Vermont watchman and State journal. [volume] (Montpelier, Vt.) 1836-1883, 1868-06-24
ANSON GREY.

Anson Grey was a still, stern man of thir-
ty, shut within himself and by himself, and
ia his great stone mansion on the hill, and
people knew no more about him than they
knew Of the dead In fact, he was as good
as dead to Burlingame, and there seemed but
little chance Of any resurrection. His early
years had been spent abroad, where, or how,
nobody knew, and most had ceased to care,
for that matter the last had been spent in
Burlingame.
A brilliant light at night, shining from the
great east windows, far out over the busy
homes in the valley, and occasional gallops
through the town by day, were the only tokens
Of his presence. However, change was
coming, and that without warning. Anson
Grey fell sick, and dangerously SO. The viii
lage doctor was summoned, who in turn tele-
graphed for another from the city in hot
haste, and together they said, in whispers,
that their patient, rich and lordly as he might
be, would probably die. There was no woman
in the house to act as nurse, and the head
servant, obeying doubtless his masters orders,
refused TO admit one there, as yet.
How il cane about was mystery, but one
morning, when the master had lain week
half senseless, and the physicians were shak-
ing their wise heads over him, an unusual
cloud of dust was observed whirling over the
hill, and emerging therefrom, as it reached
the gravel road leading to the house, was
carriage, splashed and weather stained, headed
by two straining, painting horses, who came
up to the entrance as If driven by the evil
one. A lady, tall, and fair as sunlight, pushed
open the carriage door impatiently, and sprang
out. With hasty glance around, she hur-
ried mp the steps, entered the hall, the drawing
room, and stood before the two astonished
gentlemen who were seated there
"Is Anson Grey aliye?"
One of them raised his finger
Yes, but he grows worse"
Before they had OWNED her intention, she
had passed them, and was in the next room,
bending over the sick man.
THE devil will be to pay if she excites
him now" the elder one said "If some
good nurse had come it might have done some
good but this dainty thing--bah!" !"
She came out in moment, her face white,
but determined.
"Will you have the goodness to send for
minister and remain until he comes y she
asked, as she began to remove her things.
| There was something in her manner that
forbade questioning and they obeyed her like
so many dumb men, as they afterwards said
The minister came. William Skinner, the
head servant, was called, and after they there
had held a private conference which seemed
to be satisfactory, they came out and, to the
amazement of all, the lady stood beside An
son Grey, and the marriage VOWS were read
and taken.
=. |l-ns, in. tla.r
estimate of this fair unknown She was
something besides fair lady as her actions
soon proved. A new order Of things was
instituted in the sick mans room, and his wife
installed herself as NURSE change which
told for the better. In month he was rid
ing through the village, with his bride by his
side, all eyes, of course, agog, to catch view
of her handsome face. Ii had now been
noised abroad how she had come, and of course
the strange wedding which followed, and, as
was but natural, the whole town were wild to
know the why's and the wherefores of the
case.
" At any rate that man looks like differ
ent creature one woman said, as he passed
her cottage door. Did you see how he
smiled at my little girl? That was never
heard of from him and let me tell you, you
never see a man as he was, without there be-
ing woman in the way somewhere"
All agreed that she was just an angel and
when they came into the church the next
Sabbath and sat down quietly in one of the
pews, like other people, they were more than
ever confirmed in their opinion. What the
Burlingame people never knew was this:
Three years before Anson Grey, naughty,
proud and indolent was killing time at one of
the fashionable watering places, where Edith
! Wiloughby was also lingering, though sorely
against her will.
A sweet and wondrous fair face. much ad-
mired and sought after, Anson Grey had half
a mind to enter the list with others, but some
thing kept him back, and he only exchanged
few words with her now and then, when cir
cumstances threw them together.
There happened to come two days food
| ing rain, and the first night Of it, Edith sent
servant asking MIR. Grey to come to her
private parlor for moment. He obeyed the
summons with alacrity though wondering
much what could be coming now
Edith was awaiting him, cloaked aud hood
ed, evidently in haste to be off somewhere.
81 hope you will pardon me- she said, as
he closed the door behind him, 81 but really
did not know whom to ask, and mamma will
not allow me to go by myself A poor woman
down on the beach is sick, perhaps dying, and
| must go to her. Her little boy just came
after me- was there yesterday, and they
are in great distress. Gould trouble you to
90 with me p
II will do the errand. 1t is too stormy
for you TO venture out
90, it is no errand. | am sorry to trouble
anybody"
Mr.. Grey was what she wanted, and saying
he would be back directly, vanished for his
rubber suit.
The rain drove in their faces and the wind
howled through the black night like a minis
ter of evil, but Anson Grey felt as if he
could have braved thousand storms---not for
a fsherwoman, perhaps, but for one as good
and fair as Edith Willoughby, he would not
have hesitated moment. When they came
up on the beach, the waves fairly leaped into
their faces, and Edith shivered and chung half
terrified to her companion in spite of her.
self.
I" | believe you had best return now, and
leave it to me" Mr.. Gerry said.
"No, we are almost there. should never
forgive myself if did" she answered, catch
ing her breath as she spoke. {" II is only you
am worrying about"
{" | am glad to be able to help you,' he
said. Aud think he spoke the truth
Inside the cottage, poor Grace Pooley lay
ON her he'd irving "a breathe on little long
~ II .,t .kf k.sra< an.,. ..,f.l