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Opening a Chestnut Burr

by Edward Payson Roe · English · Gutenberg #6028 · 749,394 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Opening a Chestnut Burr

Author: Edward Payson Roe


        
Release date: July 1, 2004 [eBook #6028]
                Most recently updated: September 8, 2012

Language: English

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[Illustration: "LET ME OPEN THE BURR FOR YOU." Chestnut Burr.
_Frontispiece._]

The Works of E. P. Roe

VOLUME FOUR


OPENING A CHESTNUT BURR

ILLUSTRATED





THIS BOOK

IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED TO MY WIFE




PREFACE



In sending this, my fourth venture, out upon the uncertain waters of
public opinion, I shall say but few words of preface. In the past I
have received considerable well-deserved criticism from the gentlemen
of the caustic pen, but so far from having any hard feeling toward
them, I have rather wondered that they found so much to say that was
favorable. How they will judge this simple October story (if they think
it worth while to judge it at all) I leave to the future, and turn to
those for whom the book was really written.

In fancy I see them around the glowing hearth in quiet homes, such as I
have tried to describe in the following pages, and hope that this
new-comer will be welcomed for the sake of those that preceded it.
Possibly it may make friends of its own.

From widely separated parts of the country, and from almost every
class, I have received many and cordial assurances that my former books
were sources not only of pleasure, but also of help and benefit, and I
am deeply grateful for the privilege of unobtrusively entering so many
households, and saying words on that subject which is inseparable from
happiness in both worlds.

I think the purpose of the book will become apparent to the reader. The
incidents and characters are mainly imaginary.

Observation has shown me that there are many in the world, like my
hero, whose condition can be illustrated by the following lines:


    Were some great ship all out of stores,
      When half-way o'er the sea,
    Fit emblem of too many lives,
      Such vessel doomed would be.

Must there not be something fatally wrong in that scheme of life which
finds an heir of eternity weary, listless, discouraged, while yet in
the dawning of existence? It is not in perishing _things_, merely, to
give back the lost zest. But a glad zest and hopefulness might be
inspired even in the most jaded and _ennui_-cursed, were there in our
homes such simple, truthful natures as that of my heroine; and in the
sphere of quiet homes--not elsewhere--I believe that woman can best
rule and save the world.

Highland Falls, N.Y., September, 1874.




CONTENTS



CHAPTER I A HERO BUT NOT HEROIC

CHAPTER II OPENING A CHESTNUT BURR

CHAPTER III MORBID BROODING

CHAPTER IV HOW MISS WALTON MANAGED PEOPLE

CHAPTER V WAS IT AN ACCIDENT?

CHAPTER VI UNEXPECTED CHESTNUT BURRS

CHAPTER VII A CONSPIRACY

CHAPTER VIII WITCHCRAFT

CHAPTER IX MISS WALTON RECOMMENDS A HOBBY

CHAPTER X A PLOT AGAINST MISS WALTON

CHAPTER XI A DRINKING SONG AT A PRAYER-MEETING

CHAPTER XII FOILED IN ONE DIRECTION

CHAPTER XIII INTERPRETING CHESTNUT BURRS

CHAPTER XIV A WELL-MEANIN' MAN

CHAPTER XV MISS WALTON'S DREAM

CHAPTER XVI AN ACCIDENT IN THE MOUNTAINS

CHAPTER XVII PROMISE OR DIE

CHAPTER XVIII IN THE DEPTHS

CHAPTER XIX MISS WALTON MADE OF DIFFERENT CLAY FROM OTHERS

CHAPTER XX MISS WALTON MADE OF ORDINARY CLAY

CHAPTER XXI PASSION AND PENITENCE

CHAPTER XXII NOT A HEROINE BUT A WOMAN

CHAPTER XXIII GREGORY'S FINAL CONCLUSION

CHAPTER XXIV THE WORM-INFESTED CHESTNUT--GREGORY TELLS THE WORST

CHAPTER XXV THE OLD HOME IN DANGER--GREGORY RETRIEVES HIMSELF

CHAPTER XXVI CHANGES IN GREGORY

CHAPTER XXVII PLEADING FOR LIFE AND LOVE

CHAPTER XXVIII WHAT A LOVER COULD DO

CHAPTER XXIX DEEPENING SHADOWS

CHAPTER XXX KEPT FROM THE EVIL

CHAPTER XXXI LIVE! LIVE! ANNIE'S APPEAL

CHAPTER XXXII AT SEA--A MYSTERIOUS PASSENGER

CHAPTER XXXIII A COLLISION AT SEA--WHAT A CHRISTIAN COULD DO

CHAPTER XXXIV UNMASKED

CHAPTER XXXV A CHESTNUT BURR AND A HOME




CHAPTER I

A HERO, BUT NOT HEROIC



"Shall I ever be strong in mind or body again?" said Walter Gregory,
with irritation, as he entered a crowded Broadway omnibus.

The person thus querying so despairingly with himself was a man not far
from thirty years of age, but the lines of care were furrowed so deeply
on his handsome face, that dismal, lowering morning, the first of
October, that he seemed much older. Having wedged himself in between
two burly forms that suggested thrift down town and good cheer on the
avenue, he appears meagre and shrunken in contrast. He is tall and
thin. His face is white and drawn, instead of being ruddy with health's
rich, warm blood. There is scarcely anything remaining to remind one of
the period of youth, so recently vanished; neither is there the
dignity, nor the consciousness of strength, that should come with
maturer years. His heavy, light-colored mustache and pallid face gave
him the aspect of a _blase_ man of the world who had exhausted himself
and life at an age when wisely directed manhood should be just entering
on its richest pleasures.

And such an opinion of him, with some hopeful exceptions and
indications, would be correct. The expression of irritation and
self-disgust still remaining on his face as the stage rumbles down town
is a hopeful sign. His soul at least is not surrounded by a Chinese
wall of conceit. However perverted his nature may be, it is not a
shallow one, and he evidently has a painful sense of the wrongs
committed against it. Though his square jaw and the curve of his lip
indicate firmness, one could not look upon his contracted brow and
half-despairing expression, as he sits oblivious of all surroundings,
without thinking of a ship drifting helplessly and in distress. There
are encouraging possibilities in the fact that from those windows of
the soul, his eyes, a troubled rather than an evil spirit looks out. A
close observer would see at a glance that he was not a good man, but he
might also note that he was not content with being a bad one. There was
little of the rigid pride and sinister hardness or the conceit often
seen on the faces of men of the world who have spent years in spoiling
their manhood; and the sensual phase of coarse dissipation was quite
wanting.

You will find in artificial metropolitan society many men so
emasculated that they are quite vain of being blase--fools that with
conscious superiority smile disdainfully at those still possessing
simple, wholesome tastes for things which they in their indescribable
accent characterize as a "bore."

But Walter Gregory looked like one who had early found the dregs of
evil life very bitter, and his face was like that of nature when
smitten with untimely frosts.

He reached his office at last, and wearily sat down to the routine work
at his desk. Instead of the intent and interested look with which a
young and healthy man would naturally enter on his business, he showed
rather a dogged resolution to work whether he felt like it or not, and
with harsh disregard of his physical weakness.

The world will never cease witnessing the wrongs that men commit
against each other; but perhaps if the wrongs and cruelties that people
inflict on themselves could be summed up the painful aggregate would be
much larger.

As Gregory sat bending over his writing, rather from weakness than from
a stooping habit, his senior partner came in, and was evidently struck
by the appearance of feebleness on the part of the young man. The
unpleasant impression haunted him, for having looked over his letters
he came out of his private office and again glanced uneasily at the
colorless face, which gave evidence that only sheer force of will was
spurring a failing hand and brain to their tasks.

At last Mr. Burnett came and laid his hand on his junior partner's
shoulder, saying, kindly, "Come, Gregory, drop your work. You are ill.
The strain upon you has been too long and severe. The worst is over
now, and we are going to pull through better than I expected. Don't
take the matter so bitterly to heart. I admit myself that the operation
promised well at first. You were misled, and so were we all, by
downright deception. That the swindle was imposed on us through you was
more your misfortune than your fault, and it will make you a keener
business man in the future. You have worked like a galley-slave all
summer to retrieve matters, and have taken no vacation at all. You must
take one now immediately, or you will break down altogether. Go off to
the woods; fish, hunt, follow your fancies; and the bracing October air
will make a new man of you."

"I thank you very much," Gregory began. "I suppose I do need rest. In a
few days, however, I can leave better--"

"No," interrupted Mr. Burnett, with hearty emphasis; "drop everything.
As soon as you finish that letter, be off. Don't show your face here
again till November."

"I thank you for your interest in me," said Gregory, rising. "Indeed, I
believe it would be good economy, for if I don't feel better soon I
shall be of no use here or anywhere else."

"That's it," said old Mr. Burnett, kindly. "Sick and blue, they go
together. Now be off to the woods, and send me some game. I won't
inquire too sharply whether you brought it down with lead or silver."

Gregory soon left the office, and made his arrangements to start on his
trip early the next morning. His purpose was to make a brief visit to
the home of his boyhood and then to go wherever a vagrant fancy might
lead.

The ancestral place was no longer in his family, though he was spared
the pain of seeing it in the hands of strangers. It had been purchased
a few years since by an old and very dear friend of his deceased
father--a gentleman named Walton. It had so happened that Gregory had
rarely met his father's friend, who had been engaged in business at the
West, and of his family he knew little more than that there were two
daughters--one who had married a Southern gentleman, and the other,
much younger, living with her father. Gregory had been much abroad as
the European agent of his house, and it was during such absence that
Mr. Walton had retired from business and purchased the old Gregory
homestead. The young man felt sure, however, that though a comparative
stranger himself, he would, for his father's sake, be a welcome visitor
at the home of his childhood. At any rate he determined to test the
matter, for the moment he found himself at liberty he felt a strange
and an eager longing to revisit the scenes of the happiest portion of
his life. He had meant to pay such a visit in the previous spring, soon
after his arrival from Europe, when his elation at being made partner
in the house which he so long had served as clerk reached almost the
point of happiness.

Among those who had welcomed him back was a man a little older than
himself, who, in his absence, had become known as a successful operator
in Wall Street. They had been intimate before Gregory went abroad, and
the friendship was renewed at once. Gregory prided himself on his
knowledge of the world, and was not by nature inclined to trust
hastily; and yet he did place implicit confidence in Mr. Hunting,
regarding him as a better man than himself. Hunting was an active
member of a church, and his name figured on several charities, while
Gregory had almost ceased to attend any place of worship, and spent his
money selfishly upon himself, or foolishly upon others, giving only as
prompted by impulse. Indeed, his friend had occasionally ventured to
remonstrate with him against his tendencies to dissipation, saying that
a young man of his prospects should not damage them for the sake of
passing gratification. Gregory felt the force of these words, for he
was exceedingly ambitious, and bent upon accumulating wealth and at the
same time making a brilliant figure in business circles.

In addition to the ordinary motives which would naturally lead him to
desire such success he was incited by a secret one more powerful than
all the others combined.

Before going abroad, when but a clerk, he had been the favored suitor
of a beautiful and accomplished girl. Indeed the understanding between
them almost amounted to an engagement, and he revelled in a passionate,
romantic attachment at an age when the blood is hot, the heart
enthusiastic, and when not a particle of worldly cynicism and adverse
experience had taught him to moderate his rose-hued anticipations. She
seemed the embodiment of goodness, as well as beauty and grace, for did
she not repress his tendencies to be a little fast? Did she not, with
more than sisterly solicitude, counsel him to shun certain florid youth
whose premature blossoming indicated that they might early run to seed?
and did he not, in consequence, cut Guy Bonner, the jolliest fellow he
had ever known? Indeed, more than all, had she not ventured to talk
religion to him, so that for a time he had regarded himself as in a
very "hopeful frame of mind," and had been inclined to take a
mission-class in the same school with herself? How lovely and angelic
she had once appeared, stooping in elegant costume from her social
height to the little ragamuffins of the street that sat gaping around
her! As he gazed adoringly, while waiting to be her resort home, his
young heart had swelled with the impulse to be good and noble also.

But one day she caused him to drop out of his roseate clouds. With much
sweetness and resignation, and with appropriate sighs, she said that
"it was her painful duty to tell him that their intimacy must
cease--that she had received an offer from Mr. Grobb, and that her
parents, and indeed all her friends, had urged her to accept him. She
had been led to feel that they with their riper experience and
knowledge of life knew what was best for her, and therefore she had
yielded to their wishes and accepted the offer." She was beginning to
add, in a sentimental tone, that "had she only followed the impulses of
her heart"--when Gregory, at first too stunned and bewildered to speak,
recovered his senses and interrupted with, "Please don't speak of your
heart, Miss Bently. Why mention so small a matter? Go on with your
little transaction by all means. I am a business man myself, and can
readily understand your motives;" and he turned on his heel and strode
from the room, leaving Miss Bently ill at ease.

The young man's first expression of having received, as it were, a
staggering blow, and then his bitter satire, made an impression on her
cotton-and-wool nature, and for a time her proceedings with Mr. Grobb
did not wear the aspect in which they had been presented by her
friends. But her little world so confidently and continually reiterated
the statement that she was making a "splendid match" that her qualms
vanished, and she felt that what all asserted must be true, and so
entered on the gorgeous preparations as if the wedding were all and the
man nothing.

It is the custom to satirize or bitterly denounce such girls, but
perhaps they are rather to be pitied. They are the natural products of
artificial society, wherein wealth, show, and the social eminence which
is based on dress and establishment are held out as the prizes of a
woman's existence. The only wonder is that so much heart and truth
assert themselves among those who all their life have seen wealth
practically worshipped, and worth, ungilded, generally ignored. From
ultra-fashionable circles a girl is often seen developing into the
noblest womanhood; while narrow, mercenary natures are often found
where far better things might have been expected. If such girls as Miss
Bently could only be kept in quiet obscurity, like a bale of
merchandise, till wanted, it would not be so bad; but some of them are
such brilliant belles and incorrigible coquettes that they are like
certain Wall Street speculators who threaten to "break the street" in
making their own fortunes.

Some natures can receive a fair lady's refusal with a good-natured
shrug, as merely the result of a bad venture, and hope for better luck
next time; but to a greater number this is impossible, especially if
they are played with and deceived. Walter Gregory pre-eminently
belonged to the latter class. In early life he had breathed the very
atmosphere of truth, and his tendency to sincerity ever remained the
best element of his character. His was one of those fine-fibred natures
most susceptible to injury. Up to this time his indiscretions had only
been those of foolish, thoughtless youth, while aiming at the standard
of manliness and style in vogue among his city companions.
High-spirited young fellows, not early braced by principle, must pass
through this phase as in babyhood they cut their teeth. If there is
true mettle in them, and they are not perverted by exceptionally bad
influences, they outgrow the idea that to be fast and foolish is to be
men as naturally as they do their roundabouts.

What a man does is often not so important as the state of the heart
that prompts the act. In common parlance, Walter was as good-hearted a
fellow as ever breathed. Indeed, he was really inclined to noble
enthusiasms.

If Miss Bently had been what he imagined her, she might have led him
swiftly and surely into true manhood; but she was only an adept at
pretty seeming with him, and when Mr. Grobb offered her his vast
wealth, with himself as the only incumbrance, she acted promptly and
characteristically.

But perhaps it can be safely said that in no den of iniquity in the
city could Walter Gregory have received such moral injury as poisoned
his very soul when, in Mr. Bently's elegant and respectable parlor, the
"angel" he worshipped "explained how she was situated," and from a
"sense of duty" stated her purpose to yield to the wishes of her
friends. Gregory had often seen Mr. Grobb, but had given him no
thought, supposing him some elderly relative of the family. That this
was the accepted suitor of the girl who had, with tender, meaning
glances, sung for him sentimental ballads, who had sweetly talked to
him of religion and mission work, seemed a monstrous perversion. Call
it unjust, unreasonable, if you will, yet it was the most natural thing
in the world for one possessing his sensitive, intense nature to pass
into harsh, bitter cynicism, and to regard Miss Bently as a typical
girl of the period.

A young man is far on the road to evil when he loses faith in woman.
During the formative period of character she is, of earthly influences,
the most potent in making or marring him. A kind refusal, where no
false encouragement has been given, often does a man good, and leaves
his faith intact; but an experience similar to that of young Gregory is
like putting into a fountain that which may stain and embitter the
waters of the stream in all its length.

At the early age of twenty-two he became what is usually understood by
the phrase "a man of the world." Still his moral nature could not sink
into the depths without many a bitter outcry against its wrongs. It was
with no slight effort that he drowned the memory of his early home and
its good influences. During the first two or three years he
occasionally had periods of passionate remorse, and made spasmodic
efforts toward better things. But they were made in human strength, and
in view of the penalties of evil, rather than because he was enamored
of the right. Some special temptation would soon sweep him away into
the old life, and thus, because of his broken promises and repeated
failures, he at last lost faith in himself also, and lacked that
self-respect without which no man can cope successfully with his evil
nature and an evil world.

Living in a boarding-house, with none of the restraints and purifying
influences of a good home, he formed intimacies with brilliant but
unscrupulous young men. The theatre became his church, and at last the
code of his fast, fashionable set was that which governed his life. He
avoided gross, vulgar dissipation, both because his nature revolted at
it, and also on account of his purpose to permit nothing to interfere
with his prospects of advancement in business. He meant to show Miss
Bently that she had made a bad business speculation after all. Thus
ambition became the controlling element in his character; and he might
have had a worse one. Moreover, in all his moral debasement he never
lost a decided tendency toward truthfulness and honesty. He would have
starved rather than touch anything that did not belong to him, nor
would he allow himself to deceive in matters of business, and it was
upon these points that he specially prided himself.

Gregory's unusual business ability, coupled with his knowledge of
French and German, led to his being sent abroad as agent of his firm.
Five years of life in the materialistic and sceptical atmosphere of
continental cities confirmed the evil tendencies which were only too
well developed before he left his own land. He became what so many
appear to be in our day, a practical materialist and atheist. Present
life and surroundings, present profit and pleasure, were all in all. He
ceased to recognize the existence of a soul within himself having
distinct needs and interests. His thoughts centred wholly in the
comfort and pleasures of the day and in that which would advance his
ambitious schemes. His scepticism was not intellectual and in reference
to the Bible and its teachings, but practical and in reference to
humanity itself. He believed that with few exceptions men and women
lived for their own profit and pleasure, and that religion and creeds
were matters of custom and fashion, or an accident of birth. Only the
reverence in which religion had been held in his early home kept him
from sharing fully in the contempt which the gentlemen he met abroad
seemed to have for it. He could not altogether despise his mother's
faith, but he regarded her as a gentle enthusiast haunted by sacred
traditions. The companionships which he had formed led him to believe
that unless influenced by some interested motive a liberal-minded man
of the world must of necessity outgrow these things. With the
self-deception of his kind, he thought he was broad and liberal in his
views, when in reality he had lost all distinction between truth and
error, and was narrowing his mind down to things only. Jew or Gentile,
Christian or Pagan, it was becoming all one to him. Men changed their
creeds and religions with other fashions, but all looked after what
they believed to be the main chance, and he proposed to do the same.

As time passed on, however, he began to admit to himself that it was
strange that in making all things bend to his pleasure he did not
secure more. He wearied of certain things. Stronger excitements were
needed to spur his jaded senses. His bets, his stakes at cards grew
heavier, his pleasures more gross, till a delicate organization so
revolted at its wrongs and so chastised him for excess that he was
deterred from self-gratification in that direction.

Some men's bodies are a "means of grace" to them. Coarse dissipation is
a physical impossibility, or swift suicide in a very painful form.
Young Gregory found that only in the excitements of the mind could he
hope to find continued enjoyment. His ambition to accumulate wealth and
become a brilliant business man most accorded with his tastes and
training, and on these objects he gradually concentrated all his
energies, seeking only in club-rooms and places of fashionable resort
recreation from the strain of business.

He recognized that the best way to advance his own interests was to
serve his employers well; and this he did so effectually that at last
he was made a partner in the business, and, with a sense of something
more like pleasure than he had known for a long time, returned to New
York and entered upon his new duties.

As we have said, among those who warmly greeted and congratulated him,
was Mr. Hunting. They gradually came to spend much time together, and
business and money-getting were their favorite themes. Gregory saw that
his friend was as keen on the track of fortune as himself, and that he
had apparently been much more successful. Mr. Hunting intimated that
after one reached the charmed inner circle Wall Street was a perfect
Eldorado, and seemed to take pains to drop occasional suggestions as to
how an investment shrewdly made by one with his favored point of
observation often secured in a day a larger return than a year of
plodding business.

These remarks were not lost on Gregory, and the wish became very strong
that he might share in some of the splendid "hits" by which his friend
was accumulating so rapidly.

Usually Mr. Hunting was very quiet and self-possessed, but one evening
in May he came into Gregory's rooms in a manner indicating not a little
excitement and elation.

"Gregory!" he exclaimed, "I am going to make my fortune."

"Make your fortune! You are as rich as Croesus now."

"The past will be as nothing. I've struck a mine rather than a vein."

"It's a pity some of your friends could not share in your luck."

"Well, a few can. This is so large, and such a good thing, that I have
concluded to let a few intimates go in with me. Only all must keep very
quiet about it;" and he proposed an operation that seemed certain of
success as he explained it.

Gregory concluded to put into it nearly all he had independent of his
investment in the firm, and also obtained permission to interest his
partners, and to procure an interview between them and Mr. Hunting.

The scheme looked so very plausible that they were drawn into it also;
but Mr. Burnett took Gregory aside and said: "After all, we must place
a great deal of confidence in Mr. Hunting's word in this matter. Are
you satisfied that we can safely do so?"

"I would stake my life on his word in this case," said Gregory,
eagerly, "and I pledge all I have put in the firm on his truth."

This was the last flicker of his old enthusiasm and trust in anybody or
anything, including himself. With almost the skill of genius Mr.
Hunting adroitly, within the limits of the law, swindled them all, and
made a vast profit out of their losses. The transaction was not
generally known, but even some of the hardened gamblers of the street
said "it was too bad."

But the bank-officers with whom Burnett & Co. did business knew about
it, and if it had not been for their lenience and aid the firm would
have failed. As it was, it required a struggle of months to regain the
solid ground of safety.

At first the firm was suspicious of Gregory, and disposed to blame him
very much. But when he proved to them that he had lost his private
means by Hunting's treachery, and insisted on making over to them all
his right and title to the property he had invested with them, they saw
that he was no confederate of the swindler, but that he had suffered
more than any of them.

He had, indeed. He had lost his ambition. The large sum of money that
was to be the basis of the immense fortune he had hoped to amass was
gone. He had greatly prided himself on his business ability, but had
signalized his entrance on his new and responsible position by being
overreached and swindled in a transaction that had impoverished himself
and almost ruined his partners. He grew very misanthropic, and was
quite as bitter against himself as against others. In his estimation
people were either cloaking their evil or had not been tempted, and he
felt after Hunting dropped the mask that he would never trust any one
again.

It may be said, all this is very unreasonable. Yes, it is; but then
people will judge the world by their own experience of it, and some
natures are more easily warped by wrong than others. No logic can cope
with feeling and prejudice. Because of his own misguided life and the
wrong he had received from others, Walter Gregory was no more able to
form a correct estimate of society than one color-blind is to judge of
the tints of flowers. And yet he belonged to that class who claim
pre-eminently to know the world. Because he thought he knew it so well
he hated and despised it, and himself as part of it.

The months that followed his great and sudden downfall dragged their
slow length along. He worked early and late, without thought of sparing
himself. If he could only see what the firm had lost through him made
good, he did not care what became of himself. Why should he? There was
little in the present to interest him, and the future looked, in his
depressed, morbid state, as monotonous and barren as the sands of a
desert. Seemingly, he had exhausted life, and it had lost all zest for
him.

But while his power to enjoy had gone, not so his power to suffer. His
conscience was uneasy, and told him in a vague way that something was
wrong. Reason, or, more correctly speaking, instinct, condemned his
life as a wretched blunder. He had lived for his own enjoyment, and
now, when but half through life, what was there for him to enjoy?

As in increasing weakness he dragged himself to the office on a sultry
September day, the thought occurred to him that the end was nearer than
he expected.

"Let it come," he said, bitterly. "Why should I live?"

The thought of his early home recurred to him with increasing
frequency, and he had a growing desire to visit it before his strength
failed utterly. Therefore it was with a certain melancholy pleasure
that he found himself at liberty, through the kindness of his partners,
to make this visit, and at the season, too, when his boyish memories of
the place, like the foliage, would be most varied and vivid.




CHAPTER II

OPENING A CHESTNUT BURR



If the reader could imagine a man visiting his own grave, he might
obtain some idea of Walter Gregory's feelings as he took the boat which
would land him not far from his early home. And yet, so different was
he from the boy who had left that home fifteen years before, that it
was almost the same as if he were visiting the grave of a brother who
had died in youth.

Though the day was mild, a fresh bracing wind blew from the west.
Shielding himself from this on the after-deck, he half reclined, on
account of his weakness, in a position from which he could see the
shores and passing vessels upon the river. The swift gliding motion,
the beautiful and familiar scenery, the sense of freedom from routine
work, and the crisp, pure air, that seemed like a delicate wine, all
combined to form a mystic lever that began to lift his heart out of the
depths of despondency.

A storm had passed away, leaving not a trace. The October sun shone in
undimmed splendor, and all nature appeared to rejoice in its light. The
waves with their silver crests seemed chasing one another in mad glee.
The sailing vessels, as they tacked to and fro across the river under
the stiff western breeze, made the water foam about their blunt prows,
and the white-winged gulls wheeled in graceful circles overhead. There
was a sense of movement and life that was contagious. Gregory's dull
eyes kindled with something like interest, and then he thought: "The
storm lowered over these sunny shores yesterday. The gloom of night
rested upon these waters but a few hours since. Why is it that nature
can smile and be glad the moment the shadow passes and I cannot? Is
there no sunlight for the soul? I seem as if entering a cave, that
grows colder and darker at every step, and no gleam shines at the
further end, indicating that I may pass through it and out into the
light again."

Thus letting his fancy wander at will, at times half-dreaming and
half-waking, he passed the hours that elapsed before the boat touched
at a point in the Highlands of the Hudson, his destination. Making a
better dinner than he had enjoyed for a long time, and feeling stronger
than for weeks before, he started for the place that now, of all the
world, had for him the greatest attraction.

There was no marked change in the foliage as yet, but only a deepening
of color, like a flush on the cheek of beauty. As he was driving along
the familiar road, farm-house and grove, and even tree, rock, and
thicket, began to greet him as with the faces of old friends. At last
he saw, nestling in a wild, picturesque valley, the quaint outline of
his former home. His heart yearned toward it, and he felt that next to
his mother's face no other object could be so welcome.

"Slower, please," he said to the driver.

Though his eyes were moist, and at times dim with tears, not a feature
in the scene escaped him. When near the gateway he sprung out with a
lightness that he would not have believed possible the day before, and
said, "Come for me at five."

For a little time he stood leaning on the gate. Two children were
playing on the lawn, and it almost seemed to him that the elder, a boy
of about ten years, might be himself, and he a passing stranger, who
had merely stopped to look at the pretty scene.

"Oh that I were a boy like that one there! Oh that I were here again as
of old!" he sighed. "How unchanged it all is, and I so changed! It
seems as if the past were mocking me. That must be I there playing with
my little sister. Mother must be sewing in her cheery south room, and
father surely is taking his after-dinner nap in the library. Can it be
that they are all dead save me? and that this is but a beautiful
mirage?"

He felt that he could not meet any one until he became more composed,
and so passed on up the valley. Before turning away he noticed that a
lady come out at the front door. The children joined her, and they
started for a walk.

Looking wistfully on either side, Gregory soon came to a point where
the orchard extended to the road. A well-remembered fall pippin tree
hung its laden boughs over the fence, and the fruit looked so ripe and
golden in the slanting rays of October sunlight that he determined to
try one of the apples and see if it tasted as of old. As he climbed
upon the wall a loose stone fell clattering down and rolled into the
road. He did not notice this, but an old man dozing in the porch of a
little house opposite did. As Gregory reached up his cane to detach
from its spray a great, yellow-cheeked fellow, his hand was arrested,
and he was almost startled off his perch by such a volley of oaths as
shocked even his hardened ears. Turning gingerly around so as not to
lose his footing, he faced this masked battery that had opened so
unexpectedly upon him, and saw a white-haired old man balancing himself
on one crutch and brandishing the other at him.

"Stop knockin' down that wall and fillin! the road with stuns, you--,"
shouted the venerable man, in tones that indicated anything but the
calmness of age. "Let John Walton's apples alone, you--thief. What do
you mean by robbin' in broad daylight, right under a man's nose?"

Gregory saw that he had a character to deal with, and, to divert his
mind from thoughts that were growing too painful, determined to draw
the old man out; so he said, "Is not taking things so openly a rather
honest way of robbing?"

"Git down, I tell yer," cried the guardian of the orchard.

"Suppose 'tis, it's robbin' arter all. So now move on, and none of yer
cussed impudence."

"But you call them John Walton's apples," said Gregory, eating one with
provoking coolness. "What have you got to do with them? and why should
you care?"

"Now look here, stranger, you're an infernal mean cuss to ask such
questions. Ain't John Walton my neighbor? and a good neighbor, too?
D'ye suppose a well-meanin' man like myself would stand by and see a
neighbor robbed? and of all others, John Walton? Don't you know that
robbin' a good man brings bad luck, you thunderin' fool?"

"But I've always had bad luck, so I needn't stop on that account,"
retorted Gregory, from the fence.

"I believe it, and you allers will," vociferated the old man, "and I'll
tell yer why. I know from the cut of yer jib that yer've allers been
eatin' forbidden fruit. If yer lived now a good square life like
'Squire Walton and me, you'd have no reason to complain of yer luck. If
I could get a clip at yer with this crutch I'd give yer suthin' else to
complain of. If yer had any decency yer wouldn't stand there a jibin'
at a lame old man."

Gregory took off his hat with a polite bow and said: "I beg your
pardon; I was under the impression that you were doing the 'cussing.' I
shall come and see you soon, for somehow it does me good to have you
swear at me. I only wish I had as good a friend in the world as Mr.
Walton has in you." With these words he sprung from the fence on the
orchard side, and made his way to the hill behind the Walton residence,
leaving the old man mumbling and muttering in a very profane manner.

"Like enough it was somebody visitin' at the Walton's, and I've made
a--fool of myself after all. What's worse, that poor little Miss Eulie
will hear I've been swearin' agin, and there'll be another awful
prayin' time. What a cussed old fool I be, to promise to quit swearin'!
I know I can't. What's the good o' stoppin'? It's inside, and might as
well come out. The Lord knows I don't mean no disrespect to Him. It's
only one of my ways. He knows well enough that I'm a good neighbor, and
what's the harm in a little cussin'?" and so the strange old man talked
on to himself in the intervals between long pulls at his pipe.

By the time Gregory reached the top of the hill his strength was quite
exhausted, and, panting, he sat down on the sunny side of a thicket of
cedars, for the late afternoon was growing chilly. Beneath him lay the
one oasis in a desert world.

With an indescribable blending of pleasure and pain, he found himself
tracing with his eye every well-remembered path, and marking every
familiar object.

Not a breath of air was stirring, and it would seem that Nature was
seeking to impart to his perturbed spirit, full of the restless
movement of city life and the inevitable disquiet of sin, something of
her own calmness and peace. The only sounds he heard seemed a part of
nature's silence,--the tinkle of cowbells, the slumberous monotone of
water as it fell over the dam, the grating notes of a katydid, rendered
hoarse by recent cool nights, in a shady ravine near by, and a black
cricket chirping at the edge of the rock on which he sat--these were
all. And yet the sounds, though not heard for years, seemed as familiar
as the mother's lullaby that puts a child to sleep, and a delicious
sense of restfulness stole into his heart. The world in which he had so
greatly sinned and suffered might be another planet, it seemed so far
away. Could it be that in a few short hours he had escaped out of the
hurry and grind of New York into this sheltered nook? Why had he not
come before? Here was the remedy for soul and body, if any existed.

Not a person was visible on the place, and it seemed that it might thus
have been awaiting him in all his absence, and that now he had only to
go and take possession.

"So our home in heaven awaits us, mother used to say," he thought,
"while we are such willing exiles from it. I would give all the world
to believe as she did."

He found that the place so inseparably associated with his mother
brought back her teachings, which he had so often tried to forget.

"I wish I might bury myself here, away from the world," he muttered,
"for it has only cheated and lied to me from first to last. Everything
deceived me, and turned out differently from what I expected. These
loved old scenes are true and unchanged, and smile upon me now as when
I was here a happy boy. Would to heaven I might never leave them again!"

He was startled out of his revery by the sharp bark of a squirrel that
ran chattering and whisking its tail in great excitement from limb to
limb in a clump of chestnuts near. The crackling of a twig betrayed to
Gregory the cause of its alarm, for through an opening in the thicket
he saw the lady who had started out for a walk with the children while
he was leaning on the front gate.

Shrinking further behind the cedars he proposed to reconnoitre a little
before making himself known. He observed that she was attired in a
dark, close-fitting costume suitable for rambling among the hills. At
first he thought that she was pretty, and then that she was not. His
quick, critical eye detected that her features were not regular, that
her profile was not classic. It was only the rich glow of exercise and
the jaunty gypsy hat that had given the first impression of something
like beauty. In her right hand, which was ungloved, she daintily held,
by its short stem, a chestnut burr which the squirrel in its alarm had
dropped, and now, in its own shrill vernacular, was scolding about so
vociferously. She was glancing around for some means to break it open,
and Gregory had scarcely time to notice her fine dark eyes, when, as if
remembering the rock on which he had been sitting, she advanced toward
him with a step so quick and elastic that he envied her vigor.

Further concealment was now impossible. Therefore with easy politeness
he stepped forward and said: "Let me open the burr for you, Miss
Walton."

She started violently at the sound of his voice, and for a moment
reminded him of a frightened bird on the eve of flight.

"Pardon me for so alarming you," he hastened to say, "and also pardon a
seeming stranger for addressing you informally. My name may not be
unknown to you, although I am in person. It is Walter Gregory."

She had been so startled that she could not immediately recover
herself, and still stood regarding him doubtfully, although with manner
more assured.

"Come," said he, smiling and advancing toward her with the quiet
assurance of a society man. "Let me open the burr for you, and you
shall take its contents in confirmation of what I say. If I find sound
chestnuts in it, let them be a token that I am not misrepresenting
myself. If my test fails, then you may justly ask for better
credentials."

Half smiling, and quite satisfied from his words and appearance in
advance, she extended the burr toward him. But as she did so it parted
from the stem, and would have fallen to the ground had he not, with his
ungloved hand, caught the prickly thing. His hand was as white and soft
as hers, and the sharp spines stung him sorely, yet he permitted no
sign of pain to appear upon his face.

"Ah!" exclaimed Miss Walton, "I fear it hurt you."

He looked up humorously and said, "An augury is a solemn affair, and no
disrespect must be allowed to nature's oracle, which in this case is a
chestnut burr;" and he speedily opened it.

"There!" he said, triumphantly, "what more could you ask? Here are two
solid, plump chestnuts, with only a false, empty form of shell between
them. And here, like the solid nuts, are two people entitled to each
other's acquaintance, with only the false formality of an introduction,
like the empty shell, keeping them apart. Since no mutual friend is
present to introduce us, has not Nature taken upon herself the office
through this chestnut burr? But perhaps I should further Nature's
efforts by giving you my card."

As Miss Walton regained composure, she soon proved to Gregory that she
was not merely a shy country girl. At the close of his rather long and
fanciful speech she said, genially, extending her hand: "My love for
Nature is unbounded, Mr. Gregory, and the introduction you have so
happily obtained from her weighs more with me than any other that you
could have had. Let me welcome you to your own home, as it were. But
see, your hand is bleeding, where the burr pricked you. Is this an
omen, also? If our first meeting brings bloody wounds, I fear you will
shun further acquaintance."

There was a spice of bitterness in Gregory's laugh, as he said: "People
don't often die of such wounds. But it is a little odd that in taking
your hand I should stain it with my blood. I am inclined to drop the
burr after all, and base all my claims on my practical visiting card.
You may come to look upon the burr as a warning, rather than an
introduction, and order me off the premises."

"It was an omen of your choice," replied Miss Walton, laughing. "You
have more to fear from it than I. If you will venture to stay you shall
be most welcome. Indeed, it almost seems that you have a better right
here than we, and your name has been so often heard that you are no
stranger. I know father will be very glad to see you, for he often
speaks of you, and wonders if you are like his old friend, the dearest
one, I think, he ever had. How long have you been here?"

"Well, I have been wandering about the place much of the afternoon."

"I need not ask you why you did not come in at once," she said, gently.
"Seeing your old home after so long an absence is like meeting some
dear friend. One naturally wishes to be alone for a time. But now I
hope you will go home with me."

He was surprised at her delicate appreciation of his feelings, and gave
her a quick pleased look, saying: "Nature has taught you to be a good
interpreter, Miss Walton. You are right. The memories of the old place
were a little too much for me at first, and I did not know that those
whom I met would appreciate my feelings so delicately."

The two children now appeared, running around the brow of the hill, the
boy calling in great excitement: "Aunt Annie, oh! Aunt Annie, we've
found a squirrel-hole. We chased him into it. Can't Susie sit by the
hole and keep him in, while I go for a spade to dig him out?"

Then they saw the unlooked-for stranger, who at once rivalled the
squirrel-hole in interest, and with slower steps, and curious glances,
they approached.

"These are my sister's children," said Miss Walton, simply.

Gregory kindly took the boy by the hand, and kissed the little girl,
who looked half-frightened and half-pleased, as a very little maiden
should, while she rubbed the cheek that his mustache had tickled.

"Do you think we can get the squirrel, Aunt Annie?" again asked the boy.

"Do you think it would be right, Johnny, if you could?" she asked.
"Suppose you were the squirrel in the hole, and one big monster, like
Susie here, should sit by the door, and you heard another big monster
say, 'Wait till I get something to tear open his house with.' How would
you feel?"

"I won't keep the poor little squirrel in his hole," said sympathetic
Susie.

But the boy's brow contracted, and he said, sternly: "Squirrels are
nothing but robbers, and their holes are robbers' dens. They take half
our nuts every year."

Miss Walton looked significantly at Gregory, and laughed, saying,
"There it is, you see, man and woman."

A momentary shadow crossed his face, and he said, abruptly, "I hope
Susie will be as kindly in coming years."

Miss Walton looked at him curiously as they began to descend the hill
to the house. She evidently did not understand his remark, coupled with
his manner.

As they approached the barn there was great excitement among the
poultry. Passing round its angle, Walter saw coming toward them a
quaint-looking old woman, in what appeared to be a white scalloped
nightcap. She had a pan of corn in her hand, and was attended by a
retinue that would have rejoiced an epicure's heart. Chickens, ducks,
geese, turkeys, and Guinea fowls thronged around and after her with an
intentness on the grain and a disregard of one another's rights and
feelings that reminded one unpleasantly of political aspirants just
after a Presidential election. Johnny made a dive for an old gobbler,
and the great red-wattled bird dropped his wings and seemed inclined to
show fight, but a reluctant armistice was brought about between them by
the old woman screaming: "Maister Johnny, an' ye let not the fowls
alone ye'll ha' na apples roast the night."

Susie clung timidly to her aunty's side as they passed through these
clamorous candidates for holiday honors, and the young lady said,
kindly, "You have a large family to look after, Zibbie, but I'm afraid
we'll lessen it every day now."

"Indeed, an' ye will, and it goes agin the grain to wring the necks of
them that I've nursed from the shell," said the old woman, rather
sharply.

"It must be a great trial to your feelings," said Miss Walton,
laughing; "but what would you have us do with them, Zibbie? You don't
need them all for pets."

Before Zibbie could answer, an old gentleman in a low buggy drove into
the large door-yard, and the children bounded toward him, screaming,
"Grandpa."

A colored man took the horse, and Mr. Walton, with a briskness that one
would not expect at his advanced age, came toward them.

He was a noble-looking old man, with hair and beard as white as snow,
and with the stately manners of the old school. When he learned who
Gregory was he greeted him with a cordiality that was so genuine as to
compel the cynical man of the world to feel its truth.

Mr. Walton's eyes were turned so often and wistfully on his face that
Gregory was embarrassed.

"I was looking for my friend," said the old gentleman, in a husky
voice, turning hastily away to hide his feeling. "You strongly remind
me of him; and yet--" But he never finished the sentence.

Gregory well understood the "and yet," and in bitterness of soul
remembered that his father had been a good man, but that the impress of
goodness could not rest on his face.

He had now grown very weary, and gave evidence of it.

"Mr. Gregory, you look ill," said Miss Walton, hastily.

"I am not well," he said, "and have not been for a long time. Perhaps I
am going beyond my strength to-day."

In a moment they were all solicitude. The driver, who then appeared
according to his instructions, was posted back to the hotel for Mr.
Gregory's luggage, Mr. Walton saying, with hearty emphasis that removed
every scruple, "This must be your home, sir, as long as you can remain
with us, as truly as ever it was."

A little later he found himself in the "spare room," on whose state he
had rarely intruded when a boy. Jeff, the colored man, had kindled a
cheery wood fire on the ample hearth, and, too exhausted even to think,
Gregory sank back in a great easy-chair with the blessed sense of the
storm-tossed on reaching a quiet haven.




CHAPTER III

MORBID BROODING



To the millions who are suffering in mind or body there certainly come
in this world moments of repose, when pain ceases; and the respite
seems so delicious in contrast that it may well suggest the "rest that
remaineth." Thinking of neither the past nor the future, Gregory for a
little time gave himself up to the sense of present and luxurious
comfort. With closed eyes and mind almost as quiet as his motionless
body, he let the moments pass, feeling dimly that he would ask no
better heaven than the eternal continuance of this painless,
half-dreaming lethargy.

He was soon aroused, however, by a knocking at the door, and a
middle-aged servant placed before him a tempting plate of Albert
biscuit and a glass of home-made currant wine of indefinite age. The
quaint and dainty little lunch caught his appetite as exactly as if
manna had fallen adapted to his need; but it soon stimulated him out of
his condition of partial non-existence. With returning consciousness of
the necessity of living and acting came the strong desire to spend as
much of his vacation as possible in his old home, and he determined to
avail himself of Mr. Walton's invitation to the utmost limit that
etiquette would permit.

His awakened mind gave but little thought to his entertainers, and he
did not anticipate much pleasure from their society. He was satisfied
that they were refined, cultivated people, with whom he could be as
much at ease as would be possible in any companionship, but he hoped
and proposed to spend the most of his time alone in wandering amid old
scenes and brooding over the past. The morbid mind is ever full of
unnatural contradictions, and he found a melancholy pleasure in
shutting his eyes to the future and recalling the time when he had been
happy and hopeful. In his egotism he found more that interested him in
his past and vanished self than in the surrounding world. Evil and
ill-health had so enfeebled his body, narrowed his mind, and blurred
the future, that his best solace seemed a vain and sentimental
recalling of the crude yet comparatively happy period of childhood.

This is sorry progress. A man must indeed have lived radically wrong
when he looks backward for the best of his life. Gray-haired Mr. Walton
was looking forward. Gregory's habit of self-pleasing--of acting
according to his mood--was too deeply seated to permit even the thought
of returning the hospitality he hoped to enjoy by a cordial effort on
his part to prove himself an agreeable guest. Polite he ever would be,
for he had the instincts and training of a gentleman, in society's
interpretation of the word, but he had lost the power to feel a
generous solicitude for the feelings and happiness of others. Indeed,
he rather took a cynical pleasure in discovering defects in the
character of those around him, and in learning that their seeming
enjoyment of life was but hollow and partial. Conscious of being evil
himself, he liked to think others were not much better, or would not be
if tempted. Therefore, with a gloomy scepticism, he questioned all the
seeming happiness and goodness he saw. "It is either unreal or
untried," he was wont to say bitterly.

About seven o'clock, Hannah, the waitress, again appeared, saying:
"Supper is ready, but the ladies beg you will not come down unless you
feel able. I can bring up your tea if you wish."

Thinking first and only of self, he at once decided not to go down. He
felt sufficiently rested and revived, but was in no mood for
commonplace talk to comparative strangers. His cosey chair, glowing
fire, and listless ease were much better than noisy children,
inquisitive ladies, and the unconscious reproach of Mr. Walton's face,
as he would look in vain for the lineaments of his lost friend.
Therefore he said, suavely: "Please say to the ladies that I am so
wearied that I should make but a dull companion, and so for their
sakes, as well as my own, had better not leave my room this evening."

It is the perfection of art in selfishness to make it appear as if you
were thinking only of others. This was the design of Walter's polite
message. Soon a bit of tender steak, a roast potato, tea, and toast
were smoking appetizingly beside him, and he congratulated himself that
he had escaped the bore of company for one evening.

Notwithstanding his misanthropy and cherished desolation the supper was
so inviting that he was tempted to partake of it heartily. Then
incasing himself in his ample dressing-gown he placed his slippered
feet on the fender before a cheery fire, lighted a choice Havana, and
proceeded to be miserable after the fashion that indulged misery often
affects.

Hannah quietly removed the tea-tray, and Mr. Walton came up and
courteously inquired if there was anything that would add to his
guest's comfort.

"After a few hours of rest and quiet I hope I shall be able to make a
better return for your hospitality," Gregory rejoined, with equal
politeness.

"Oh, do not feel under any obligation to exert yourself," said kind Mr.
Walton. "In order to derive full benefit from your vacation, you must
simply rest and follow your moods."

This view of the case suited Gregory exactly, and the prospect of a
visit at his old home grew still more inviting. When he was left alone,
he gave himself up wholly to the memories of the past.

At first it was with a pleasurable pain that he recalled his former
life. With an imagination naturally strong he lived it all over again,
from the date of his first recollections. In the curling flames and
glowing coals on the hearth a panorama passed before him. He saw a
joyous child, a light-hearted boy, and a sanguine youth, with the
shifting and familiar scenery of well-remembered experience. Time
softened the pictures, and the harsh, rough outlines which exist in
every truthful portraiture of life were lost in the haze of distance.
The gentle but steady light of mother love, and through her a pale,
half-recognized reflection of the love of God, illumined all those
years; and his father's strong, quiet affection made a background
anything but dark. He had been naturally what is termed a very good
boy, full of generous impulses. There had been no lack of ordinary
waywardness or of the faults of youth, but they showed a tendency to
yield readily to the correcting influence of love. Good impulses,
however, are not principles, and may give way to stronger impulses of
evil. If the influences of his early home had alone followed him, he
would not now be moodily recalling the past as the exiled convict might
watch the shores of his native land recede.

And then, as in his prolonged revery the fire burned low, and the ruddy
coals turned to ashes, the past faded into distance, and his present
life, dull and leaden, rose before him, and from regretful memories
that were not wholly painful he passed to that bitterness of feeling
which ever comes when hope is giving place to despair.

The fire flickered out and died, his head drooped lower and lower,
while the brooding frown upon his brow darkened almost into a scowl.
Outwardly he made a sad picture for a young man in the prime of life,
but to Him who looks at the attitude of the soul, what but unutterable
love kept him from appearing absolutely revolting?

Suddenly, like light breaking into a vault a few notes of prelude were
struck upon the piano in the parlor below, and a sweet voice, softened
by distance sung:

     "Rock of ages, cleft for me,
      let me hide myself in thee,"

How often he had heard the familiar words and music in that same home!
They seemed to crown and complete all the memories of the place, but
they reminded him more clearly than ever before that its most
inseparable associations were holy, hopeful, and suggestive of a faith
that he seemed to have lost as utterly as if it had been a gem dropped
into the ocean.

He had lived in foreign lands far from his birthplace, but the purpose
to return ever dwelt pleasurably in his mind. But how could he cross
the gulf that yawned between him and the faith of his childhood? Was
there really anything beyond that gulf save what the credulous
imagination had created? Instinctively he felt that there was, for he
was honest enough with himself to remember that his scepticism was the
result of an evil life and the influence of an unbelieving world,
rather than the outcome of patient investigation. The wish was father
to the thought.

Yet sweet, unfaltering, and clear as the voice of faith ever should be,
the hymn went forward in the room below, his memory supplying the
well-known words that were lost from remoteness:--

     "When mine eyelids close in death,
      When I soar to worlds unknown."

"Oh, when!" he exclaimed, bitterly. "What shall be my experience then?
If I continue to fail in health as I have of late I shall know cursedly
soon. That must be Miss Walton singing. Though she does not realize it,
to me this is almost as cruel mockery as if an angel sang at the gates
of hell."

The music ceased, and the monotone of one reading followed.

"Family prayers as of old," he muttered. "How everything conspires
to-day to bring my home-life back again! and yet there is a fatal lack
of something that is harder to endure than the absence of my own
kindred and vanished youth. I doubt whether I can stay here long after
all. Will not the mocking fable of Tantalus be repeated constantly, as
I see others drinking daily at a fountain which though apparently so
near is ever beyond my reach?"

Shivering with the chill of the night and the deeper chill at heart, he
retired to troubled sleep.




CHAPTER IV

HOW MISS WALTON MANAGED PEOPLE



Rest, and the sunny light and bracing air of the following morning,
banished much of Gregory's moodiness, and he descended the stairs
proposing to dismiss painful thoughts and get what comfort and
semblance of enjoyment he could out of the passing hours. Mr. Walton
met him cordially--indeed with almost fatherly solicitude--and led him
at once to the dining-room, where an inviting breakfast awaited them.
Miss Walton also was genial, and introduced Miss Eulalia Morton, a
maiden sister of her mother. Miss Eulie, as she was familiarly called,
was a pale, delicate little lady, with a face sweetened rather than
hardened and imbittered by time. If, as some believe, the flesh and the
spirit, the soul and the body, are ever at variance, she gave the
impression at first glance that the body was getting the worst of the
conflict. But in truth the faintest thoughts of strife seemed to have
no association with her whatever. She appeared so light and aerial that
one could imagine her flying over the rough places of life, and
vanishing when any one opposed her.

Miss Walton reversed all this, for she was decidedly substantial. She
was of only medium height, but a fine figure made her appear taller
than she was. She immediately gave the impression of power and reserve
force. You felt this in her quick, elastic step, saw it in her decided
though not abrupt movements, and heard it in her tone. Even the
nonchalant Mr. Gregory could not ignore her in his customary polite
manner, though quiet refinement and peculiar unobtrusiveness seemed her
characteristics. She won attention, not because she sought it, nor on
the ground of eccentricities, but because of her intense vitality. From
her dark eyes a close observer might catch glimpses of a quick, active
mind, an eager spirit, and--well, perhaps a passionate temper. Though
chastened and subdued, she ever gave the impression of power to those
who came to know her well. In certain ways, as they interpreted her,
people acknowledged this force of character. Some spoke of her as very
lively, others as exceedingly energetic and willing to enter on any
good work. Some thought her ambitious, else why was she so prominent in
church matters, and so ready to visit the sick and poor? They could
explain this in but one way. And some looked knowingly at each other
and said: "I wonder if she is always as smiling and sweet as when in
society;" and then followed shaking of heads which intimated, "Look out
for sudden gusts."

Again, as in simple morning wrapper she turned to greet Gregory, she
gave him the impression of something like beauty. But his taste,
rendered critical by much observation both at home and abroad, at once
told him that he was mistaken.

"The expression is well enough," he thought, "but she has not a single
perfect feature--not one that an artist would copy, except perhaps the
eyes, and even they are not soft and Madonna-like."

He had a sybarite's eye for beauty, and an intense admiration for it.
At the same time he was too intellectual to be satisfied with the mere
sensuous type. And yet, when he decided that a woman was not pretty,
she ceased to interest him. His exacting taste required no small degree
of outward perfection crowned by ready wit and society polish. With
those so endowed he had frequently amused himself in New York and Paris
by a passing flirtation since the politic Miss Bently had made him a
sceptic in regard to women. All his intercourse with society had
confirmed his cynicism. The most beautiful and brilliant in the
drawing-rooms were seldom the best. He flattered them to their faces
and sneered at them in his heart. Therefore his attentions were merely
of a nature to excite their vanity, stimulated by much incense from
other sources. He saw this plainly manifested trait, which he
contributed to develop, and despised it. He also saw that many were as
eager for a good match as ever the adored Miss Bently had been, and
that, while they liked his compliments, they cared not for him. Why
should they? Insincere and selfish himself, why should he expect to
awaken better feelings on the part of those who were anything but
unsophisticated, and from knowledge of the world could gauge him at his
true worth? Not even a sentimental girl would show her heart to such a
man. And yet with the blind egotism of selfishness he smiled grimly at
their apparent heartlessness and said, "Such is woman."

At the same time it must in justice be said that he despised men in
general quite as sincerely. "Human nature is wretched stuff," had come
to be the first article in his creed.

In regard to Miss Walton he concluded: "She is a goodish girl, more of
a lady than the average, pious and orthodox, an excellent housekeeper,
and a great comfort to her father, no doubt. She is safe from her very
plainness, though confident, of course, that she could resist
temptation and be a saint under all circumstances;" and he dismissed
her from his mind with a sort of inward groan and protest against the
necessity of making himself agreeable to her during his visit.

He did not think it worth while to disguise his face as he made these
brief critical observations, and quick-witted Annie gathered something
of the drift of his thoughts, as she stole a few glances at him from
behind the coffee-urn. It piqued her pride a little, and she was
disappointed in him, for she had hoped for a pleasant addition to their
society for a time. But she was so supremely indifferent to him, and
had so much to fill her thoughts and days, that his slight promise to
prove an agreeable visitor caused but momentary annoyance. Yet the
glimmer of a smile flitted across her face as she thought: "He may find
himself slightly mistaken in me, after all. His face seems to say, 'No
doubt she is a good young woman, and well enough for this slow country
place, but she has no beauty, no style.' I think I can manage to
disturb the even current of his vanity, if his visit is long enough,
and he shall learn at least that I shall not gape admiringly at his
artificial metropolitan airs."

Her manner toward Gregory remained full of kindness and grace, but she
made no effort to secure his attention and engage him in conversation,
as he had feared she would do. She acted as if she were accustomed to
see such persons as himself at her father's breakfast-table every
morning; and, though habitually wrapped up in his own personality, he
soon became dimly conscious that her course toward him was not what he
had expected.

Miss Eulie was all solicitude in view of his character of invalid; and
the children looked at him with curious eyes and growing
disapprobation. There was nothing in him to secure their instinctive
friendship, and he made no effort to win their sympathies.

The morning meal began with a reverent looking to heaven for God's
blessing on the gifts which were acknowledged as coming from Him; and
even Gregory was compelled to admit that the brief rite did not appear
like a careless signing of the cross, or a shrivelled form from which
spirit and meaning had departed, but a sincere expression of loving
trust and gratitude.

During the greater part of the meal, Mr. Walton dwelt on the
circumstances that had led to his friendship with Gregory's father, but
at last the conversation flagged a little, since the young man made so
slight effort to maintain it.

Suddenly Mr. Walton turned to his daughter and said, "By the way,
Annie, you have not told me where you found Mr. Gregory, for my
impression is that you brought him down from the hills."

"I was about to say that I found him in a chestnut burr," replied
Annie, with a twinkle in her eye. "At least I found a stranger by the
cedar thicket, and he proved from a chestnut burr who he was, and his
right to acquaintance, with a better logic than I supposed him capable
of."

"Indeed?" asked Gregory, quickly, feeling the prick of her last words;
"on what grounds were you led to estimate my logic so slightingly?"

"On merely general grounds; but you see I am open to all evidence in
your favor. City life no doubt has great advantages, but it also has
greater drawbacks."

"What are they?"

"I cannot think of them all now. Suffice it to say that if you had
always lived in the city you could not have interpreted a chestnut burr
so gracefully. Many there seem to forget Nature's lore."

"But may they not learn other things more valuable?"

Miss Walton shook her head, and said, with a laugh: "An ignorant
exhorter once stated to his little schoolhouse audience that Paul was
brought up at the foot of the hill Gamaliel. I almost wish he were
right, for I should have had more confidence in the teachings of the
hill than in those of the narrow-minded Jewish Rabbi."

"And yet you regard Paul as the very chief of the apostles."

"He became such after he was taught of Him who teaches through the
hills and nature generally."

"My daughter is an enthusiast for nature," remarked Mr. Walton.

"If the people are the same as when I was here a boy, the hills have
not taught the majority very much," said Gregory, with a French shrug.

"Many of them have a better wisdom than you think," answered Annie,
quietly.

"In what does it consist?"

"Well, for one thing they know how to enjoy life and add to the
enjoyment of others."

Gregory looked at her keenly for a moment, but saw nothing to lead him
to think that she was speaking on other than general principles; but he
said, a little moodily, as they rose from the table, "That certainly is
a better wisdom than is usually attained in either city or country."

"It is not our custom to make company of our friends," said Mr. Walton,
cordially. "We hope you will feel completely at home, and come and go
as you like, and do just what you find agreeable. We dine at two, and
have an early supper on account of the children. There are one or two
fair saddle horses on the place, but if you do not feel strong enough
to ride, Annie can drive you out, and I assure you she is at home in
the management of a horse."

"Yes, indeed," echoed the little boy. "Aunt Annie can manage anything
or anybody."

"That is a remarkable power," said Gregory, with an amused look and a
side glance at the young girl. "How does she do it?"

"Oh, I don't know," replied the boy; "she makes them love her, and then
they want to do as she says."

A momentary wrathful gleam shot from Annie's eyes at her indiscreet
little champion, but with heightened color she joined in the laugh that
followed.

Gregory had the ill grace to say with a sort of mocking gallantry, as
he bowed himself out, "It must be delightful to be managed on such
terms."




CHAPTER V

WAS IT AN ACCIDENT?



Putting on a light overcoat, for the morning air was sharp and bracing,
Gregory soon found himself in the old square garden. Though its glory
was decidedly on the wane, it was as yet unnipped by the frost It had a
neatness and an order of its own that were quite unlike those where
nature is in entire subordination to art. Indeed it looked very much as
he remembered it in the past, and he welcomed its unchanged aspect. He
strolled to many other remembered boyish haunts, and it seemed that the
very lichens and mosses grew in the same places as of old, and that
nature had stood still and awaited his return.

And yet every familiar object chided him for being so changed, and he
began to find more of pain than pleasure as this contrast between what
he had been and what he might have been was constantly forced upon him.

"Oh that I had never left this place!" he exclaimed, bitterly: "It
would have been better to stay here and drudge as a day laborer. What
has that career out in the world to which I looked forward so ardently
amounted to? The present is disappointment and self-disgust, the future
an indefinite region of fears and forebodings, and even the happy past
is becoming a bitter mockery by reminding me of what can never be
again."

Wearied and despondent, he moodily returned to the house and threw
himself on a lounge in the parlor. A smouldering wood fire upon the
hearth softened the air to summer temperature. The heat was grateful to
his chilled, bloodless body, and gave him a luxurious sense of physical
comfort, and he muttered: "I had about resolved to leave this place
with its memories that are growing into torment, but I suppose it would
be the same anywhere else. I am too weak and ill to face new scenes and
discomfort. A little animal enjoyment and bodily respite from pain seem
about all that is left to me of existence, and I think I can find these
here better than elsewhere. If I am expected, however, to fall under
the management of the daughter of the house on the terms blurted out by
that fidgety nephew of hers, I will fly for my life. A plague on him!
His restlessness makes me nervous! If I could endure a child at all,
the blue-eyed little girl would make a pretty toy."

Sounds from the sitting-room behind the parlor now caught his
attention, and listening he soon became aware that Miss Walton was
teaching the children. "She has just the voice for a 'schoolmarm,'" he
thought--"quick, clear-cut, and decided."

If he had not given way to unreasonable prejudice he might also have
noted that there was nothing harsh or querulous in it.

"With her management and love of nature, she doubtless thinks herself
the personification of goodness. I suppose I shall be well lectured
before I get away. I had a foretaste of it this morning. 'Drawbacks of
city life,' forsooth! She no doubt regards me as a result of these
disadvantages. But if she should come to deem it her mission to convert
or reform me, then will be lost my small remnant of peace and comfort."

But weakness and weariness soon inclined him to sleep. Miss Walton's
voice sounded far away. Then it passed into his dream as that of Miss
Bently chiding him affectedly for his wayward tendencies; again it was
explaining that conscientious young lady's "sense of duty" in view of
Mr. Grobb's offer, and even in his sleep his face darkened with pain
and wrath.

Just then, school hours being over, Miss Walton came into the parlor.
For a moment, as she stood by the fire, she did not notice its
unconscious occupant. Then, seeing him, she was about to leave the room
noiselessly, when the expression of his face arrested her steps.

If Annie Walton's eyes suggested the probability of "sudden gusts,"
they also at times announced a warm, kind heart, for as she looked at
him now her face instantly softened to pity.

"Good he is not," she thought, "but he evidently suffers in his evil.
Something is blighting his life, and what can blight a life save evil?
Perhaps I had better change my proposed crusade against his vanity and
cynicism to a kind, sisterly effort toward making him a better and
therefore a happier man. It will soon come out in conversation that I
have long been the same as engaged to another, and this will relieve me
of absurd suspicions of designs upon him. If I could win a friendly
confidence on his part, I'm sure I could tell him some wholesome
truths, for even an enemy could scarcely look on that face without
relenting."

There was nothing slow or cumbrous about Annie. These thoughts had
flashed through her mind during the brief moment in which her eyes
softened from surprise into sympathy as they caught the expression of
Gregory's face. Then, fearing to disturb him, with silent tread she
passed out to her wonted morning duties.

How seemingly accidental was that visit to the parlor! Its motive
indefinite and forgotten. Apparently it was but a trivial episode of an
uneventful day, involving no greater catastrophe than the momentary
rousing of a sleeper who would doze again. But what day can we with
certainty call uneventful? and what episode trivial? Those
half-aimless, purposeless steps of Annie Walton into the quiet parlor
might lead to results that would radically change the endless future of
several lives.

In her womanly, pitying nature, had not God sent His angel? If a
viewless "ministering spirit," as the sinful man's appointed guardian,
was present, as many believe is the case with every one, how truly he
must have welcomed this unselfish human companionship in his loving
labor to save life; for only they who rescue from sin truly save life.

And yet the sleeper, even in his dreams, was evidently at war with
himself, the world, and God. He was an example of the truth that good
comes from without and not from within us. It is heaven stooping to
men; heaven's messengers sent to us; truth quickened in our minds by
heavenly influence, even as sunlight and rain awaken into beautiful
life the seeds hidden in the soil; and, above all, impulses direct from
God, that steal into our hearts as the south wind penetrates ice-bound
gardens in spring.

But, alas! multitudes like Walter Gregory blind their eyes and steel
their hearts against such influences. God and those allied to Him
longed to bring the healing of faith and love to his wounded spirit. He
scowled back his answer, and, as he then felt, would shrink with morbid
sensitiveness and dislike from the kindest and most delicate
presentation of the transforming truth. But the divine love is ever
seeking to win our attention by messengers innumerable; now by the
appalling storm, again by a summer sunset; now by an awful providence,
again by a great joy; at times by stern prophets and teachers, but more
often by the gentle human agencies of which Annie was the type, as with
pitying face she bent over the worn and jaded man of the world and
hoped and prayed that she might be able to act the part of a true
sister toward him. Thorny and guarded was every avenue to his heart;
and yet her feminine tact, combined with the softening and purifying
influence of his old home, might gain her words acceptance, where the
wisest and most eloquent would plead in vain.

After dinner he again hastened forth for a walk, his purpose being to
avoid company, for he was so moody and morbid, so weak, nervous, and
irritable, that the thought of meeting and decorously conversing with
those whose lives and character were a continual reproach to him was
intolerable. Then he had the impression that the "keen-eyed,
plain-featured Miss Walton," as he characterized her in his mind, would
surely commence discoursing on moral and religious subjects if he gave
her a chance; and he feared that if she did, he would say or do
something very rude, and confirm the bad impression that he was sure of
having already made. If he could have strolled into his club, and among
groups engaged with cards, papers, and city gossip, he would have felt
quite at home. Ties formed at such a place are not very strong as a
usual thing, and the manner of the world can isolate the members and
their real life completely, even when the rooms are thronged. As
Gregory grew worn and thin and his pallor increased, as he smoked and
brooded more and more apart, his companions would shrug their shoulders
significantly and whisper, "It looks as if Gregory would go under soon.
Something's the matter with him."

At first good-natured men would say, "Come, Gregory, take a hand with
us," but when he complied it was with such a listless manner that they
were sorry they had asked him. At last, beyond mere passing courtesies,
they had come to leave him very much alone; and in his unnatural and
perverted state this was just what he most desired. His whole being had
become a diseased, sensitive nerve, shrinking most from any effort
toward his improvement, even as a finger pointed at a festering wound
causes anticipatory agonies.

At the club he would be let alone, but these good people would "take an
interest in him," and might even "talk religion," and probe with
questions and surmises. If they did, he knew, from what he had already
seen of them, that they would try to do it delicately and kindly, but
he felt that the most considerate efforts would be like the surgical
instruments of the dark ages. He needed good, decisive, heroic
treatment. But who would have the courage and skill to give it? Who
cared enough for him to take the trouble?

Not merely had Annie Walton looked with eyes of human pity upon his
sin-marred visage that morning. The Divine personality, enthroned in
the depths of her soul and permeating her life, looked commiseratingly
forth also. Could demons glare from human eyes and God not smile from
them?

As Annie thought much of him after her stolen glance in the morning,
she longed to do that which he dreaded she would try to do--attempt his
reformation. Not that she cared for him personally, or that she had
grown sentimentally interested in his Byronic style of wretchedness. So
far from it, her happy and healthful nature was repelled by his
diseased and morbid one. She found him what girls call a "disagreeable
man." But she yearned toward a sinning, suffering soul, found in any
guise. It was not in her woman's heart to pass by on the other side.




CHAPTER VI

UNEXPECTED CHESTNUT BURRS



Gregory's afternoon walk was not very prolonged, for a shivering sense
of discomfort soon drove him back to the house. Although the morning
had been cool, the sun had shone bright and warm, but now the
fore-shadowing of a storm was evident. A haze had spread over the sky,
increasing in leaden hue toward the west. The chilly wind moaned
fitfully through the trees, and the landscape darkened like a face
shadowed by coming trouble.

Walter dreaded a storm, fearing it would shut him up with the family
without escape; but at last the sun so enshrouded itself in gloom that
he was compelled to return. He went to his room, for a book, hoping
that when they saw him engaged they would leave him more to himself.
But to his agreeable surprise he found a cheerful fire blazing on the
hearth, and an ample supply of wood in a box near. The easy-chair was
wheeled forward, and a plate of grapes and the latest magazine were
placed invitingly on the table. Even his cynicism was not proof against
this, delicate thoughtfulness, and he exclaimed, "Ah, this is better
than I expected, and a hundred-fold better than I deserve. I make but
poor return for their kindness. This cosey room seems to say, 'We won't
force ourselves on you. You can be alone as much as you like,' for I
suppose they must have noticed my disinclination for society. But they
are wise after all, for I am cursed poor company for myself and worse
than none at all for others."

Eating from time to time a purple grape, he so lost himself in the
fresh thoughts of the magazine that the tea-bell rang ere he was aware.

"In the name of decency I must try to make myself agreeable for a
little while this evening," he muttered, as he descended to the
cheerful supper-room.

To their solicitude for his health and their regret that the
approaching storm had driven him so early to the house, he replied, "I
found in my room a better substitute for the sunlight I had lost;
though as a votary of nature, Miss Walton, I suppose you will regard
this assertion as rank heresy."

"Not at all, for your firelight is the result of sunlight." answered
Annie, smiling.

"How is that?"

"It required many summers to ripen the wood that blazed on your hearth.
Indeed, good dry wood is but concentrated sunshine put by for cold,
gloomy days and chilly nights."

"That is an odd fancy. I wish there were other ways of storing up
sunshine for future use."

"There are," said Miss Walton, cheerfully; and she looked up as if she
would like to say more, but he instantly changed the subject in his
instinctive wish to avoid the faintest approach to moralizing. Still,
conversation continued brisk till Mr. Walton asked suddenly, "By the
way, Mr. Gregory, have you ever met Mr. Hunting of Wall Street?"

There was no immediate answer, and they all looked inquiringly at him.
To their surprise his face was darkened by the heaviest frown. After a
moment he said, with peculiar emphasis, "Yes; I know him well."

A chill seemed to fall on them after that; and he, glancing up, saw
that Annie looked flushed and indignant, Miss Eulie pained, and Mr.
Walton very grave. Even the little boy shot vindictive glances at him.
He at once surmised that Hunting was related to the family, and was
oppressed with the thought that he was fast losing the welcome given
him on his father's account. But in a few moments Annie rallied and
made unwonted efforts to banish the general embarrassment, and with
partial success, for Gregory had tact and good conversational powers if
he chose to exert them. When, soon after, they adjourned to the parlor,
outward serenity reigned.

On either side of the ample hearth, on which blazed a hickory fire, a
table was drawn up. An easy-chair stood invitingly by each, with a
little carpet bench on which to rest the feet.

"Take one of these," said Mr. Walton, cordially, "and join me with a
cigar. The ladies of my household are indulgent to my small vices."

"And I will send for your magazine," said Annie, "and then you can read
and chat according to your mood. You gee that we do not intend to make
a stranger of you."

"For which I am very glad. You treat me far better than I deserve."

Instead of some deprecatory remark, Annie gave him a quick,
half-comical look which he did not fully understand.

"There is more in her than I at first imagined," he thought.

Seated with the magazine, Gregory found himself in the enjoyment of
every element of comfort. That he might be under no constraint to talk,
Annie commenced speaking to her father and Miss Eulie of some
neighborhood affairs, of which he knew nothing. The children and a
large greyhound were dividing the rug between them. The former were
chatting in low tones and roasting the first chestnuts of the season on
a broad shovel that was placed on the glowing coals. The dog was
sleepily watching them lest in their quick movements his tail should
come to grief.

Gregory had something of an artist's eye, and he could not help
glancing up from his reading occasionally, and thinking what a pretty
picture the roomy parlor made.

"Annie," said Mr. Walton, after a little while, "I can't get through
this article with my old eyes. Won't you finish it for me? Shall we
disturb you, Mr. Gregory?"

"Not at all."

Gregory soon forgot to read himself in listening to her. Not that he
heard the subject-matter with any interest, but her sweet, natural
tones and simplicity arrested and retained his attention. Even the
statistics and the prose of political economy seemed to fall from her
lips in musical cadence, and yet there was no apparent effort and not a
thought of effect. Walter mused as he listened.

"I should like to hear some quiet, genial book read in that style,
though it is evident that Miss Walton is no tragedy queen."

Having finished the reading, Annie started briskly up and said, "Come,
little people, your chestnuts are roasted and eaten. It's bedtime. The
turkeys and squirrels will be at the nut-trees long before you
to-morrow unless you scamper off at once."

"O, Aunt Annie," chimed their voices, "you must sing us the chestnut
song first; you promised to."

"With your permission, Mr. Gregory, I suppose I must make my promise
good," said Annie.

"I join the children in asking for the song," he replied, glad to get
them out of the way on such easy conditions, though he expected a
nursery ditty or a juvenile hymn from some Sabbath-school collection,
wherein healthy, growing boys are made to sing, "I want to be an
angel." "Moreover," he added, "I have read that one must always keep
one's word to a child."

"Which is a very important truth: do you not think so?"

"Since you are using the word 'truth' so prominently, Miss Walton, I
must say that I have not thought much about it. But I certainly would
have you keep your word on this occasion."

"Aunt Annie always keeps her word," said Johnny, rather bluntly. By
some childish instinct he divined that Gregory did not appreciate Aunt
Annie sufficiently, and this added to his prejudice.

"You have a stout little champion there," Gregory remarked.

"I cannot complain of his zeal," she answered significantly, at the
same time giving the boy a caress. "Mr. Gregory, this is a rude country
ballad, and we are going to sing it in our accustomed way, even though
it shock your city ears. Johnny and Susie, you can join in the chorus;"
and she sang the following simple October glee:

    Katydid, your throat is sore,
    You can chirp this fall no more;
    Robin red-breast, summer's past,
    Did you think 'twould always last?
    Fly away to sunny climes,
    Lands of oranges and limes;
    With the squirrels we shall stay
    And put our store of nuts away.
O the spiny chestnut burrs! O the prickly chestnut burrs!
    Harsh without, but lined with down,
    And full of chestnuts, plump and brown.

    Sorry are we for the flowers;
    We shall miss our summer bowers;
    Still we welcome frosty Jack,
    Stealing now from Greenland back.
    And the burrs will welcome him;
    When he knocks, they'll let him in.
    They don't know what Jack's about;
    Soon he'll turn the chestnuts out.
O the spiny, etc.--

    Turkey gobbler, with your train,
    You shall scratch the leaves in vain;
    Squirrel, with your whisking tail,
    Your sharp eyes shall not avail;
    In the crisp and early dawn,
    Scampering across the lawn.
    We will beat you to the trees,
    Come you then whene'er you please.
O the spiny, etc.--

Gregory's expression as she played a simple prelude was one of
endurance, but when she began to sing the changes of his face were
rapid. First he turned toward her with a look of interest, then of
surprise. Miss Eulie could not help watching him, for, though she was
well on in life, just such a character had never risen above her
horizon. Too gentle to censure, she felt that she had much cause for
regret.

At first she was pleased to see that he found the ditty far more to his
taste than he had expected. But the rapid alternation from pleased
surprise and enjoyment to something like a scowl of despair and almost
hate she could not understand. Following his eyes she saw them resting
on the boy, who was now eagerly joining in the chorus of the last
verse. She was not sufficiently skilled to know that to Gregory's
diseased moral nature things most simple and wholesome in themselves
were most repugnant. She could not understand that the tripping little
song, with its wild-wood life and movement--that the boy singing with
the delight of a pure, fresh heart--told him, beyond the power of
labored language, how hackneyed and blase he had become, how far and
hopelessly he had drifted from the same true childhood.

And Miss Walton, turning suddenly toward him, saw the same dark
expression, full of suffering and impotent revolt at his destiny, as he
regarded it, and she too was puzzled.

"You do not like our foolish little song," she said.

"I envy that boy, Miss Walton," was his reply.

Then she began to understand him, and said, gently, "You have no
occasion to."

"I wish you, or any one, could find the logic to prove that."

"The proof is not in logic but in nature, that is ever young. They who
draw their life from nature do not fall into the only age we need
dread."

"Do you not expect to grow old?"

She shook her head half humorously and said, "But these children will
before I get them to bed."

He ostensibly resumed his magazine, but did not turn any leaves.

His first mental query was, "Have I rightly gauged Miss Walton? I half
believe she understands me better than I do her. I estimated her as a
goodish, fairly educated country girl, of the church-going sort, one
that would be dreadfully shocked at finding me out, and deem it at once
her mission to pluck me as a brand from the burning. I know all about
the goodness of such girls. They are ignorant of the world; they have
never been tempted, and they have a brood of little feminine weaknesses
that of course are not paraded in public.

"And no doubt all this is true of Miss Walton, and yet, for some
reason, she interests me a little this evening. She is refined, but
nowhere in the world will you meet drearier monotony and barrenness
than among refined people. Having no real originality, their little
oddities are polished away. In Miss Walton I'm beginning to catch
glimpses of vistas unexplored, though perhaps I am a fool for thinking
so.

"What a peculiar voice she has! She would make a poor figure, no doubt,
in an opera; and yet she might render a simple aria very well. But for
songs of nature and ballads I have never heard so sympathetic a voice.
It suggests a power of making music a sweet home language instead of a
difficult, high art, attainable by few. Really Miss Walton is worth
investigation, for no one with such a voice can be utterly commonplace.
Strange as it is, I cannot ignore her. Though she makes no effort to
attract my attention, I am ever conscious of her presence."




CHAPTER VII

A CONSPIRACY



When Miss Walton returned to the parlor her father said, "Annie, I am
going to trespass on your patience again."

She answered with a little piquant gesture, and was soon reading in
natural, easy tones, without much stumbling, what must have been Greek
to her.

Gregory watched her with increasing interest, and another question than
the one of finance involved in the article was rising in his mind.

"Is this real? Is this seeming goodness a fact?" It was the very
essence of his perverted nature to doubt it. Now that his eyes were
opened, and he closely observed Miss Walton, he saw that his prejudices
against her were groundless. Although not a stylish, pretty woman, she
was evidently far removed from the goodish, commonplace character that
he could regard as part of the furniture of the house, useful in its
place, but of no more interest than a needful piece of cabinet work.
Nor did she assert herself as do those aggressive, lecturing females
who deem it their mission to set everybody right within their sphere.

And yet she did assert herself; but he was compelled to admit that it
was like the summer breeze or the perfume of a rose. He had resolved
that very day to avoid and ignore her as far as possible, and yet,
before the first evening in her presence was half over, he had left a
magazine story unfinished; he was watching her, thinking and surmising
about her, and listening, as she read, to what he did not care a straw
about. Although she had not made the slightest effort, some influence
from her had stolen upon him like a cool breeze on a sultry day, and
wooed him as gently as the perfume of a flower that is sweet to all. He
said to himself, "She is not pretty," and yet found pleasure in
watching her red lips drop figures and financial terms as musically as
a little rill murmurs over a mossy rock.

From behind his magazine he studied the group at the opposite table,
but it was with the pain which a despairing swimmer, swept seaward by a
resistless current, might feel in seeing the safe and happy on the
shore.

Gray Mr. Walton leaned back in his chair, the embodiment of peace and
placid content.

The subject to which he was listening and kindred topics had so far
receded that his interest was that of a calm, philosophic observer, and
Gregory thought, with a glimmer of a smile, "He is not dabbling in
stocks or he could not maintain that quiet mien."

His habits of thought as a business man merely made it a pleasure to
keep up with the times. In fact he was in that serene border-land
between the two worlds where the questions of earth are growing vague
and distant and those of the "better country" more real and engrossing,
for Gregory observed, later in the evening, that he took the family
Bible with more zest than he had bestowed on the motive power of the
world. It was evident where his most valued treasures were stored. With
a bitter sigh, Gregory thought, "I would take his gray hairs if I could
have his peace and faith."

Miss Eulie, to whom he gave a passing glance, seemed even less earthly
in her nature. Indeed, it appeared as if she had never more than half
belonged to the material creation. Slight, ethereal, with untroubled
blue eyes, and little puff curls too light to show their change to
gray, she struck Gregory unpleasantly, as if she were a connecting link
between gross humanity and spiritual existence, and his eyes reverted
to Miss Walton, and dwelt with increasing interest on her. There at
least were youth, health, and something else--what was it in the girl
that had so strongly and suddenly gained his attention? At any rate
there was nothing about her uncanny and spirit-like.

He did not understand her. Was it possible that a young girl, not much
beyond twenty, was happy in the care of orphan children, in the quiet
humdrum duties of housekeeping, and in reading stupid articles through
the long, quiet evenings, with few excitements beyond church-going,
rural tea-drinkings, and country walks and rides? With a grim smile he
thought how soon the belles he had admired would expire under such a
regimen. Could this be good acting because a guest was present? If so
it was perfect, for it seemed, her daily life.

"I will watch her," he thought. "I will solve this little feminine
enigma. It will divert my mind, and I've nothing else to do."

"My daughter spoils me, you see, Mr. Gregory," said Mr. Walton,
starting up as Annie finished a theory that would make every one rich
by the printing-press process,

"Don't plume yourself, papa," replied Annie, archly; "I shall make you
do something for me to pay for all this."

With a humorous look he replied, "No matter, I have the best of the
bargain, for I should have to do the 'something' anyway. But what do
you think of this theory, sir?" And he explained, not knowing that
Walter had been listening.

The gentlemen were soon deep in the mysteries of currency and finance,
topics on which both could talk well. Annie listened with polite
attention for a short time--indeed Gregory was exerting himself more
for her sake than for Mr. Walton's--and she was satisfied from her
father's face that his guest was interesting him; but as the subject
was mainly unintelligible to her she soon turned with real zest to Miss
Eulie's fancy-work, and there was an earnest whispered discussion in
regard to the right number of stitches. Walter noted this and
sneeringly thought, with a masculine phase of justice often seen,
"That's like a woman. She drops one of the deepest and most important
subjects of the day" (and he might have added, "As explained by
me")--"and gives her whole soul to a bit of thread lace;" and he soon
let Mr. Walton have the discussion all his own way.

In furtherance of his purpose to draw Annie out he said, rather
banteringly, "Miss Walton, I am astonished that so good a man as your
father should have as an ardent friend the profane and disreputable
character that I found living in the cottage opposite on the day of my
arrival."

"Profane, I admit he is," she replied, "but not disreputable. Indeed,
as the world goes, I think old Daddy Tuggar, as he is called in this
vicinity, is a good man."

"O, Annie!" said Miss Eulie. "How can you think so? You have broader
charity than I. He is breaking his poor wife's heart."

"Indeed?" said Annie, dryly; "I was not aware of it."

"I too am astonished," said Walter, in mock solemnity. "How is it that
a refined and orthodox young lady, a pillar of the church, too, I
gather, can regard with other than unmixed disapprobation a man who
breaks the third commandment and all the rules of Lindley Murray at
every breath?"

"I imagine the latter offence is the more heinous sin in your eyes, Mr.
Gregory," she said, scanning his face with a quick look.

"Oh, you become aggressive. I was under the impression that I was
making the attack and that you were on the defensive. But I can readily
explain the opinion which you, perhaps not unjustly, impute to me. You
and I judge this venerable sinner from different standpoints."

"You explain your judgment, but do not justify it," replied Annie,
quietly.

"Annie, I don't see on what grounds you call Daddy Tuggar a good man,"
said Miss Eulie, emphatically.

"Please understand me, aunty," said Annie, earnestly. "I did not say he
was a Christian man, but merely a good man as the world goes; and I
know I shall shock you when I say that I have more faith in him than in
his praying and Scripture-quoting wife. There, I knew I should," she
added, as she saw Miss Eulie's look of pained surprise.

Mr. Walton was listening with an amused smile. He evidently understood
his quaint old friend and shared Annie's opinion of him.

Gregory was growing decidedly interested, and said, "Really, Miss
Walton, I must side with your aunt in this matter. I shall overwhelm
you with an awful word. I think you are latitudinarian in your
tendencies."

"Which Daddy Tuggar would call a new-fangled way of swearing at me,"
retorted Annie, with her frank laugh that was so genuinely mirthful
that even Aunt Eulie joined in it.

"I half think," continued Annie, "that the churchmen in the ages of
controversy did a good deal of worse swearing than our old neighbor is
guilty of when they hurled at each other with such bitter zest the
epithets Antinomian, Socinian, Pelagian, Calvinistic, etc."

"Those terms have an awful sound. They smite my ear with all the power
that vagueness imparts, and surely must have caused stout hearts to
tremble in their day," he remarked.

"We are no longer on the ground of currency and finance," said Annie,
archly, "and I shall leave you to imagine that I know all about the
ideas represented by the polysyllabic terms of churchmen's warfare."

He looked at her a moment in comic dismay. Really this country girl was
growing too much for him in his game of banter.

"Miss Walton, I shall not dispute or question your knowledge of the
Socin--cin--(you know the rest) heresy--"

"Alas!" put in Annie, quietly, "I do know all about the 'sin heresy.' I
can say that honestly."

"I am somewhat inclined to doubt that," he said, quickly; then added,
in sudden and mock severity, "Miss Walton, if I were a judge upon the
bench I should charge that you were evading the question and befogging
the case. The point at issue is, How can you regard Daddy Tuggar as a
good man? As evidence against him I can affirm that I do not remember
to have had such a good square cursing in my life, and I have received
several."

This last expression caused Miss Eulie to open her eyes at him.

"Not for your sake, sir," said Annie, with a keen yet humorous glance
at him, "who as judge on the bench have in your pocket a written
verdict, I fear, but for Aunt Eulie's I will give the reasons for my
estimate. I regard her in the light of an honest jury. In the first
place the term you used, 'square,' applies to him. I do not think he
could be tempted to do a dishonest thing; and that, as the world goes,
is certainly a good point."

"And as the church goes, too," he added, cynically.

"He is a good neighbor, and considerate of the rights of others. He can
feel, and is not afraid to show a sincere indignation when seeing a
wrong done to another."

"I can vouch for that. I shall steal no more of your apples, Mr.
Walton."

"There is not a particle of hypocrisy about him. I wish I could think
the same of his wife. For some reason she always gives me the
impression of insincerity. If I were as good as you are, aunty, perhaps
I should not be so suspicious. One thing more, and my eulogy of
Daddy--the only one he will ever receive, I fear--is over. He is
capable of sincere friendship, and that is more than you can say of a
great many."

"It is indeed," said Gregory, with bitter emphasis. "I should be
willing to take my chances with Daddy Tuggar in this or any other
world."

"You had better not," she answered, now thoroughly in earnest.

"Why so?"

"I should think memories of this place would make my meaning clear,"
she replied, gently.

Gregory's face darkened, and he admitted to himself that most
unexpectedly she had sent an arrow home, and yet he could take no
exception.

His indifference toward her had vanished now. So far from regarding her
as a dull, good, country girl with a narrow horizon of little feminine
and commonplace interests, he began to doubt whether he should be able
to cope with her in the tilt of thought. He saw that she was quick,
original, and did her own thinking, that in repartee she hit back
unexpectedly, in flashes, as the lightning strikes from the clouds. He
could not keep pace with her quick intuition.

Moreover, in her delicate reference to his parents' faith she had
suggested an argument for Christianity that he had never been able to
answer. For a little time she had caused him to forget his wretched
self, but her last remark had thrown him back on his old doubts, fears,
and memories. As we have said, his cynical, despondent expression
returned, and he silently lowered at the fire.

Annie had too much tact to add a word. "He must be hurt--well probed
indeed--before he can be well," she thought.

Country bedtime had now come, and Mr. Walton said, "Mr. Gregory, I
trust you will not find our custom of family prayers distasteful."

"The absence of such a custom would seem strange to me in this place,"
he replied, but he did not say whether it would be agreeable or
distasteful.

Annie went to the piano as if it were a habit, and after a moment chose
the tender hymn--

    "Come, ye disconsolate."

At first, in his morbid sensitiveness, he was inclined to resent this
selection as aimed at him, but soon he was under the spell of the music
and the sentiment, which he thought had never before been so
exquisitely blended.

Miss Walton was not very finished or artistic in anything. She would
not be regarded as a scholar, even among the girls of her own age and
station, and her knowledge of classical music was limited. But she was
gifted in a peculiar degree with tact, a quick perception, and the
power of interpreting the language of nature and of the heart. She read
and estimated character rapidly. Almost intuitively she saw people's
needs and weaknesses, but so far was she from making them the ground of
satire and contempt that they awakened her pity and desire to help. In
other words, she was one of those Christians who in some degree catch
the very essence of Christ's character, who lived and died to save. She
did not think of condemning the guilty and disconsolate man that
brooded at her fireside, but she did long to help him.

"I may never be able to say such words to him directly," she thought,
"but I can sing them, and if he leaves our home to-morrow he shall hear
the truth once more."

And she did sing with tenderness and feeling. In rendering something
that required simplicity, nature, and pathos, no prima donna could
surpass her, for while her voice was not powerful, and had no unusual
compass, it was as sweet as that of a thrush in May.

Only deaf ears and a stony heart could have remained insensible, and
Gregory was touched. A reviving breath from Paradise seemed to blow
upon him and gently urge, "Arise, struggle, make one more effort, and
you may yet cross the burning sands of the desert. It is not a mirage
that is mocking you now."

As the last words trembled from the singer's lips he shaded his eyes
with the hand on which his head was leaning, but Miss Eulie saw a tear
fall with momentary glitter, and she exulted over it as his good angel
might have done.

If penitent tears could be crystallized they would be the only gems of
earth that angels would covet, and perhaps God's co-workers here will
find those that they caused to flow on earth, set as gems in their
"crown of glory that fadeth not away."

Mr. Walton, in reverential tones, read the fifty-third chapter of
Isaiah, which, with greater beauty and tenderness, carried forward the
thought of the hymn; and then he knelt and offered a prayer that was so
simple and child-like, so free from form and cant, and so direct from
the heart, that Gregory was deeply moved. The associations of his early
home were now most vividly revealed and crowned by the sacred hour of
family worship, the memory of which, like a reproachful face, had
followed him in all his evil life.

When he arose from his knees he again shaded his face with his hand to
hide his wet eyes and twitching muscles. After a few moments he bade
the family an abrupt goodnight, and retired to his room.

At first they merely exchanged significant glances. Then Miss Eulie
told of the tear as if it were a bit of dust from a mine that might
enrich them all. For a while Annie sat thoughtfully gazing into the
fire, but at last she said, "It must be plain to us that Mr. Gregory
has wandered further from his old home in spirit than he has in body;
but it seems equally evident that he is not happy and content. He seems
suffering and out of health in soul and body. Perhaps God has sent him
to us and to his childhood's home for healing. Let us, therefore, be
very careful, very tender and considerate. He is naturally proud and
sensitive, and is morbidly so now."

"I think he is near the Kingdom," said Miss Eulie, with a little sigh
of satisfaction.

"Perhaps all are nearer than we think," said Annie, in a musing tone.
"God is not far from any one of us. But it is the curse of sin to
blind. He has, no doubt, been long in reaching his present unhappy
condition, and he may be long in escaping from it."

"Well, the Lord reigns," said Mr. Walton, sententiously, as if that
settled the question.

"Dear old father!" said Annie, smiling fondly at him, "that's your
favorite saying. You have a comfortable habit of putting all perplexing
questions into the Lord's hand and borrowing no further trouble.
Perhaps that is the wisest way after all, only one is a long time
learning it."

"I've been a long time learning it, my child," said her father. "Let us
agree to carry his case often to the throne of mercy, and in His good
time and way our prayers will be answered."

Thus in quaint old scriptural style they conspired for the life of
their unconscious guest. This was in truth a "holy alliance." How many
dark conspiracies there have been, resulting in blood, wrong, and
outrage, that some unworthy brow might wear for a little time a petty,
perishing crown of earth! Oh, that there were more conspiracies like
that in Mr. Walton's parlor for the purpose of rendering the unworthy
fit to wear the crown immortal!




CHAPTER VIII

WITCHCRAFT



Miss Eulie was doomed to disappointment, for Gregory came down late to
breakfast the following morning with not a trace of his softened
feelings. Indeed, because of pride, or for some reason, he chose to
seem the very reverse of all she had hoped. The winter of his unbelief
could not pass away so easily.

Even in January there are days of sudden relenting, when the frost's
icy grasp upon nature seems to relax. Days that rightfully belong to
spring drop down upon us with birds that have come before their time.
But such days may end in a northeast snowstorm and the birds perish.

The simile appeared true of Gregory. As far as he took part in the
table-talk he was a cold, finished man of the world, and the gloom of
the early morning rested on his face. But Annie noticed that he made an
indifferent breakfast and did not appear well.

After he had retired to his room to write some letters, as he said, she
remarked to her father when alone with him:

"I suppose you remember Mr. Gregory's manner when you spoke of Mr.
Hunting. They evidently are acquainted and not on good terms. What
could have occurred between them?"

"Some quarrel resulting from business, perhaps," said Mr. Walton,
musingly.

"I believe Charles has been trying to restrain Mr. Gregory in some of
his fast ways," Annie continued, emphatically, "and they have had hot
words. Men have so little discretion in their zeal."

"Business men are not apt to interfere with each other's foibles unless
they threaten their pockets," her father replied. "It is more probable
that Gregory has borrowed money of Hunting, and been compelled to pay
it against his will; and yet I have no right to surmise anything of the
kind."

"But Mr. Hunting is not a mere business man, father. He is bent on
doing good wherever he can find opportunity. I incline to my solution.
But it is clear that we must be silent in regard to him while Mr.
Gregory is with us, for I never saw such bitter enmity expressed in any
face. It is well that Charles is to be absent for some time, and that
we have no prospect of a visit from him while our guest is here. Oh,
dear! I wish Charles could come and make us a visit instead of this
moody, wayward stranger."

"I can echo that wish heartily, Annie, for in the son I find little of
my old friend, his father. But remember what you said last night. It
may be that he was sent to us in order that we should help him become
what his father was."

"I will do my best; but I do not look forward to his society with much
pleasure. Still, if there should be any such result as we hope for, I
should feel repaid a thousand-fold."

Gregory finished his letters and then paced restlessly up and down his
room.

"That this country girl should have so moved me!" he muttered. "What
does it mean? What is there about her that takes hold of my attention
and awakens my interest? I wish to go downstairs now, and talk to her,
and have her read to me, and am provoked with myself that I do.
Yesterday at this time I wished to avoid her.

"Why should I wish to avoid her? If she amuses me, diverts my mind,
beguiles my pain, or more dreary apathy, why not let her exert her
power to the utmost and make herself useful? Yes, but she will try to
do more than amuse. Well, suppose she does; one can coolly foil such
efforts. Not so sure of that. If I were dealing with a man I could, but
one must be worse than a clod to hear her sing and not feel. I suppose
I made a weak fool of myself before them all last night, and they
thought I was on the eve of conversion. I half wish I were, or on the
eve of anything else. Any change from my present state would seem a
relief. But a man cannot go into these things like an impulsive girl,
even if he believes in them, which is more than I do. I seem to have
fallen into a state of moral and physical imbecility, in which I can
only doubt, suffer, and chafe.

"I won't avoid her. I will study and analyze her character. I doubt
whether she is as good, fresh, and original as she seems. Such girls
exist only in moral stories, and I've met but few even there. I will
solve her mystery. Probably it is not a very deep one, and after a day
or two she will become an old story and life resume its normal
monotony;" and he at once descended the stairs to carry out his purpose.

The children were just coming from the sitting-room where they had
their school, exclaiming, "Oh, aunty, what shall we do this awful rainy
day?"

"Wait till I have given some directions to Zibbie, and I will read you
a fairy story, and then you can go up into the garret until
dinner-time."

"May I listen to the fairy story also?" asked Walter.

Miss Walton looked up with a smile and said, "You must be
half-desperate from your imprisonment to accept of such solace. But if
you can wait till I have kept my word to the children I will read
something more to your taste."

"I think I should like to hear how a fairy story sounds once again
after all these years."

"As Shakespeare may sound to us some time in the future," she replied,
smiling.

"I can't believe we shall ever outgrow Shakespeare," he said.

"I can believe it, but cannot understand how it is possible. As yet I
am only growing up to Shakespeare."

"You seem very ready to believe what you cannot understand."

"And that is woman's way, I suppose you would like to add," she
answered, smiling over her shoulder, as she turned to the kitchen
department. "You men have a general faith that there will be dinner at
two o'clock, though you understand very little how it comes to pass,
and if you are disappointed the best of your sex have not fortitude
enough to wait patiently, so I must delay no longer to propitiate the
kitchen divinity."

"There!" he said, "I have but crossed her steps in the hall, and she
has stirred me and set my nerves tingling like an October breeze. She
is a witch."

After a few minutes Miss Walton entered. Each of the children called
for a story, and both clamored for their favorites.

"Johnny," said Miss Walton, "it is manly to yield to the least and
weakest, especially if she be a little woman."

The boy thought a moment, and then with an amusing assumption of
dignity said, "You may read Susie's story first, aunty."

"Susie, promise Johnny that his story shall be read first next time;"
which Susie promptly did with a touch of the womanly grace which
accompanies favors bestowed after the feminine will has triumphed.

"Now, little miniature man and woman, listen!" and their round eyes
were ready for the world of wonders.

And this child of nature was at the same time showing Gregory a world
as new and strange--a world that he had caught glimpses of when a boy,
but since had lost hopelessly. She carried the children away into
fairy-land. She suggested to him a life in which simplicity, truth, and
genuine goodness might bring peace and hope to the heart.

"Well, what do you think of the fairy story?" she asked after she had
finished and the children had drawn sighs of intense relief at the
happy denouement, in which the ugly ogre was slain and the prince and
princess were married:

"I did not hear it," he said.

"That's complimentary. But you appeared listening very closely."

"You have heard of people reading a different meaning between the
lines, and I suppose one can listen to a different meaning."

"And what could you find between the lines of this fairy tale?" she
asked with interest.

"It would be difficult for me to explain--something too vague and
indefinite for words, I fear. But if you will read me something else I
will listen to the text itself."

"Come, children, scamper off to the garret," said Annie, "and remember
you are nearer heaven up there, and so must be very kind and gentle to
each other."

"You will fill those youngsters' heads with beautiful superstitions."

"Superstition and faith are not so very far apart, though so unlike."

"Yes, it is hard to tell where one leaves off and the other begins."

"Is it?"

"Isn't it?"

"I don't like to contradict you, sir."

"You have contradicted me, and I suppose it is manly to yield to a
lady.'"

"Not in matters of principle and honest conviction."

"Alas! if one has not very much of either!"

"It is a very great misfortune, and, I suppose I ought to add, fault."

"I have no doubt it is a misfortune, Miss Walton, but you are not
reading."

"Well, make your choice."

"I leave it entirely to you."

"You don't look very well to-day. I will select something light and
cheerful from Dickens."

"Excuse me, please. I am in no mood for his deliberate purpose to make
one laugh."

"Then here is Irving. His style flows like a meadowbrook."

"No, he is too sentimental."

"Walter Scott, then, will form a happy medium."

"No, he wearies one with explanations and history."

"Some of Tennyson's dainty idylls will suit your fastidious taste."

"I couldn't abide his affected, stilted language to-day."

"Shakespeare, then; you regard him as perfect."

"No, he makes me think, and I do not wish to."

"Well, here are newspapers, the latest magazine, and some new novels."

"Modern rubbish--a mushroom growth. They will soon kindle kitchen fires
instead of thought."

"Then I must make an expedition to the library. What shall I bring?
There is Mosheim's 'Ecclesiastical Ancient History'; that has a solid,
venerable sound. Or, if you prefer poetry, I will get Gray's 'Elegy.'
That cannot be a literary mushroom, for he was twenty years writing it.
But perhaps it is Tupper you would like. That would suit your mood
exactly, Tupper's 'Proverbial Philosophy.'"

"You are growing satirical, Miss Walton. Why don't you assert plainly
that I am as full of whims as a--"

"Woman, would you like to say?"

"Present company excepted. The fact is, I am two-thirds ill to-day, and
the most faultless style and theme in our language would weary me. I am
possessed by the evil spirits of ennui, unrest, and disgust at myself
and all the world, present company always excepted. Do you know of any
spell that can exorcise these demons?"

"Yes, a very simple one. Will you put yourself absolutely in my power
and obey?"

"I am your slave."

Miss Walton left the room and soon returned with a large afghan. "You
must take a horizontal position in order that my spell may work."

"Pshaw! you are prescribing an ordinary nap."

"I am glad to say the best things in this world are ordinary. But
permit me to suggest that in view of your pledged word you have nothing
to do in this matter but to obey."

"Very well;" and he threw himself on the sofa.

"The day is chilly, sir, and I must throw this afghan over you;" and
she did so with a little touch of delicacy which is so grateful when
one is indisposed.

Her manner both soothed and pleased him.

He was more lonely than he realized, for it had been years since he had
experienced woman's gentle care and ministry; and Annie Walton had a
power possessed by few to put jangling nerves at rest. Suddenly he
said, "I wish I had a sister like you."

"My creed, you know," she replied, "makes all mankind kindred."

"Nonsense!" said Gregory, irritably; "deliver me from your church
sisters."

"Take care!" she answered, with a warning nod, "I'm a church sister; so
don't drive me away, for I am going to sing you to sleep."

"I'm half inclined to join your church that I may call you sister."

"You would be disciplined and excommunicated within a month. But hush;
you must not talk."

"How would you treat me after I had been anathematized?"

"If you were as ill as you are to-day I would make you sleep. Hush; not
another word. I am going to sing."

A luxurious sense of comfort stole over him, and he composed himself to
listen and criticise, little imagining, though, that he would fall
asleep. He saw through the window a lowering sky with leaden clouds
driven wildly across it. The wind moaned and soughed around the angles
of the house, and the rain beat against the glass. All without seemed
emblematic of himself. But now he had a brief but blessed sense of
shelter from both the storm and himself. The fire blazed cheerily on
the hearth. The afghan seemed to envelop him like a genial atmosphere.
Had Miss Walton bewitched it by her touch? And now she has found
something to suit her, or rather him, and is singing.

"What an unusual voice she has!" he thought "Truly the spirit of
David's harp, that could banish the demon from Saul, dwells in it. I
wonder if she is as good and real as she seems, or whether, under the
stress of temptation or the poison of flattery, she would not show
herself a true daughter of Eve? I must find out, for it is about the
only remaining question that interests me. If she is like the rest of
us--if she is a female Hunting--then good-by to all hope. I shall not
live to find anybody or anything to trust. If she is what she seems,
it's barely possible that she might help me out of this horrible
'slough of despond,' if she would take the trouble. I wish that she
were my sister, or that my sister had lived and had been just like her."




CHAPTER IX

MISS WALTON RECOMMENDS A HOBBY



To Gregory's surprise he waked and then admitted to himself that,
contrary to his expectation and purpose, he had been asleep. His last
remembered consciousness was that of sweet, low music; and how long ago
was that? He looked at his watch; it was nearly two, and he must have
slept several hours. He glanced around and saw that he was alone, but
the fire still blazed on the hearth, and the afghan infolded him with
its genial warmth as before, and it seemed that although by himself he
was still cared for.

"She is a witch," he muttered. "Her spells are no jokes. But I will
investigate her case like an old-time Salem inquisitor. With more than
Yankee curiosity, which was at the bottom of their superstitious
questionings, I will pry into her power. But she will find that she has
a wary sceptic to convince. I have seen too many saints and sinners to
be again deceived by fair seeming."

A broad ray of sunlight shot across the room. "By my soul! it's
clearing off. Is this her work also? Has she swept away the clouds with
her broomstick? And there goes the dinner-bell, too;" and he went to
his room two steps at a time, as he had done when a boy.

Annie coming out of the sitting-room at that moment, smiled and said:
"He must be better."

At the table she asked, "How do you find yourself now?"

"Much given to appetite." Then, turning to Mr. Walton, he said,
abruptly, "Do you believe in witchcraft?"

"Well, no, sir," said Mr. Walton, a little taken aback.

"I do!" continued he, emphatically.

"When and where have you had experience of the black art?"

"This morning, and in your house, sir."

"You seem none the worse for it," said his host, smiling.

"Indeed, I have not felt so well in months. Your larder will suffer if
I am practiced upon any more."

"Well, of all modern and prosaic results of witchery this exceeds,"
said Annie, laughing, "since only a good appetite comes of it."

"It yet remains to be seen whether this is the only result," replied
Gregory. "What possessed the old Puritans to persecute the Salem
witches is a mystery to me, if their experience was anything like mine."

"You must remember that the question of what was agreeable or otherwise
scarcely entered into a Puritan's motives."

"I am not so sure of that," he answered, quickly. "It has ever seemed
to me that the good people of other days went into persecution with a
zeal that abstract right can hardly account for. People will have their
excitements, and a good rousing persecution used to stir things like
the burning of Chicago or a Presidential election in our day."

"Granting," said Annie, "the bigotry and cruelty of the persecutor--and
these must be mainly charged to the age--still you must admit that
among them were earnest men who did from good motives what appears very
wrong to us. What seemed to them evil and destructive principles were
embodied in men and women, and they meant to destroy the evil through
the suffering and death of these poor creatures."

"And then consider the simplicity and ease of the persecutor's method,"
continued Gregory, mockingly. "A man's head has become full of supposed
doctrinal errors. To refute and banish these would require much study
and argument on the part of the opponent. It was so much easier to take
an obstinate heretic's head off than to argue with him! I think it was
the simplicity of the persecutor's method that kept it in favor so
long."

"But it never convinced any one," said Annie, "and the man killed
merely goes into another world of the same opinion still."

"And there probably learns, poor fellow, that both were wrong, and that
he had better have been content with good dinners and a quiet life, and
let theology alone."

"The world would move but slowly, if all men were content with 'good
dinners and a quiet life,'" said Annie, satirically. "But you have not
answered my question. Could not good, earnest men have been very cruel,
believing that everything depended on their uprooting some evil of
their day?"

"To tell the truth, Miss Walton," he replied, a little nettled, "I have
no sympathy with that style of men. To me they are very repulsive and
ridiculous. They remind me of the breathless, perspiring politicians of
our time, who button-hole you and assert that the world will come to an
end unless John Smith is elected. To me, the desperate earnestness of
people who imagine it their mission to set the world right is
excessively tiresome. For one man or a thousand to proclaim that they
speak for God and embody truth, and that the race should listen and
obey, is the absurdity of arrogance."

"If we were to agree with you, should we not have to say that the
prophets should have kept their visions to themselves, and that Luther
should have remained in his cell, and Columbus have coasted alongshore
and not insisted on what was to all the world an absurdity?"

"Come, Miss Walton," said Gregory, with a vexed laugh as they rose from
the table, "you are a witch. I am willing to argue with flesh and
blood, but I would rather hear you sing. Still, since you have swept
away these clouds so I can have my ramble, I will forgive you for
unhorsing me in our recent tilt."

"If you would mount some good honest hobby and ride it hard, I doubt
whether any one could unhorse you," she replied in a low tone, as she
accompanied him to the parlor.

"Men with hobbies are my detestation, Miss Walton."

"Nevertheless, they are the true knights-errant of our age. Of course
it depends upon what kind of hobbies they ride, or whether they can
manage their steeds."

"Miss Walton, your figure suggests a half-idiot, with a narrow forehead
and one idea, banging back and forth on a wooden horse, but making no
progress--in other words, a fussy, bustling man who can do and talk but
one thing."

"Your understanding of the popular phrase is narrow and literal, and
while it may have such a meaning, it can also have a very different
one. Suppose that, instead of looking with languid eyes alike upon all
things, a man finds some question of vital import, or a pursuit that
promises good to himself and to others and that enlists his interest.
He comes at last to give it his best energies and thought. The whole
current of his life is setting in that direction. Of course he must
ever be under the restraints of good sense and refinement. A man's life
without a hobby is a weak and wavering line of battle indefinitely
long. One's life with a hobby is a concentrated charge."

There was in Miss Walton's face and manner, as she uttered these words,
that which caused him to regard her with involuntary admiration.
Suddenly he asked, "Have you a hobby?"

Her manner changed instantly, and with an arch look she said, "If you
detest a man with a hobby, what a monster a woman with one would be in
your eyes!"

"I have admitted that you are a witch."

"Oh, I am a monster already, and so have no character to lose. But
where is your penetration? If a man with a hobby is idiotic,
narrow-browed, fussy and bustling, excessively obtrusive with his one
idea, a woman must be like him with all these things exaggerated. Has
it not occurred to you that I have a hobby of the most wooden and
clumsy order?"

"But that was my idea of a hobby. You have spiritualized my wooden
block into a Pegasus--the symbol of inspiration. Have you such a hobby?"

"I have."

"What is it?"

She went out of the room, saying smilingly over her shoulder, "You must
find that out for yourself."




CHAPTER X

A PLOT AGAINST MISS WALTON



Gregory was soon off for his ramble. The storm had cleared away,
leaving the air so warm and genial as to suggest spring rather than
fall; but he was quite oblivious of the outer world, and familiar
scenes had not the power to awaken either pleasant or painful
associations. He was trying to account for the influence that Annie
Walton had suddenly gained over him, but it was beyond his philosophy.
This provoked him. His cool, worldly nature doubted everything and
especially everybody. He believed in the inherent weakness of humanity,
and that if people were exceptionally good it was because they had been
exceptionally fortunate in escaping temptation. He also had a cynical
pleasure in seeing such people tripping and stumbling, so that he might
say in self-excusing, "We are all alike."

And yet he was compelled to admit that if Annie's goodness was seeming
it was higher art than he had known before. There was also an
unconscious assertion of superiority in her manner that he did not
like. True, things had turned out far better than he had expected.
There was no cant about her. She did not lecture him or "talk religion"
in what he regarded as the stereotyped way, and he was sure she would
not, even if they became better acquainted. But there is that in
genuine goodness and nobility of character that always humiliates the
bad and makes them feel their degradation. A real pity and sympathy for
him tinged her manner, but these qualities are not agreeable to pride.
And it must be admitted that she had a little self-righteous
satisfaction that she was so much better than this sadly robbed and
wounded man suddenly appearing at the wayside of her life. In human
strength there is generally a trace of arrogance. Only divine strength
and purity can say with perfect love and full allowance for all
weakness and adverse influences, "Neither do I condemn thee; go, and
sin no more."

Gregory had now reached a rustic bridge across a little stream that,
swollen from the recent rain, came gurgling and clamoring down from the
hills. Leaning upon the rail he seemed to watch the foaming water glide
under his feet; but the outward vision made no impression on his mind.

At last in the consciousness of solitude he said: "She told me I must
find her out. I will. I will know whether she is as free from human
frailty as she seems. I have little doubt that before many days I can
cause her to show all the inherent weaknesses of her sex; and I should
think New York and Paris had taught me what they are. She has never
been tempted. She has never been subjected to the delicate flattery of
an accomplished man of the world. I am no gross libertine. I could not
be in this place. I could not so wrong hospitality and the household of
my father's friend. But I should like to prove to that girl her
delusion, and show her that she is a weak woman like the rest; that she
is a pretty painted ship that has never been in a storm, and therefore
need not sail so confidently. We all start on the voyage of life as
little skiffs and pleasure boats might cross the ocean. If any get
safely over, it is because they were lucky enough not to meet dangerous
currents or rough weather. I should like her better with her piquant
ways if she were more like myself. Saints and Madonnas are well enough
in pictures, but such as I would find them very uncomfortable society."

With sudden power the thought flashed upon him, "Why not let her make
you as she is?" Where did the thought come from? Tell me not that the
Divine Father forgets His children. He is speaking to them continually,
only they will not hear. There was a brief passionate wish on the part
of this bad man that she might be what she seemed and that he could
become like her. As the turbulent, muddy Jordan divided that God's
people might pass through, so this thought from heaven found passage
through his heart, and then the current of sinful impulse and habit
flowed on as before. With the stupidity of evil he was breaking the
clew that God had dropped into his hand even when desperately weary of
his lost state. He is wrecked and helpless on the wide ocean; a ship is
coming to his rescue; and his first effort is that this vessel also may
be wrecked or greatly injured in the attempt.

There is no insanity like that of a perverted heart. The adversary of
souls has so many human victims doing his work that he can fold his
hands in idleness. And yet according to the world's practice, and we
might almost say its code, Gregory purposed nothing that would be
severely condemned--nothing more than an ordinary flirtation, as common
in society as idleness, love of excitement, and that power over others
which ministers to vanity. He had no wish to be able to say anything
worse of her than that under temptation she would be as vain and
heartless a coquette as many others that he knew in what is regarded as
good society. He would have cut off his right hand, as he then felt,
rather than have sought to lead her into gross sin.

And yet what did Gregory purpose in regard to Annie but to take the
heavenly bloom and beauty from her character? As if they can be lovely
to either God or man of whom it can be said only, They commit no overt
crime. What is the form of a rose without its beauty and fragrance?
They who tempt to evil are the real iconoclasts. They destroy God's
image.

But the supreme question of the selfish heart is, "What do I want
_now?_"

Gregory wished to satisfy himself and Miss Walton that she had no
grounds for claiming any special superiority over him, and he turned on
his heel and went back to the house to carry out his purpose. Nature,
purified and beautiful by reason of its recent baptism from heaven, had
no attractions for him. Gems of moisture sparkled unseen. He was
planning and scheming to turn her head with vanity, make her quiet life
of ministry to others odious, and draw her into a fashionable
flirtation.

Annie did not appear until the supper-bell summoned her, and then said,
"Mr. Gregory, I hope you will not think it rude if father and I leave
you to your books and Aunt Eulie's care this evening. It is our church
prayer-meeting night, and father never likes to be absent."

"I shall miss you beyond measure. The evening will seem an age."

Something in his tone caused her to give him a quick glance, but she
only said, with a smile, "You are very polite to say so, but I imagine
the last magazine will be a good substitute."

"I doubt whether there is a substitute for you, Miss Walton. I am
coming to believe that your absence would make that vacuum which nature
so dreads. You shall see how good I will be this evening, and you shall
read me everything you please, even to that 'Ancient Ecclesiastical
History.' If you will only stay I will be your slave; and you shall
rule me with a rod of iron or draw me with the silken cords of
kindness, according to your mood."

"It is not well to have too many moods, Mr. Gregory," said Annie,
quietly. "In reply to all your alluring reasons for staying at home I
have only to say that I have promised father to go with him; besides, I
think it is my duty to go."

"'Duty' is a harsh, troublesome word to be always quoting. It is a kind
of strait-jacket which we poor moral lunatics are compelled to wear."

"'Duty' seems to me a good solid road on which one may travel safely.
One never knows where the side paths lead: into the brambles or a
morass like enough."

"Indeed, Miss Walton, such austerity is not becoming to your youth and
beauty."

"What am I to think of your sincerity when you speak of my beauty, Mr.
Gregory?"

"Beauty is a question of taste," answered Gregory, gallantly. "It is
settled by no rigid rules or principles, but by the eyes of the
observer."

"Oh! I understand now. My beauty this evening is the result of your bad
taste."

"Calling it 'bad' does not make it so. Well, since you will not remain
at home with me, will you not let me go with you to the prayer-meeting?
If I'm ever to join your church, it is time I entered on the initiating
mysteries."

"I think a book will do you more good in your present mood."

"What a low estimate you make of the 'means of grace'! Why, certain of
your own poets have said, 'And fools who came to scoff remained to
pray.'"

"The quotation does not apply to you, Mr. Gregory. For, even if you can
doubt the power and truth of Christianity, the memory of your childhood
will prevent you from scoffing at it."

A sudden shadow came across his face, but after a moment he said, in
his old tones:

"Will you not let me go to the prayer-meeting?"

"Father will be glad to have you go with us, if you think it prudent to
venture out in the night air."

"Prudence to the dogs! What is the use of living if we cannot do as we
please? But will _you_ be glad to have me go?"

"That depends upon your motives."

"If I should confess you wouldn't let me go," he replied with a bow.
"But I will try to be as good as possible, just to reward your
kindness."

The rest of the family now joined them in the supper-room, and during
the meal Walter exerted himself to show how entertaining he could be if
he chose. Anecdotes, incidents of travel, graphic sketches of society,
and sallies of wit, made an hour pass before any one was aware.

Even the children listened with wondering eyes, and Mr. Walton and Miss
Eulie were delighted with the vivacity of their guest. Annie apparently
had no reason to complain of him, for his whole manner toward her
during the hour was that of delicately sustained compliment. When she
spoke he listened with deference, and her words usually had point and
meaning. He also gave to her remarks the best interpretation of which
they were capable, and by skilfully drawing her out made her surpass
even herself, so that Miss Eulie said, "Why, Annie, there surely is
some witchcraft about. You and Mr. Gregory are as brilliant as
fireworks."

"It's all Miss Walton's work, I assure you," said Gregory. "As Pat
declared, 'I'm not meself any more,' and shall surprise you, sir, by
asking if I may go to the prayer-meeting. Miss Walton says I can if I
will behave myself. The last time I went to the old place I made faces
at the girls. I suppose that would be wrong."

"That is the sin of our age--making faces," said Annie. "Many have two,
and some can make for themselves even more."

"Now that was a barbed arrow," said Gregory, looking at her keenly.
"Did you let it fly at a venture?"

"Bless me!" said Mr. Walton, rising hastily, "we should have been on
the road a quarter of an hour ago. You mustn't be so entertaining
another prayer-meeting night, Mr. Gregory. Of course we shall be glad
to have you accompany us if you feel well enough. I give you both but
five minutes before joining me at the wagon."

Walter again mounted the stairs with something of his old buoyancy, and
Annie followed, looking curiously after him.

It was not in human nature to be indifferent to that most skilful
flattery which can be addressed to woman--the recognition of her
cleverness, and the enhancing of it by adroit and suggestive
questions--and yet all his manner was tinged by a certain insincere
gallantry, rather than by a manly, honest respect. She vaguely felt
this, though she could not distinctly point it out. He puzzled her.
What did he mean, and at what was he aiming?




CHAPTER XI

A DRINKING-SONG AT A PRAYER-MEETING



Having failed in his attempt to induce Annie to remain at home, Gregory
resolved that the prayer-meeting should not be one of quiet devotion.
Mr. Walton made him, as an invalid, take the back seat with Annie,
while he sat with the driver, and Gregory, after a faint show of
resistance, gladly complied.

"It's chilly. Won't you give me half of your shawl?" he said to her.

"You may have it all," she replied, about to take it off.

"No, I'll freeze first. Do the brethren and sisters sit together?"

"No," she answered, laughing, "we have got in the queer way of dividing
the room between us, and the few men who attend sit on one side and we
on the other."

"Oh, it's almost a female prayer-meeting then. Do the sisters pray?"

"Mr. Gregory, you are not a stranger here that you need pretend to such
ignorance. I think the meeting is conducted very much as when you were
a boy."

"With this most interesting difference, that you will be there and will
sing, I hope. Miss Walton, where did you learn to sing?"

"Mainly at home."

"I should think so. Your voice is as unlike that of a public singer as
you are unlike the singer herself."

"It must seem very tame to you."

"It seems very different. We have an artificial-flower department in
our store. There is no lack of color and form there, I assure you, but
after all I would prefer your rose garden in June."

"But you would probably prefer your artificial-flower department the
rest of the year," said Annie, laughing.

"Why so?"

"Our roses are annuals and are only prosaic briers after their bloom."

"Imagine them hybrid perpetuals and monthlies and you have my meaning.
But your resemblance to a rose extends even to its thorns. Your words
are a little sharp sometimes."

"In the thorns the resemblance begins and ends, Mr. Gregory. I assure
you I am a veritable Scotch brier. But here we are at our destination.
I wonder if you will see many old, remembered faces."

"I shall be content in seeing yours," he replied in a low tone,
pressing her hand as he assisted her to alight.

If he could have seen the expression of her face in the darkness it
would have satisfied him that she did not receive that style of
compliment like many of the belles of his acquaintance, who would take
the small change of flattery with the smiling complacency of a public
door-keeper.

They were late. The good old pastor was absent, and one of the brethren
was reading a chapter in the Bible. Gregory took a seat where he could
see Annie plainly, and she sat with her side face toward him.

He watched her keenly, in order to see if she showed any consciousness
of his presence. The only evidence in his favor was a slight flush and
a firmness about the lips, as if her will was asserting itself. But
soon her face had the peaceful and serious expression becoming the
place and hour, and he saw that she had no thoughts for him whatever.
He was determined to distract her attention, and by restlessness, by
looking fixedly at her, sought her eye, but only secured the notice of
some young girls who thought him "badly smitten with Miss Walton."

The long chapter having been read, a hymn was given out. The gentleman
who usually led the music was also absent, and there was an ominous
pause, in which the good brother's eye wandered appealingly around the
room and at last rested hopefully on Annie. She did not fail him, but,
with heightened color and voice that trembled slightly at first,
"started the tune." It was a sweet, familiar air, and she soon had the
support of other voices. One after another they joined her in widely
varying degrees of melody, even as the example of a noble life will
gradually secure a number of more or less successful imitators.

Gregory had seen the appeal to her with an amused, half-comical look,
but her sincere and ready performance of the duty that had unexpectedly
revealed itself rapidly changed the expression of his face to one of
respect and admiration. Distinct, and yet blending with the others, her
voice seemed both to key up and hide the little roughnesses and
discords of some who perhaps had more melody in their hearts than in
their tones.

Again a divine impulse, like a flower-laden breeze sweeping into a dark
and grated vault at Greenwood, stirred Gregory's evil nature.

"Let her teach you the harmony of noble, unselfish living. Follow her
in thought, feeling, and action, as those stammering, untuned tongues
do in melody, and the blight of evil will pass from your life. Seek not
to muddy and poison this clear little rill that is watering a bit of
God's world. Grant that her goodness is not real, established, and
thoroughly tested--that it is only a pretty surface picture. Seek not
to blur that picture."

But the evil heart is like Sodom. Good angel-thoughts may come to it,
but they are treated with violence and driven out. His habit of cynical
doubt soon returned, and his purpose to show Miss Walton that she was a
weak, vain woman after all became stronger than ever.

It seemed to have come to this, that his salvation depended on, not
what Miss Walton could say or do directly in his behalf, but upon her
maintenance of a character that even a sceptical world must acknowledge
as inspired by heaven, and this, too, against a tempter of unusual
skill and tact. She might sing with resistless pathos, and argue and
plead with Paul's logic and eloquence. His nature might be stirred for
a moment as a stagnant pool is agitated by the winds of heaven, and,
like the pool, he would soon settle back into his old apathy. But if
she could be made to show weakness, to stumble and fall, it would
confirm him in his belief that goodness, if it really existed, was
accidental; that those whose lives were apparently free from stain
deserved no credit, because untempted; and that those who fell should
be pitied rather than blamed, since they were unfortunate rather than
guilty. Anything that would quiet and satisfy his conscience in its
stern arraignment of his evil life would be welcome. The more he saw of
Miss Walton the more he felt that she would be a fair subject upon whom
to test his favorite theory. Therefore, by the time one of the brethren
present had finished his homely exhortation he was wholly bent upon
carrying out his plan.

But Miss Walton sat near, as innocently oblivious of this plot against
her as Eve of the serpent's guile before the tempter and temptation
came into fatal conjunction.

What thoughts for and against each other may dwell utterly hidden and
unknown in the hearts of those so near that their hands may touch!
Conspiracies to compass the death that is remediless may lurk just
behind eyes that smile upon us. Of course Gregory desired no such fatal
result to follow his little experiment. Few who for their own pleasure,
profit, or caprice tempt others wish the evil to work on to the bitter
end. They merely want a sufficient letting down of principle and virtue
for the accomplishment of their purpose, and then would prefer that the
downward tendency should cease or be reversed. The merchant who
requires dishonorable practices of his clerk wishes him to stop at a
point which, in the world's estimation, is safe. And those who, like
Gregory, would take the bloom from woman's purity and holiness in
thought and action, that they may enjoy a questionable flirtation,
would be horrified to see that woman drop into the foul gulf of vice.
With the blind egotism of selfishness, they wish merely to gratify
their present inclinations, ignoring the consequences. They are like
children who think it would be sport to see a little cataract falling
over a Holland dike. Therefore, when the tide is in they open a small
channel, but are soon aghast to find that the deep sea is overwhelming
the land.

Gregory, as is usual with his kind, thought only of his own desires.
When he had accomplished these Miss Walton must take care of herself.
When from seeming a sweet, pure woman she had, by a little temptation,
proved to be capable of becoming a vain flirt, he would go back to
business and dismiss her from his thoughts with the grim chuckle, "She
is like the rest of us."

And thus Annie was destined to meet her mother Eve's experience; and
with the energy and promptness of evil Gregory was keenly on the alert
for anything to further his purpose.

It would seem that the satanic ally in such schemes does not permit
opportunity to be wanting long. The leader of the meeting again
selected a hymn, but of a peculiar metre. He read only two lines, and
then looked expectantly toward Annie, who could not at the moment think
of a tune that would answer; and while with knit brows she was bending
over her book, to her unbounded surprise she heard the hymn started by
a clear, mellow tenor voice. Looking up she saw Gregory singing as
gravely as a deacon. She was sufficiently a musician to know that the
air did not belong to sacred music, though she had never heard it
before.

In his watchfulness he had noted her hesitation, and glancing at the
metre saw instantly that the measure of a drinking-song he knew well
would fit the words. This fell out better than he had hoped, and with
the thought, "I will jostle her out of her dignity now," he began
singing without any embarrassment, though every eye was upon him. He
had been out in the world long enough for that.

As Annie turned with a shocked and half-frightened expression toward
him his eyes met hers with a sudden gleam of drollery which was
irresistible, and he had the satisfaction of seeing her drop her head
to conceal a smile. But he noticed, a moment later, that her face
became grave with disapprobation.

Having sung a stanza he looked around with an injured air, as if
reproaching the others for not joining in with him.

"The tune is not exactly familiar to us," said the good man leading the
meeting, "but if the brother will continue singing we will soon catch
the air; or perhaps the brother or some one else (with a glance at
Annie) will start one better known."

Gregory deliberately turned over the leaves, and to the tune of Old
Hundred started a hymn commencing:

     "Unveil thy bosom, faithful tomb,
      Take this new treasure to thy trust,
      And give these sacred relics room
      To slumber in the silent dust."

Annie had a keen sense of the ludicrous, and the transition from what
he had been singing to the funereal and most inappropriate words was
almost too much for her. To her impotent anger and self-disgust she
felt a hysterical desire to laugh, and only controlled herself by
keeping her head down and her lips firmly pressed together during the
remainder of the brief service.

Even others who did not know Gregory could not prevent a broad smile at
the incongruous hymn he had chosen, but they unitedly wailed it
through, for he persisted in singing it all in the most dirge-like
manner. They gave him credit for doing the best he could, and supposed
his unhappy choice resulted from haste and embarrassment. In the
spontaneity of social meetings people become accustomed to much that is
not harmonious.

Mr. Walton was puzzled. His guest was certainly appearing in an
unexpected role, and he feared that all was not right.

After the meeting the brethren gathered round Gregory and thanked him
for his assistance, and he shook hands with them and the elderly ladies
present with the manner of one who might have been a "pillar in the
temple." Many of them remembered his father and mother and supposed
their mantle had fallen on him.

An ancient "mother in Israel" thanked him that he had "started a tune
that they all could sing, instead of the new-fangled ones the young
people are always getting up nowadays. But," said she, "I wish you
could learn us that pretty one you first sang, for it took my fancy
amazingly. I think I must have heard it before somewhere."

Gregory gave Annie another of his suggestive glances, that sent her out
hastily into the darkness, and a moment later he joined her at the
carriage steps.




CHAPTER XII

FOILED IN ONE DIRECTION



Gregory lifted Miss Walton very tenderly into the carriage and took his
place by her side, while her father was detained by some little matter
of business.

"I am not an invalid," said Annie, rather curtly.

"Indeed you are not, Miss Walton; from your super-abundance you are
even giving life to me."

"I thought from your manner you feared I was about to faint," she
answered, dryly.

Mr. Walton joined them and they started homeward.

"Come, Miss Annie," said Gregory (addressing her thus for the first
time); "why so distant? Was I not called a brother in the meeting? If I
am a brother you are a sister. I told you I would secure this
relationship."

She did not answer him.

"I think it was too bad," he continued, "that you did not second my
efforts better. You would not help me sing either of the tunes I
started."

"Mr. Gregory," said Annie, emphatically, "I will never go to a
prayer-meeting with you again."

"What a rash resolve! But I confess that I preferred to have you stay
at home with me."

"You have spoiled the whole evening for me."

"And you spoiled mine. So we are quits," he replied, laughingly.

"No, we are not. How can you turn sacred things into a jest?"

"I was possessed to see a smile light up the awful gravity of your
face, and I feel amply repaid in that I succeeded. It was a delicious
bit of sunshine on a cloudy day."

"And I am provoked at myself beyond measure, that I could have laughed
like a silly child."

"But did you not like the first tune I sang? 'Old Hundred' was selected
in deference to the wishes of the meeting."

"No, I did not like it. It was not suitable to the place and words.
Though I never heard it before, its somewhat slow movement did not
prevent it from smacking of something very foreign to a prayer-meeting."

"A most happy and inspired expression. Many a time I have smacked my
lips when it was being sung over the best of wine."

"Was it a drinking-song, then?" she asked, quickly.

"What will you do with me if I say it was?"

"Mr. Gregory, I would not have thought this even of you."

"Even of me! That is complimentary. I now learn what a low estimate you
have of me. But see how unjust you are. The musical commissaries of the
church militant are ever saying, 'It's a pity the devil should have all
the good music,' and so half the Sunday-school tunes, and many sung in
churches, have had a lower origin than my drinking-song. I assure you
that the words are as fine as the air. Why have I not as good a right
to steal a tune from the devil as the rest of them?"

"It's the motive that makes all the difference," said Annie. "But I
fear that in this case the devil suffered no loss."

"I'm sure my motive was not bad. I only wished to see a bonny smile
light up your face."

Before she could reply the carriage stopped at Mr. Walton's door, and
with Mr. Gregory she passed into the cosey parlor. Her father did not
immediately join them.

As Gregory looked at her while she took off her wraps, he thought, "By
Jove! she's handsome if she is not pretty."

In fact Annie's face at that time would have attracted attention
anywhere. The crisp air had given her a fine color. Her eyes glowed
with suppressed excitement and anger, while the firm lines about the
mouth indicated that when she spoke it would be decidedly. In spite of
herself the audacity, cleverness, and wickedness of this stranger had
affected her greatly. As he threw off his moodiness, as he revealed
himself by word and action, she saw that he was no ordinary character,
but a thorough man of the world, and with some strange caprices. The
suspicion crossed her mind that he might be not only in peril himself
but also a source of danger. She had determined during the ride home
that even though he meant no slur upon sacred things he should carry
his mocking spirit no more into them. Therefore, after a moment's
thought, she turned toward him with a manner of mingled frankness and
dignity, and said, "Mr. Gregory, I regret what has occurred this
evening. I have a painful sense of the ludicrous, and you have taken
unfair advantage of it. I am usually better and happier for going to
our simple little meeting, but now I can think of the whole hour only
with pain. I think I am as mirth-loving as the majority of my age, and
perhaps more so. I say truly that my heart is very light and happy.
But, Mr. Gregory, we look at certain things very differently from you.
While I would not for a moment have you think that religion brings into
my life gloom and restraint--quite the reverse--still it gives me great
pain when anything connected with my faith is made a matter of jest.
These things are sacred to us, and I know my father would feel deeply
grieved if he understood you this evening. Do you not see? It appears
to us differently from what it does to you and perhaps to the world at
large. These things are to us what your mother's memory is to you. I
would sooner cut off my right hand than trifle with that."

Gregory had been able to maintain his quizzical look of mischief till
she named his mother; then his face changed instantly. A flush of shame
crossed it, and after a moment, with an expression something like true
manhood, he stepped forward and took Annie's hand, saying, "Miss
Walton, I sincerely ask your pardon. I did not know--I could not
believe that you felt as you do. I will give you no further reason to
complain of me on this ground. I hope you will forgive me."

She at once relented, and said:

     "'Who by repentance is not satisfied
      Is not of heaven nor earth.'

There is an apt quotation from your favorite Shakespeare."

"You seem a delightful mixture of both, Miss Walton."

"If you were a better judge, sir, you would know that the earthly
ingredient is too great. But that is in your favor, for I am
sufficiently human to make allowance for human folly."

"I shall tax your charity to the utmost."

As Gregory sat in his arm-chair recalling the events of the day before
retiring, he thought: "Well, my attempt has failed signally. While by
her involuntary smile she showed that she was human, she has also
managed this evening to prove that she is perfectly sincere in her
religion, and to render it impossible for me to assail her in that
direction again. As the old hymn goes, I must 'let her religious hours
alone.' But how far her religion or superstition will control her
action is another question. I have learned both at home and abroad that
people can be very religious and very sincere in matters of faith and
ceremony, and jealous of any hand stretched out to touch their sacred
ark, but when through with the holy business they can live the life of
very ordinary mortals. This may be true of Miss Walton. At any rate I
have made a mistake in showing my hand somewhat at a prayer-meeting,
for women are so tenacious on religious matters. Deference, personal
attention, and compliments--these are the irresistible weapons. These
inflate pride and vanity to such a degree that a miserable collapse is
necessary. And yet I must be careful, for she is not like some belles I
know, who have the swallow of a whale for flattery. She is too
intelligent, too refined, to take compliments as large and glaring as a
sunflower. Something in the way of a moss-rose bud will accomplish
more. I will appear as if falling under her power; as if bewitched by
her charms. Nothing pleases your plain girls more than to be thought
beautiful. I shall have her head turned in a week. I am more bent than
ever on teaching this little Puritan that she and I live upon the same
level."

Saturday morning dawned clear and bracing, and the grass was white with
hoar-frost. The children came in to breakfast with glowing cheeks and
hair awry, crying excitedly in the same breath that they "had been to
the chestnut trees and that Jack had opened the burrs all night."

In answer to their clamorous petitions a one-o'clock dinner was
promised, and Aunt Annie was to accompany them on a nutting expedition
with Jeff as pioneer to thresh and club the trees.

"Can I go too?" Gregory asked of the children.

"I suppose so," said Johnny, rather coldly; "if Aunt Annie is willing."

"You can go with me," said kind-hearted little Susie.

"Now I can go whether Aunt Annie is willing or not," said Gregory, with
mock defiance at the boy.

He glanced at his aunt's face to gather how he should take this, but
she settled the matter satisfactorily to him by saying, "You shall be
my beau, and Mr. Gregory will be Susie's."

"Good, good!" exclaimed Susie. "I've got a beau already;" and she
beamed upon Gregory in a way that made them all laugh.

"'Coming events cast their shadows before,' you perceive, Miss Walton,"
said he, meaningly.

"Sometimes the events themselves are but shadows," she replied, dryly.

"Now that is severe upon the beaux. How about the belles?" he asked,
quickly.

"I have nothing to say against my own sex, sir."

"That is not fair. Of course I can say nothing adverse."

"If you should say what you think, I fear we should be little inclined
to cry with Shylock, 'A Daniel come to judgment!'"

"You have a dreadful opinion of me, Miss Walton. I wish you would teach
me how I can change it."

"You discovered so much in a chestnut burr the day you came I should
not be surprised if you could find anything else there that you wish to
know."

"I shall not look in burrs for chestnuts this afternoon, but for
something else far more important."

Gregory spent the forenoon quietly in his own room reading, in order
that he might have all the vigor possible for the ramble. And to Annie,
as housekeeper, Saturday morning brought many duties.

By two o'clock the nutting expedition was organized, and with Jeff in
advance, carrying a short ladder and a long limber pole, the party
started for the hills. At first Johnny, oppressed with his dignity as
Aunt Annie's "beau," stalked soberly at her side, and Susie also
claimed Gregory according to agreement, and insisted on keeping hold of
his hand.

He submitted with such grace as he could muster, for children were
tiresome to him, and he wanted to talk to Miss Walton, without "little
pitchers with large ears" around.

Annie smiled to herself at his half-concealed annoyance and his wooden
gallantry to Susie, but she understood child life well enough to know
that the present arrangement would not last very long. And she was
right. They had hardly entered the shady lane leading to the trees
before a chipmonk, with its shrill note of exclamation at unexpected
company, started out from some leaves near and ran for its hole.

Away went Aunt Annie's beau after it, and Susie also, quite oblivious
of her first possession in that line, joined in the pursuit. There was
an excited consultation above the squirrel's retreat, and then Johnny
took out his knife and cut a flexible rod with which to investigate the
"robber's den."

Gregory at once joined Annie, saying, "Since the beau of your choice
has deserted you, will you accept of another?"

"Yes, till he proves alike inconstant."

"I will see to that. A burr shall be my emblem."

"Or I do," she added, laughing.

"Now the future is beyond my power."

"Perhaps it is anyway. Johnny was bent upon being a true knight. You
may see something that will be to you what the chipmonk was to him."

"And such is your opinion of man's constancy? Miss Walton, you are more
of a cynic than I am."

"Indeed! Do women dwell in your fancy as fixed stars?"

"Fixed stars are all suns, are they not? I know of one with wonderful
powers of attraction," said he, with a significant glance.

"Does she live in New York?" quietly asked Annie.

"You know well she does not. She is a votaress of nature, and, as I
said, I shall search in every burr for the hidden clew to her favor."

"You had better look for chestnuts, sir."

"Chestnuts! Fit food for children and chipmonks. I am in quest of the
only manna that ever fell from heaven. Have you read Longfellow's
'Golden Legend,' Miss Walton?"

"Yes," she replied, with a slight contraction of the brow as if the
suggestion were not pleasing.

The children now came running toward them and wished to resume their
old places. "No, sir," said Walter, decisively. "You deserted your
lady's side and your place is filled; and Susie--

     "'Thou fair, false one,'

--you renounced me for a chipmonk. My wounded heart has found solace in
another."

Johnny received this charge against his gallantry with a red face and
eyes that began to dilate with anger, while Susie looked at Gregory
poutingly and said, "I don't like big beaux. I think chipmonks are ever
so much nicer."

The laugh that followed broke the force of the storm that was brewing;
and Annie, by saying, "See, children, Jeff is climbing the tree on top
of the hill; I wonder who will get the first nuts," caused the wind to
veer round from the threatening quarter, and away they scampered with
grievances all forgotten.

"If grown-up children could only forget their troubles as easily!"
sighed Gregory. "Miss Walton, you are gifted with admirable tact. Your
witchery has cleared up another storm."

"They have not forgotten," said Annie, ignoring the compliment--"they
have only been diverted from their trouble. Children can do by nature
what we should from intelligent choice--turn away the mind from painful
subjects to those that are pleasing. You don't catch me brooding over
trouble when there are a thousand pleasant things to think of."

"That is easier said than done, Miss Walton. I read on your smooth brow
that you have had few serious troubles, and, as you say, '_you_ have a
thousand pleasant things to think of.' But with others it may be very
different. Some troubles have a terrible magnetism that draws the mind
back to them as if by a malign spell, and there are no 'pleasant things
to think of.'"

"No 'pleasant things'? Why, Mr. Gregory! The universe is very wide."

"Present company excepted," replied he gallantly. "But what do I care
for the universe? As you say, it is 'very wide'--a big, uncomfortable
place, in which one is afraid of getting lost."

"I am not," said Annie, gently.

"How so?"

"It's all my Father's house. I am never for a moment lost sight of.
Wherever I am, I am like a little child playing outside the door while
its mother, unseen, is watching it from the window."

He looked at her keenly to see if she were perfectly sincere. Her face
had the expression of a child, and the thought flashed across him, "If
she is so watched and guarded, how vain are my attempts!"

But he only said with a shrug, "It would be a pity to dissipate your
happy superstition, Miss Walton, but after what I have seen and
experienced in the world it would seem more generally true that the
mother forgot her charge, left the window, and the child was run over
by the butcher's cart."

"Do you think it vain confidence," said Annie, earnestly, "when I say
that you could not dissipate what you term my 'superstition,' any more
than you could argue me out of my belief in my good old father's love?"




CHAPTER XIII

INTERPRETING CHESTNUT BURRS



The conversation had taken a turn that Gregory wished to avoid, so he
said: "Miss Walton, you regard me as wretched authority on theology,
and therefore my opinions will go for nothing. Suppose we join the
children on the hill, for I am most anxious to commence the search for
the clew to your favor. Give me your hand, that as your attendant I may
at least appear to assist you in climbing, though I suppose you justly
think you could help me more than I can you."

"And if I can, why should I not?" asked Annie, kindly.

"Indeed, Miss Walton, I would crawl up first. But thanks to your
reviving influences, I am not so far gone as that."

"Then you would not permit a woman to reach out a helping hand to you?
Talk not against Turks and Arabs. How do Christian men regard us?"

"But you look upon me as a 'heathen.'"

"Beg your pardon, I do not."

"Miss Walton, give your honest opinion of me--just what you think."

"Will you do the same of me?"

"Oh, certainly!"

"No, do not answer in that tone. On your honor."

Gregory was now caught. If he agreed he must state his doubts of her
real goodness; his low estimate of women in general which led to his
purpose to tempt her. This would not only arm her against his efforts,
but place him in a very unpleasant light. "I beat a retreat, Miss
Walton. I am satisfied that your opinion would discourage me utterly."

"You need have no fears of that kind," she said; "although my opinion
would not be flattering it would be most encouraging."

"No, Miss Walton, I am not to be caught. My every glance and word
reveal my opinion of you, while yours of me amounts to what I used to
hear years ago: 'You are a bad boy now, but may become a good one.'
Come, give me your hand."

As she complied she gave him a quick, keen look. Her intuition told her
of something hidden, and he puzzled her.

Her hand was ungloved, and he thought, "When have I clasped such a hand
before? It could help a Hercules. At any rate he would like to hold it,
for it is alive."

There is as much diversity of character in hands as in faces. Some are
very white and shapely, and a diamond flashes prettily upon them, but
having said this you have said all. Others suggest honest work and
plenty of it, and for such the sensible will ever have a genuine
respect. There are some hands that make you think of creatures whose
blood is cold. A lady's hand in society often suggests feebleness, lack
of vitality. It is a thing to touch decorously, and if feeling betray
you into giving a hearty grasp and pressure, you find that you are only
causing pain and reducing the member to a confused jumble of bones and
sinews. There are hands that suggest fancy-work, light crochet needles,
and neuralgia.

Annie's hand was not one that a sculptor would care to copy, though he
would find no great fault with it; but a sculptor would certainly take
pleasure in shaking hands with her--the pleasure that is the opposite
of our shrinking from taking the hand of the dead. It was soft and
delicate to the pressure, and yet firm. It reminded one of silk drawn
over steel, and was all electric and throbbing with life. You felt that
it could give you the true grasp of friendship--that it had power to do
more than barely cling to something--that it could both help and
sustain, yet its touch would be gentleness itself beside the couch of
suffering.

When they had reached the brow of the hill he was much more exhausted
than she, and sat down panting.

"Miss Walton," he asked, "do you not despise a feeble man?"

"What kind of feebleness do you mean?"

"The weakness that makes me sit pale and panting here, while you stand
there glowing with life and vigor, a veritable Hebe."

"All your compliments cannot balance that imputation against me. Such
weakness awakens my pity, sympathy, and wish to help."

"Ah! the emotions you would bestow on a beggar--very agreeable to a
_man_. Well, what kind of feebleness do you despise?"

"I think I should despise a feeble, vacillating Hercules most of all--a
burly, assuming sort of person, who could be made a tool of, and led to
do what he knew to be mean and wrong."

"You must despise a great many people then."

"No, I do not. Honestly, Mr. Gregory, I have no right to despise any
one. I was only giving the reverse of my ideal man. But I assure you I
share too deeply in humanity's faults to be very critical."

"I am delighted to hear, Miss Walton, that you share in our fallen
humanity, for I was beginning to doubt it, and you can well understand
that I should be dreadfully uncomfortable in the presence of
perfection."

"If you could escape all other sources of discomfort as surely as this
one, you would be most happy," replied Annie, with heightened color. "I
shall ever think you are satirical when you speak in such style."

"A truce, Miss Walton; only, in mercy to my poor mortality, be as human
as you can. Though you seem to suspect me of a low estimate of your
sex, I much prefer women to saints and Madonnas. I am going to look for
the burr."

This was adroitness itself on the part of Gregory, for, of all things,
sensible Annie, conscious of faults and many struggles, did not wish to
give the impression that she thought herself approaching perfection.
And yet he had managed to make her sensitive on that point, and given
her a strong motive to relax strict rules of duty, and act "like other
people," as he would say.

Jeff's limber pole was now doing effective service. With many a soft
thud upon the sward and leaves the burrs rained around, while the
detached chestnuts rattled down like hail. The children were careering
about this little tempest of Jeff's manufacture in a state of wild
glee, dodging the random burrs, and snatching what nuts they could in
safety on the outskirts of the prickly shower. At last the tree was
well thrashed, and bad the appearance of a school-boy bully who, after
bristling with threats and boasts for a long time, suddenly meets his
master and is left in a very meek and plucked condition.

But the moment Jeff's pole ceased its sturdy strokes there was a rush
for the spoils, the children awakening the echoes with their
exclamations of delight as they found the ground covered with what was
more precious to them than gold. Even Gregory's sluggish pulses tingled
and quickened at the well-remembered scene, and he felt a little of
their excitement. For the moment he determined to be a boy again, and
running into the charmed circle, picked away as fast as any of them
till his physical weakness painfully reminded him that his old tireless
activity had passed away, perhaps forever.

He leaned against the trunk of the tree and noted with something of an
artist's eye the pretty picture. The valley beneath was beginning to
glow with the richest October tints, in the midst of which was his old
home, that to his affection seemed like a gem set in gold, ruby, and
emerald. The stream appeared white and silvery as seen through openings
of the bordering trees, and in the distance the purple haze and
mountains blended together, leaving it uncertain where the granite
began, as in Gregory's mind fact and fancy were confusedly mingling in
regard to Miss Walton.

And he soon turned from even that loved and beautiful landscape to her
as an object of piquant interest, and the pleasure of analyzing and
testing her character, and--well, some hidden fascination of her own,
caused a faint stir of excitement at his heart, even as the October air
and exercise had just tinged his pale cheeks.

But Miss Walton reminded him of a young sugar maple that he had
noticed, all aflame, from his window that morning, so rich and high was
her color, as, still intent upon the thickly scattered nuts, she
followed the old unspent childish impulse to gather now as she had done
when of Susie's age. With a half-wondering smile Gregory watched her
intent expression, so like that of the other children, and thought,
"Well, she is the freshest and most unhackneyed girl I have ever met
for one who knows so much. It seems true, as she said, that she draws
her life from nature and will never grow old. Now she is a child with
those children, looking and acting like them. A moment later she will
be a self-possessed young lady, with a quick, trained intellect that I
can scarcely cope with. And yet in each and every character she seems
so real and vital that even I, in spite of myself, feel compelled to
admit her truth. Her life is like a glad, musical mountain stream,
while I am a stagnant pool that she passes and leaves behind. I wonder
if it is possible for one life to be awakened and quickened by another.
I wonder if her vital force would be strong enough to drag another on
who had almost lost the power to follow. It is said that young fresh
blood can be infused directly into the veins of the old and feeble. Can
the same be true of moral forces, and a glad zest and interest in life
be breathed into the jaded, cloyed, ennui-cursed spirit of one who
regards existence with dull eye, sluggish pulse, and heart of lead? It
seems to me that if any one could have such power it would be that girl
there with her intense vitality and subtle connection with nature,
which, as she says, is ever young and vigorous. And yet I propose to
reveal her to herself as a weak, vain creature, whose fair seeming like
a pasteboard castle falls before the breath of flattery. By Jove, I
half hope I shan't succeed, and yet to satisfy myself I shall carry the
test to the utmost limit."

In her absorbed search for nuts, Annie had approached the trunk of the
tree, and was stooping almost at Gregory's feet without noticing him.
Suddenly she turned up a burr whose appearance so interested her that
she stood up to examine it, and then became conscious of his intent
gaze.

"There you stand," she said, "cool and superior, criticising and
laughing at me as a great overgrown child."

"If you had looked more closely you would have seen anything rather
than cool criticism in my face. I wish you could tell me your secret,
Miss Walton. What is your hidden connection with Nature, that her
strong, beautiful life flows so freely into yours?"

"You would not believe me if I told you."

"Indeed, Miss Walton, I should be inclined to believe anything you told
me, you seem so real. But, pardon me, you have in your hand the very
burr I have been looking vainly for. Perhaps in it I may find the
coveted clew to your favor. It may winningly suggest to you my meaning,
while plain, bald words would only repel. If I could only interpret
Nature as you breathe her spirit I might find that the autumn leaves
were like illuminated pages, and every object--even such an
insignificant one as this burr--an inspired illustration. When men come
to read Nature's open book, publishers may despair. _If_ I wished to
tell you how I would dwell in your thoughts, what poet has written
anything equal to this half-open burr? It portrays our past, it gives
our present relations, and suggests the future; only, like all
parables, it must not be pressed too far, and too much prominence must
not be given to some mere detail. These prickly outward pointing spines
represent the reserve and formality which keep comparative strangers
apart. But now the burr is half-open, revealing its heart of silk and
down. So if one could get past the barriers which you, alike with all,
turn toward an indifferent or unfriendly world, a kindliness would be
found that would surround a cherished friend as these silken sides
envelop this sole and favored chestnut. Again, note that the burr is
half-open, indicating, I hope, the progress we have made toward such
friendship. I have no true friend in the wide world that I can trust,
and I would like to believe that your regard, like this burr, is
opening toward me. The final suggestion that I should draw may seem
selfish, and yet is it not natural? This chestnut dwells alone in the
very centre of the burr. We do not like to share a supreme friendship.
There are some in whose esteem we would be first."

When Gregory finished he was half-frightened at his words, for in
developing his fanciful parallel in the bold style of gallantry he had
learned to employ toward the belles of the ball-room, and from a
certain unaccountable fascination that Annie herself had for him, he
had said more than he meant.

"Good heavens!" he thought, "if she should take this for a declaration
and accept me on the spot, I should then be in the worst scrape of my
sorry life."

Miss Walton's manner rather puzzled him. Her heightened color and
quickened breathing were alarming, while the contraction of her brow
and the firmness of her lips, together with an intent look on the
chestnut in the centre of the burr, rather than a languishing look at
him or at nothing, were more assuring. She perplexed him still more
when, as her only response to all this sentiment, she asked, "Mr.
Gregory, will you lend me your penknife?"

Without a word he handed it to her, and she at the same time took the
burr from his hand, and daintily plucking out the chestnut tossed the
burr rather contemptuously away. "Mr. Gregory, if I understand your
rather far-fetched and forced interpretation of this little 'parable of
nature,' you chose to represent yourself by this great lonely chestnut
occupying the space where three might have grown. On observing this
emblematic nut closely I detect something that may also have a place in
your 'parable';" and she pushed aside the little quirl at the small end
of the nut, which partially concealed a worm-hole, and cutting through
the shell showed the destroyer in the very heart of the kernel.

There was nothing far-fetched in this suggestion of nature, and he
saw--and he understood that Miss Walton saw--evil enthroned in the very
depths of his soul. The revelation of the hateful truth was so sudden
and sharp that his face darkened with involuntary pain and anger. It
seemed to him that, by the simple act of showing him the worm-infested
chestnut, she had rejected anything approaching even friendship, and
had also given him a good but humiliating reason why. He lost his
self-possession and forgot that he deserved a stinging rebuke for his
insincerity. He would have turned away in coldness and resentment. His
visit might have come to an abrupt termination, had not Annie, with
that delicate, womanly tact which was one of her most marked
characteristics, interrupted him as he was about to say something to
the effect, "Miss Walton, since you are so much holier than I, it were
better that I should contaminate the air you breathe no longer."

She looked into his clouded face with an open smile, and said, "Mr.
Gregory, you have been unfortunate in the choice of a burr. Now let me
choose for you;" and she began looking around for one suited to her
taste and purpose.

This gave him time to recover himself and to realize the folly of
quarrelling or showing any special feeling in the matter. After a
moment he was only desirous of some pretext for laughing it off, but
how to manage it he did not know, and was inwardly cursing himself as a
blundering fool, and no match for this child of nature.

Annie soon came toward him, saying, "Perhaps this burr will suggest
better meanings. You see it is wide open. That means perfect frankness.
There are three chestnuts here instead of one. We must be willing to
share the regard of others. One of these nuts has the central place. As
we come to know people well, we usually find some one occupying the
supreme place in their esteem, and though we may approach closely we
should not wish to usurp what belongs to another. Under Jeff's vigorous
blows the burr and its contents have had a tremendous downfall, but
they have not parted company. True friends should stick together in
adversity. What do you think of my interpretation?"

"I think you are a witch, beyond doubt, and if you had lived a few
centuries ago, you would have been sent to heaven in a chariot of fire."

"Really, Mr. Gregory, you give me a _hot_ answer, but it is with such a
smiling face that I will take no exception. Let us slowly follow Jeff
and the children along the brow of the hill to the next tree. The fact
is I am a little tired."

What controversy could a man have with a pretty and wearied girl?
Gregory felt like a boy who had received a deserved whipping and yet
was compelled and somewhat inclined to act very amiably toward the
donor. But he was fast coming to the conclusion that this unassuming
country girl was a difficult subject on which to perform his
experiment. He was learning to have a wholesome respect for her that
was slightly tinged with fear, and doubts of success in his plot
against her grew stronger every moment. And yet the element of
persistence was large in his character, and he could not readily give
over his purpose, though his cynical confidence had vanished. He now
determined to observe her closely and discover if possible her weak
points. He still held to the theory that flattery was the most
available weapon, though he saw he could employ it no longer in the
form of fulsome and outspoken compliment. The innate refinement and
truthfulness of Annie's nature revolted at broad gallantry and
adulation. He believed that he must reverse the tactics he usually
employed in society, but not the principles. Therefore he resolved that
his flattery should be delicate, subtle, manifested in manner rather
than in words. He would seem submissive; he would humbly wear the air
of a conquered one. He would delicately maintain the
"I-am-at-your-mercy" attitude.

These thoughts flashed through his mind as they passed along the brow
of the hill, which at every turn gave them a new and beautiful
landscape. But vales in Eden would not have held his attention then. To
his perplexity this new acquaintance had secured his undivided
interest. He felt that he ought to be angry at her and yet was not. He
felt that a man who had seen as much of the world as he should be able
to play with this little country girl as with a child; but he was
becoming convinced that, with all his art, he was no match for her
artlessness.

In the interpretation of the burr of her own choice, Annie had
suggested that the central and supreme place in her heart was already
occupied, and his thoughts recurred frequently to that fact with
uneasiness. The slightest trace of jealousy, even as the merest twinge
of pain is often precursor of serious disease, indicated the power Miss
Walton might gain over one who thought himself proof against all such
influence. But he tried to satisfy himself by thinking, "It is her
father who occupies the first place in her affections."

Then a moment later with a mental protest at his folly, "What do I care
who has the first place? It's well I do not, for she would not permit
such a reprobate as I, with evil in my heart like that cursed worm in
the chestnut, to have any place worth naming--unless I can introduce a
little canker of evil in her heart also. I wish I could. That would
bring us nearer together and upon the same level." Annie saw the
landscapes. She looked away from the man by her side and for a few
moments forgot him. The scenes upon which she was gazing were
associated with another, and she ardently wished that that other and
more favored one could exchange places with Gregory. Her eyes grew
dreamy and tender as she recalled words spoken in days gone by, when,
her heart thrilling with a young girl's first dream of love, she had
leaned upon Charles Hunting's arm, and listened to that sweetest music
of earth, all the more enchanting when broken and incoherent; and
Hunting, with all his coolness and precision in Wall Street, had been
excessively nervous and unhappy in his phraseology upon one occasion,
and tremblingly glad to get any terms from the girl who seemed a child
beside him. Annie would not permit an engagement to take place. Hunting
was a distant relative. She had always liked him very much, but was not
sure she loved him. She was extremely reluctant to leave her father,
and was not ready for a speedy marriage; so she frankly told him that
he had no rival, nor was there a prospect of any, but she would not
bind him, or permit herself to be bound at that time. If they were
fated for each other the way would eventually be made perfectly clear.

He was quite content, especially as Mr. Walton gave his hearty approval
to the match, and he regarded the understanding as a virtual
engagement. He wanted Annie to wear the significant ring, saying that
it should not be regarded as binding, but she declined to do so.

Nearly two years had passed, and, while she put him off, she satisfied
him that he was steadily gaining the place that he wished to possess in
her affections. He was gifted with much tact and did not press his
suit, but quietly acted as if the matter were really settled, and it
were only a question of time. Annie had also come to feel in the same
way. She did not see a very great deal of him, though he wrote
regularly, and his letters were admirable. He became her ideal man and
dwelt in her imagination as a demi-god. To the practical mind of this
American girl his successes in the vast and complicated transactions of
business were as grand as the achievements of any hero. Her father had
been a merchant, and she inherited a respect for the calling. Her
father also often assured her that her lover bade fair to lead in
commercial circles.

"Hunting has both nerve and prudence," he was wont to say; and to
impetuous Annie these qualities, combined with Christian principles,
formed her very ideal man.

Her lover took great pains not to undeceive her as to his character,
and indeed, with the infatuation of his class, hoped that, when he had
amassed the fortune that glittered ever just before him, he could
assume, in some princely mansion, the princely, knightly soul with
which she had endowed him.

So he did not press matters. Indeed in his rapid accumulation of money
he scarcely wished any interruption, and Annie thought all the more of
him that he was not dawdling around making love half the time. There
was also less danger of disenchanting her by his presence, for woman's
perception is quick.

But now she inwardly contrasted her strong, masterful knight, "_sans
peur et sans reproche_," as she believed, with the enfeebled, shrunken
man at her side. Gregory suffered dreadfully by the comparison. The
worm-eaten chestnut seemed truly emblematic, and in spite of herself
her face lighted up with exultation and joy that the man of her choice
was a _man_, and not one upon whom she could not lean for even physical
support.

Gregory caught her expression and said, quickly: "Your face is full of
sudden gleams. Tell me what you are thinking about."

She blushed deeply in the consciousness of her thoughts, but after a
moment said, "I do not believe in the confessional."

He looked at her keenly, saying, "I wish you did and that I were your
father confessor."

She replied, laughing, "You are neither old nor good enough. If I were
of that faith I should require one a great deal older and better than
myself. But here we are at our second tree, which Jeff has just
finished. I am going to be a child again and gather nuts as before. I
hope you will follow suit, and not stand leaning against the tree
laughing at me."




CHAPTER XIV

"A WELL-MEANIN' MAN"



The western horizon vied with the autumn foliage as at last they turned
homeward. Their path led out upon the main road some distance above the
house, and, laden with the spoils that would greatly diminish the
squirrels' hoard for the coming winter, they sauntered along slowly,
from a sense of both weariness and leisure.

They soon reached the cottage of the lame old man who had fired such a
broadside of lurid words at Gregory, as he stood on the fence opposite.
With a crutch under one arm and leaning on his gate, Daddy Tuggar
seemed awaiting them, and secured their attention by the laconic
salutation, "Evenin'!"

"Why, Daddy," exclaimed Annie, coming quickly toward him. "I am real
glad to see you so spry and well. It seems to me that you are getting
young again;" and she shook the old man's hand heartily.

"Now don't praise my old graveyard of a body, Miss Annie. My sperit is
pert enough, but it's all buried up in this old clumsy, half-dead
carcass. The worms will close their mortgage on it purty soon."

"But they haven't a mortgage on your soul," said Annie, in a low tone.
"You remember what I said to you a few days ago."

"Now bless you, Miss Annie, but it takes you to put in a 'word in
season.' The Lord knows I'm a well-meanin' man, but I can't seem to get
much furder. I've had an awful 'fall from grace,' my wife says. I did
try to stop swearin', but that chap there--"

"Oh, excuse me," interrupted Annie. "Mr. Gregory, this is our friend
and neighbor Mr. Tuggar. I was under the impression that you were
acquainted," she added, with a mischievous look at her companion.

"We are. I have met this gentleman before," he replied, with a wry
face. "Pardon the interruption, Mr. Tuggar, and please go on with your
explanation."

"Mr. Gregory, I owe you a 'pology. I'm a well-meanin' man, and if I do
any one a wrong I'm willin' to own it up and do the square thing. But I
meant right by you and I meant right by John Walton when I thought you
was stealin' his apples. I couldn't hit yer with a stun and knock yer
off the fence, as I might a dozen years ago, so I took the next hardest
thing I could lay hands on. If I'd known that you was kinder one of the
family my words would have been rolls of butter."

"Well, Mr. Tuggar, it has turned out very well, for _I_ would rather
you had fired what you did than either stones or butter."

"Now my wife would say that that speech showed you was 'totally
depraved.' And this brings me back to my 'fall from grace.' Now, yer
see, to please my wife some and Miss Eulie more, I was tryin' cussed
hard to stop swearin'--"

"Didn't you try a little for my sake, too?" interrupted Annie.

"Lord bless you, child; I don't have to try when you're around, for I
don't think swearin'. Most folks rile me, and I get a-thinkin'
swearin', and then 'fore I know it busts right out. _You_ could take
the wickedest cuss livin' to heaven in spite of himself if you would
stay right by him all the time."

"I should 'rile' you, too, if I were with you long, for I get 'riled'
myself sometimes."

"Do you, now?" asked Mr. Tuggar, looking at her admiringly. "Well, I'm
mighty glad to hear it."

"O Daddy! glad to hear that I do wrong?"

"Can't help it, Miss Annie. I kinder like to know you're a little bit
of a sinner. 'Tain't often I meet with a sinner, and I kind o' like
'em. My wife says she's a 'great sinner,' but she means she's a great
saint. 'Twouldn't do for me to tell her she's a 'sinner.' Then Miss
Eulie says she's a 'great sinner,' and between you and me that's the
only fib I ever caught Miss Eulie in. Good Lord! there's no more sin in
Miss Eulie's heart than there is specks of dirt on the little white
ruff she wears about her neck that looks like the snow we had last
April around the white hyacinths. She's kind of a half-sperit anyhow.
Now your goodness, Miss Annie, is another kind. Your cheeks are so red,
and eyes so black, and arms so round and fat--I've seen 'em when you
was over here a-beatin' up good things for the old man--that you make
me think of red and pink posies. I kinder think you might be a little
bit of a sinner--just enough, you know, to make you understand how I
and him there can be mighty big ones, and not be too hard on us for it."

"Mr. Tuggar, you are the man of all others to plead my cause."

"Now look here, young gentleman, you must do yer own pleadin'. It would
be a 'sinful waste of time' though, as my wife would say--eh, Miss
Annie? I never had no luck at pleadin' but once, and that was the worst
luck of all."

Annie's face might well suggest "red posies" during the last remarks,
and its expression was divided between a frown and a laugh.

"But I want you to understand," continued Daddy Tuggar, straightening
himself up with dignity, and addressing Gregory, "that I'm not a mean
cuss. All who know me know I'm a well-meanin' man. I try to do as I'd
be done by. If I'm going through a man's field and find his bars down,
so the cattle would get in the corn, I'd put 'em up--"

"Yes, Daddy, that is what you always say," interrupted Annie; "but you
can't go through the fields any more and put up bars. You should try to
do the duties that belong to your present state."

"But I've got the sperit to put up a man's bars, and it's all the same
as if I did put 'em up," answered the old man, with some irritation.
"Miss Eulie and the rest of yer is allers sayin' we must have the
sperit of willingness to give up the hull world and suffer martyrdom on
what looks in the picture like a big gridiron. She says we must have
the sperit of them who was cold and hungry and the lions eat up and was
sawn in two pieces and had an awful time generally for the sake of the
Lord, and that's the way the Christians manage it nowadays. My wife
gets all the money she can and keeps it, but she says she has the
sperit to give up the hull world. I wish she'd give up enough of it to
keep me in good terbacker. Mighty few nice bits would the old man git
wasn't it for you and Miss Eulie. Then I watch the good people goin' to
church. 'Mazin' few out wet Sundays. But no doubt they've all got the
'sperit' to go. They would jist as lief be sawn in two pieces 'in
sperit' as not, if they can only sleep late in the mornin' and have a
good dinner and save their Sunday-go-to-meetin' clothes from gettin'
wet. It must be so, for the Lord gets mighty little worship out of the
church on rainy Sundays. If it wasn't for you and Miss Eulie I don't
know what would become of the old man and all the rest of the sick and
feeble foiks around here. I ask my wife why she doesn't go to see 'em
sometimes. She says she has the 'sperit to go,' but she hasn't time and
strength. So I have the 'sperit' to

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