Opening a Chestnut Burr Part 52

Even Annie thawed and relented under his graceful tact, and felt that perhaps he was doing all she could expect in view of the simple promise to "treat Hunting like a gentleman, for her sake." But it had pained her deeply that he had not met Hunting's advances; and she saw that, though perfectly courteous, he was not committing himself in the slightest degree toward reconciliation.

Moreover, she was excessively annoyed that Hunting acted so poor a part. It is as natural for a woman to take pride in her lover as to breathe, but she could have no pride in Hunting that evening. He seemed annoyed beyond endurance with both himself and Gregory, though he strove to disguise it. He knew that he was appearing to disadvantage, and this increased his embarra.s.sment, and he was most unhappy in his words and manner. Yet he could take exception at nothing, for Gregory, secure in his polished armor, grew more brilliant and entertaining as he saw his adversary losing ground.

All were glad when he supper-hour was over and they could adjourn to the parlor. Here Gregory changed his tactics, and drawing the children aside, told them a marvellous tale as a good-by souvenir, thus causing them to feel deep regret for his departure. He next drew Miss Eulie into an animated discussion upon a subject he knew her to be interested in. From this he made the conversation general, and continued to speak to Hunting as naturally as if there were no differences between them.

But all saw that he was growing very weary, and early in the evening he quietly rose and excused himself, saying that he needed rest for his journey on the morrow. There was the same polite, distant bow to Hunting as at first, and in deep disappointment Annie admitted that nothing had been gained by the interview from which she had hoped so much. They were no nearer reconciliation. While Gregory's manner had compelled respect and even admiration, it had annoyed her excessively, for he had made her lover appear to disadvantage, and she was almost vexed with Hunting that he had not been equal to the occasion. She was sorry that she had asked Gregory to come down while Hunting was present, and yet courtesy seemed to require that he should be with them, since he was now sufficiently well. Altogether it was a silent little group that Gregory left in the parlor, as all were busy with their own thoughts.

Hunting determined to remain the following day and see Gregory off and out of the way forever, he hoped.

The next morning Gregory did not come down to breakfast. But at about ten o'clock he started for a short farewell stroll about the old place.

Annie joined him in the garden.

"I do not think you were generous last evening," she said. "Mr. Hunting met you half-way."

"Did I not do just what I promised?"

"But I was in hopes you would do more, especially when the way was opened."

"Do you think, Miss Walton, that Mr. Hunting's manner and feelings toward me were sincerely cordial and friendly? Was it the prompting of his heart, or your influence, that led him to put out his hand?"

Annie blushed, in conscious confusion. "I fear I shall never reconcile you," she said, sadly.

"I fear not," he replied. "There must be a great change in us both before you can. Though the reason I give you was a sufficient one for not taking his hand in friendly feeling, it was not the one that influenced me. I would not have taken it under any circ.u.mstances."

"Mr. Gregory, you grieve me most deeply," she said, in a tone of real distress. "Won't you, when you come to part, take his hand for my sake, and let a little of the ice thaw?"

"No," he said, almost sternly; "not even for your sake, for whom I would die, will I be dishonest with myself or him; and you are not one to ask me to act a lie."

"You wound me deeply, sir!" she said, coldly.

"Faithful are the wounds of a friend," he replied. She did not answer.

"We shall not part in this way, Annie," he said, in a low, troubled voice.

"The best I can do is to give you credit for very mistaken sincerity,"

she answered, sadly.

"That is all now, I fear," replied he, gently. "Good-by, Annie Walton.

We are really parting now. My mission to you is past, and we go our different ways. You will never believe anything I can say on this painful subject, and I would not have spoken of it again of my own accord. Keep your promise to me, and all will yet be well, I believe.

As that poor woman who saved us in the mountains said, 'There will at least be one good thing about me. Whether I can pray for myself or not, I shall daily pray for you'; and I feel that G.o.d who shielded you so strangely once, will still guard you. Do not grieve because I go away with pain in my heart. It's a better kind of suffering than that with which I came, and lasting good may come out of it, for my old reckless despair is gone. If I ever do become a good man--a Christian--I shall have you to thank; and even heaven would be happier if you were the means of bringing me there."

"When you speak that way, Walter," she said, tears starting to her eyes, "I must forgive everything; and when you become a Christian you will love even your enemy. Please take this little package from me, but do not open it till you reach the quiet and seclusion of your own rooms. Good-by, my brother, for as such my father told me to act and feel toward you, and from my heart I obey."

He looked at her with moistened eyes, but did not trust himself to answer, and without another word they returned to the house.

Gregory's leave-taking from the rest of the household was no mere form.

Especially was this true of Miss Eulie, to whom he said most feelingly, "Miss Morton, my mother could not have been kinder or more patient with me."

When he pressed Zibbie's hand and left a banknote in it, she broke out in the broadest Scotch, "Maister Gregory, an' when I think me auld gray head would ha' been oot in the stourm wi' na hame to cover it, I pray the gude G.o.d to shelter yours fra a' the cauld blasts o' the wourld."

Silent Hannah, alike favored, seemed afflicted with a sudden attack of St. Vitus's dance, so indefinite was the number of her courtesies; while Jeff, on the driver's seat, looked as solemn as if he were to drive Gregory to the cemetery instead of the depot.

At the moment of final parting, Gregory merely took Annie's hand and looked into her eyes with an expression that caused them speedily to droop, tear-blinded.

To Hunting he had bowed his farewell in the parlor.

When the last object connected with his old home was hidden from his wistful, lingering gaze, he said, with the sorrow of one who watches the sod placed above the grave of his dearest, "So it all ends."

But when in his city apartments, which never before had seemed such a cheerless mockery of the idea of home, he opened the package Annie had given him--when he found a small, worn Bible, inscribed with the words, "To my dear little daughter Annie, from mother," and written beneath, in a child's hand, "I thank you, dear mother. I will read it every day"--he sprang up, and exclaimed it strongest feeling, "No, all has not ended yet."

When he became sufficiently calm he again took up the Bible, and found the leaves turned down at the 14th chapter of St. John, with the words, "Begin here."

He read, "Let not your heart be troubled: ye believe in G.o.d, believe also in me.

"In my Father's house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you."

"How sweetly--with what exquisite delicacy--she points me beyond the shadows of time!" he said, musingly. "I believe in G.o.d. I ever have.

Then why not _trust_ the 'Man of Sorrows,' who also must be G.o.d? Both Annie and her quaint old friend are right. He never turned one away who came sincerely. In Him who forgave the outcast and thief there glimmers hope for me. How thick the darkness as I look elsewhere. Lord Jesus,"

he cried, with a rush of tears, "I am palsied through sin: lift me up, that I may come to Thee."

Better for him that night than a glowing hearth with genial friends around it was Annie's Bible.

Looking at it fondly, he said, "It links me to her happy childhood before that false man came, and it may join me to her in the 'place'

which G.o.d is preparing, when he who now deceives her is as far removed as sin."

CHAPTER x.x.xII

AT SEA--A MYSTERIOUS Pa.s.sENGER

Immediately after Mr. Walton's funeral Miss Eulie had written to a brother-in-law, then, in Europe, full particulars of all that had occurred. This gentleman's name was Kemp, and he had originally married a sister of Miss Eulie and Mrs. Walton. But she had died some years since, and he had married as his second wife one who was an entire stranger to the Walton family, and with whom there could be but little sympathy. For this reason, though no unfriendliness existed, there had been a natural falling-off of the old cordial intimacy. Mr. Walton had respected Mr. Kemp as a man of sterling worth and unimpeachable integrity, and his feelings were shared by Miss Eulie and Annie, while Mr. Kemp himself secretly cherished a tender and regretful memory of his earlier marriage connection. When he heard that his niece, Annie, was orphaned, his heart yearned toward her, for he had always been fond of her as a child. But when he came to read of her relations with Hunting, and that this man was in charge of her property, he was in deep distress. He would have returned home immediately, but his wife's health would not permit his leaving her. He wrote to Miss Eulie a long letter of honest sympathy, urging her and Annie to come to him at Paris, saying that the change would be of great benefit to both.

This letter was expressed in such a way that it could be shown to Annie. But he inclosed another under seal to the aunt, marked private, in which by strong and guarded language he warned her against Hunting.

He did not dare commit definite charges to writing, not knowing how much influence Hunting had over Miss Eulie. He felt sure that Annie would not listen to anything against her lover, and justly feared that she would inform him of what she heard, thus putting him on his guard, and increasing his power for mischief. Mr. Kemp's hope was to act through Miss Eulie, and get both her and Annie under his protection as soon as possible. He knew that when he was face to face with Annie he could prove to her the character of her lover, and through her compel him to resign his executorship. Therefore he solemnly charged Miss Eulie, as she loved Annie, not to permit her marriage with Hunting, and, as executrix, to watch his financial management closely.

Miss Eulie was greatly distressed by the contents of this letter. Mr.

Kemp's words, combined with Gregory's manner, destroyed her confidence in Hunting, and made her feel that he might cause them irretrievable disaster. She knew her brother to be a man of honor, and when he wrote such words as these, "If Mr. Walton had known Hunting as I do he would rather have buried his daughter than permit her to marry him," she was sure that he did not speak unadvisedly.

"Moreover," Mr. Kemp wrote, "I am not giving my mere opinion of Hunting. I have absolute proof of what he is and has done."

But it was his opinion that it would not be safe to reveal to Annie the contents of this letter, as Hunting, in the desperation of his fears, might find means to compa.s.s a hasty marriage, or disastrously use his power over her property.

As we have seen, in quiet home-ministerings Miss Eulie had no superior, but she felt peculiarly timid and self-distrustful in dealing with matters like these. Her first impulse and her growing desire were that she and Annie might reach the shelter and protection of her brother.

She did not understand business, and felt powerless to thwart Hunting.