Books: Opening a Chestnut Burr

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"Those who won't do it," said Gregory, bitterly, "are in no sense His
true followers, but are merely the 'hangers on' of His army, seeking
to get out of it all they can for self. Every general knows that the
'camp-followers' are the bane of an army."

"Come, Mr. Gregory," said she, gently, "we are not the general, and
therefore not the judge. After this I shall expect to see you in the
regular ranks, ready to give and take blows."

They now joined Mr. Walton and Miss Eulie in the sitting-room, and
Gregory professed to feel, and indeed was, much better, and after a
little music they separated for the night. Although still suffering,
Gregory sat by his fire a long time, forgetful of pain.

High, blustering winds prevailed all the following day, but they only
made the quiet and cosiness of Mr. Walton's fireside more delightful.
Gregory did not care to go out if he went alone. He wished to be where
he could see Annie as often as possible, for every word and smile from
her in the intervals of her duties was precious. He did honestly mean
to become a good man if it were possible, but he saw in her the only
hopeful means. He did not pretend to either faith in God or love for
Him as yet, but only felt a glow of gratitude, a warming of his heart
toward Him in view of His great mercy in sending to his aid such a
ministering spirit as Annie had proved. He took it as an omen that God
meant kindly by him, and through this human hand might save at last.

And he clung to this hand as the drowning do to anything that keeps
them from sinking into dark and unknown depths. He saw in Annie Walton
earthly happiness certainly, and his best prospect of heaven. What
wonder then that his heart lay at her feet in entire consecration?
Apart from the peculiar fascination that she herself had for him, he
had motives for loving her that actuate but few. If she had saved him
from physical death it would have been a little thing in comparison,
but he shuddered to think of the precipice from which she had drawn
him back.

He was cautious in revealing himself to her. The presence of others
was a restraint, and he plainly saw that she had no such regard for
him as he felt for her. But he hoped with intense fervor--yes, he even
prayed to that God whom he had so long slighted--that in time she
might return his love. To-day he would close his eyes on the past and
future. She, the sunshine of his soul, was near, and he was content to
bask in her smiles.

Annie had given her father and aunt to understand that their
conspiracy promised to result in success, and they treated him with
marked but delicate kindness. The day passed in music, reading, and
conversation, and it was to Gregory the happiest he remembered--one of
the sweet May days that, by some happy blunder of nature, occasionally
bless us in March--and he made the very most of it. Its close found
Annie Walton enthroned in his heart.

As for Annie, he perplexed her a little, but she explained everything
peculiar in his words and manner on the ground of his gratitude only,
and the glow of his newly awakened moral nature. If she had been an
experienced belle, she might have understood his symptoms better, but
she was one of the last in the world to imagine people falling in love
with her. Never having received much admiration from strangers, with
no long list of victims, and believing from her own experience that
love was a gradual growth resulting from long knowledge and intimacy
with its object, she could not dream that this critical man, who had
seen the beauties of two continents, would in a few days be carried
away by her plain face. Nor was he by her face, but by herself.

Men of mind are rarely captivated by a face merely, however beautiful,
but by what it represents, or what they imagine it does. Woe be to the
beauty who has no better capital than her face! With it she can allure
some one into marrying her; but if he marries for an intelligent
companion, he is likely to prove the most disappointed and indifferent
of husbands on discovering the fraud. The world will never get over
its old belief that the fair face is the index of graces slightly
veiled, and ready to be revealed when the right to know is gained. In
nursery rhymes, fairy tales, and the average novel, the beautiful
heroine is also lovely, and so in spite of adverse experience the
world will ever expect wisdom and truth from red lips, till they say
too much--till the red lips themselves prove the contrary. Then come
the anger and disgust which men ever visit upon those who deceive and
disappoint them. Beauty is a dainty and exquisite vestibule to a
temple; but when a worshipper is beguiled into entering, only to find
a stony, misshapen idol and a dingy shrine, this does not conduce to
future devotion.

Annie's face would not arrest passers-by, and so she had not been
spoiled by too much homage, which is not good for man or woman. But
after passing the plain, simple portico of externals into the inner
temple of her sweet and truthful life, the heart once hers would
worship with undying faith and love.

Gregory had come to interest her deeply, not only on the ground of his
need, but because she saw in him great capabilities for good. In all
his evil, his downright honesty and lack of conceit inspired a kind of
respect. She also saw that this excessively fastidious man had learned
to admire and esteem her greatly. It was not in her woman's nature to
be indifferent to this fact. She felt that if he could be redeemed
from his evil he might become a congenial and valuable friend indeed,
and if she could be the means of rescuing the son of her father's
friend it would ever be one of her happiest memories. But with her
heart already occupied by a noble ideal of Hunting, the possibility of
anything more than friendship never entered her mind. The very fact
that her affections were so engaged made her blind to manifestations
on the part of Gregory which might otherwise have awakened suspicion.
Still the confidential relations growing up between them made her wish
that she might reveal to him her virtual engagement to Hunting; and
she would have done so, had he not resented the slightest allusion in
that direction. It now seemed probable that Hunting would return
before Gregory took his departure, and if so, she felt that she could
immediately reconcile them. She came to the conclusion that her best
course was to wait till she could bring them together, and so make the
reconciliation certain by her own presence and influence; for now, in
her increasing regard for Gregory, she was determined that they all
should be on good terms, so that in the city home to which she looked
forward the man she was trying to lead to true life might be a
frequent and welcome visitor.

But it is a difficult thing to keep such friendships Platonic in their
nature under any circumstances, and in view of Gregory's feelings,
Annie's pretty dreams of the future would be but baseless visions.

Monday evening brought one of those genial domestic experiences that
make home more satisfying in its pleasures than all the excitements of
the world. Mr. Walton had a slight cold, and Annie was nursing and
petting him, while contributing to the general enjoyment by reading
the daily paper and singing some new ballads which she had just
obtained from New York. Her father's indisposition was so slight that
it merely called for those little attentions which are pleasant for
affection to bestow and receive. The wind howled dismally without,
only to enhance the sense of peace and comfort within, and at the
usual hour all retired to rest, without even the passing thought that
anything might disturb them before they should meet again at the
cheerful breakfast-table.

Some time during the night Gregory seemed to hear three distinct peals
of thunder, wrathful and threatening, and then a voice like that of
Annie Walton calling him to escape a great danger. But it seemed that
he was paralyzed, and strove in vain to move hand or foot. Again and
louder pealed the thunder, and more urgent came the call of the
warning voice. By a desperate effort he sprung with a bound upon the
floor, and then realized that what seemed thunder in the exaggeration
of his dream was loud knocking at his door. Annie's voice again
called, "Mr. Gregory, awake, dress. There is a fire. There may be
danger."

He assured her that he would be out in a few moments, and had only to
open a shutter to obtain plenty of light, though he could not see
whence it came. In five minutes he hastened downstairs and found Mr.
Walton just issuing from his room; and all went out on the front
piazza. Gregory then saw that a large factory some distance up the
stream was burning, and that the fire was under such headway that
nothing could save the building. The wind had increased during the
night and fanned the flames into terrific fury. The building was old
and dry, inviting destruction in every part.

For a while they gazed with that fearful awe which this terrible
element, when no longer servant, but master, always inspires. Susie
had not been well during the night, and in waiting on her, Annie had
discovered the disaster.

A warning cough from Mr. Walton revealed to Annie the danger of
staying out in the raw winds; but from the windows everything was
apparent, and silently they watched the rapid progress of the flames.
The fire had caught in the lower part of the building, and was
advancing up from floor to floor with its horrid illumination at the
windows.

"Do you think I can do any good by going there?" asked Gregory.

"Not at all," said Mr. Walton. "The whole of the New York Fire
Department could not save it now; and from the sounds I hear, there
will soon be throngs of people there. Indeed, I am anxious about my
own place. When that shingle roof begins to burn there is no telling
how far the wind will carry the cinders."

Annie looked at her father in quick alarm, then drew Miss Eulie aside,
and they immediately went upstairs.

With a more painful interest, Gregory now watched the scene. The tall
ladders which had first been raised against the building were
withdrawn. They were useless for the whole interior seemed ablaze.
Great tongues of fire began leaping from the windows, mocking every
effort. The rapid steps of those hastening to the scene resounded
along the road, and the startling cry of "Fire! Fire!" was heard up
and down the valley till all merged in the shouts and cries around the
burning building. Mingling with the deeper, hoarser tones of men were
the shrill voices of women, showing that they too had been drawn to
witness a destruction that meant to them loss of bread. The foliage
near was red as blood in the dreadful glare, and the neighboring pines
tossed their tasselled boughs like dark plumes at a torch-light
funeral. With a sudden roar a pyramid of flame shot up through the
roof, and was echoed by a despairing cry from those whose vocation now
indeed was gone. A moment later a fiery storm of flakes and burning
shingles filled the sky.

To the great joy of our friends the wind was from such a quarter as to
carry this destructive tempest past them into the woodland back of the
house, which happily had been rendered damp by recent rains.

But a cinder frequently sailed by unpleasantly near, reminding one of
scattering shots in a battle. A slight change of wind would be their
destruction, and a single stray fire-brand would endanger them.

Just as they began to breathe somewhat freely, hoping that danger was
past, a sudden side-eddy of the gale scattered a shower of sparks and
burning shingles over the house and out-buildings. Mr. Walton
immediately rushed forth, and, with a little whistle which he usually
carried, gave a shrill summons for Jeff, who lived in a cottage near.
But Jeff was off to the fire, and so did not appear. Gregory and Annie
also hastened out, and the former ran to the barn and out-buildings
first, as from their nature they were most inflammable. To his and Mr.
Walton's joy, no traces of fire were seen. One or two smoking brands
lay in the door-yard, where they could cause no injury. But a cry of
alarm from Annie, who had stayed nearer the house, brought Mr. Walton
and Gregory to her side instantly. Pointing to the roof of their
house, she said, in tones of strong excitement, "See there--oh, see
there!"

A burning piece of wood had caught on the highest part near the ridge,
and was smoking and smouldering in a way that, with the strong wind
fanning it, would surely cause destruction if it were not dislodged.

"Oh, what shall we do?" she cried, wringing her hands. "Can a ladder
reach it?"

"The roof is too steep, even if it did," said Mr. Walton.

"Where is the ladder?" cried Gregory.

"By the carriage-house. But I fear it is useless."

"Will you help me bring it, sir?"

They instantly brought the longest ladder on the place, but saw that
though it might touch the eaves, it would not reach the ridge. The
roof was so steep that one could not keep footing on it; and when they
took time to look and consider, both gentlemen admitted that an effort
in that direction would fail, and probably at the cost of life.

"Is there no scuttle by which to get out on the roof?" asked Gregory.

"No. Quick, Annie, get out what you can, for we shall soon be
homeless."

"Wait," said Gregory. "Is there no way to reach the roof?"

"None that we can use. A light and daring climber might possibly reach
the ridge by the lighting-rod, after leaving the ladder."

"Where is it?" cried Gregory, eager to do something to make impossible
even the thought that he was cowardly; for the memory of his course in
the counterfeiter's den rankled deeply.

"No," cried both Mr. Walton and Annie, laying their hands on him.
"Your life is worth more than the house."

"My life is my own," he answered. "I _will_ make an effort to save the
old place. Quick, help me. Here, girls" (to Zibbie and Hannah, who now
stood beside them in dismay), "take hold of that end of the ladder and
carry it out there. Now push it up while I hold its foot. There,
that's it. I will do it. You cannot hinder, but only help. Miss
Walton, get me a rope. Hurry, while I prepare to climb."

With the help of the stout women, whose strength was doubled by their
fears and excitement, he placed the ladder against the lightning-rod
and siding of the house just under the ridge. His tones were
determined and authoritative.

He was now acting as Annie would if she were a man, and she admired
and respected him as never before. In two or three moments she and her
father returned with a line, but again expostulated.

"Mr. Gregory, the risk is too great."

"You can't prevent it," said he, firmly. "I absolve you from all
responsibility. I take the risk in spite of you. Make haste--see how
it's burning. There, that will do. Stand back."

Even as he spoke he was climbing.

"Now that's generous," said Annie; "but if you are injured, I shall
never forgive myself."

He turned, and for a second smiled down upon her.

The strength of his new-born love made him glad to endanger even life
in her service, and the thought, "I can at last win a little respect,
as well as sympathy," nerved him to double his ordinary powers. Like
most country boys, he had been a bold, active climber, and his
knowledge and former skill made the attempted feat possible. The main
question was whether in his feeble state his strength would hold out.
But the strong excitement of the moment would serve him in place of
muscle. He had thrown off his coat and boots, and, with a small rope
fastened about his waist, he swiftly ascended to the top of the
ladder. But there were three or four feet that he must overhand up the
lightning-rod in order to reach the ridge. It was large and twisted,
and gave him a good hold, but he had to take the risk of its being
strong enough in its fastening to sustain his weight. Fortunately it
was, and he unhesitatingly commenced the perilous effort. He made good
progress till he was within a foot of the ridge. Then his strength
began to fail, and plainly to those below he wavered.

With white face, clasped hands, and lips moving in prayer, Annie
watched him. Her heart almost stood still with dread; and when toward
the last he slowly and still more slowly overhanded upward, plainly
indicating that his strength was ebbing, she cried, in an agony of
fear, "Come back, oh come back! What is all here to your life?" A
second before it seemed to him that he must fail, that he might
suddenly fall at her feet a crushed and lifeless mass; but her voice
revived him, and the passionate thought came with inspiring power, "I
can do more to win her love now than by years of effort"; and he made
a desperate struggle, gained the ridge, and crawled out upon it,
panting for a moment, and powerless to do more than cling for support.

The burning cinder was now but little in advance of him, and he saw
that there was not a second to lose. It had charred and blackened the
roof where it had caught, and, fanned by the wind, was a live, glowing
coal. The shingles under it were smoking--yes, smouldering. Had it not
been for their dampness and mossy age, they would have been blazing.
In a few moments nothing could have saved the house.

As soon as he got his breath, he crept along the ridge within reach of
the fiery flake. There seemed no place where he could lay hold of it
without burning himself. It would not do to simply detach it, as it
might catch further down the steep roof where it could not be reached.
Above all, there was not a moment to spare. He did not hesitate, but
with sufficient presence of mind to use his left instead of his right
hand, he seized the fatal brand and hurled it, a fiery meteor, clear
of the house. It hurt him cruelly, and for a moment he felt sick and
faint; but a round of applause from those below (for now Miss Eulie
and the children were out, looking tremblingly on), and Annie's cry of
joy and encouragement, again gave him strength.

But as he looked closely at the spot where the cinder had laid, his
fears were realized. It had ignited the roof. A little water would
extinguish it now, but in a few moments, under the wild wind that was
blowing, all would be ablaze.

He crawled to the end of the ridge and shouted, "Tie a light pail of
water to the cord--not much at a time, or I can't draw it up."

Annie darted to the house for a lighter pail than Hannah had brought,
and to Gregory's joy he found that he had strength enough to lift it,
though with his burned band it was agony to do so. But with the now
good prospect of finishing his work successfully, his spirits rose. He
grew more familiar and confident in his dangerous position. He did not
look down from his giddy height, and permitted himself to think of
nothing but his task. Indeed, in his strong excitement, he felt that
it would not be a bitter thing to die thus serving the woman he loved;
and in his false philosophy he hoped this brave act might atone for
the wrong of the past.

It is the nature of noble, generous deeds to exalt a man's soul so
that he can fearlessly face death, when in calm moments he would
shrink back appalled. In the excitement of the hour, and under the
inspiration of his strong human love, Gregory was not afraid to die,
though life seemed, with its new possibilities, sweeter than ever
before. He knew that his strength was failing fast, that reaction
would soon set in, and that he would be helpless, and his great hope
was that he could save the house first.

He determined therefore not to waste a drop of water, and to make this
one pail answer if possible. He therefore poured it slowly out, and
let it run over the burning part. The continued hissing and smoke
proved that the fire had penetrated deeper than he thought. The last
drop was gone, and still the place smoked. A little more was
absolutely necessary.

"Will my strength hold out?" he asked himself, in almost an agony of
doubt.

Crawling back to the end of the ridge, he once more lowered the pail.

"Fill it again," he cried.

"Can you stand it?" Mr. Walton asked.

"I must, or all is useless," was his answer.

Again, but more slowly and painfully, he pulled the water up.

Annie wrung her hands in anguish as she saw in the red glare of the
still burning factory how pale and exhausted he was.

But he once more managed to reach the point above the still
smouldering spot, and caused the water to trickle down upon it. By the
time he had half emptied the pail the smoke ceased.

After a moment it again faintly exuded, but another little stream of
water quenched the fire utterly. But for five minutes he watched the
place to make sure that there was not a lingering spark, and then let
the rest of the water flow over the place to saturate it completely.

He was now certain that the house was saved. But he was satisfied from
his sensations that he had but little time in which to save himself.
Reaction was fast setting in.

He untied the rope from his waist, and let pail and all roll
clattering down the roof. This noise was echoed by a cry of alarm from
those below, who feared for a moment that he was falling. They all had
the sickening dread which is felt when we look at one in great peril,
and yet can do nothing to help.

At first Gregory thought that he would lie down upon the ridge and
cling to it, thus gaining strength by a little rest. But he soon found
that this would not answer. His overtaxed frame was becoming
nerveless, and his only hope was to escape at once. In trembling
weakness he crawled back to the edge and looked over. Annie stepped
forward to the foot of the ladder and extended her hands as if to
catch him.

"Stand back," he cried; "if I fall, I shall kill you."

"I will not stand back," she answered. "You shall not take all the
risk."

But her father, who still kept his presence of mind in the terrible
excitement of the moment, forced her away, and saved her from the
danger of this useless sacrifice. As soon as she could do nothing, her
fortitude vanished, and she covered her face with her hands and wept
bitterly.

The chief point of difficulty in Gregory's weak state was to get off
the ridge upon the lightning-rod without losing his hold and falling
at once. If he could turn the edge and begin to descend in safety, his
strength might hold out till he reached the ladder and so the ground.
But he realized the moment of supreme peril, and hesitated.

Then, with something like a prayer to God and with a wistful look at
Annie, he resolutely swung himself over. His hands held the weight of
his body, and he commenced the descent. Annie's glad cry once more
encouraged him. He gained the ladder and descended till not far from
the ground.

Suddenly everything turned black before his eyes, and he fell.

CHAPTER XXVI

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."

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