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Opening a Chestnut Burr

<h2 id="id01173" style="margin-top: 4em">CHAPTER XIX</h2> <h5 id="id01174">MISS WALTON MADE OF DIFFERENT CLAY FROM OTHERS</h5> Simple remedies and prolonged rest were sufficient to restore Annie after the serious shock and strain she had sustained. She rose even earlier than usual, and hastily dressed that she might resume her wonted place as mistress of her father's household. In view of her recent peril and the remediless loss he might have suffered, she was doubly grateful for the privilege of ministering to his wants and filling his declining years with cheer and comfort. She had not been awake long before Gregory's irregular steps in the adjoining room aroused her attention and caused anxious surmises. But she was inclined to think that his restlessness resulted from mental distress rather than physical. Still she did not pity him less, but rather more. Though so young, she knew that the "wounded spirit" often inflicts the keener agony. Her strong womanly nature was deeply moved in his behalf. As we have seen, it was her disposition to be helpful and sustaining, rather than clinging and dependent. She had a heart "at leisure from itself, to soothe and sympathize." From the depths of her soul she pitied Gregory and wished to help him out of a state which the psalmist with quaint force describes as "a horrible pit and the miry clay." She was a very practical reformer, and determined that a dainty breakfast should minister to the outer man before she sought to apply a subtler balm to the inner. Trusting not even to Zibbie's established skill, she prepared with her own hands some inviting delicacies, and soon that which might have tempted the most exacting of epicures was ready. Mr. Walton shared the delight of the children at seeing Annie bustling round again as the good genius of their home, and Miss Eulie's little sighs of content were as frequent as the ripples on the shore. Miss Eulie could sigh and wipe a tear from the corner of her eye in the most cheerful and hope-inspiring way, for somehow her face shone with an inward radiance, and, even in the midst of sorrow and when wet with tears, reminded one of a lantern on a stormy night, which, covered with rain-drops, still gives light and comfort. Breakfast was ready, but Gregory did not appear. Hannah, the waitress, was sent to his room, and in response to her quiet knock he said, sharply, "Well?" "Breakfast is waiting." "I do not wish any," was the answer, in a tone that seemed resentful, but was only an expression of the intolerable pain he was suffering. Hannah came down with a scared look and said she "guessed something was amiss with Mr. Gregory." Annie looked significantly at her father, who immediately ascended to his guest's door. "Mr. Gregory, may I come in?" he asked. "Do not trouble yourself. I shall be better soon," was the response. The door was unlocked, and Mr. Walton entered, and saw at once that a gentle but strong will must control the sufferer for his own good. Mental and nervous excitement had driven him close to the line where reason and his own will wavered in their decisions, and his irregular, tottering steps became the type of the whole man. His eyes were wild and bloodshot. A ghastly pallor gave his haggard face the look of death. A damp dullness pervaded the heavy air of the room, which in his unrest he had greatly disordered. The fire had died out, and he had not even tried to kindle it again. His broodings had been so deep and painful during the earlier part of the night that he had been oblivious of his surroundings, and then physical anguish became so sharp that all small elements of discomfort were unnoted. With fatherly solicitude Mr. Waiton stepped up to his guest, who stood staring at him as if he were an intruder, and taking his cold hand, said, "Mr. Gregory, you must come with me." "Where?" "To the sitting-room, where we can take care of you and relieve you. Come, I'm your physician for the time being, and doctors must be obeyed." Gregory had not undressed the night before, and, wrapped in his rich dressing-gown and with dishevelled hair, he mechanically followed his host to the room below and was placed on the lounge. "Annie has prepared you a nice little breakfast. Won't you let me bring it to you?" said Mr. Waiton, cheerily. "No," said Gregory, abruptly, and pressing his hands upon his throbbing temples, "the very thought of eating is horrible. Please leave me. Indeed I cannot endure even your kindly presence." Mr. Walton looked perplexed and scarcely knew what to do, but after a moment said, "Really, Mr. Gregory, you are very ill. I think I had better send for our physician at once." "I insist that you do not," said his guest, starting up. "What could a stupid country doctor do for me, with his owl-like examination of my tongue and clammy fingering of my pulse, but drive me mad? I must be alone." "Father," said Annie, in a firm and quiet voice, "I will be both nurse and physician to Mr. Gregory this morning. If I fail, you may send for a doctor." Unperceived she had entered, and from Gregory's manner and words understood his condition. "Miss Waiton," said Gregory, hastily, "I give you warning. I am not even the poor weak self you have known before, and I beg you leave me till this nervous headache passes off, if it ever does. I can't control myself at such times, and this is the worst attack I ever had. I am low enough in your esteem. Do not add to my pain by being present now at the time of my greatest weakness." "Mr. Gregory," she replied, "you may speak and act your worst, but you shall not escape me this morning. It's woman's place to remove pain, not fly from it. So you must submit with the best grace you can. If after I have done all in my power you prefer the doctor and another nurse, I will give way, but now you have no choice." Gregory fell back on the sofa with a groan and a muttered oath. At a sign from his daughter, Mr. Walton reluctantly and doubtfully passed through the open door into the parlor, where he was joined by Miss Eulie. Annie quietly stepped to the hearth and stirred the fire to a cheerful blaze. She then went to the parlor and brought the afghan, and without so much as saying, "by your leave," spread it over his chilled form. Gregory felt himself helpless, but there was something soothing in this assertion of her strong will, and like a sick child he was better the moment he ceased to chafe and struggle. She left the room a few moments, and even between the surges of pain he was curious as to what she would do next. He soon learned with a thrill of hope that he was to experience the magnetism of her touch, and to know the power of the hand that had seemed alive in his grasp on the day of their chestnutting expedition. Annie returned with a quaint little bottle of German cologne, and, taking a seat quietly by his side, began bathing his aching temples. "You treat me like a child," he said, petulantly. "I hope for a while you will be content to act like one," she replied. "I may, like a very bad one." "No matter," she said, with a laugh that was the very antidote of morbidness; "I am accustomed to manage children." But in a very brief time he had no disposition to shrink from her touch or presence. Her hand upon his brow seemed to communicate her own strong, restful life; his temples throbbed less and less violently. Silent and wondering he lay very still, conscious that by some subtle power she was exorcising the demons of pain. His hurried breathing became regular; his hands unclinched; his form, which had been tense and rigid, relaxed into a position of comfort. He felt that he was under some beneficent spell, and for an hour scarcely moved lest he should break it and his torment return. Annie was equally silent, but with a smile saw the effects of her ministry. At last she looked into his face, and said, with an arch smile, "Shall I send for Doctor Bludgeon and Sairy Gamp to take my place?" He was very weak and unstrung, and while a tremulous smile hovered about his mouth, his eyes so moistened that he turned toward the wall. After a moment he said, "Miss Walton, I am not worthy of your kindness." "Nor are you unworthy. But kindness is not a matter of business—so much for so much." "Why do you waste your time on me?" "That is a childish question. What a monster I should be if I heedlessly left you to suffer! The farmers' wives around would mob me." "I am very grateful for the relief you are giving me, even though mere humanity is the motive." "Mere humanity is not my motive. You are our guest, the son of my father's dearest friend, and for your own sake I am deeply interested in you." "Miss Walton, I know in the depths of your soul you are disgusted with me. You seek to apply those words to my spirit as you do cologne to my head." "I beg your pardon. It is not the cologne only that relieves your headache." "I know that well. It is your touch, which seems magical." "Well then, you should know from my touch that I am not sitting here telling fibs. If I should bathe your head with a wooden hand, wouldn't you know it?" "What an odd simile! I cannot understand you." "It is not necessary that you should, but do not wrong me by doubting me again." "I have done nothing but wrong you, Miss Walton." "I'm not conscious of it, so you needn't worry, and I assure you I find it a pleasure to do you good." "Miss Walton, you are the essence of goodness." "Oh, no, no; why say of a creature what is only true of God? Mr. Gregory, you are very extravagant in your language." A scowl darkened his face, and he said, moodily, "God seems to me the essence of cruelty." "'Seems, seems!' An hour since I seemed a torment, and you were driving me away." "Yes, but you soon proved yourself a kind, helpful, pitiful friend. I once thought my cheek would flame with anger even if I were dying, should I be regarded as an object of pity. But you, better than any one, know that I am one." "I, better than any one, know that you are not, in the sense you mean." "Come, Miss Walton, you cannot be sincere now. Do you think I can ever forget the miserable scene of Monday evening, when you placed yourself beside the martyrs and I sank down among the cowards of any age? I reached the bottom of the only perdition I believe in. I have lost my self-respect." "Which I trust God will help you regain by showing you the only sure and safe ground on which self-respect can be maintained. Much that is called self-respect is nothing but pride. But, Mr. Gregory, injustice to one's self is as wrong as injustice to another. Answer me honestly this question. Did you act that evening only from fear—because you have it not in you to face danger? or did you promise secrecy because you felt the man's crime was none of your business, and supposed I would take the same view?" Gregory started up and looked at her with a face all aglow with honest, grateful feeling, and said, "God knows the latter is the truth." "And I know it too. I knew it then." "But the world could never be made to see it in that light." "Now pride speaks. Self-respect does not depend upon the opinion of the world. The world has nothing to do with the matter. You certainly do not expect I am going to misrepresent you before it." He bent a look upon her such as she had never sustained before. It was the look of a man who had discovered something divine and precious beyond words. It was a feeling such as might thrill one who was struggling in darkness, and, as he supposed, sinking in the deep sea, but whose feet touched something which seemed to sustain him. The thought, "I can trust her—she is true," came to him at that time with such a blessed power to inspire hope and give relief that for a moment he could not speak. Then he began, "Miss Walton, I cannot find words—" "Do not find them," she interrupted, laughingly. "See, your temples are beginning to throb again, and I am a sorry nurse, a true disciple of Mrs. Gamp, to let you excite yourself. Lie down, sir, at once, and let your thoughts dwell the next half-hour on your breakfast. You have much reason for regret that the dainty little tidbits that I first prepared are spoiled by this time. I doubt whether I can do so well again." "I do not wish any breakfast. Please do not leave me yet." "It makes no difference what you wish. The idea of an orthodox physician consulting the wishes of his patient! My practical skill sees your need of breakfast." "Have you had any yourself?" he asked, again starting up, and looking searchingly at her. "Well, I have had a cup of coffee," she replied, coloring a little. "What a brute I am!" he groaned. "In that charge upon yourself you strongly assert the possession of an animal nature, and therefore of course the need of a breakfast." "May I be choked by the first mouthful if I touch anything before I know you have had your own." "What an awful abjuration! How can you swear so before a lady, Mr. Gregory?" "No, it is a solemn vow." "Then I must take my breakfast with you, for with your disposition to doubt I don't see how you can 'know' anything about it otherwise." "That is better than I hoped. I will eat anything you bring on those conditions, if it does choke me—and I know it will." "A fine compliment to my cooking," she retorted and laughingly left the room. Gregory could not believe himself the haggard wretch that Mr. Walton had found two hours since. Then he was ready to welcome death as a deliverer. Insane man! As if death ever delivered any from evil but the good! But so potent had been the sweet wine of Annie's ministry that his chilled and benumbed heart was beginning to glow with a faint warmth of hope and comfort. Morbidness could no more exist in her presence than shadows on the sunny side of trees. With her full knowledge of the immediate cause of his suffering, and with her unusual tact, she had applied balm to body and spirit at the same time. The sharp, cutting agony in his head had been charmed away. The paroxysm had passed, and the dull ache that remained seemed nothing in comparison—merely the heavy swell of the departed storm. He forgot himself, the source of all his trouble, in thinking about Miss Walton. The plain girl, as he had at first regarded her, with a weak, untried character that he had expected to topple over by the breath of a little flattery, now seemed divinely beautiful and strong. She reminded him of the graceful, symmetrical elm, which, though bending to the tempest, is rarely broken or uprooted. He hardly hoped that she would give him credit for the real state of his mind which had led to his ready promise of secrecy. To the counterfeiter's wretched companion he had seemed the weakest and meanest of cowards, and if the story were generally known he would appear in the same light to the world. To his intensely proud nature this would be intolerable. And why should it not be known? If Miss Walton chose to regard his choice as one of cowardice, how could he prove, even to her, that it was not? Moreover, his low estimate of human nature led him to believe that even Annie would use him as a dark background for her heroism; and he well knew that when such a story is once started, society's strongest tendency is to exaggerate man's pusillanimity and woman's courage. He shuddered as he saw himself growing blacker and meaner in every fireside and street corner narration of the strange tale, till at last his infamy should pass into one of the traditions of the place. A man like Gregory could not long have endured such a prospect. He would have died, either by every physical power speedily giving way under mental anguish, or by his own hand; or, if he had lived, reason would have dropped its sceptre and become the sport of wild thoughts and fancies. Little wonder that Annie appeared an angel of light when she stood between him and such a future. The ugliest hag would have been glorified and loved in the same position. But when she did this with her own peculiar grace and tact, as a matter of justice, his gratitude and admiration knew no bounds. He was in a fair way to become an idolater and worship the country girl he had once sneered at, as no pictured Madonna was ever revered even in superstitious Italy. Besides placing him under personal obligation, she had, by tests certain and terrible, proved herself true and strong in a world that he believed to be, in the main, utterly false at heart. It is one of our most natural instincts to trust and lean upon something, and Annie Walton seemed one whose friendship he could value above life. He did not even then realize, in his glad sense of relief, that in escaping the charge of cowardice he fell upon the other horn of the dilemma, namely, lack of principle—that the best explanation of his conduct admitted that he was indifferent to right and wrong, and even to the most serious crime against society, so long as he was not personally and immediately injured. He had acted on the selfish creed that a man is a fool who puts himself to serious trouble to serve the public. The fact that he did not even dream that Annie would make the noble stand she did proves how far selfishness can take a man out of his true course when he throws overboard compass and chart and lets himself drift. But in the world's code (which was his) cowardice is the one deadly sin. His lack of anything like Christian principle was a familiar fact to him, and did not hurt him among those with whom he associated. Even Annie, woman-like, could more readily forgive all his faults than a display of that weakness which is most despised in a man. But she too was sufficiently familiar with the world not to be repelled or shocked by a life which, compared with all true, noble standards, was sadly lacking. And yet she was the very last one to be dazzled by a fast, brilliant man of the world. She had been too well educated for that, and had been early taught to distinguish between solid worth and mere tinsel. Her native powers of observation were strong, and her father, and mother also before she died, had given her opportunities for exercising them. Instead of mere assertions as to what was right and wrong and general lecturing on the subject, they had aimed to show her right and wrong embodied in human lives. They made her feel that God wanted her to do right for the same reason that they did, because He loved her. First in Bible narrative told in bedtime stories, then in history and biography, and finally in the experience of those around them, she had been shown the happy contrast of good, God-pleasing life with that which is selfish and wicked. So thorough and practical had been the teaching in this respect, and so impressed was she by the lesson, that she would as soon have planted in her flower-bed the seeds of tender annuals on the eve of autumn frosts, and expected bloom in chill December, as to enter upon a course that God frowns upon, and look for happiness. Her father often said, "A human being opposing God's will is like a ship beating against wind and tide to certain wreck." An evil life appeared therefore to her a moral madness, under the malign influence of which people were like the mentally deranged who with strange perversity hate their best friends and cunningly watch for chances of self-destruction. While on one hand she shrunk from them with something of the repulsion which many feel toward the unsound in mind, on the other she cherished the deepest pity for them. Knowing how full a remedy ever exists in Him whose word and touch removed humanity's most desperate ills, it was her constant wish and effort to lead as many as possible to this Divine Friend. If she had been like many sincere but selfish religionists, she would have said of Gregory, "He is not congenial. We have nothing in common," and, wrapped in her own spiritual pleasures and pursuits, would have shunned, ignored, and forgotten him. But she chiefly saw his pressing need of help, and said to herself, "If I would be like my Master, I must help him." Gregory at first had looked upon himself as immeasurably superior to the plain country girl. He little imagined that she at the same time had a profound pity for him, and that this fact would become his best chance for life. She had not forgotten the merciful conspiracy entered into the second evening after his arrival, but was earnestly seeking to carry out its purposes. In order to do this, she was anxious to gain his good-will and confidence, and now saw with gratitude that their adventure on the mountain, that had threatened to end in death, might be the beginning of a new and happy life. She exulted over the hold she had gained upon him, not as the selfish gloat over one within their power, whom they can use for personal ends—not as the coquette smiles when another human victim is laid upon the altar of her vanity, but as the angels of heaven rejoice when there is even a chance of one sinner's repentance. And yet Annie had no intention of "talking religion" to him in any formal way, save as the subject came up naturally; but she hoped to live it, and suggest it to him in such an attractive form that he would desire it for his own sake. But her chief hope was in the fact that she prayed for him; and she no more expected to be unheard and unanswered than that her kind father would listen with a stony face to some earnest request of hers. But Annie was not one to go solemnly to work to compass an event that would cause joy in heaven. She would ask one to be a Christian as she would invite a captive to leave his dungeon, or tell the sick how to be well. She saw that morbid gloom had become almost a disease with Gregory, and she proposed to cure him with sunshine. And sunshine embodied she seemed to him as she returned, her face glowing with exercise and close acquaintance with the kitchen-range. In each hand she carried a dish, while Hannah followed with a tray on which smoked the most appetizing of breakfasts. "Your rash vow," she said, "has caused you long waiting. I'm none of your ethereal heroines, but have a craving for solids served in quantity and variety. And while I could have soon got your breakfast it was no bagatelle to get mine." How fresh and bright she looked saying all this! and he ejaculated, "Deliver me from the ghastly creatures you call 'ethereal heroines.'" "Indeed, sir," she retorted, "if you can't deliver yourself from them you shall have no help from me. But let us at once enter upon the solemnities, and as you have a spark of gallantry, see to it that you pay my cookery proper compliment." "Your 'cookery,' forsooth!" said he, with something of her own light tone. "That I should find Miss Walton stealing Zibbie's laurels!" "Chuckle when you find her doing it. Hannah, who prepared this breakfast?" "Yourself, miss," answered the woman, with an admiring grin. "That will do, Hannah; we will wait upon ourselves. Shame on you, sir! You are no connoisseur, since you cannot tell a lady's work from a kitchen-maid's. Moreover, you have shown that wretched doubting disposition again." Now that they were alone, Gregory said, earnestly, "I shall never doubt you again." "I hope you never will doubt that I wish to do you good, Mr. Gregory," she replied, passing him a cup of tea. "You have done me more good in a few brief hours than I ever hoped to receive. Miss Walton, how can I repay you?" "By being a better friend to yourself. Commence by eating this." He did not find it very difficult to comply. After a little time he said, "But my conscience condemns me for caring too much for myself." "And no doubt your conscience is right. The idea of being a friend to yourself and going against your conscience!" "Then I have ever been my own worst enemy." "I can believe that, and so you'll continue to be if you don't take another piece of toast." "And yet there has always seemed a fatal necessity for me to do wrong and go wrong. Miss Walton, you are made of different clay from me and most people that I know. It is your nature to be good and noble." "Nonsense!" said Annie, with a positive frown. "Different clay indeed! I imagine you do wrong for the same reason that I do, because you wish to; and you fail in doing right because you have nothing but your weak human will to keep you up." "And what keeps you up, pray?" "Can you even suppose that I or any one can be a Christian without Christ?" He gave one of his incredulous shrugs. "Now what may that mean?" she asked. "Pardon me if I say that I think yours is a pretty and harmless superstition. This world is one of inexorable law and necessity down to the minutest thing. A weed is always a weed. A rose is always a rose. It's my misfortune to be a weed. It's your good fortune to be a rose." Annie looked as if she might become a briery one at that moment, for this direct style of compliment, though honest, was not agreeable. Conscious of many struggles with evil, it was even painful, for it did her injustice in two aspects of the case. So she said, dryly, "What an automaton you make me out to be!" "How so?" "If I merely do right as the rose grows, I deserve no credit. I'm but little better than a machine." "Not at all. I compared you to something that has a beautiful life of its own. But I would willingly be a machine, and a very angular, uncouth one too, if some outside power would only work me right and to some purpose." "Such talk seems to me idle, Mr. Gregory. I know that I have to try very hard to do right, and I often fail. I do not believe that our very existence begins in a lie, as it were, for from earliest years conscience tells us that we needn't do wrong and ought not to. Honestly now, isn't this true of your conscience?" "But my reason concludes otherwise, and reason is above conscience—above everything, and one must abide by its decisions." For a moment Annie did not know how to answer. She was not versed in theology and metaphysics, but she knew he was wrong. Therefore she covered her confusion by quietly pouring him out another cup of tea, and then said, "Even my slight knowledge of the past has taught me how many absurd and monstrous things can be done and said in the name of reason. Religion is a matter of revelation and experience. But it is not contrary to reason, certainly not to mine. If your reason should conclude that this tea is not hot, what difference would that make to me? My religion is a matter of fact, of vivid consciousness." "Of course it is. It's your life, your nature, just as in my nature there is nothing akin to it. That is why I say you are made of different clay from myself; and I am very glad of it," he added with an air of pleasantry which she saw veiled genuine earnestness, "for I wish you the best of everything now and always." Annie felt that she could not argue him out of his folly; and while she was annoyed, she could not be angry with him for expressions that were not meant as flattery, but were rather the strong language of his gratitude. "Time will cure him of his delusions," she thought, and she said, lightly, "Mr. Gregory, from certain knowledge of myself which you cannot have I disclaim all your absurd ideas in regard to the new-fangled clay of my composition. I know very well that I am ordinary flesh and blood, a fact that you will soon find out for yourself. As your physician, I pronounce that such wild fancies and extravagant language prove that you are out of your head, and that you need quieting sleep. I am going to read you the dullest book in the library as a sedative." "No, please, sing rather." "What! after such a breakfast! Do you suppose that I would ruin the reputation of my voice in one fell moment? Now what kind of clay led to this remark? Do as your doctor says. Recline on the lounge. Close your eyes. Here is a treatise on the Nebular Hypothesis that looks unintelligible enough for our purpose." "Nebular Hypothesis! Another heavenly experience such as you are ever giving me." "Come, Mr. Gregory, punning is a very bad symptom. You must go to sleep at once." And soon her mellow voice was finding its way into a labyrinth of hard scientific terms, as a mountain brook might murmur among the stones. After a little time she asked of Gregory, whose eyes remained wide open, "How does it sound?" "Like the multiplication table set to music." "Why don't you go to sleep?" "I'm trying to solve a little nebular hypothesis of my own. I was computing how many million belles such as I know, and how many ages, would be required to condense them into a woman like yourself." Annie shut the book with a slam, and with an abrupt, half-vexed "good-by," left the room. For a brief time Gregory lay repenting of his disastrous levity, and then slept. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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