Books: Opening a Chestnut Burr

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"We shall have a grand sing to-night with the assistance of your
voice, I hope, Mr. Gregory," said Mr. Walton, as they all adjourned to
the parlor.

"I do not sing by note," he replied. "When I can I will join you,
though I much prefer listening to Miss Walton."

"Miss Walton prefers nothing of the kind, and we shall sing only what
you know," she said, with a smiling glance at him over her shoulder,
as she was making selections from the music-stand.

Soon they were all standing round the piano, save Mr. Walton, who sat
near in his arm-chair, his face the picture of placid enjoyment as he
looked on the little group so dear to him. They began with the
children's favorites from the Sabbath-school books, the little boy
dutifully finding the place for his grandfather. Many of them were the
same that Gregory had sung long years before, standing in the same
place, a child like Johnny, and the vivid memories thus recalled made
his voice a little husky occasionally. Annie once gave him a quick
look of sympathy, not curious but appreciative.

"She seems to know what is passing in my soul," he thought; "I never
knew a woman with such intuitions."

The combined result of their voices was true home music, in which were
blended the tones of childhood and age. Annie, with her sweet soprano,
led, and gave time and key to them all, very much as by the force and
loveliness of her character she influenced the daily harmony of their
lives. The children, with their imitative faculty, seemed to gather
from her lips how to follow with fair correctness, and they chirped
through the tunes like two intelligent robins. Miss Eulie sang a sweet
though rather faint alto that was like a low minor key in a happy
life. Mr. Walton's melody was rather that of the heart, for his voice
was returning to the weakness of childhood, and his ear was scarcely
quick enough for the rapid changes of the air, and yet, unless
"grandpa" joined with them, all felt that the circle was incomplete.

Gregory was a foreign element in the little group, almost a stranger
to its personnel, and more estranged from the sacred meanings and
feeling of the hour; yet such was the power of example, so strong were
the sweet home-spells of this Christian family, that to his surprise
he found himself entering with zest into a scene that on the Sabbath
before he would have regarded as an unmitigated bore. The thought
flashed across him, "How some of my club acquaintances would laugh to
see me standing between two children singing Sabbath-school hymns!"

It was also a sad truth that he could go away from all present
influences to spend the next Sabbath at his club in the ordinary
style.

When the children's hour had passed and they had been tucked away to
peaceful spring-time dreams, though a storm, the precursor of winter,
raged without, Annie returned to the parlor and said, "Now, Mr.
Gregory, we can have some singing more to your taste."

"I have been one of the children to-day," he replied, "so you must let
me off with them from any further singing myself."

"If you insist on playing the children's role you must go to bed. I
have some grand old hymns that I've been wishing to try with you."

"Indeed, Miss Walton, I am but half a man. At the risk of your
contempt I must say in frankness that my whole physical nature yearns
for my arm-chair. But please do not call my weakness laziness. If you
will sing to me just what you please, according to your mood, I for
one will be grateful."

"Even a dragon could not resist such an appeal," said Annie, laughing.
She sat down to her piano and soon partially forgot her audience, in
an old Sabbath evening habit, well known to natural musicians, of
expressing her deeper and more sacred feelings in words and notes that
harmonized with them. Gregory sat and listened as the young girl
unwittingly revealed a new element in her nature.

In her every-day life she appeared to him full of force and power,
practical and resolute. To one of his sporting tastes she suggested a
mettled steed whose high spirit was kept in check by thorough
training. Her conversation was piquant, at times a little brusque, and
utterly devoid of sentimentality. But now her choice of poetic thought
and her tones revealed a wealth of womanly tenderness, and he was
compelled to feel that her religion was not legal and cold, a system
of duties, beliefs, and restraints, but something that seemed to stir
the depths of her soul with mystic longings, and overflow her heart
with love. She was not adoring the Creator, nor paying homage to a
king; but, as the perfume rises from a flower, so her voice and manner
seemed the natural expression of a true, strong affection for God
Himself, not afar off, but known as a near and dear friend. In her
sweet tones there was not the faintest suggestion of the effect or
style that a professional singer would aim at. She thought no more of
these than would a thrush swaying on its spray in the twilight of a
June evening. As unaffectedly as the bird she sang according to the
inward promptings of a nature purified and made lovely by the grace of
God.

No one not utterly given over to evil could have listened unmoved,
still less Gregory, with his sensitive, beauty-loving, though
perverted nature. The spirit of David's harp again breathed its divine
peace on his sin-disquieted soul. The words of old Daddy Tuggar
flashed across him, and he muttered:

"Yes, she could take even me to heaven, 'if she stayed right by me.'"

When finally, with heartfelt sincerity, she sang the following simple
words to an air that seemed a part of them, he envied her from the
depths of his soul, and felt that he would readily barter away any
earthly possession and life itself for a like faith:

Nearer, nearer, ever nearer,
Come I gladly unto Thee;
And the days are growing brighter
With Thy presence nearer me.

Though a pilgrim, not a stranger;
This Thy land, and I Thine own;
At Thy side, thus free from danger,
Find I paths with flowers strown.

Voices varied, nature speaking,
Call to me on every side;
Friends and kindred give their greeting,
In Thy sunshine I abide.

Though my way were flinty, thorny,
Were I sure it led to Thee,
Could I pass one day forlornly,
Home and rest so near to me?

Then she brought the old family Bible, indicating that after that hour
she was in no mood for commonplace conversation. In the hush that
followed, the good old man reverently read a favorite passage, which
seemed not to consist of cold, printed words, but to be a part of a
loving letter sent by the Divine Father to His absent children.

As such it was received by all save Gregory. He sat among them as a
stranger and an alien, cut off by his own acts from those ties which
make one household of earth and heaven. But such was the influence of
the evening upon him that he realized as never before his loss and
loneliness. He longed intensely to share in their feelings, and to
appropriate the words of love and promise that Mr. Walton read.

The prayer that followed was so tender, so full of heart-felt interest
in his guest, that Gregory's feelings were deeply touched. He arose
from his knees, and again shaded his face to hide the traces of his
emotion.

When at last he looked up, Mr. Walton was quietly reading, and the
ladies had retired. He rose and bade Mr. Walton good-night with a
strong but silent grasp of the hand.

The thought flashed across him as he went to his room, that after this
evening and the grasp as of friendship he had just given the father,
he could not in the faintest degree meditate evil against the
daughter. But so conscious was he of moral weakness, so self-
distrustful in view of many broken resolutions, that he dared resolve
on nothing. He at last fell into a troubled sleep with the vain,
regretful thought, "Oh that I had not lost my vantage-ground! Oh that
I could live my life over again!"

CHAPTER XVI

AN ACCIDENT IN THE MOUNTAINS

In view of her recent stormy mood, Nature seemed full of regretful
relentings on Monday, and, as if to make amends for her harshness,
assumed something of a summer softness. The sun had not the glaring
brightness that dazzles, and the atmosphere, purified by the recent
rain, revealed through its crystal depths objects with unusual
distinctness.

"It is a splendid day for a mountain ramble," said Annie, with
vivacity, at the breakfast-table.

"Why don't you take old Dolly and the mountain wagon, and show Mr.
Gregory some of our fine views this afternoon?" asked Mr. Walton.

"Nothing would please me more," said his daughter, cordially; "that
is, if Mr. Gregory feels equal to the fatigue."

"I'd be at my last gasp if I refused such an offer," said Gregory,
eagerly. "It would do me good, for I feel much stronger than when I
first came, and Miss Walton's society is the best tonic I know of."

"Very well," said she, laughing. "You shall take me this afternoon as
a continuation of the tonic treatment under which you say you are
improving."

"To carry on the medical figure," he replied, "I fear that I am to you
the embodiment of the depletive system."

"From my feelings this bright morning you have very little effect. I
prescribe for you a quiet forenoon, as our mountain roads will give
you an awful jolting. You, if not your medicine, will be well shaken
to-day."

"You are my medicine, as I understand it, so I shall take it according
to the old orthodox couplet."

"No, the mountain is your medicine, and I anticipate no earthquakes."

"It is settled then," said Mr. Walton, smiling, "that you adopt
Mahomet's compromise and go to the mountain. I will tell Jeff to fit
you out in suitable style."

Gregory, in excellent spirits, retired to his room for a quiet
morning. The prospect for the afternoon pleased him greatly, and a
long tete-a-tete with Annie among the grand and beautiful solitudes of
nature had for him an attraction that he could scarcely understand.

"She is just the one for a companion on such an expedition," he said
to himself. "She seems a part of the scenes we shall look upon. The
free, strong mountain spirit breathes in her every word and act. Old
Greek mythology would certainly make her a nymph of the hills."

After dinner they started, Gregory's interest centring mainly in his
companion, but Annie regarding him as a mere accessory to a sort of
half-holiday in her busy life, and expecting more enjoyment from the
scenery and the exhilarating air than from his best efforts to
entertain her. And yet in this respect she was agreeably disappointed.
Gregory was in a mood that he scarcely understood himself. If Annie
had been somewhat vain and shallow, though possessing many other good
traits, with the practiced skill of a society man he would have made
the most of these weaknesses, amused himself with a piquant
flirtation, and soon have been ready for his departure for New York
with a contemptuous French shrug at the whole affair. But her
weaknesses did not lie in that direction. Her naturally truthful and
earnest nature, deepened and strengthened by Christian principle, from
the first had foiled his unworthy purposes, and disturbed his
contemptuous cynicism. Then as he was compelled to believe in her
reality, her truth and nobleness, all that was in his own nature
responsive to these traits began to assert itself. Even while he clung
to it and felt that he had no power to escape it, the evil of his life
grew more hateful to him, and he condemned himself with increasing
bitterness. When good influences are felt in a man's soul, evil seems
to become specially active. The kingdom of darkness disputes every
inch of its ill-gotten power. Winter passes away in March storms. It
is the still cold of indifference that is nearest akin to death.

The visit to his old home, and the influence of Annie Walton, were
creating March weather in Walter Gregory's soul. There were a few
genial moods like gleams of early spring sunshine. There were sudden
relentings and passionate longings for better life, as at times
gentle, frost-relaxing showers soften the flinty ground. There were
fierce spiritual conflicts, wild questionings, doubts, fears, and
forebodings, and sometimes despair, as in this gusty month nature
often seems resolving itself back to primeval chaos. But too often his
mood was that of cold hard scepticism, the frost of midwinter. The
impetus of his evil life would evidently be long in spending itself.

And yet the quiet influence of the hallowed Sabbath evening, and Annie
Walton's hymns of faith and love, could not readily be lost. The
father's prayer still echoed in his soul, and even to him it seemed
that the heavens could not be deaf to such entreaty. These things
affected him as no direct appeals possibly could. They were like the
gentle but irresistible south wind.

He was now simply drifting. He had not definitely abandoned his
purpose of tempting Annie, nor did he consciously thrust it from him.
Quite convinced that she was what she seemed, and doubting greatly
whether during his brief visit there would be time to affect her mind
seriously by any evil influences he could bring to bear, and won
unwittingly by her pure spirit to better things himself, he let the
new and unexpected influence have full play.

He was like a man who finds himself in the current above Niagara, and
gives up in despair, allowing his boat to glide onward to the fatal
plunge. A breeze springs up and blows against the current. He spreads
a sail and finds his downward progress checked. If the wind increases
and blows steadily, he may stem the rushing tide and reach smooth,
safe waters.

A faint glimmering of hope began to dawn in his heart. An unexpected
gale from heaven, blowing against the current of evil, made it seem
possible that he too might gain the still waters of a peaceful faith.
But the hope dwelt in his mind more as a passing thought, a
possibility, than an expectation.

In his wavering state the turn of the scales would depend mainly upon
the mood of his companion. If she had been trifling and inclined to
flirt, full of frivolous nonsense, bent upon having a good time in the
frequent acceptation of the phrase, little recking the consequences of
words or acts, as is often the case with girls in the main good-
hearted and well-meaning, Gregory would have fallen in with such a
mood and pushed it to the extreme.

But Annie was simply herself, bright and exhilarating as the October
sunshine, but as pure and strong. She was ready for jest and repartee.
She showed almost a childish delight in every odd and pretty thing
that met her eye, but never for a moment permitted her companion to
lose respect for her.

Her cheeks were like the crimson maple-leaves which overhung them. Her
eyes were like the dark sparkle of the little brook as it emerged from
the causeway over which they drove. Her brown hair, tossed by the
wind, escaped somewhat from its restraints and enhanced the whiteness
of her neck, and the thought occurred to Gregory more than once, "If
she is not pretty, I never saw a face more pleasant to look at."

The wish to gain her esteem and friendship grew stronger every moment,
and he exerted himself to the utmost to please her. Abandoning utterly
his gallantry, his morbid cynicism, he came out into the honest
sunlight of truth, where Annie's mind dwelt, and directed the
conversation to subjects concerning which, as an educated and
travelled man, he could speak frankly and intelligently. Annie had
strong social tastes and the fondness for companionship natural to the
young, and she was surprised to find how he stimulated and interested
her mind, and how much they had in common. He appeared to understand
her immediately, and to lead her thoughts to new and exciting flights.

It was their purpose to cross a spur of the main mountain range. After
a long and toilsome climb, stopping to give Dolly many a breathing
spell, they at last reached the brow of the wooded height, and turned
to look at the autumn landscape glimmering in the bright October
sunshine. It is impossible by either pen or brush to give a true
picture of wide reaches of broken and beautiful country, as seen from
some of the more favored points of outlook among the Highlands on the
Hudson. The loveliness of a pretty bit of scenery or of a landscape
may be enhanced by art, but the impressive grandeur of nature, when
the feature of vast and varied expanse predominates, cannot be
adequately expressed. The mind itself is oppressed by the
extensiveness of the scene, and tends to select some definite object,
as a village, hamlet, or tree-embowered farmhouse, on which to dwell.
These accord more with the finite nature of the beholder. Spires and
curling wreaths of smoke suggested to Annie and Gregory many a simple
altar and quiet hearth, around which gathered the homely, contented
life, spiritual and domestic, of those who occupied their own little
niche in the great world, and were all unburdened with thought or care
for the indefinite regions that stretched away beyond their narrow
circle of daily acquaintance. Only God can give to the whole of His
creation the all-seeing gaze that we bestow upon some familiar scene.
His glance around the globe is like that of a mother around her
nursery, with her little children grouped at her feet.

The laden orchards, with men climbing long ladders, and boys in the
topmost branches looking in the distance like huge squirrels, were
pleasant objects to the mountain ramblers. Huskers could be discerned
in the nearer cornfields, and the great yellow ears glistened
momentarily in the light, as they were tossed into golden heaps. There
was no hum of industry as from a manufacturing village, or roar of
turbulent life as from a city, but only the quiet evidence to the eye
of a life kindred to that which nature so silently and beautifully
elaborates.

"How insignificant we are!" said Gregory, gloomily; "how the great
world goes right on without us! It is the same when one dies and
leaves it, as we left it by climbing this mountain. In the main we are
unknown and uncared for, and even to those who know us it is soon the
same as if we had never been."

"But the world cannot go on without God. Though forgotten, He never
forgets! His friends need never have the sense of being lost or
lonely--any more than a child travelling with his father in a foreign
land among indifferent strangers. God does not look at us, His
creatures, as we do at the foliage of these forests, seeing only the
general effect. He sees each one as directly as I now look at you."

"I wish I could believe He looked as kindly."

"I wish you could, Mr. Gregory. It is sad to me that people can't
believe what is so true. The fondest look your mother ever gave you
was cold compared with the yearning, loving face God turns toward
every one of us, even as we go away from Him."

He looked at her earnestly for a moment and saw that sincerity was
written on her face. He shook his head sadly, and then said, rather
abruptly, "Those lengthening shadows remind us that we must be on our
way"; and then their thoughts dwelt on lighter subjects as they
ascended another lofty mountain terrace, and paused again to scan the
wider prospect that made the sense of daily life in the valleys below
as remote as the world seems to the hermit in his devotional
seclusion. Then they began to descend the sloping plateau which
inclined toward the brow of the hill overlooking the region of the
Walton residence.

After one or two hours of broken but very agreeable conversation Annie
suddenly sighed deeply.

"Now, Miss Walton," said Gregory, "that sigh came from the depths.
What hidden sorrow could have caused it?"

With a slight flush and laugh, she said, "It was caused by a mere
passing thought, like that cloud there sailing over the mountain
slope."

"Your simile is so pretty that I should like to know the thought."

"I hardly know whether to tell it to you. It might have the same
effect as if that cloud should expand and cover the sky."

"Might not the telling also have the same effect as if the cloud were
dissipated altogether?"

She looked at him quickly and said, "How apt your answer is! Yes, it
might if you would be sensible. I do not know you so very well yet.
Are you not a little ready to take offence?"

"You do not look as if about to say anything I should resent very
deeply. But I promise that the cloud shall vanish."

"I am not so sure about that. The cloud represents my thought; and yet
I hope it may eventually vanish utterly. The thought occurred to me
after the pleasant hours of this afternoon what congenial friends we
_might_ be."

"And that caused you to sigh so deeply?"

"I laid emphasis on the word _might_."

"And why should you, Miss Annie? Why need you?" he asked, eagerly.

"You have shown a great deal of tact and consideration this afternoon,
Mr. Gregory, in choosing topics on which we could agree, or about
which it is as nice to differ a little. I wish it were the same in
regard to those things that make up one's life, as it were;" and she
looked at him closely to see how he would take this.

After a moment he said, a little bitterly, "In order to be your
friend, must one look at everything through the same colored glass
that you employ?"

"Oh, no," she replied, earnestly; "it is not fair to say that. But you
seem almost hostile to all that I love best and think most of, and my
sigh was rather an earnest and oft-recurring wish that it were
otherwise."

Again he was silent for a short time, then said, with sudden
vehemence, "And I also wish it were otherwise"; adding more quietly,
"but it is not, Miss Walton. You know me too well, even if I wished to
deceive you. And yet I would give a great deal for such a friendship
as you could bestow. Why can you not give it as it is? The Founder of
your faith was a friend of publicans and sinners."

"He was indeed their friend, and has been ever since," she answered.
"But was it not natural that He found more that was attractive and
congenial in that little group of disciples who were learning to know
and believe in Him?"

"I understand you, Miss Walton. I was unfortunate in my illustration,
and you have turned it against me. You can be my friend, as the
missionary is the friend of the heathen."

"You go to extremes, Mr. Gregory, and are hardly fair. I am not a
missionary, nor are you a heathen. I make my meaning clear when I echo
your thought of a moment ago, and wish that just such a friendship
might exist between us as that between your father and mine."

"I am what I am," he said, with genuine sadness.

"I wish you had my faith in the possibilities of the future," she
replied, turning brightly toward him.

But he shook his head, saying, "I have about lost all faith in
everything as far as I am concerned. Still I feel that if any one
could do me any good, you might, but I fear it is a hopeless task."
Then he changed the subject in such a way as to show that it was
painful, and that he preferred it should be dropped.

After all, the cloud had overcast the sky. The inevitable separation
between those guided by divine principles and those controlled by
earthly influences began to dawn upon him. He caught a glimpse of the
"great gulf," that is ever "fixed" between the good and evil in their
deepest consciousness. The "loneliness of guilt" chilled and oppressed
him, even with the cheery, sympathetic companion at his side. But he
hid his feelings under a forced gayety, in which Annie joined
somewhat, though it gave her a vague shiver of pain. She felt they had
been _en rapport_ for a little while, but now a change had come, even
as the damp and chill of approaching night were taking the place of
genial sunshine.

Suddenly she said, as they were riding along on the comparatively
level plateau among thick copse-wood and overshadowing trees that
already created a premature twilight, "It is strange we do not come
out on the brow of the mountain overlooking our home. This road does
not seem familiar either, though it is two or three years since I have
been over it, and then Jeff drove. I thought I knew the way well. Can
it be possible we have taken the wrong turning?"

"I ought to be familiar with these roads, Miss Walton, but I am sorry
to say I too am confused. I hunted over these hills to some extent
when a boy, but did not pay much heed to the roads, as I took my own
courses through the woods."

"I think I must be right," said Annie, after a little time; "the brow
of the hill must be near;" and they hastened the old horse along as
fast as possible under the circumstances. But the road continually
grew rougher and gave evidence of very little travel, and the evening
deepened rapidly. At last they resolved to turn round at the first
place that would permit of it, but this was not readily found, there
being only a single wheel-track, which now stretched away before them
like a narrow cut between banks of foliage, that looked solid in the
increasing darkness; the road also was full of rocks, loose stones,
and deep ruts, over which the wagon jolted painfully. With a less
sure-footed horse than Dolly they would soon have come to grief.
Gregory was becoming greatly fatigued, though he strove to hide it,
and both were filled with genuine uneasiness at the prospect before
them. To make matters seemingly desperate, as they were descending a
little hill a fore-wheel caught between two stones and was wrenched
sharply off. Quick, agile Annie sprang as she felt the wagon giving,
but Walter was thrown out among the brushwood by the roadside. Though
scratched and bruised, he was not seriously hurt, and as quickly as
possible came to the assistance of his companion. He found her
standing by Dolly's head, holding and soothing the startled beast.
Apparently she was unhurt. They looked searchingly at the dusky
forest, their broken vehicle, and then at each other. Words were
unnecessary to explain the awkwardness of their situation.

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