Books: Opening a Chestnut Burr

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"What a tender, innocent conscience you have!" he replied, looking
fondly at her. "I confess I'd rather be here listening to you than
somewhere else."

She gave him a troubled, startled look. To her that "somewhere else"
had a sad and terrible meaning. She sat near him, and could not help
saying in a low, earnest tone, "How could you, how could you take such
a risk without--" She did not finish the sentence, which was plain
enough in its meaning, however.

On the impulse of the moment, Gregory was about to reply indiscreetly
--in a way that would have revealed more of his feelings toward her
than he knew would be wise at that time. But just then Hannah came in
with the lunch, and the attention of the others, who had been talking
eagerly on the other side of the room, was directed toward them. He
checked some rash words as they rose to his lips, and Annie,
suspecting nothing of the wealth of love that he was already lavishing
upon her, rose with alacrity, glad to serve one who had just served
her so well. The generous coffee and the dainty lunch, combined with
feelings to which he had long been a stranger, revived Gregory
greatly, and he sprang up and walked the room, declaring that with the
exception of his burned hand, which had been carefully dressed, he
felt better than he had for a long time.

"I'm so thankful!" said Annie, with glistening eyes.

"We all have cause for thankfulness," said Mr. Walton, with fervor.
"Our kind Father in heaven has dealt with us all in tender mercy.
Home, and more precious life, have been spared. Before we again seek a
little rest, let us remember all His goodness;" and he led them in a
simple, fervent prayer, the effect of which was heightened by Mr.
Walton saying, after he rose from his knees, "Annie, we must see that
none of our poor neighbors lack for anything, now that their
employment has so suddenly been taken away."

That is acceptable devotion to God which leads to practical, active
charity toward men, and the most unbelieving are won by such a
religion.

Annie noticed with some anxiety that her father's voice was very
hoarse, and that he put his hand upon his chest several times, and she
expressed the fear that the exposure would greatly add to his cold. He
treated the matter lightly, and would do nothing more that evening
than take some simple remedies.

When Gregory bade them good-night, Annie followed him to the foot of
the stairs, and giving his hand one of her warm grasps, said, "Mr.
Gregory, I can't help feeling that your mother knows what you have
done to-night."

Tears started to his eyes. He did not trust himself to reply, but,
with a strong answering pressure, hastened to his room, happier than
he had been in all his past.

It was late the next morning when they assembled at the breakfast-
table, and they noted with pain that Mr. Walton did not appear at all
well, though he made a great effort to keep up. He was very hoarse,
and complained of a tightness in his chest.

"Now, father," said Annie, "you must stay in the house, and let me
nurse you."

"I am very willing to submit," he replied, "and hope I shall need no
other physician." But he was feverish all day. His indisposition did
not yield to ordinary remedies. Still, beyond a little natural
solicitude, no anxiety was felt.

Gregory was a different man. Even his sincere human love for so worthy
an object had lifted him out of the miserable depths into which he had
been sinking. It had filled his heart with pure longings, and made him
capable of noble deeds.

As a general thing a woman inspires love in accordance with her own
character. Of course we recognize the fact that there are men with
natures so coarse that they are little better than animals. These men
may have a passing passion for any pretty woman; but the holy word
Love should not be used in such connection. But of men--of those
possessing true manhood, even in humblest station--the above assertion
I think will be found true. The woman who gains the boundless power
which the undivided homage of an honest heart confers will develop in
it, and quicken into life, traits and feelings corresponding to her
own. If the great men of the world have generally had good mothers, so
as a parallel fact will it be found that the strong, useful,
successful men--men who sustain themselves, and more than fulfil the
promise of their youth--have been supplemented and continually
inspired to better things by the ennobling companionship of true
women.

Good breeding, the ordinary restraints of self-respect, and fear of
the world's adverse opinion, greatly reduce the outward diversities of
society. Well-bred men and women act and appear very much alike in the
public eye. But there is an inner life, a real character, upon which
happiness here and heaven hereafter depend, which results largely from
that tie and intimacy which is closest of all. A shallow, frivolous
girl, having faith in little else than her pretty face and the
dressmaker's art, may unfortunately inspire a good, talented man, who
imagines her to possess all that the poets have portrayed in woman,
with a true and strong affection, but she will disappoint and dwarf
him, and be a millstone about his neck. She will cease to be his
companion. She may be thankful if, in his heart, he does not learn to
despise her, though a man can scarcely do this and be guiltless toward
the mother of his children.

What must be the daily influence on a man who sees in his closest
friend, to whom he is joined for life, a passion for the public gaze,
a boundless faith in eternals, a complete devotion to the artificial
enhancing of ordinary and vanishing charms, combined with a
contemptuous neglect of the graces of mind and heart? These alone can
keep the love which outward appearance in part may have won at first.
Mere dress and beauty are very well to skirmish with during the first
approaches; but if a woman wishes to hold the conquered province of a
man's heart, and receive from it rich revenues of love and honor, she
must possess some queenly traits akin to divine royalty, otherwise she
only overruns the heart she might have ruled, and leaves it a blighted
waste.

As we have seen, Annie's actual character rebuked and humiliated the
evil-minded Gregory from the first. He could not rest in her presence.
To relieve himself from self-condemnation, he must prove her goodness
a sham or an accident--mere chance exemption from temptation. Her
safety and happy influence did not depend upon good resolutions, wise
policy, and careful instruction, but upon her real possession of a
character which had been formed long before, and which met and foiled
him at every point. Lacking this, though a well-meaning, good girl in
the main, she would have been a plaything in the hands of such a man.
Her absolute truth and crystal purity of principle incased her in
heaven's armor, and neither he nor any other evil-disposed person
could harm her. She would not listen to the first insidious suggestion
of the tempter. Thus the man who expected to go away despising now
honored, reverenced, loved her, and through her strong but gentle
ministry had turned his back on evil, and was struggling to escape its
degrading bondage.

Gregory was right in thinking that such a woman as Annie could help
him to an extent hard to estimate, but fatally wrong in looking to her
alone. The kind Father who regards the well-being of His children for
eternity rather than for the moments of time, must effectually cure
him of this error.

But those two days were memorable ones to him. The cold and stormy
weather shut them all in the house, and that meant to him Annie's
society. He was seldom alone with her; he noted with pain that her
manner was too frank and kindly, too free from all consciousness, to
indicate anything more than the friendship she had promised; but, not
knowing how her heart was preoccupied, he hoped that the awakening of
deeper feeling was only a question of time. His present peace and rest
were so blessed, her presence was so satisfying, and his progress in
her favor so apparent as he revealed his better nature, that he was
content to call his love friendship until he saw her friendship
turning into love.

Had not Annie expected Hunting every day she would have told Gregory
all about her relation with him, but now she determined that she would
bring them together under the same roof, and not let them separate
till she had banished every trace of their difficulty. A partial
reconciliation might result in future coolness and estrangement. This
she would regard as a misfortune, even if it had no unfavorable
influence on Gregory, for he now proved himself the best of company.
Indeed, they seemed to have a remarkable gift for entertaining each
other.

While Wednesday did not find Mr. Walton seriously ill to all
appearance, he was still far from being well. He employed himself with
his papers and seemed to enjoy Gregory's conversation greatly.

"He now grows very like his father, and reminds me constantly of him,"
he said more than once to Annie.

Mr. Walton's indisposition was evidently not trivial. There was a
soreness about the lungs that made it painful for him to talk much,
and he had a severe, racking cough. They were all solicitude in his
behalf. The family physician had been called, and it was hoped that a
few days of care would remove this cold.

As he sat in his comfortable arm-chair by the fire he would smilingly
say he was having such a good time and so much petting that he did not
intend to get well very soon.

Though Gregory's burn was painful, and both hands were bruised and cut
from climbing, he did not regret the suffering, since it also secured
from Annie some of the attention she would otherwise have given her
father.

Wednesday afternoon was pleasant, and Gregory went out for a walk. He
did not return till rather late, and, coming down to supper, found by
his plate a letter which clouded his face instantly.

Annie was radiant, for the same mail had brought her one from Hunting,
stating that he might be expected any day now. As she saw Gregory's
face darken, she said, "I fear your letter has brought you unpleasant
news."

"It has," he replied. "Mr. Burnett, the senior partner, is quite ill,
and it is necessary that I return immediately."

"I'm so sorry," she exclaimed, with such hearty emphasis that he
looked at her earnestly and said, "Are you really?"

"You shouldn't ask such a question," she answered, reproachfully.

"Why, Miss Walton, I've made a very long visit."

"So much has happened that it does seem a long time since you came.
But I wish it were to be longer. We shall miss you exceedingly.
Besides," she added, with rising color, "I have a special reason for
wishing you to stay a little longer."

His color rose instantly also. She puzzled him, while he perplexed
her.

"I hope Mr. Gregory's visit has taught him," said Mr. Walton, kindly,
"that he has not lost his former home through our residence here, and
that he can run up to the old place whenever he finds opportunity."

"I can say sincerely," he responded, "that I have enjoyed the
perfection of hospitality;" adding, in a low tone and with a quick,
remorseful look at Annie, "though little deserving it."

"You have richly repaid us," said Mr. Walton, heartily. "It would have
been very hard for me at my years to have to seek a new home. I have
become wedded to this old place with my feelings and fancies, and the
aged, you know, dislike change. I wish to make only one more, then
rest will be complete."

"Now, father," said Annie, with glistening eyes, "you must not talk in
that way. You know well that we cannot spare you even to go to
heaven."

"Well, my child," answered he, fondly. "I am content to leave that in
our best Friend's hands. But I cannot say," he added, with a touch of
humor, "that it's a heavy cross to stay here with you."

"Would that such a cross were imposed upon me!" echoed Gregory, with
sudden devoutness. "Miss Walton, did not my business imperatively
demand my presence, I would break anything save my neck, in order to
be an invalid on your hands."

"Come," cried Annie, half-vexed; "a truce to this style of remark. I
think it's verging toward the sentimental, and I'm painfully matter-
of-fact. Father, you must not think of going to heaven yet, and I
don't like to hear you talk about it. Mr. Gregory can break his little
finger, if he likes, so we may keep him longer. But do let us all be
sensible, and not think of anything sad till it comes. Why should we?
Mr. Gregory surely can find time to run up and see us, if he wishes,
and I think he will."

Before he could reply, an anxious remark from little Susie enabled
them to leave the table in the midst of one of those laughs that
banish all embarrassment.

"But we'll be burned up if Mr. Gregory goes away."

CHAPTER XXVII

PLEADING FOR LIFE AND LOVE

Knowing that it was to be Gregory's last day with them, Annie
determined it should be full of pleasant memories. She sung with him,
and did anything he asked. Her heart overflowed toward him in a genial
and almost sisterly regard, but his most careful analysis could find
no trace even of the inception of warmer feelings. She evidently had a
strong and growing liking for him, but nothing more, and she clearly
felt the great interest in his effort to become a man of Christian
principles. This fact gave him his main hope. Her passion to save
seemed so strong that he trusted she might be approached even thus
early upon that side.

He felt that he must speak--must get some definite hope for the future
before he went away. It seemed to him that he could fairly bring his
great need as a motive to bear upon her. Her whole course encouraged
him to do this, for she had responded to every such appeal. Still with
fear and trembling he admitted that he was about to ask for more now
than ever before.

But he felt that he must speak. He had no hope that he could ever be
more than his wretched self without her. He would ask nothing
definite--only encouragement that if he could make himself worthy of
her she would give him a chance to win her love. In her almost
sisterly frankness it seemed that the idea of loving him had never
occurred to her, and would not after he had gone. The thought of
leaving her heart all disengaged, for some other to come and make a
stronger impression, was torture. He never could be satisfied with the
closest friendship, therefore he must plainly seek a dearer tie, even
though for a time their frank, pleasant relations should be disturbed.
He resolved to take no denial, but to give fair warning, before it was
too late, that he was laying siege to her heart. He dreaded that
attitude of mind upon her part which enables a woman to say to some
men, "I could be your sister, but never your wife."

So he said before they separated for the night, "Miss Walton, I'm
going to snatch a few hours from the hurry and grind of business, and
shall not return to town till to-morrow afternoon. Won't you take one
more ramble with me in the morning?"

"With pleasure," she replied, promptly. "I will devote myself to you
to-morrow, and leave you without excuse for not coming again."

He flushed with pleasure at her reply, but said, quickly, "By the way
that reminds me. Won't you tell me what your 'special reason' was for
wishing me to stay a little longer?"

It was her turn to blush now, which she did in a way that puzzled him.
She answered, hesitatingly, "Well, I think I'll tell you to-morrow."

"Good-night," said Mr. Walton, feelingly retaining Gregory's hand when
he came to his chair. "We are coming to treat you almost as one of the
family. Indeed it seems hard to treat you in any other way now,
especially in your old home, now doubly yours since you have saved it
from destruction. Every day you remind me more of my dear old friend.
For some reason he has seemed very near me of late. If it should be my
lot to see your sainted parents before you do, as it probably will, I
believe it will be in my power to add even to their heavenly joys by
telling them of your present prospects. Good-night, and may the
blessing of your father's and mother's God rest upon you."

Tears sprung into the young man's eyes, and with a strong responsive
pressure of Mr. Walton's hand, he hastened to his room, to hide what
was not weakness.

That was the last time he saw his father's friend.

Annie's eyes glistened as she looked after him, and throwing her arms
around her father's neck, she whispered, "God did send him here I now
truly believe. We have not conspired and prayed in vain."

Mr. Walton fondly stroked his daughter's brown hair, and said, "You
are right, Annie; he will be a gem in your crown of rejoicing. You
have acted very wisely, very womanly, as your mother would, in this
matter. He was a bad man when he first came here, and if I had not
known you so well, I should not have trusted you with him as I have.
Be as faithful through life, and you may lead many more out of
darkness."

"Dear father," said Annie, tenderly, "this whole day, with Charles's
good letter, and crowned with these precious words from you, seem like
a benediction. May we have many more such."

"May God's will be done," said the riper Christian, with eyes turned
homeward.

Thus in hope, peace, and gladness the day ended for all.

"Ye know not what shall be on the morrow."

To Gregory's unfeigned sorrow Mr. Walton was not well enough to appear
at the breakfast-table the following morning. Annie was flitting in
and out with a grave and troubled face. But by ten o'clock he seemed
better and fell asleep. Leaving Miss Eulie watching beside him, she
came and said, "Now, Mr. Gregory, I can keep my promise in part, and
take a short walk with you. You can well understand why I cannot be
away long."

"Please do not feel that you must go," he said. "However great the
disappointment, I could not ask you to leave your father if he needs
you."

"You may rest assured that nothing would tempt me from father if he
needed me. But I think the worst is now over. He is sleeping quietly.
I can trust aunty even better than myself. Besides, I want to go. I
need the fresh air, and I wish to see more of you before you leave
us."

He cordially thanked her and said, "I shall wait for you on the
piazza."

They went down across the lawn through the garden. The sun was shining
brightly, though occasionally obscured by clouds.

"How beautiful everything is," said Annie, "even now, when the leaves
are half off the trees and falling fast! At any season, the moment I
get out of doors I feel new life and hope."

"What nature does for you, Miss Annie, you seem to do for others. I
feel 'new life and hope' the moment I am with you."

She looked at him quickly, for she did not quite like his tone and
manner. But she only said, "You must believe, as I do, in a power
behind nature."

"But even you believe He works through human agencies."

"Yes, up to a certain point."

"But who can say where that point is in any experience? Miss Walton,"
he continued, in grave earnestness, stopping and pointing to the
rustic seat where, on the previous Sabbath, he had revealed to her his
evil life, "that place is sacred to me. No hallowed spot of earth to
which pilgrimages are made can compare with it. You know that in some
places in Europe they raise a rude cross by the roadside where a man
has been murdered. Should there not be a monument where one was given
life?"

As they resumed their walk, he said in a low, meaning tone, "Do you
remember old Daddy Tuggar's words--'You could take the wickedest man
living straight to heaven if you'd stay right by him?'"

"But he was wrong," she replied.

"Pardon me if I differ with you, and agree with him. Miss Walton, I've
been in your society scarcely three weeks. You know what I was when I
came. I make no great claims now, but surely if tendencies, wishes,
purposes count for anything, I am very different. How can you argue me
out of the consciousness that I owe it all to you?"

"You will one day understand," she answered, earnestly, "that God has
helped us both, and how futile my efforts would have been without such
help. But, Mr. Gregory," she continued, looking frankly into his
flushed face (for she was beginning to suspect now something of his
drift, and instinctively sought to ward off words which might disturb
their pleasant relations), "I do not intend to give you up from this
day forth. As our quaint old friend suggests, I do mean to stand right
by you as far as circumstances will allow me. I recognize how isolated
and lonely you are, and I feel almost a _sister_'s interest in you."

"You emphasize the word 'sister.' I suppose I ought to be more than
satisfied. Believe me I am very grateful that you can so speak. But
suppose the frankness I promised compels me to say that it does not,
and never can satisfy?"

"Then I shall think you very unreasonable. You have no right to ask
more than one has the power to give," she answered, with a look and
manner that were full of pain. "But surely, Mr. Gregory, we do not
understand each other."

"But I want you to understand me," he exclaimed, earnestly. "If you
had the vanity and worldly experience of most women, you would have
known before this that I love you."

Tears rushed into Annie's eyes, and for a few moments she walked on in
utter silence. This was so different an ending from what she had
expected! She felt that she must be very careful or she would undo all
she had attempted. She now dreaded utter failure, utter estrangement,
and how to avoid these was her chief thought.

They had reached the cedar thicket near which they had first met, and
she sat down upon the rock where she had found Gregory. Her whole aim
was to end this unfortunate matter so that they might still continue
friends. And yet the task seemed wellnigh impossible, for if he felt
as he said, how could she tell him about Hunting without increasing
alienation? But her impression was strong that he was acting under an
exaggerated sense of her services and under a mistaken belief that she
was essential to him. Therefore she tried at first to turn the matter
off lightly by saying, "Mr. Gregory, you are the most grateful man I
ever heard of. You need not think you must reward my slight services
by marrying me."

"Now you greatly wrong me," he answered. "Did I not say I loved you?
How deeply and truly you can never know. I cannot reward you. I did
not dream of such a thing. My best hope was that some time in the
future, when by long and patient effort I had become truly a man, you
might learn to think of me in the way I wish."

"Mr. Gregory," said she, in a voice full of trouble, "has my manner or
words led you to hope this? If so, I can never forgive myself."

"You have no cause for self-reproaches," he said, earnestly. "Though
my suit should ever prove hopeless, in the depths of my heart I will
acquit you of all blame. You have been what you promised--a true
friend, nothing more. But please understand me. I ask nothing now, I
am not worthy. Perhaps I never shall be. If so, I will not bind you to
me with even a gossamer thread. I have too deep a respect for you. But
I am so self-distrustful! I know my weakness better than you can.
Still I am confident that if _you_ could 'reward' me, and give the
hope that you would crown the victory with yourself, I could do
anything. In loving me, you would save me."

"Pardon me, but you are all wrong. I'm only an oar, but you look upon
me as the lifeboat itself. In that you persist in looking to me, a
weak, sinful creature, instead of to Him who alone 'taketh away the
sin of the world,' you discourage me utterly."

"I will look to Him, but I want you to lead me to Him, and keep me at
His side."

"I can do that just as well by being your friend."

"I can never think so. I shall go away from this place utterly
disheartened unless you give me some hope, no matter how faint, that I
shall not have to struggle alone."

She sprung up quickly, for he incensed her, while at the same time she
pitied him. She could not understand how he had so soon learned to
love her "deeply and truly." It rather appeared true that he had
formed the mistaken opinion that she was essential to his success, and
that he was bent upon bolstering himself up in his weakness, and
sought to place her as a barrier between him and his old evil life;
and she felt that he might need some wholesome truth rather than
tender sympathy. At any rate her womanly nature took offence at his
apparent motive, as she understood it--a motive that appeared more
selfish and unworthy every moment. He was asking what he had no right
to expect of any one. But she would not misunderstand him, and
therefore said with a grave, searching look, "Only then as I give you
the hope you ask for, will you make the effort you have promised to
make?"

"Only then can I make it," he replied, in some confusion. "Can effort
of any kind be asked of one utterly disabled?"

Sudden fire leaped into her dark eyes, but she said, with dignity,
"Mr. Gregory, you disappoint me greatly. You assume a weakness--a
disability--which does not and cannot exist under the circumstances.
You made me a promise, but now impose a new condition which I did not
dream of at the time, and which I cannot accept. You are asking more
than you have a right to ask. However imperfect my efforts have been
in your behalf, they were at least sincere and unselfish, and I was
beginning to have a warm regard for you as a friend. I tell you
frankly that I am most anxious that we should remain friends as
before. If so, this kind of folly must cease now and forever. I have
no right to listen to such words at all, and would not but for your
sake, and in the hope of removing from your mind a very mistaken and
unworthy idea. You are entirely wrong in thinking that your future
depends solely upon me. It cannot--it ought not. It rests between you
and God, and you cannot shift the responsibility. I am willing to do
all you can ask of a sister, but no more. Do you think I have no
needs, no weakness, myself? In a husband I want a man I can lean upon
as well as help. I wish to marry one with a higher moral character
than mine, to whom I can look up. There is the widest difference in
the world between giving help, and even sincere affection to those who
win it, and giving one's self away. Simple justice requires that my
happiness and feelings be considered also. It is selfish in you to ask
of me this useless sacrifice of myself."

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