Opening a Chestnut Burr Part 38

"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 fort.i.tude 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 G.o.d 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, pa.s.sing 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 grat.i.tude, 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 superst.i.tious 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."

"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 lavis.h.i.+ng 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 G.o.d 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 hoa.r.s.e, 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 a.s.sembled 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 hoa.r.s.e, 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 n.o.ble 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 coa.r.s.e that they are little better than animals. These men may have a pa.s.sing pa.s.sion 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 a.s.sertion 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 enn.o.bling companions.h.i.+p 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 pa.s.sion for the public gaze, a boundless faith in eternals, a complete devotion to the artificial enhancing of ordinary and vanis.h.i.+ng 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.