Books: Opening a Chestnut Burr

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Hunting had spent the morning with Mr. Walton, preparing his mind for
the plan of immediate marriage. He found the failing man not averse to
the project, as his love ought to secure to Annie every help and
solace possible.

After Annie had removed from her face, to the best of her ability,
every trace of her emotion, she came down and took her place at her
father's side, intending to leave it only when compelled to. Hunting
knew of her mission to Gregory, and looked at her inquiringly, but she
sadly shook her head. He tried to look hurt, but only succeeded in
looking angry. He soon controlled himself, however, though he noted
with deep uneasiness Annie's sad face and red eyes. Mr. Walton
fortunately was dozing and needed no explanation.

That night he was much worse, and had some very serious symptoms.
Annie did not leave his side. But toward morning he rallied and fell
into a quiet sleep. Then she took a little rest.

The next day she was told that there was a gentleman in the parlor who
wished to see her. The stranger proved to be one of Gregory's
partners, Mr. Seymour, who courteously said, "I should have been here
before, but the senior partner, Mr. Burnett, is unable to attend to
business at present, and I came away the first moment I could leave. I
felt sure also that everything would be done that could be. I hope the
injury is not so serious as was first supposed."

"You may rest assured that we have tried to do everything," said
Annie, gravely, "but Mr. Gregory is in a very precarious condition.
You would like to see him, I suppose."

"If I can with safety to him."

"I think a brief interview may do him good. He needs rallying."

At that moment Hunting, not knowing who was present, entered. Both
gentleman started, but Mr. Seymour gave no sign of recognition, nor
did Hunting, though he could not at first hide a certain degree of
nervous agitation. Annie presented him. Mr. Seymour bowed stiffly, and
said, rather curtly, "We have met before," and then gave him no
further attention, but continuing to address Annie, said, "I well
understand that Mr. Gregory needs rallying. That has been just his
need for the last few months, during which time his health has been
steadily failing. I was in hopes he would come back--" and then he
stopped, quite puzzled for a moment by the sudden change in Annie's
manner, which had become freezingly cold toward him, while there was a
look of honest indignation upon her face.

"Excuse me, sir," she said, briefly. "I will send you my aunt, who
will attend to your wishes;" and she left Mr. Seymour standing in the
middle of the room, both confused and annoyed; but he at once surmised
that it was on account of his manner toward Hunting, who sat down with
a paper at the further side of the room, as if he were alone.

But when, a moment later, Miss Eulie entered with her placid,
unruffled face, Mr. Seymour could not be otherwise than perfectly
polite, and after a few words, followed her to Gregory's room.

Annie at once came to Hunting and asked, "Why did that man act so?"

"Why, don't you see?" answered he, hastily. "Mr. Seymour is Mr.
Gregory's partner. They all have the same reason for feeling hostile
toward me, though perhaps Gregory has special reasons," he added, with
a searching look.

Annie blushed deeply at this allusion, but said with emphasis, "No man
shall treat you in that way in my presence and still receive courtesy
from me."

But his jealous spirit had noticed her quick blush more than her
generous resentment of the insult she supposed offered him. Therefore
he said, "Mr. Gregory would treat me worse if he got a chance."

"But his case is different from any one's else," she said, with
another quick flush.

"Evidently so in your estimation."

Then for the first time she noted his jealousy, and it hurt her
sorely. She took a step nearer and looked very gravely into his face
for a moment without speaking, and then said, with that calmness which
is more effective than passion, "Charles, take care. I'm one that will
be trusted. Though it seems a light matter to you that he has saved my
life, at perhaps the cost of his own, it does not to me."

The cool and usually cautious man had for once lost his poise, and he
said, with sudden irritation, "I hear that and nothing else. What else
could he have done? If you had stayed at your father's side you would
have been safe. He took you out to walk, and any man would have risked
his life to bring you back safely."

He now saw in Annie a spirit he could never control as he managed
people in Wall Street, for, with a sudden flash in her eyes, she said,
hotly, "I do not reason thus coldly about those to whom I owe so
much," and abruptly left him.

In bitterness of fear and self-reproach he at once realized his
blunder. He followed her, but she was with her father, and he could
not speak there. He looked imploringly at her, but could not catch her
eye, for she was deeply incensed. Had she not heard him she would not
have believed that he could be so ungenerous.

He wrote on a scrap of paper, "Annie, forgive me. I humbly ask your
pardon. I'm not myself to-day, and that man's conduct, which you so
nobly resented in my behalf, vexed me to that degree that I acted like
a fool. I am not worthy of you, but you will perceive that my folly
arises from my excess of love for you. I'm going for a walk. Please
greet me with pardon in your face on my return."

Impulsive, loving, warm-hearted Annie could not resist such an appeal.
She at once relented, and began to make a thousand better excuses for
her lover than he could for himself. But she had taught him a lesson,
and proved that she was not a weak, willowy creature that would cling
to him no matter what he was or did. He saw that he must seem to be
worthy of her.

Gregory greeted his partner with a momentary glow of gratitude that he
had come so far to see him, and began talking about his business.

"Not a word of that, old fellow," said Mr. Seymour. "Your business is
to get well. It seems to me that you have everything here for comfort
--good medical attendance, eh?"

"Yes; if anything, too much is done for me."

"I don't understand just how it happened."

Gregory told him briefly.

"By Jove! this Miss Walton ought to be very grateful to you."

"She is too grateful."

"I don't know about that. I met that infernal Hunting downstairs. Of
course I couldn't treat him with politeness, and do you know the
little lady spunked up about it to that degree that she almost turned
her back upon me and left the room."

"Of course," said Gregory, coolly, shielding his secret by a desperate
effort; "they are engaged."

"Oh, I understand now. Well, I rather like her spirit. Does she know
how accomplished her lover is in Wall Street?"

"No. Hunting is a distant relative of the family. They believe him to
be a gentleman, and would not listen to a word against him."

"But they ought to know. He lied like a scoundrel to us, and in your
trying all summer to make up the losses, he has nearly been the death
of you. I wouldn't let my daughter marry him though he had enough
money to break the Street: and it is a pity that a fine girl, as this
Miss Walton seems, should throw herself away on him."

"Well, Seymour, that's not our affair," said Gregory, pale and faint
from his effort at self-control. "They would listen to nothing."

"Well, good-by, old fellow. I see it won't do to talk with you any
more. Get well as soon as you can, for we want you woefully in town.
Get well, and carry off this Miss Walton yourself. It would be a neat
way of turning the tables on Hunting."

"Don't set your heart on seeing me at the office again," said Gregory,
feelingly. "I have a presentiment that I shan't pull through this, and
I don't much care. Give my kindest regards to Mr. Burnett, and tell
him I shall think of him to the last as among my best friends."

Seymour made a few hearty remonstrances against such a state of mind,
and took his departure with many misgivings. Gregory relapsed into his
old dreary apathy. Life had so many certain ills that upon the whole
he felt he would rather die. But he was too stunned and weak to think
much, save when Annie came to him. Her presence was always life, but
now it was a sharp revival of the consciousness of his loss. Left to
himself, his mind sank down into a sort of painless lethargy, from
which he did not wish to be aroused.

Mr. Walton passed a quieter night, but was clearly failing fast. He
sent frequent messages of love and sympathy to Gregory, and had an
abiding faith that all would be well with him in the next life, if not
in this. Annie had not the heart to undeceive him. When he thought it
a little strange that Hunting was not with Gregory, Annie explained by
saying that the doctor insisted on perfect quiet of mind, and the
presence of Hunting might unpleasantly revive old memories, and so
unduly excite him.

After the physician saw his patients the following morning, he looked
grave and dissatisfied. Annie followed him to the door, and said,
"Doctor, I don't like the expression of your face."

"Well, Miss Annie," said the doctor, discontentedly, "I've a difficult
task on my hands, in trying to cure two patients that make no effort
to live. Your father seems homesick for heaven, and mere drugs can't
rouse Mr. Gregory out of his morbid, gloomy apathy. I could get him
ashore if he would strike out for himself, but he just floats down
stream like driftwood. But really I'm doing all that can be done, I
think."

"I believe you are," she said, sadly. "Good-by."

"O merciful God!" she exclaimed when alone. "What shall I do--what
shall I do to save him? Father's going to heaven and mother. Where is
_he_ going?"

CHAPTER XXX

KEPT FROM THE EVIL

With the light of the following day Annie gave up all hope of her
father's recovery. He was sinking fast, and conscious himself that
death was near. But his end was like the coming into harbor of a
stately ship after a long, successful voyage. He looked death in the
face with that calmness and dignity, that serene certainty that it was
a change for the better, which Christian faith alone can inspire. His
only solicitude was for those he was leaving, and yet he had no deep
anxiety, for his strong faith committed them trustingly to God.

Annie tried to feel resigned, since it was God's will. But the tie
that bound her to him was so tender, so interwoven with every fibre of
her heart, that she shrunk with inexpressible pain from its sundering.
She knew that she was not losing her father, that the worst before
them was but a brief separation, but how could she, who had lived so
many happy years at his side, endure even this? It seemed as if she
could not let him go, and in the strong, passionate yearning of her
heart, she was almost ready to leave youth, friends, lover, and all,
to go with him.

She was one who lived in her affections rather than her surroundings.
The latter would matter little to her could she keep her heart-
treasures. It would have touched the coldest to see how she clung to
him toward the last. All else was forgotten, even Gregory, who might
be dying also. The instinct of nature was strong, and her father was
first.

Moreover, the relation between this parent and child was peculiarly
close, for they were not only in perfect sympathy in views, character,
and faith, but Annie had stepped to the side of the widowed man years
before and sought successfully to fill the place of one who had
reached home before him. Though so young, she had been his companion
and daily friend, interesting herself in that which interested him,
and thus he had been saved from that terrible loneliness which often
breaks the heart even in the midst of a household. It was therefore
with a love beyond words that his eyes rested most of the time on her
and followed her every movement.

She also had a vague and peculiar dread in looking forward to her
bereavement. An anticipating sense of isolation and loneliness chilled
her heart.

Though she would not openly admit it to herself, Hunting had
disappointed her since his return. She did not get from him the
support and Christian sympathy she expected. She tried to excuse him,
and charged herself with being too exacting, and yet the sense of
something wanting pained her. She had hoped that in these dark days he
would be serene and strong, and yet abounding in the tenderest
sympathy. She had expected words of faith and consolation that would
have sustained her spirit, fainting under a double and peculiar
sorrow. She had felt sure that before this his just gratitude, like a
torrent, would have overwhelmed and destroyed Gregory's enmity. But
all had turned out so differently! Instead of being a help, he had
almost added to her burden by his hostile feeling toward her
preserver, which he had not been able wholly to disguise. Such a
feeling on his part seemed both unnatural and wrong. He professed
himself ready to do anything she wished for Gregory, but it was in a
half-hearted way, to oblige her, and not for the sake of the injured
man. When she went to him for Christian consolation, his words, though
well-chosen, lacked heartiness and the satisfying power of truth.

Why this was so can be well understood. Hunting could not give what he
did not possess. Of necessity there would be a hollow ring when he
spoke of that which he did not understand or feel. During his brief
visits, and in his carefully written letters, he could appear all she
wished. He could honestly show his sincere love for her, and there was
no special opportunity to show anything else. In her vivid, loving
imagination she supplied all else, and she believed that when they
were more together, or in affliction, he would reveal more distinctly
his deeper and religious nature, for such a nature he professed to
have; and his letters, which could be written deliberately, abounded
in Christian sentiment. Self-deceived, he meant to be honestly
religious as soon as he could afford to give up his questionable
speculations.

But when a man least expects it the test and strain will come, that
clearly manifest the character of his moral stamina. It had now come
to Hunting, and though he strove with all the force and adroitness of
a resolute will and though he was a practiced dissembler, he was not
equal to the searching demands of those trying days, and steadily lost
ground. The only thing that kept him up was his sincere love for
Annie. That was so apparent and honest that, loving him herself, she
was able to forgive the rest. But it formed no small part of her
sorrow at that dark time, that she must lower her lofty ideal of her
lover. Hunting and Gregory seemed nearer together morally than she
could have believed possible. Thus she already had the dread that she
would not be able to "look up" to Hunting as she had expected, and
that it would be her mission to deepen and develop his character
instead of "leaning" upon it.

It seemed strange to her as she thought of it, during her long hours
of watching, that after all she would have to do for Hunting something
like what poor Gregory had asked her to do for him. She prayerfully
purposed to do it, for the idea of being disloyal to her engagement
never entered her mind.

"Unless men have a Christian home, in which their religious life can
be daily strengthened and fostered, they cannot be what they ought,"
she said to herself. "In continual contact with the world, with
nothing to counteract, it's not strange that they act and feel as they
do."

Thus she was more disposed to feel sorry for both Hunting and Gregory
than to blame them. And yet she looked upon the two men very
differently. She regarded Hunting as a true Christian who simply
needed warming and quickening into positive life, while she thought of
Gregory with only fear and trembling. Her hope for the latter was in
the prayers stored up in his behalf.

But now upon this day that would ever be so painfully memorable she
had thoughts only for her father, and nothing could tempt her from his
side.

Hunting also saw that the crisis was approaching, and made but a
formal semblance of a breakfast. He then entered the sick-room, and
was thinking how best to broach the subject of an immediate marriage,
when a thumping of crutches was heard in the hall.

Miss Eulie entered and said that Daddy Tuggar had managed to hobble
over, and had set his heart upon seeing his old friend.

"Certainly," said Mr. Walton; "he shall come in at once."

"Caution him to stay but a few minutes," warned Annie.

Miss Eulie helped the old man in, and he sat down by Mr. Walton's
side, with a world of trouble on his quaint, wrinkled face.

But he said abruptly, as if he expected an affirmative answer, "Yer
gettin' better this mornin'--yer on the mend?"

"Yes, my kind old neighbor," said Mr. Walton, feebly. "I shall soon be
well. It was kind of you, in your crippled state, to come over to see
me."

"Well, now," said Mr. Tuggar, greatly relieved, "there _is_ use of
prayin'. I ain't much of a hand at it, and didn't know how the Lord
would take it from me; but when I heard you was sick, I began to feel
like prayin', and when I heard you was gettin' wuss, I couldn't help
prayin'. When I heard how that city chap as saved the house--(what an
old fool I was to cuss him when he first came! The Lord knew what He
was doin' when He brought him here)--when I heard how he kept the
ladder from falling on Miss Annie, I prayed right out loud. My wife,
she thought I was gettin' crazy. But I didn't care what anybody
thought. I've been prayin' all night, and it seemed as if the Lord
must hear me, and I kinder felt it in my bones that He had. So I
expected to hear you say you was goin' to get well; and Mr. Gregory,
he's better too--ain't he?"

There was no immediate answer. Neither Miss Eulie nor Annie seemed to
know how to reply to the old man at first. But Mr. Walton reached
slowly out and took his neighbor's hand, saying, "Your prayers will be
answered, my friend. Honest prayer to God always is. I shall be well
soon, never to be old, feeble, and sick any more. I'm going where
there's 'no more pain.' Perhaps I've seen my last night, for there is
'no night there.'"

"But the Lord knows I didn't mean nothin' of that kind. We need you
here, and He orter know it. What's the use of prayin' if you get just
the opposite of what you pray for?"

"Suppose the opposite is best? I'm an old man--a shock of corn fully
ripe. I'm ready to be gathered."

"Are yer goin' to die?" asked the old man, in an awed whisper.

"No, Mr. Tuggar; I've been growing old and feeble, I've been dying for
a long time. Now I'm going to live--to be strong and well, forever and
ever. So don't grieve, but rather rejoice with me."

The old man sat musing a moment, and then said softly to himself,
"This is what the Scripter means when it tells about the 'death of the
righteous.'"

"Yes," continued Mr. Walton, though more feebly; "and the Scripture is
true. The dear Lord doesn't desert His people. He who has been my
friend and helper so many years now tells me that my sins, which are
many, are all forgiven. It seems that I have also heard Him say, 'To-
day thou shalt be with me in Paradise.'"

Tears gathered in Daddy Tuggar's eyes, and he said, brokenly, "The
Lord knows--I've allers been a sort--of well-meanin' man--but I
couldn't talk that way--if I was where you be."

"Mr. Tuggar," said Mr. Walton, "I'm too weak to say much more, but I
want to ask you one question. You have read the Bible. Whom did the
Lord Jesus come to save?"

"Sinners," was the prompt response.

"Are you one?"

"What else be I?"

"Then, old neighbor, you are safe, if you will just receive Him as
your Saviour. If you were sure you were good enough and didn't need
any Saviour, I should despair of you. But according to the Bible you
are just such as He came after. If you feel that you are a sinner, all
you have to do is to trust Him and do the best you can."

"Is that all you did?"

"All. I couldn't do anything more. And now, good-by. Remember my last
words--Whom did Jesus come to save?"

"Why, He come to save me," burst out the old man, rising up. "What a
cussed old fool I was, not to see it afore! I was allers thinkin' He
came after the good folks, and I felt that no matter how I tried I
could not be good enough. Good-by, John Walton. If they are goin' to
let sinners into heaven who are willin' to come any way the Lord will
let 'em come, I'll be yer neighbor again 'fore long;" and with his
withered, bronzed visage working with an emotion that he did not seek
to control, he wrung the dying man's hand, and hobbled out.

But he pleaded with Miss Eulie to let him stay. "I want to see it
out," he said, "for if grim Death ain't goin' to get one square knock-
down now, then he never had it, I want to see the victory. 'Pears to
me that when the gates open the glory will shine out upon us all."

So she installed him in Mr. Walton's arm-chair by the parlor fire, and
made him thoroughly at home.

"I'm a waitin' by the side of the river," he said. "I wish I could go
over with him. 'Pears I'd feel sure they wouldn't turn me back then."

"Jesus will go over the river with you," she said, gently, "and then
they can't turn you back."

"I hope so, I hope so," said this old, child-like man, "for I'm an
awful sinner."

After this interview, which greatly fatigued him, Mr. Walton dozed for
an hour, and then brightened up so decidedly that Annie had faint
hopes that he was better.

The children were brought to him, and he kissed and fondled them very
tenderly. Then, in a way that would make a deep impression on their
childish natures, he told them how he was going to see their father
and mother, and would tell what good children they had been, and how
they always meant to be good, and how all would be waiting for them in
heaven.

Thus the little ones received no grim and terrible impressions at that
death-bed, but rather memories and hopes that in all their future
would hold them back, like angel hands, from evil.

Hunting now believed that the time for him to act had come. He had
told Jeff to have the horse and buggy ready so that he might send for
the old pastor at once.

He came to Annie's side, and taking her hand and her father's, thus
seeming a link between them, said very gently, very tenderly, "Annie,
your father has told me that it would be a great consolation to him to
leave me in charge of you all as his son, legally and in the eyes of
the world, as I feel I am in reality. I could then do everything for
you, relieve you of every care, and protect with unquestionable right
all the interests of the household. Again, the marriage tie, like that
of our betrothal, consummated here at his side, would ever seem to us
peculiarly tender and sacred. It will almost literally be a marriage
made in heaven. I hope you will feel that you can grant this, your
father's last wish."

Annie felt a sudden and strong repugnance to the plan. In that hour of
agonized parting she did not wish to think of marriage, even to one
she loved. Her thoughts immediately recurred to Gregory, and she felt
that such an act might, in his weak state, cause disastrous results.
And yet if it were her father's wish--his last wish--how could she
refuse him--how could she refuse him anything? The marriage day would
eventually come. If by making this the day she could once more show
her filial love and add to his dying peace, did she not owe him her
first duty? The dying are omnipotent with us. Who can refuse their
last requests?

She looked inquiringly, but with tear-blinded eyes, at her father.

"Yes, Annie," he said, answering her look, "it would be a great
consolation to me, because I can see how it will be of much advantage
to you--more than you can now understand. It will enable Charles to
step in at once as head of the household, and so you will be relieved
of many perplexities and details of business which would be very
trying to you, as you will feel. I want to spare you and sister all
this, and you have no idea how much it will save your feelings, and
add to your comfort, to have one like Charles act for you with such
power as he would have as your husband. After seeing you all thus
provided for, it seems to me that I could depart in perfect peace."

"Dear father," said Annie, tenderly, "how can I deny you anything!
This seems to me no time for marriage, but, since you wish it, your
will shall be mine. It must be right or you would not ask it; and
yet--" She did not finish the sentence, but buried her face in her
hands, weeping.

"That's my noble Annie," Hunting exclaimed, with a glad exultation in
his voice that he could not disguise; and, hastening out, he told Jeff
to bring the minister as speedily as possible.

Miss Eulie was called, and acquiesced in her brother's opinion, and
hovered around Annie in a tender flutter of maternal love.

Hunting now felt that he was master of destiny, and in his heart bade
defiance to Gregory and all his own fears. His elation and self-
applause were great, for had he not snatched the prize out of the hand
of death itself, and made events that would have awed and disheartened
other men combine for his good? He had schemed, planned, and
overreached them all, though, in this case, for their interests as
well as his own, he believed. While he would naturally wish the
marriage to take place as soon as possible, his chief reason was to
forestall any revelations which might come through Gregory; and this
motive made his whole course, though apparently dictated by the purest
feeling, a crafty trick. Yet such was the complex nature of the man
that he honestly meant to fulfil all Mr. Walton's expectations, and
become Annie's loving shield from every care and trial, and a faithful
guardian of the household. Nay, more, as soon as he was securely
intrenched, with all his coveted possessions, he purposed that Annie
should help him to be a true, good man--a Christian in reality.

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