UNMASKED
It seemed that they passed through miles of water that roared around
them like a cataract. But Annie and Gregory held to each other in their
strong, convulsive grasp, and her belt caused him to rise with her to
the surface again. A piece of the wheelhouse floated near; Gregory swam
for it, and pushing it to Annie helped her upon it. Hunting also
grasped it. But it would not sustain the weight of all three,
especially as Gregory had no preserver on.
One must leave it that the other two might escape.
"Good-by, Annie, darling," said Gregory. "We will meet again in heaven
if not on earth. Cling to your plank as long as you can, and a boat may
pick you up. Good-by, poor Hunting, I'm sorry for you."
"What are you going to do?" gasped Annie.
"Don't you see that this won't float all three? I shall try to find
something else."
"No, no," cried Annie, "don't leave me: you have no belt on. If you go
I will too."
"I once lived for your sake; now you must for mine. I may save myself;
but if you leave we shall both drown. Good-by, dearest. If I reach home
first, I'll watch and wait till you come."
She felt him kiss her hand where she clung to her frail support, and
then he disappeared in the darkness.
"Why did you let him go?" she said to Hunting--"you who have a
preserver on?"
"O God, have mercy on me!" groaned the wretched man.
Annie now gave up all hope of escape, and indeed wished to die. She was
almost sure that Gregory had perished, and she felt that her best-loved
ones were in heaven.
She would have permitted herself to be washed away had not a sense of
duty to live until God took her life kept her firm. But every moment it
seemed that her failing strength would give way, and her benumbed hands
loosen their hold.
"But," she murmured in the noblest triumph of faith, "I shall sink, not
in these cold depths, but into my Saviour's arms."
Toward the last, when alone in the very presence of death, He seemed
nearest and dearest. She could not bear to look at the dark, angry
waters strewn with floating corpses. She had a sickening dread that
Gregory's white face might float by. So she closed her eyes, and only
thought of heaven, which was so near that its music seemed to mingle
with the surging of the waves.
She tried to say a comforting word to Hunting, but the terror-stricken
man could only groan mechanically, "God have mercy on me!"
Soon she began to grow numb all over. A dreamy peace pervaded her mind,
and she was but partially conscious.
She was aroused by hearing her name called. Did the voice come from
that shore beyond all dark waves of earthly trouble? At first she was
not sure.
Again and louder came the cry, but too full of human agony to be a
heavenly voice--
"Annie! Annie!"
"Here!" she cried, faintly, while Hunting, helpful for once, shrieked
aloud above the roar of the waves.
Then she heard the sound of oars, and a moment later strong hands
lifted her into the boat, and she found herself in Gregory's arms, her
head pillowed on his breast. Then all grew dark.
When she again became conscious she found herself in a small cabin,
with many others in like pitiable plight. Her aunt was bending over her
on one side and Gregory on the other, chafing her hands. At first she
could not remember or understand, and stared vacantly at them.
"Annie, darling," said Miss Eulie, "don't you know me?"
Then glad intelligence dawned in her face, and she reached out her
arms, and each clasped the other as one might receive the dead back to
life.
But quickly she turned and asked, "Where is Mr. Gregory?"
"Here, safe and sound," he said, joyously, "and Hunting, too. I shall
bless him all the days of my life, for his cries drowned old ocean's
hoarse voice and brought us right to you."
Hunting looked as if he did not exactly relish the tribute, but he
stooped down and kissed Annie, who permitted rather than received the
caress.
"How did you escape?" she asked Gregory, eagerly.
"Well, I swam toward the ship that struck us, whose lights I saw
twinkling in the distance, till almost exhausted. I was on the point of
giving up, when a small piece of the wreck floated near. By a great
effort I succeeded in reaching it. Then a little later a boat from this
ship picked me up and we started after you or any others that could be
found. I am glad to say that quite a number that went down with the
ship were saved."
She looked at him in a way to bring the warm blood into his face, and
said, in a low tone, "How can I ever repay yon?"
"By doing as you once said to me, 'Live! get strong and well.' Good-by
now. Miss Morton will take care of you."
Her eyes followed him till he disappeared, then she turned and hid her
face on Miss Eulie's shoulder. The good old lady was a little puzzled,
and so was Hunting, though he had dismal forebodings. But he was so
glad to have escaped that he could not indulge in very bitter regrets
just then. As his mind recovered its poise, however, and he had time to
think it all over, there came a sickening sense of humiliation.
In a few minutes Gregory returned and said to Annie, "See how honored
you are. I've been so lucky as to get the captain's best coat for you,
and those wet things that would chill you to death can be taken off.
You can give my coat to Hunting. You see I was up at the time of the
accident, and so am dressed."
"If I am to wear the captain's coat," said Annie, "then, with some of
his authority, I order you to go and take care of yourself. You have
done enough for others for a little while."
"Ay, ay, captain," said Gregory, smiling, as he again vanished.
It would only be painful to dwell on the dreary days and nights during
which the comparatively small sailing vessel was beating back against a
stormy wind to the port from which she had sailed. She had been much
injured by the collision, and many were doubtful whether, after all,
they would ever see land. Thus, to the manifold miseries of the rescued
passengers, was added continued anxiety as to their fate. It was,
indeed, a sad company that was crowded in that small cabin,
half-clothed, bruised, sick, and fearful. What seemed to them an
endless experience was but a long nightmare of trouble, while some, who
had lost their best and dearest, refused to be comforted and almost
wished they had perished also.
Annie's gratitude that their little party had all been spared grew
stronger every hour, and the one through whose efforts they had been
saved grew daily dearer.
At first she let her strong affection go out to him unchecked, not
realizing whither she was drifting; but a little characteristic event
occurred which revealed her to herself.
Her exposure had again caused quite a serious illness, and she saw
little of Gregory for a few days. Hunting claimed his right to be with
her as far as it was possible. Though she would not admit it to
herself, she almost shrunk from him. Of course the sailing ship had
been provisioned for only a comparatively small crew, and the sudden
and large accession to the number threatened to add the terrors of
famine to their other misfortunes.
Annie had given almost all of her allowance away. Indeed she had no
appetite, and revolted at the coarse food served. But she noticed that
Hunting ate all of his, or else put some quietly away, in view of
future need. She said to him, upon this occasion, "Can't you spare a
little of your portion for those poor people over there? They look
half-famished."
"I will do so if you wish," he replied, "but it would hardly be wise.
Think what tremendous business interests I represent, and it is of the
first importance that I keep up."
"Mr. Gregory is almost starving himself," said Miss Eulie, quietly. "I
feel very anxious about him."
"I represent a business of thousands where Mr. Gregory does hundreds,"
said Hunting, complacently.
"I wish you represented something else," said Annie, bitterly, turning
away.
Her words and manner jostled him out of himself. A principle that
seemed to him so sound and generally accepted appeared sordid and
selfish calculation to Annie and she felt that Gregory represented
infinitely greater riches in his self-denial for others.
Hunting saw his blunder and instantly carried all his portion to those
whom Annie had pointed out. But it was too late. He had shown his inner
nature again in a way that repelled Annie's very soul. She turned sick
at the thought of being bound to such a man.
At first she had tried to excuse his helpless terror on the ship by
thinking it a physical trait; but this was a moral trait. It gave a
sudden insight into the cold, dark depths of his nature.
Immediately after the disaster she had been too sick and bewildered to
realize her situation. Her engagement was such an old and accepted fact
that at first no thought of any other termination of it than by
marriage entered her mind. Yet she already looked forward to it only as
a duty, and she felt that her love for Hunting would be that of pity
rather than trust and honor. But she was so truthful--so chained by her
promises--that her engagement rested upon her like a solemn obligation.
Again, it had been entered into under circumstances so tenderly sacred
that even the wish to escape from it seemed like sacrilege. Still, she
said, in intense bitterness, "Dear father was deceived also. We did not
know him as we should."
Yet she had nothing against Hunting, save a growing lack of
congeniality and his cowardice at a time when few men could be heroic.
In her strong sense of justice she felt that she should not condemn a
man for an infirmity. But her cheeks tingled with shame as she
remembered his weakness, and she felt that a Christian ought to have
done a little better under any circumstances. When, in the event above
described, she saw his hard, calculating spirit, her whole nature
revolted from him almost in loathing.
After a brief time she told him that she wanted to be alone, and he
went away cursing his own folly. Miss Eulie, thinking she wished to
sleep, also left her.
"How can I marry him?" she groaned; "and yet how can I escape such an
engagement?"
When her aunt returned she found her sobbing as if her heart would
break.
"Why, Annie, dear, what is the matter?" she asked.
"Don't ask me," she moaned, and buried her face in her pillow.
Then that judicious lady looked very intelligent, but said nothing
more. She sat down and began to stroke Annie's brown, dishevelled hair.
But instead of showing very great sympathy for her niece, she had an
unusually complacent expression. Gregory had a strong but discreet
friend in the camp.
When Annie became calmer, she said, hesitatingly, "Do you think--is Mr.
Gregory--doesn't he eat anything?"
"No; he is really wronging himself. I heard it said that the captain
had threatened, jokingly, to put him in irons if he did not obey orders
and eat his allowance."
"Do you think I could make--do you think he would do better if I should
ask him?" inquired Annie, with her face buried in her pillow.
"Well," said Miss Eulie, gravely, though with a smile upon her face,
"Mr. Gregory is very self-willed, especially about some things, but I
do think that you have more power over him than any one else."
"Won't you tell him that I want to see him?"
He was very glad to come. Annie tried hard to be very firm and
composed, but, with her red eyes and full heart, did not succeed very
well.
At first he was a little embarrassed by her close scrutiny, for she had
wrought herself up into the expectation of seeing a gaunt,
famine-stricken man. But his cheeks, though somewhat hollow, were
ruddy, and his face was bronzed by exposure. Instead of being pained by
his cadaverous aspect, she was impressed by his manly beauty; but she
said, "I have sent for you that I might give you a scolding."
"I'm all meekness," he said, a little wonderingly.
"Aunty tells me that you don't eat anything."
"That is just what she says of you."
"But I'm ill and can't eat."
"Neither can I."
"Why not?"
"How can a man eat when there are hungry women aboard? It would choke
me."
Instead of scolding him, she again buried her face in her pillow, and
burst into tears.
He was a little perplexed, but said, gently, "Come, my dear little
sister, I hope you are not worrying about me. I assure you there is no
cause. I never felt better, and the worst that can happen is a famine
in England when I reach. It grieves me to the heart to see you so pale
and weak. The captain says I have a bad conscience, but it's only
anxiety for you that makes me so restless."
"Do you stay upon deck all night this bitter weather?"
"Well, I want to be ready if anything should happen."
"O Walter, Walter! how I have wronged you!"
"No, beg your pardon, you have righted me. What was I when I first knew
you, Annie Walton? There is some chance of my being a man now. But
come, let me cheer you up. I have good news for you. If I had lost
every dollar on that ship I should still be rich, for your little Bible
(I shall always call it yours) remained safe in my overcoat pocket, and
you brought it aboard. Now let me read you something that will comfort
you. I find a place where it is written, 'Begin here.' Can you account
for that?"
And he read that chapter, so old but inexhaustible, beginning, "Let not
your heart be troubled."
Having finished it, he said, "I will leave my treasure with you, as you
may wish to read some yourself. In regard to the subject of the
'scolding,' which, by the way, I have not yet received, if Miss Morton
here can tell me that you are eating more, I will. Good-by."
Annie's appetite improved from that hour. She seized upon the old Bible
and turned its stained leaves with the tenderest interest. As she did
so, her harsh note to Gregory, written when Hunting complained that he
had been insulted, dropped out. How doubly harsh and unjust her words
seemed now! Then she read his words, "Forgiven, my dear, deceived
sister." She kissed them passionately, then tore the note to fragments.
Miss Eulie watched her curiously, then stole away with another smile.
She liked the spell that was acting now, but knew Annie too well to say
much. Miss Eulie was one of those rare women who could let a good work
of this kind go on without meddling.
Annie did not read the Bible, but only laid it against her cheek. Then
Hunting came back looking very discontented, for he had managed to
catch glimpses of her interview with Gregory.
"Shall I read to you from that book?" he said.
She shook her head.
"You seemed to enjoy having Mr. Gregory read it to you," he said,
meaningly.
Color came into her pale face, but she only said, "He did not stay
long. I'm ill and tired."
"It's rather hard, Annie," he continued, with a deeply injured air, "to
see another more welcome at your side than I am."
"What do you mean?" she asked, in a sudden passion. "How much time has
Mr. Gregory been with me since he saved both our lives? You heard my
father say that I should be a sister to him; and yet I believe that you
would like me to become a stranger. Have you forgotten that but for him
you would have been at the bottom of the Atlantic? There, there, leave
me now, I'm weak and ill--leave me till we both can get into better
moods."
Pale with suppressed shame and anger, he went away, wishing in the
depth of his soul that Gregory was at the bottom of the Atlantic.
Again she buried her face in her pillow and sobbed and moaned, "How can
I marry that man! He makes my very flesh creep."
Then for the first time came the swift thought, "I could marry Gregory;
I'm happy the moment I'm near him;" and her face burned as did the
thought in her heart.
Then she turned pale with fear at herself. A sudden sense of guilt
alarmed her, for she had the feeling that she belonged to Hunting. So
solemn had been her engagement that the thought of loving another
seemed almost like disloyalty to the marriage-tie. With a despairing
sigh, she murmured, "Chained, chained."
Then strongly arose the womanly instinct of self-shielding, and the
purpose to hide her secret. An hour before, Gregory could not come too
often. He might have stooped down and as a brother kissed her lips, and
she would not have thought it strange or unnatural. Now she dreaded to
see him. And yet when would he be out of her thoughts? She hoped and
half-believed that he was beginning to regard her as a sister, and
still, deep in her soul, this thought had an added sting of pain.
Ah, Annie! you thought you loved before, but a master-spirit has now
come who will stir depths in your nature of which neither you nor
Hunting dreamed.
Hunting, seemingly, had no further cause to be jealous of Gregory
during the rest of the voyage. With the whole strength of her proud,
resolute nature, Annie guarded her secret. She sent kind messages to
Gregory, and returned the Bible, but did not ask him to visit her
again. Neither did she come on deck herself till they were entering the
harbor of an English port.
When Gregory came eagerly toward her, though her face flushed deeply,
she greeted him with a kind and gentle dignity, which, nevertheless,
threw a chill upon his heart. All the earnest words he meant to say
died upon his lips, and gave way to mere commonplaces. Drawing her
heavy shawl about her, she sat down and looked back toward the sea as
if regretting leaving it with all its horrors. He thought, "When have I
seen such a look of patient sorrow on any human face? She saw the love
I could not hide at our last interview. I did not deceive her by
calling her 'sister.' Her great, generous heart is grieving because of
my hopeless love, while in the most delicate manner she reminds me how
vain it is. Now I know why she did not send for me again."
He walked away from the little group pale and faint, and she could not
keep back the hot tears as she watched him. Miss Eulie was also
observant, and saw how they misunderstood each other. But she acted as
if blind, feeling that quickly coming events would right everything
better than any words of hers.
Gregory went to another part of the vessel, and leaned over the
railing. Annie noticed with an absorbing interest that he seemed as
indifferent to the delight of the passengers at the prospect of soon
being on land, and the bustle on the wharf, as he had appeared at the
commencement of the voyage. But she rightly guessed that there was
tumult at his heart. There certainly was at hers. When the vessel
dropped anchor and they would soon go ashore, he turned with the
resolve, "I will show her that I can bear my hard lot like a man," and
again came toward them, a proud and courteous gentleman.
Annie saw and understood the change, and her heart was chilled by a
sense of loneliness and isolation greater than if the stormy Atlantic
had rolled between them. And yet his manner toward her was very gentle,
very considerate.
He took charge of Miss Eulie, and soon they were at the best hotel in
the place. The advent of the survivors caused great excitement in the
city, and they were all overwhelmed with kindness and sympathy.
After a few hours Gregory returned to the hotel, dressed in quiet
elegance, and he seemed to Annie the very ideal of manhood; while she,
in her mourning robes, seemed to him the perfection of womankind. But
their manner toward each other was very quiet, and only Miss Eulie
guessed the subterranean fires that were burning in each heart.
"Are you sure that you will be perfectly comfortable here?" he asked.
"Entirely so," Annie replied. "Mr. Hunting has telegraphed to my uncle,
and we will await him here. I do not feel quite strong enough to travel
yet."
"Then I can leave you for a day or two with a quiet mind. I must go to
Liverpool."
She turned a shade paler, but only said, "I am very sorry you must
leave us so soon."
"I missed a note from your Bible," he said, in a low tone.
"Forgive me! I destroyed it," and she turned and walked to the window
to hide her burning face.
Just then Hunting entered, and a few moments later Gregory bade them a
quiet farewell.
"How wonderful is her constancy!" he sighed as he went away. "How can
she love and cling to that man after what he has shown himself!"
He had utterly misunderstood her and believed that she had destroyed
the note, not because of her own harsh words, but of his reflecting on
Hunting.
Annie thought she knew what sorrow was, but confessed to herself in
bitterness, after he had gone, that such had not been the case before.
If Hunting secretly exulted that Gregory was out of the way, and had
been taught by Annie that he must keep his distance, as he would
express it, he was also secretly uneasy at her manner toward him. She
merely endured his lavish attentions, and seemed relieved when he was
compelled to leave her for a time. "She will feel and act differently,"
he thought, "when she gets well and strong, and will be the same as
before." Thus the harassing fears and jealousy that had tortured him at
sea gave way to complacent confidence. But he was greatly provoked that
he could scarcely ever see Annie without the embarrassing presence of
Miss Eulie.
He had a growing antipathy for that lady, while he felt sure that she
did not like him. Annie was very grateful to her aunt for quietly
shielding her from caresses that every hour grew more unendurable.
Gregory was detained for some time in Liverpool, and on his return to
the city where he had left Annie and Miss Eulie he met Mr. Kemp, whom
he had known well in New York, also seeking them. This gentleman
greeted him most warmly, for he had read in the papers good accounts of
Gregory's behavior. In a few moments they entered the hotel together.
Fortunately, as Gregory thought, but most unfortunately, has he learned
afterward, Hunting was out at the time.
The warm color came into Annie's face as he greeted her, and she seemed
so honestly and eagerly glad to see him that his sore heart was
comforted.
Mr. Kemp's manner toward his niece and sister was affectionate in the
extreme. Indeed, the good old man seemed quite overcome by his
feelings, and Gregory was about to retire, but he said, "No, please
stay, sir. Forgive my weakness, if it is such. You don't know how dear
these people are to me, and when I think of all they have passed
through I can hardly control myself."
"We should not be here, uncle," said Annie, in a low, thrilling voice,
"had it not been for Mr. Gregory."
Then the old gentleman came and gave Gregory's hand such a grasp that
it ached for hours after. "I have been reading," he said, "warm
tributes to his conduct in the papers, but I did not know that we were
all under such deep personal obligations to him. Come, Annie, you must
tell me all about it."
"Not now, please," said Gregory. "I start in a few moments for Paris,
and must even now say good-by for a little time. I warn you, Mr. Kemp,
that Miss Walton will exaggerate my services. She has a way of
overvaluing what is done for her, and undervaluing what she does for
others."
"Well," said Mr. Kemp, with a significant nod, "that's a trait that
runs in the Walton blood."
"I long ago came to regard their blood as of the truest blue," said
Gregory, laughing.
"Must you leave us again so soon?" said Annie, with a slight tremble in
her voice.
"Yes, Miss Walton, even now I should be on the way to the train. But
you are surrounded by those who can best take care of you. Still I
earnestly hope that, before many days, I shall see you in Paris, and in
greatly improved health. So I won't say good-by, but only good-morning."
Ah, he did not know, or he would have said "farewell" with a heavy
heart.
His parting from her was most friendly, and the pressure of his hand
warm and strong, but Annie felt, with a deep, unsatisfied pain at
heart, that it was all too formal. Mr. Kemp was exceedingly
demonstrative, and said, "Wait till I see you in Paris, and I will
overwhelm you with questions, especially about your partner, my dear
old friend, Mr. Burnett."
But staid, quiet Miss Eulie surprised them all. She just put her arms
about his neck, and gave him a hearty kiss, saying, "Take that, Mr.
Gregory, from one who loves you like a mother."
He returned the caress most tenderly, and hastened away to hide his
emotion.
Then envious Annie bitterly reproached herself that she had been so
cold, and, to make amends, began giving a glowing account of all that
Gregory had done for them.
The old gentleman listened with an amused twinkle in his eyes, secretly
exulting over the thought, "It is not going to break her heart to part
with Hunting."
In the midst of her graphic story that unfortunate man entered, and her
words died upon her lips. She rose quietly, and said, "Charles, this is
my uncle, Mr. Kemp."
But she was amazed to see Mr. Kemp, who thus far had seemed geniality
itself, acknowledge her affianced with freezing coldness, and Hunting
turned deathly pale with a presentiment of disaster.
"Be seated, sir," said Mr. Kemp, stiffly; "I wish to make a brief
explanation, and after that will relieve you of the care of these
ladies."
Hunting sank into a chair, and Annie saw something of the same terror
on his face which had sickened her on the sinking ship. "Annie," said
her uncle, very gravely, "have you entire confidence in me? Your father
had."
"Certainly," said Annie, wondering beyond measure at this most
unaccountable scene.
"Will you take my word for it, that this man, who seems most conscious
of his guilt, deceived--yes, lied to Burnett & Co., and swindled them
out of so large a sum of money that the firm would have failed but for
me? Because, if you cannot take my word, I can give you absolute proof."
Annie buried her face in her hands and said, "Now I understand all this
wretched mystery. How I have wronged Mr. Gregory!"
"You could not do other than wrong him while Mr. Hunting had any
influence over you. I know Mr. Gregory well. He is an honorable
business man, and always was, with all his faults. And now, sir, for
your satisfaction, let me inform you that Mr. Burnett is one of my most
intimate friends. He told me all about it, and gave ample proof of the
nature of the entire transaction. I am connected with the bank with
which the firm deposited, and through my influence I secured them such
accommodation as tided them over the critical time in their affairs
which your villany had occasioned."
Hunting now recovered himself sufficiently to say, "I did nothing
different from what often occurs in business. I had a legal right to
every cent that I collected from Burnett & Co."
"But how about _moral right?_ Do we not all know that often the most
barefaced robberies take place within the limits of the law? And such
was your act. Even the hardened gamblers of the Street were disgusted."
"You have no right to speak to me in this way, sir," said Hunting,
trying to work up a little indignation. "Mr. Walton trusted me, and I
became engaged to Miss Walton under circumstances the most solemn and
sacred; we are the same as married."
"Come, sir," interrupted Mr. Kemp, hotly, "don't make me lose my
temper. John Walton was the soul of Christian honor. He would have
buried his daughter rather than have her marry you, if he had known you
as I do. I now insist that you resign your executorship and relieve us
of your presence."
"Annie," cried Hunting, in a voice of anguish, "can you sit quietly by
and hear me so insulted?"
She sat motionless--her face, burning with shame, buried in her hands.
With her intense Walton hatred of deceit, the thought that she had come
so near marrying a swindler and liar scorched her very soul.
He came to her side and tried to take her hand, but she shrunk from him
in loathing, and, springing up, said passionately, "When I think, sir,
that with this guilty secret you would have tricked me into marriage by
my father's death-bed, I am perfectly appalled at your wickedness. God
in mercy snatched me then from a fate worse than death."
She turned away for a moment and pressed her hands upon her throbbing
heart. Then turning her dark and flashing eyes to where he stood, pale,
speechless, and trembling, she said, more calmly, "May God forgive you.
I will when I can. Go."
She proved what is often true, that the gentle, when desperately
wronged, are the most terrible.
He slunk cowering away without a word, and to avoid exposure Mr. Kemp
at once compelled him to sign papers that took from him all further
power of mischief. Mr. Kemp eventually became executor in his stead.
As soon as Annie grew calmer she had a glad sense of escape greater
than that which had followed her rescue from the wrecked ship. Her
heart sprung up within her bosom and sung for joy. Then again she would
shudder deeply at what she had so narrowly avoided. Stronger than her
gratitude for life twice saved was her feeling of obligation to Gregory
for his persistent effort to shield her from this marriage. She was
eager to start for Paris at once that she might ask forgiveness for all
her injustice toward him. But in the excess of her feelings she was far
more unjust toward herself, as he would have told her.
Still, even if Hunting's dishonesty had not been revealed to her, Annie
would have broken with him. As soon as she gained her mental strength
and poise--as soon as she realized that her love was hopelessly gone
from him--her true, strong nature would have revolted from the marriage
as from a crime, and she would have told him, in deepest pity, but with
rock-like firmness, that it could not be.
The next day she greatly relented toward him, and, in her deep pity,
sent a kind farewell message which it would nave been well for him to
heed.