed condition, but immediately gave a remedy to ward off fever,
and a strong opiate, which, with the reaction and his weakness, caused
him to sink back into something like his old lethargy.
Hunting had spent the morning with Mr. Walton, preparing his mind for
the plan of immediate marriage. He found the failing man not averse to
the project, as his love ought to secure to Annie every help and solace
possible.
After Annie had removed from her face, to the best of her ability,
every trace of her emotion, she came down and took her place at her
father's side, intending to leave it only when compelled to. Hunting
knew of her mission to Gregory, and looked at her inquiringly, but she
sadly shook her head. He tried to look hurt, but only succeeded in
looking angry. He soon controlled himself, however, though he noted
with deep uneasiness Annie's sad face and red eyes. Mr. Walton
fortunately was dozing and needed no explanation.
That night he was much worse, and had some very serious symptoms. Annie
did not leave his side. But toward morning he rallied and fell into a
quiet sleep. Then she took a little rest.
The next day she was told that there was a gentleman in the parlor who
wished to see her. The stranger proved to be one of Gregory's partners,
Mr. Seymour, who courteously said, "I should have been here before, but
the senior partner, Mr. Burnett, is unable to attend to business at
present, and I came away the first moment I could leave. I felt sure
also that everything would be done that could be. I hope the injury is
not so serious as was first supposed."
"You may rest assured that we have tried to do everything," said Annie,
gravely, "but Mr. Gregory is in a very precarious condition. You would
like to see him, I suppose."
"If I can with safety to him."
"I think a brief interview may do him good. He needs rallying."
At that moment Hunting, not knowing who was present, entered. Both
gentleman started, but Mr. Seymour gave no sign of recognition, nor did
Hunting, though he could not at first hide a certain degree of nervous
agitation. Annie presented him. Mr. Seymour bowed stiffly, and said,
rather curtly, "We have met before," and then gave him no further
attention, but continuing to address Annie, said, "I well understand
that Mr. Gregory needs rallying. That has been just his need for the
last few months, during which time his health has been steadily
failing. I was in hopes he would come back--" and then he stopped,
quite puzzled for a moment by the sudden change in Annie's manner,
which had become freezingly cold toward him, while there was a look of
honest indignation upon her face.
"Excuse me, sir," she said, briefly. "I will send you my aunt, who will
attend to your wishes;" and she left Mr. Seymour standing in the middle
of the room, both confused and annoyed; but he at once surmised that it
was on account of his manner toward Hunting, who sat down with a paper
at the further side of the room, as if he were alone.
But when, a moment later, Miss Eulie entered with her placid, unruffled
face, Mr. Seymour could not be otherwise than perfectly polite, and
after a few words, followed her to Gregory's room.
Annie at once came to Hunting and asked, "Why did that man act so?"
"Why, don't you see?" answered he, hastily. "Mr. Seymour is Mr.
Gregory's partner. They all have the same reason for feeling hostile
toward me, though perhaps Gregory has special reasons," he added, with
a searching look.
Annie blushed deeply at this allusion, but said with emphasis, "No man
shall treat you in that way in my presence and still receive courtesy
from me."
But his jealous spirit had noticed her quick blush more than her
generous resentment of the insult she supposed offered him. Therefore
he said, "Mr. Gregory would treat me worse if he got a chance."
"But his case is different from any one's else," she said, with another
quick flush.
"Evidently so in your estimation."
Then for the first time she noted his jealousy, and it hurt her sorely.
She took a step nearer and looked very gravely into his face for a
moment without speaking, and then said, with that calmness which is
more effective than passion, "Charles, take care. I'm one that will be
trusted. Though it seems a light matter to you that he has saved my
life, at perhaps the cost of his own, it does not to me."
The cool and usually cautious man had for once lost his poise, and he
said, with sudden irritation, "I hear that and nothing else. What else
could he have done? If you had stayed at your father's side you would
have been safe. He took you out to walk, and any man would have risked
his life to bring you back safely."
He now saw in Annie a spirit he could never control as he managed
people in Wall Street, for, with a sudden flash in her eyes, she said,
hotly, "I do not reason thus coldly about those to whom I owe so much,"
and abruptly left him.
In bitterness of fear and self-reproach he at once realized his
blunder. He followed her, but she was with her father, and he could not
speak there. He looked imploringly at her, but could not catch her eye,
for she was deeply incensed. Had she not heard him she would not have
believed that he could be so ungenerous.
He wrote on a scrap of paper, "Annie, forgive me. I humbly ask your
pardon. I'm not myself to-day, and that man's conduct, which you so
nobly resented in my behalf, vexed me to that degree that I acted like
a fool. I am not worthy of you, but you will perceive that my folly
arises from my excess of love for you. I'm going for a walk. Please
greet me with pardon in your face on my return."
Impulsive, loving, warm-hearted Annie could not resist such an appeal.
She at once relented, and began to make a thousand better excuses for
her lover than he could for himself. But she had taught him a lesson,
and proved that she was not a weak, willowy creature that would cling
to him no matter what he was or did. He saw that he must seem to be
worthy of her.
Gregory greeted his partner with a momentary glow of gratitude that he
had come so far to see him, and began talking about his business.
"Not a word of that, old fellow," said Mr. Seymour. "Your business is
to get well. It seems to me that you have everything here for comfort
--good medical attendance, eh?"
"Yes; if anything, too much is done for me."
"I don't understand just how it happened."
Gregory told him briefly.
"By Jove! this Miss Walton ought to be very grateful to you."
"She is too grateful."
"I don't know about that. I met that infernal Hunting downstairs. Of
course I couldn't treat him with politeness, and do you know the little
lady spunked up about it to that degree that she almost turned her back
upon me and left the room."
"Of course," said Gregory, coolly, shielding his secret by a desperate
effort; "they are engaged."
"Oh, I understand now. Well, I rather like her spirit. Does she know
how accomplished her lover is in Wall Street?"
"No. Hunting is a distant relative of the family. They believe him to
be a gentleman, and would not listen to a word against him."
"But they ought to know. He lied like a scoundrel to us, and in your
trying all summer to make up the losses, he has nearly been the death
of you. I wouldn't let my daughter marry him though he had enough money
to break the Street: and it is a pity that a fine girl, as this Miss
Walton seems, should throw herself away on him."
"Well, Seymour, that's not our affair," said Gregory, pale and faint
from his effort at self-control. "They would listen to nothing."
"Well, good-by, old fellow. I see it won't do to talk with you any
more. Get well as soon as you can, for we want you woefully in town.
Get well, and carry off this Miss Walton yourself. It would be a neat
way of turning the tables on Hunting."
"Don't set your heart on seeing me at the office again," said Gregory,
feelingly. "I have a presentiment that I shan't pull through this, and
I don't much care. Give my kindest regards to Mr. Burnett, and tell him
I shall think of him to the last as among my best friends."
Seymour made a few hearty remonstrances against such a state of mind,
and took his departure with many misgivings. Gregory relapsed into his
old dreary apathy. Life had so many certain ills that upon the whole he
felt he would rather die. But he was too stunned and weak to think
much, save when Annie came to him. Her presence was always life, but
now it was a sharp revival of the consciousness of his loss. Left to
himself, his mind sank down into a sort of painless lethargy, from
which he did not wish to be aroused.
Mr. Walton passed a quieter night, but was clearly failing fast. He
sent frequent messages of love and sympathy to Gregory, and had an
abiding faith that all would be well with him in the next life, if not
in this. Annie had not the heart to undeceive him. When he thought it a
little strange that Hunting was not with Gregory, Annie explained by
saying that the doctor insisted on perfect quiet of mind, and the
presence of Hunting might unpleasantly revive old memories, and so
unduly excite him.
After the physician saw his patients the following morning, he looked
grave and dissatisfied. Annie followed him to the door, and said,
"Doctor, I don't like the expression of your face."
"Well, Miss Annie," said the doctor, discontentedly, "I've a difficult
task on my hands, in trying to cure two patients that make no effort to
live. Your father seems homesick for heaven, and mere drugs can't rouse
Mr. Gregory out of his morbid, gloomy apathy. I could get him ashore if
he would strike out for himself, but he just floats down stream like
driftwood. But really I'm doing all that can be done, I think."
"I believe you are," she said, sadly. "Good-by."
"O merciful God!" she exclaimed when alone. "What shall I do--what
shall I do to save him? Father's going to heaven and mother. Where is
_he_ going?"