Opening a Chestnut Burr Part 41

"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 G.o.d 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 embarra.s.sing 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 a.s.sured 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 s.h.i.+ne 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 friends.h.i.+p, 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 grat.i.tude 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 G.o.d?"

"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 pa.s.sionate 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, n.o.ble 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 G.o.d'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 rus.h.i.+ng 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.

"G.o.d 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? G.o.d 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.