Books: Opening a Chestnut Burr

E >> Edward Payson Roe >> Opening a Chestnut Burr

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Annie's quick, passionate nature was getting the better of her. It
seemed in a certain sense disloyalty to Hunting to have listened thus
long to Gregory. Moreover, not believing in nor understanding the
latter's love for her, she was indignant that he should seek to employ
her as a sort of stepping-stone into heaven. She would despise the man
who sought her merely to advance his earthly interests, and she was
growing honestly angry at Gregory, who, it seemed, wanted her only as
a guide and staff in his pilgrimage--justly angry, too, if she were
right.

Gregory became very pale as her words quivered in his heart like
arrows, but in the consciousness of a true and unselfish love, he
looked at her unfalteringly to the last, and said, "In justice to
myself I might again urge that you misunderstand me. I asked for
nothing now, only a hope for the future based on what I possibly might
become. But, as you say, I now know I asked too much--more than I had
a right to. You can never look up to me, and with a sadness you will
never understand, I admit myself answered finally. But there is one
imputation in your words that I cannot rest under. I solemnly assert
before God, and in the name of my mother, that my love for you is as
strong, pure, and unselfish as can exist in my half-wrecked nature."

"Oh dear!" exclaimed Annie, in a tone of mingled vexation and
distress, "why has it all turned out so miserably? I'm so sorry, so
very sorry; but in kindness I must show you how hopeless it all is. I
am the same as engaged to another."

Gregory started violently. His despairing words had been not quite
despairing. But now a chill like death settled about his heart. He was
well satisfied that she was one who would be true as steel to all such
ties, and that no man who had learned to know her would ever prove
inconstant. But, with a white face and firmly compressed lips, he
still listened quietly.

"I came out this morning hoping to tell you a little secret as I might
confide in a brother, and I trusted that your friendship for me would
prove strong enough to enable me to make you his friend also. I wanted
you to stay a little longer, that you might meet him, and that I might
reconcile you, and prepare the way for pleasant companionship in the
future. I am expecting Charles Hunting now every--

"What is the matter? What do you mean by that look of horror? What
have you against him, that you should show such deep hostility before,
and now stare at me in almost terror?"

But he only staggered against a tree for support.

"Speak," cried she, passionately seizing his arm. "I will not endure
the innuendo of your look and manner."

"I will speak," he answered, in sudden vehemence. "I've lost too much
by him. Charles Hunting is--"

But he stopped, clinched his hands, and seemed to make a desperate
effort at self-control. She heard him mutter as he turned away a few
steps, "Stop! stop! All that is left you now is a little self-respect.
Keep that--keep that."

Annie misunderstood him, and thought he referred to some slander that
he had hesitated to utter against his enemy even in his anger and
jealousy. With flashing eyes she said, "Let me complete the sentence
for you. Charles Hunting is a Christian gentleman. You may well think
twice before you speak one word against him in my presence."

"Did I say one word against him?" he asked, eagerly.

"No, but you looked much more than words can express."

"I could not help that. Your revelation was sudden, Miss Walton."

"How could it be otherwise?" she asked, indignantly. "The first
evening of your arrival, when his name was mentioned, your face grew
as black as night. When I again sought to speak to you of him, you
adjured me never to mention his name. You taxed my forbearance
severely at that time. But I hoped you would become so changed that
such enmity would be impossible."

"I see it all now," he groaned--"the miserable fatality of it all. I
must shut off the one way of escape, and then go forward. By my own
act, I must destroy my one chance. If I had only known this in time.
And yet it's through my own act that I did not know. Your God is
certainly one of justice. I'm punished now for all the past. But it
seems a trifle cruel to show one heaven and then shut the door in
one's face. If I had only known!"

"There," exclaimed Annie, in the deepest distress; "because of this
little thing you fall back into your old scepticism."

"This 'little thing' is death to me," he said, in a hard, bitter tone.
"Oh no, I'm not at all sceptical. The 'argument from design,' the
nature of the result, are both too clear. I'm simply being dealt with
according to law. Though perfectly sincere, you were entirely too
lenient that Sunday evening when I told you what I was. My conscience
was right after all. I only wish that I had fallen from yonder roof
the other night. I might then have made my exit decently."

"Mr. Gregory, you shock me," she said, almost sternly. "You have no
right to insult my faith in a merciful God by such words, and your
believing Him cruel and vindictive on this one bit of your experience
is the sheerest egotism. It is the essence of selfishness to think
everything wrong when one does not have one's own way."

He only bowed his answer, then stepped out to the point of the hill,
and took a long, lingering look at the valley and his old home, sighed
deeply, turned, and said to her, quietly, "Perhaps it is time for you
to return to your father."

CHAPTER XXVIII

WHAT A LOVER COULD DO

Without a word they descended the hill. Gregory was very pale, and
this, with a certain firmness about his mouth, was the only indication
of feeling on his part. Otherwise, he was the same finished man of the
world that he had appeared when he came. Annie's face grew more and
more troubled with every glance at him.

"He is hardening into stone," she thought; and she was already
reproaching herself for speaking so harshly. "I might have known," she
thought, "that his rash, bitter words were only incoherent cries of
pain and disappointment."

He perplexed her still more by saying at the foot of the hill, in his
old light tone, "See, Miss Walton, our 'well-meaning friend' has not
been here to put up the bars, and we can take the shorter way through
the orchard. I would like to see them picking apples once more. By the
way, you must say good-by for me to your old neighbor, and tell him
that out of respect for his first honest greeting, I'm going to fill
his pipe for the winter."

But Annie's heart was too full to answer.

"How familiar these mossy-trunked trees are!" he continued, determined
that there should be no awkward pauses, no traces to the eyes of
others of what had occurred. "How often I've picked apples from this
one and that one--indeed from all! Good-by, old friends."

"Do you never expect to come back to these 'old friends,' and others
that would be friends again?" she asked, in low, trembling tones. "Mr.
Gregory, you are cruel. You are saying good-by as if it were a very
ordinary matter."

He did not trust himself to look at her, but he said, firmly, "Miss
Walton, in a few moments we shall be under the eyes of others, and
perhaps I shall never have another chance to speak to you alone. Let
me say a few plain, honest words before I go. I am not ashamed of my
love for you, nor to have it known. I am glad there was man enough in
me to love such a woman as you are. You are not one of those society
belles who wish to boast of their conquests. I wish merely to leave in
a manner that will save you all embarrassing questions and surmises,
and enable you to go back to your father as if nothing had happened.
The best I can do is to maintain the outward semblance of a gentleman
with which I came. In regard to Charles Hunting--please listen
patiently--I know that you will not believe any statement of mine. It
is your nature to trust implicitly those you love. But since I have
had time to think, even the little conscience I possess will not
permit me to go away in silence in regard to him. Do not think my
words inspired by jealousy. I have given you up. You are as
unattainable by me as heaven. But that man is not worthy of you. Think
well before you--"

"You are right," she interrupted, hotly. "I will not believe anything
against him whom I have known and loved for years. If sincere, you are
mistaken. But I entreat you, for my own sake as well as yours, never
speak a word against him again. Because, if you do, it will be hard
for me to forgive you. If you place the slightest value on my good
opinion and continued regard, you will not throw them away so
uselessly. I do feel--I ever wish to feel--a deep and friendly
interest in you, therefore speak for yourself, and I will listen with
honest sympathy. Give me hope, if possible, that you will think better
of all this folly--that you will visit your old home and those who
wish to be your true friends--that you will give me a chance to make
you better acquainted with one whom you now greatly wrong. Please give
me something better than this parting promises to end in."

He merely bowed and said, "I supposed it would be so. It is like you.
As for myself--I do not know what my future will be, save that it will
be full of pain. Rest assured of one thing, however. I can never be a
common, vulgar sinner again, after having loved you. That would be
sacrilege. Your memory will blend with that of my mother, and shine
like a distant star in my long night. But you have no right to ask me
to come here any more. Though you do not believe in my love, it is a
reality nevertheless, and I cannot inflict upon myself the unbearable
pain of seeing you, yet hedged about with that which must ever keep me
at a distance. With my feelings, even my poor sense of honor forbids
my seeking your presence. Can I visit you feigning friendship, while
my heart is consuming with love? Come, Miss Walton, we shall have our
real leave taking here, and our formal one at the house. I don't think
gratitude will ever fade out of my heart for all you have tried to do
for me, wherever I am. Even the 'selfish' Walter Gregory can honestly
wish you happiness unalloyed. And you will have it, too, in spite of--
well, in spite of everything, for your happiness is from within, not
without. Give me your hand, and say good-by under the old mossy
trees."

Annie burst into tears and said, "I can't say good-by and have you
leave us so unhappy--so unbelieving. Mr. Gregory, will you never trust
in God?"

"I fear not--not after what I know to-day. He seems wronging you who
are so true to Him, as well as me. You see I am honest with you, as I
said I would be. Can you take the hand of such as I?"

She did take it in both of hers, and said, with passionate
earnestness, "O that I could save you from yourself by main force!"

He was deeply moved, but after a moment said, gently, "That is like
your warm heart. But you cannot. Good-by, Annie Walton. Go on in your
brave, noble life to the end, and then heaven will be the better for
your coming."

"Will you forgive my harsh words?"

"They were more true than harsh. They were forgiven when spoken."

"Mr. Gregory," she cried, "I will not say farewell as you say it. I
have prayed for you, and so has your mother. I will still pray for you
unceasingly. You cannot prevent it, and I will not doubt God's promise
to hear."

"I cannot share your faith. I am saying good-by in the saddest sense."

He stooped and kissed her hand, and then said, firmly, "The end has
come. We really part here. I leave you as I came."

With eyes downcast and blinded with tears she accompanied him out of
the deep shade to the further side of the orchard nearest the house.
Jeff was on a tall ladder that leaned against a heavily laden tree,
and was just about to descend.

"That's right," cried Gregory; "come down with your basket and give me
a taste of those apples. They look the same as when I used to pick
them sixteen years ago."

Jeff obeyed with alacrity. Gregory accompanied him a few steps, and
dropped a banknote into the basket, saying, "That's for the jolly
wood-fires you made for me," and then turned quickly toward Annie to
escape the profuse thanks impending.

He had turned none too soon. The apple-boughs, relieved of the weight
of the fruit and Jeff's solid person, threw out the heavy ladder that
had been placed too nearly in a perpendicular position at first. It
had trembled and wavered a moment, but was now inclining over the very
spot where Annie was standing.

"Miss Walton!" he cried, with a look of horror; rushed toward her, and
stood with head bent down between her and the falling ladder.

She heard a rushing sound, and then with a heavy thud the ladder
struck him, glanced to one side, grazing her shoulder, and fell to the
ground.

He lay motionless beneath it.

For a moment she gazed vacantly at him, too stunned to think or speak.

But Jeff ran and lifted the ladder off Gregory, exclaiming, "Lor'
bless him, Miss Annie, he jus' done save your life."

She knelt at his side and took his hand, but it seemed that of the
dead. She moaned, "The omen's true. His blood is on me now--his blood
is on me now. He died for my sake, and I called him selfish."

She took his head into her lap, and put her hand over his heart.

She thought she felt a faint pulsation.

In a moment all trace of weakness vanished, and her face became
resolute and strong.

"Jeff," she said, in clear-cut, decided tones, "go to the house, tell
Hannah and Zibbie to come here; tell Hannah to bring brandy and a
strong double blanket. Not a word of this to my father. Go, quick."

Jeff ran as he had done once before when the bloodhounds were after
him, saying under his breath all the way, "Lor' bless him! He save
Miss Annie's life; he orter have her sure 'nuff."

Annie was left alone with the unconscious man. She pushed his hair
from his damp brow, and, bending down, impressed a remorseful kiss
upon it.

"God forgive me that I called you selfish," she murmured. "Where is
your spirit wandering that I cannot call it back? O live, live; I can
never be happy if you die. Can this be the end? God keep my faith from
failing."

Again she put her hand over his heart, whose love she could doubt no
more. Did it beat? or was it only the excited throbbing of her own
hand?

Jeff now returned, and, with white, scared faces, the women soon
followed. Annie tried to give Gregory brandy, but he did not seem to
swallow it. They then lifted him on the blanket and carried him to the
house, and up the back stairway to his room, so that Mr. Walton might
not know.

"Now, Jeff," whispered Annie, "harness the fastest horse to the buggy,
and bring the doctor--mind, bring him. Don't tell him to come. Hannah,
tell Miss Eulie to come here--quietly now. Zibbie, bring hot water."

Again she poured a teaspoonful of brandy into his mouth, and this time
he seemed to swallow it. She bathed his face and hands with spirits,
while her every breath was a prayer.

Miss Eulie did not want a long explanation. Annie's hurried words, "A
ladder fell on him," satisfied her, and she set to work, and more
effectively with her riper experience. She took off his collar and
opened his shirt at the throat, and soon, with a look of joy, to
Annie, said, "His heart beats distinctly."

Again they gave him brandy, and this time he made a manifest effort to
swallow it.

With eyes aglow with excitement and hope they re-doubled their
exertions, Hannah and Zibbie helping, and at last they were rewarded
by seeing their patient make a faint movement.

Now with every breath Annie silently sent the words heavenward, "O
God, I thank thee."

She bent over him, and said, in a low, thrilling tone, "Mr. Gregory."
A happy smile came out upon his face, but this was the only response.

"Do you think he is conscious?" she whispered to her aunt.

"I hardly know. Let me give him a little more stimulant."

After receiving it he suddenly opened his eyes and looked fearfully
around. Then he tried to rise, but fell back, and asked, faintly,
"Where is Miss Walton? Is she safe? I heard her voice."

"You did. I'm here. Don't you know me?"

"Are you really here unhurt?"

"Yes, yes," she answered, eagerly; "thanks to you."

Again he closed his eyes with a strange and quiet smile.

"Can't you see me?" she asked.

"There seems a blur before my eyes. It does not signify. I know your
voice, so true and kind."

"Why can't he see?" she asked, drawing her aunt aside.

"I don't know. What I fear most are internal injuries. Did the ladder
strike his head?"

"O merciful Heaven!" said Annie, again in an agony of fear. "I don't
know. Oh, if he should die--if he should die--" and she wrung her
hands with terror at the thought.

The doctor now stepped lightly in. Jeff had told him enough to excite
the gravest apprehensions. He made a few inquiries and felt Gregory's
pulse.

"It's very feeble," he said. "More brandy."

Then he added, "I must make such examination as I can now without
disturbing him much. Miss Morton, you and Jeff stay and help me."

Annie went down to her father with a greater anxiety as to the result
of the examination than if the danger had been her own.

She found her father awake, and wondering at the sounds in the room
above.

"Annie," he said, feebly, "what is going on in Mr. Gregory's room?"

As she looked at him, she saw that he was not better, as she hoped,
but that his face had a shrunken look, betokening the rapid failing of
the vital forces. The poor girl felt that trouble was coming like an
avalanche, and in spite of herself she sat down, and, burying her face
in her father's bosom, sobbed aloud. But she soon realized the injury
she might do him in thus giving way, and by a great effort controlled
herself so as to tell him the softened outlines of the accident. But
the ashen hue deepened on the old man's face, as he said, fervently,
"God bless him! God bless him! He has saved my darling's life. What
should I have done in these last days without you?"

"But, father, don't you think he will get well?" she asked, eagerly.

"I hope so. I pray so, my child. But I know the ladder, and it is a
heavy one. This is time for faith in God. We cannot see a hand's-
breadth in the darkness before us. He has been very merciful to us
thus far, very merciful, and no doubt has some wise, good purpose in
these trials and dangers. Just cling to Him, my child, and all will be
well."

"O father, how you comfort me! We must leave everything in His hands.
But, father, you feel better, do you not?"

"Yes, much better; not much pain now; and yet for some reason I feel
that I shall soon be where pain never comes. How otherwise can I
explain my almost mortal weakness?"

Annie again hid her tearful eyes on the bedside. Her father placed his
hand upon her bowed head and continued, "It won't break your heart, my
little girl, will it, to have your father go to heaven?"

But she could not answer him.

At last the doctor came down, and said, "His injuries are certainly
serious, and may be more so than I can yet discover. The ladder grazed
his head, inflicting some injury, and struck him on the shoulder,
which is much bruised, and the collar-bone is badly broken. The whole
system has received a tremendous shock, but I hope that with good care
he will pull through. But he must be kept very quiet in mind and body.
And so must you, sir. Now you know all, and have nothing to suspect.
It's often injurious kindness to half hide something from the sick."

"Well, doctor, do your very best by him, as if he were my own son. You
know what a debt of gratitude we owe him. Spare no expense. If he
needs anything, let it be sent for. If I were only up and around; but
the Lord wills it otherwise."

Annie followed the physician out and said, "You have told us the very
worst then?"

"Yes, Miss Walton, the very worst. Unless there are injuries that I
cannot now detect I think he will get better. I will send a young man
whom I can trust to take care of him. Best assured I will do all that
is possible, for I feel very grateful to this stranger for saving my
much-esteemed little friend. I suppose you know we all think a great
deal of you in our neighborhood, and I shudder to think how near we
came to a general mourning. You see he was nearer the base of the
ladder than you, Jeff says. The ladder therefore would have struck you
with greater force, and you would not have had a ghost of a chance.
You ought to be very grateful, eh, Miss Annie?" he added, with a
little sly fun in his face.

But she shook her head sadly, and only said with deep feeling, "I am
very, very grateful." Then she added, quickly, "What about father?"

The doctor's face changed instantly and became grave.

"I don't quite understand his case. He was threatened with pneumonia;
but there seems no acute disease now, and yet he appears to be
failing. The excitement and exposure of the other night were too much
for him. You must make him take all the nourishment possible. Medicine
is of no use."

Agitated by conflicting fears and hopes Annie went to the kitchen to
make something that might tempt her father's appetite.

Blessed are the petty and distracting cares of the household, the
homely duties of the sick-room. They divert the mind and break the
force of the impending blow. If, when illness and death invade a
house, the fearing and sorrowing ones had naught to do but sit down
and watch the remorseless approach of the destroyer, they might go
mad.

When Annie stole noiselessly back to Gregory's room he was sleeping,
though his breathing seemed difficult.

What a poor mockery the dinner hour was! Even the children were
oppressed by the general gloom and talked in whispers. But before it
was over there came a bright ray of light to Annie in the form of a
telegram from Hunting, saying that he had arrived in New York safely,
and would be at the village on the 5 P.M. train.

"O I am so glad!" cried Annie; "never was he so needed before."

And yet there was a remorseful twinge at her heart as she thought of
Gregory. But she felt sure of reconciliation now, for would not
Hunting overwhelm her preserver with gratitude, and forgive everything
in the past?

She said to Jeff, "Have Dolly and the low buggy ready for me at half-
past four."

Her father seemed peculiarly glad when he heard that his relative, the
man he hoped would soon be his son, was coming.

"It's all turning out for the best," he said, softly.

The hour soon came, for it was already late, and Annie slipped away,
leaving both her father and Gregory sleeping. To her great joy Hunting
stepped down from the train and was quickly seated by her side. As
they drove away in the dusk he could not forbear a rapturous kiss and
embrace which she did not resist.

"O Charles, I'm so glad you've come--so very glad!" she exclaimed
almost breathlessly; "and I've so much to tell you that I hardly know
where to begin. How good God is to send you to me now, just when I
need you most!"

"So you find that you can't do without me altogether? That's grand
news. How I've longed for this hour! If I'd had my own way I would
have exploded the boilers in my haste to reach port to see you again.
It was real good of you to come, and not send for me. Come Annie,
celebrate my return by the promise that you will soon make a home for
me. I am happy to say that I can now give you the means of making it a
princely one."

"I haven't the time nor the heart to think about that now, Charles.
Father is very ill. I'm exceedingly anxious about him."

"Indeed!" said Hunting, "that is bad news;" and yet his grief was not
very deep, for he thought, "If she is left alone she will come to me
at once."

"What is more," cried Annie, a little hurt at the quiet manner in
which he received her tidings, "suppose, instead of meeting me strong
and well, you had found me a crushed and lifeless corpse to-night?"

"Annie," he said, "what do you mean?"

"I mean that this would have been true but for one with whom I am
sorry you are on bad terms. Walter Gregory is at our house."

He gave a great start at the mention of this name, and even in the
deep twilight his face seemed very white.

"I don't understand," he almost gasped.

"I knew you would be deeply affected," said the unsuspicious Annie.
"He stood between me and death to-day, and it may cost him his own
life. He was severely injured--how badly we can hardly tell yet;" and
she rapidly related all that had occurred. "And now, Charles," she
concluded, "no matter what he may have done, or how deeply he may have
wronged you, I'm sure you'll do everything in your power to effect a
complete reconciliation, and cement a lasting friendship. If possible,
you must become his untiring nurse. How much you owe him!"

She noticed that he was trembling. After a moment he asked,
hesitatingly, "Has he--how long has he been here, did you say?"

"About three weeks. You know our place was his old home, and his
father was a very dear friend of my father."

"If I knew it I had forgotten it," he answered, with a chill of fear
growing deeper every moment. "Did he--has he said anything about our
difficulties?"

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