Books: Opening a Chestnut Burr

E >> Edward Payson Roe >> Opening a Chestnut Burr

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How often men have lived and died poor just above mines of untold
wealth! Gaunt famine has been the inmate of households while there
were buried treasures under the hearthstone. So multitudes in their
spiritual life are weak, despairing, perishing, when by the simple
divinely appointed means of prayer they might fill their lives with
strength and fulness. How long men suffered and died with diseases
that seemed incurable, before they discovered in some common object a
potent remedy that relieved pain and restored health!

As is the case with many brought up in Christian homes, with no one
thing was Gregory more familiar than prayer. For many years he had
said prayers daily, and yet he had seldom in all his life prayed, and
of late years had come to be a practical infidel in regard to this
subject. People who only say prayers, and expect slight, or no results
from them, or are content year after year to see no results--who lack
simple, honest, practical faith in God's word, such as they have in
that of their physician or banker--who only feel that they ought to
pray, and that in some vague, mystical manner it may do them good, are
very apt to end as sceptics in regard to its efficacy and value. Or
they may become superstitious, and continue to say prayers as the poor
Indian mutters his incantation to keep off the witches. God hears
prayer when His children cry to Him--when His faithful friends speak
to Him straight and true from their hearts; and such know well that
they are answered.

As Gregory looked at and listened to Annie Walton, he could no more
believe that she was expressing a little aimless religious emotion,
just as she would sing a sentimental ballad, than he could think that
she was only showing purposeless filial affection if she were hanging
on her father's arm and pleading for something vital to her happiness.
The thought flashed across him, "Here may be the secret of her power
to do right--the help she gets from a source above and beyond herself.
Here may be the key to both her strength and weakness. Here glimmers
light even for me."

Annie was about to sing again, but the interest which she had awakened
was so strong that he could not endure delay. Anxiety as to his
personal reception was forgotten, and he stepped forward and
interrupted her with a question.

"Miss Walton, do you honestly believe that?"

"Believe what?" said she, hastily, quite startled.

"What I gathered from the hymn you sung--that your prayer is really
heard and answered?"

"Why, certainly I believe it," said Annie, in a shocked and pained
tone. "Do you think me capable of mockery in such things? And yet,"
she added, sadly, "perhaps after to-day you think me capable of
anything."

"Now you do both yourself and me wrong," Gregory eagerly replied. "I
do believe you are sincerely trying to obey your conscience. Did I not
see your look of sorrow as you passed me on the stairs?--when shall I
forget it! Remember words that must have been inspired, which you once
quoted to me--

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

and pardon me when I tell you that I have been listening the last few
moments out in the hall. Your tones and manner would melt the heart of
an infidel, and they have made me wish that I were not so unbelieving.
Forgive me for even putting such thoughts in your mind--I feel it is
wicked and selfish in me to do it--but how do you know that your
prayer, though so direct and sincere, was not sound lost in space?"

"Because it has been answered," she replied, eagerly. "Peace came even
as I spoke the words. Because whenever I really pray to God he answers
me."

They now stood on opposite sides of the hearth, with the glowing fire
between them. In its light Annie's wet eyes glistened, but she had
forgotten herself in her sincere and newly awakened interest in him
whom she had secretly hoped and purposed before to lead to better
things. It had formed no small part of her keen self-reproach that she
had forgotten that purpose, and wished him out of the way, just as she
was beginning to gain a decided influence over him for good. After
what he had witnessed that afternoon she felt that he would never
listen to her again.

He would not had he detected the slightest tinge of acting or
insincerity on her part, but her penitence had been as real as her
passion.

She was glad and grateful indeed when he approached her again in the
spirit he now manifested.

As she stood there in the firelight, self-forgetful, conscious only of
her wish to say some words that would be like light to him, her large,
humid eyes turned up to his face, she made a picture that his mother
would like to see.

He leaned against the mantel and looked dejectedly into the fire.
After a moment he said, sadly, "I envy you, Miss Walton. I wish I
could believe in a personal God who thought about us and cared for us
--that is, each one of us. Of course I believe in a Supreme Being--a
great First Cause; but He hides Himself behind the stars; He is lost
to me in His vast universe. I think my prayers once had an effect on
my own mind, and so did me some good. But that's past, and now I might
as well pray to gravitation as to anything else."

Then, turning to her, he caught her wistful, interested look--an
expression which said plainly, "I want to help you," and it touched
him. He continued, feelingly, "Perhaps you are not conscious of it,
but you now look as if you cared whether I was good or bad, was sad or
happy, lived or died. If I could only see that God cared in something
the same way! He no doubt intends to do what is best for the race in
the long run, but that may involve my destruction. I dread His
terrible, inexorable laws."

"Alas!" said Annie, tears welling up into her eyes, "I am not wise
enough to argue out these matters and demonstrate the truth. I suppose
it can be done by those who know how."

"I doubt it," said he, shaking his head decisively.

"Well, I can tell you only what I feel and know."

"That is better than argument--that is what I would like. You are not
a weak, sentimental woman, full of mysticism and fancies, and I should
have much confidence in what you know and feel."

"Do not say that I am not a weak woman; I have shown you otherwise. Be
sincere with me, for I am with you. Well, it seems to me that this
question of prayer is simply one of fact. We know that God answers
prayer, not only because He said He would, but because He does. From
my own experience I am as certain of it as of my existence. I think
that many who sneer or doubt in regard to prayer are very unfair. I
ask you, is it scientific for men to say, 'Nothing is true save what
we have seen and know ourselves?' How that would limit one's
knowledge. If some facts are discovered in Europe and established by a
few proper witnesses, we believe them here. Now in every age
multitudes have said that it was a fact that God heard and answered
their prayers. What right has any one to ignore these truths any more
than any other truths of human experience? I ask my earthly father for
something. The next day I find it on my dressing-table. Is it a
delusion to believe that he heard and granted my request? When I ask
my Heavenly Father for outward things, He sometimes gives them, and
sometimes He does not, as He sees is best for me, just as my parents
did when I was a little child. And I have already seen that He has
often been kinder in refusing. But when I ask for that which will meet
my deeper and spiritual needs I seldom ask in vain. If you should ask
me how I know it, I in return ask how you know that you are ill, or
well, that you are glad or sad, or tired, or anything about yourself
that depends on your own inner consciousness? If I should say unjust,
insulting things to you now, how would you know you were angry? If I
should say, Mr. Gregory, you are mocking me; what I am now saying has
no interest for you; you don't hear me, you don't understand me, you
are thinking of something else, what kind of proof to the contrary
could you offer? Suppose that I should say I want mathematical proof
that you do feel an interest, or physical proof--something that I can
measure, weigh, or see--should I be reasonable? Do I make it clear to
you why I say I know this?"

"Clearer than it was ever made to me before. I cannot help seeing that
you are sincere and sure about it. But pardon me--I've got in such an
inveterate habit of doubting--are not good Catholics just as sure
about the Virgin and the saints hearing and answering them? and do not
pagans feel the same way about their deities?"

"Now, Mr. Gregory," said Annie, with a little indignant reproach in
her tone, "do you think it just and reasonable to compare my faith, or
that of any intelligent Christian, with the gross superstitions you
name? Christianity is not embraced only by the ignorant and weak-
minded: multitudes of the best and ripest scholars in the world are
honest believers."

"Indeed, Miss Walton, I did not mean you to draw any such inference as
that," replied he, hastily and in some confusion.

"I do not see how any other can be drawn," she continued; "and I know
from what I have read and heard that unbelievers usually seek to give
that impression. But it's not a fair one. The absurdities of paganism,
monkish legends, and even the plausible errors of the Romish Church,
will not endure the light of intelligent education; but the more I
know the more I see the beauty and perfection of the Christian
religion and the reasonableness of prayer, and so it is with far
stronger and wiser heads than mine. Your father and mine were never
men to be imposed upon, nor to believe anything just because they were
told to do so when children."

"Really, Miss Walton, you said you couldn't argue about this matter. I
think you can, like a lawyer."

"If you mean that I am using a lawyer's proverbial sleight of hand,
I'm sorry."

"I don't mean that at all, but that you put your facts in such a way
that it's hard to meet them."

"I only try to use common-sense. It's about the only sense I have. But
I was in hopes you did not want to meet what I say adversely, but
would like to believe."

"I would, Miss Walton, honestly I would; but wishes go little way
against stubborn doubt. This one now rises: How is it that scientific
men are so apt to become infidel in regard to the Bible and its
teachings, and especially prayer?"

"I'm sure I hardly know," she answered, with a sigh; "but I will tell
you what I think. I don't believe the majority of them know much about
either the Bible or prayer. With my little smattering of geology I
should think it very presuming to give an opinion contrary to that
held by the best authorities in that science; and I think it very
presuming in those who rarely look into a Bible and never pray, to
tell those who read and pray daily that they don't know what they do
know. Then again, scientific people often apply gross material tests
to matters of faith and religious experience. The thing is absurd.
Suppose a man should seek to investigate light with a pair of scales
that could not weigh anything less than a pound. There is a spiritual
and moral world as truly as a physical, and spiritual facts are just
as good to build on as any other; and I should think they ought to be
better, because the spirit is the noblest part of us. A man who sees
only one side of a mountain has no right to declare that the other is
just like it. Then again your scientific oracles are always
contradicting one another, and upsetting one another's theories.
Science to-day laughs at the absurdities believed by the learned a
hundred years ago; and so will much that is now called science, and
because of which men doubt the Bible, be laughed at in the future. But
my belief is the same substantially as that of Paul, St. Augustine,
Luther, and the best people of my own age; and Luther, who did more
for the world than any other mere man, said that to 'pray well was to
work well.'"

When Annie was under mental excitement, she was a rapid, fluent
talker, and this was especially her condition this evening. As she
looked earnestly at Gregory while she spoke, her dark eyes glowing
with feeling and intelligence and lighting her whole face, he was
impressed more than he could have been by the labored arguments of a
cool, logical scholar. Her intense earnestness put a soul into the
body of her words. He was affected more than he wished her to know,
more than was agreeable to his pride. What she had said seemed so
perfectly true and real to her that for the time she made it true to
him; and yet to admit that his long-standing doubts could not endure
so slight an assault as this, was to show that they had a very flimsy
basis. Moreover, he knew that when, left to himself, he should think
it all over, new questions would rise that could not be answered, and
new doubts return. Therefore he could not receive now what he might be
disposed to doubt to-morrow. He was a trifle bewildered, and wanted
time to think. He was as much interested in Miss Walton as in what she
was saying, and when her words proved that she was a thoughtful woman,
and could be the intelligent companion of any man, the distracting
fear grew stronger that when she came to know him well, she would
coldly stand aloof. The very thought was unendurable. In all the
world, only in the direction of Annie Walton seemed there any light
for him. So to gain time he instinctively sought to give a less
serious turn to the conversation, by saying, "Come, Miss Walton, this
is the best preaching I've ever heard. It seems to me quite unusual to
find a young lady so interested and well versed in these matters. You
must have given a good deal of thought and reading to the subject."

Annie looked disappointed. She had hoped for a better result from her
earnest words than a compliment and a little curiosity as to herself.
But she met him in his own apparent mood, and said, "Now see how
easily imposed upon your sceptical people are! I could palm myself
off, like Portia, as a Daniel come to judgment, and by a little
discreet silence gain a blue halo as a woman of deep research and
profound reading. Just the contrary is true. I am not a very great
reader on any subject, and certainly not on theology and kindred
topics. The fact is I am largely indebted to my father. He is
interested in the subjects and takes pains to explain much to me that
would require study; and since mother died he has come to talk to me
very much as he did to her. But it seems to me that all I have said is
very simple and plain, and you surely know that my motive was not to
air the little instruction I have received."

Gregory's policy forsook him as he saw her expression of
disappointment; and as he looked at her flushed and to him now lovely
face, acting upon a sudden impulse he asked, "Won't you please tell me
your motive?"

His manner and tone convinced her in a moment that he was more moved
and interested than she had thought, and answering with a like impulse
on her part, she said, frankly, "Mr. Gregory, pardon me for saying it,
but from the very first day of your visit it seemed clear to me that
you were not living and feeling as those who once made this your home
could wish, and the thought was impressed upon me, impressed strongly,
that perhaps God had sent you in your feeble health and sadness (for
you evidently were depressed in mind also), to this place of old and
holy memories, that you might learn something better than this world's
philosophy. I have hoped and prayed that I might be able to help you.
But when to-day," she continued, turning away her head to hide the
rising tears, "I showed such miserable weakness, I felt that you would
never listen to me again on such subjects, and would doubt more than
ever their reality, and it made me very unhappy. I feel grateful that
you have listened to me so patiently. I hope you won't let my weakness
hurt my cause. Now you see what a frank, guileless conspirator I am,"
she added, trying to smile at him through her tears.

While she spoke Gregory bent upon her a look that tried to search her
soul. But the suspicious man of the world could not doubt her perfect
sincerity. Her looks and words disclosed her thought as a crystal
stream reveals a white pebble over which it flows. He stepped forward
and took her hand with a pressure that caused it pain for hours after,
but he trusted himself to say only, "You are my good angel, Miss
Walton. Now I understand your influence over me," and then abruptly
left the room.

But he did not understand her influence. A man seldom does when he
first meets the woman whose words, glances, and presence have the
subtle power to fill his thoughts, quicken his pulse, stir his soul,
and awaken his whole nature into new life. He usually passes through a
luminous haze of congeniality, friendship, Platonic affinity, or even
brotherly regard, till something suddenly clears up the mist and he
finds, like the first man, lonely in Eden, that there is but one woman
for him in all the world.

Gregory was in the midst of the cloud, but it seemed very bright
around him as he paced his room excitedly.

CHAPTER XXIII

GREGORY'S FINAL CONCLUSION IN REGARD TO MISS WALTON

Annie Walton was now no longer an enigma to Gregory. He had changed
his views several times in regard to her. First, she was a
commonplace, useful member of the community, in a small way, and part
of the furniture of a well-ordered country-house--plain furniture too,
he had said to himself. But one evening in her company had convinced
him that such a Miss Walton was a fiction of his own mind, and he who
had come to regard average society girls as a weariness beyond
endurance was interested in her immediately.

Then her truth and unselfishness, and the strong religious element in
her character, had been a constant rebuke to him, but he had soothed
himself with the theory that she differed from others only in being
untempted. He then had resolved to amuse himself, ease his conscience,
and feed his old grudge against her sex, by teaching the little saint
that she was only a weak, vain creature. Yet she had sustained not
only his temptations, but another ordeal, so searching and terrible
that it transformed her into a heroine, a being of superior clay to
that of ordinary mortals. "It's her nature to be good, mine to be
bad," he had said; "I'm a weed, she is a flower." But Annie herself
had rudely dispelled this illusion.

Now he saw her to be a woman who might, did she yield to the evil
within her and without, show all the vanity, weakness, and folly
generally, of which he had at first believed her capable, but who, by
prayer and effort, daily achieved victories over herself. In addition,
she had manifested the most beautiful and God-like trait that can
ennoble human character--the desire to save and sweeten others' lives.
To have been lectured and talked to on the subject of religion in any
conventional way by one outside of his sympathies would have been as
repulsive as useless, but Annie had the tact to make her effort appear
like angelic ministry.

There is that about every truly refined woman with a large loving
heart which is irresistible. The two qualities combined give a winning
grace that is an "open sesame" everywhere. The trouble is that culture
and polish are too often the sheen of an icicle.

He believed he saw just her attitude toward him. It reminded him of
Miss Bently's efforts in his behalf, but with the contrast that
existed between Miss Bently and Annie. He now wondered that he could
have been interested in such a vain, shallow creature as Mrs. Grobb
had proved herself, and he excused himself on the ground that he had
idealized her into something that she was not. All that Annie said and
did had the solidity of truth, and not the hollowness of affectation.
And yet there was one thing that troubled him. While her effort to
help him out of his morbid, unhappy state was so sincere, she showed
no special personal interest in himself, such as he had in her. If he
should now go away, she would place him merely in the outer circle of
her friends or acquaintance, and make good the old saying, "Out of
sight, out of mind." But already the conviction was growing strong
that it would be long before she would be out of his mind. Though he
had plenty of pride, as we have seen, he was not conceited, and from
long familiarity with society could readily detect the difference
between the regard she would feel for a man personally attractive and
the interest of aroused sympathies which she might have in any one,
and which her faith and nature led her to have in every one. Of course
he was not satisfied with the latter, and it was becoming one of his
dearest hopes to awaken a personal feeling, though of just what kind
he had not yet even defined to himself.

When the tea-bell rang, much later than usual on account of the chaos
of the day, he was glad to go down. Her society was far pleasanter
than his own, and future events might make everything clearer.

His supposition in regard to Johnny was correct. As he descended the
stairs, the boy came out of the sitting-room, holding Annie tightly by
the hand and beaming upon her like the sun after a shower, and when he
found by his plate a huge apple that had been roasted specially for
him, his cup of happiness was full and he was ready for another
shaking. If the apple once caused discord it here confirmed peace.

The supper was as inviting as the dinner had been forbidding,
indicating a change of policy in the kitchen cabinet. In fact, after
Zibbie cooled off, she found that she was not ready for "the world to
come to an end" (or its equivalent, her leaving the Waltons after so
many years of service and kindness). She had not yet reached the point
of abject apology, though she knew she would go down on her old
rheumatic knees rather than leave her ark of refuge and go out into
the turbulent waters of the world; still she made propitiating
overtures in the brownest of buttered toast, and a chicken salad that
might have been served as ambrosia on Mount Olympus. Zibbie was a
guileless strategist, for in the success of the supper she proved how
great had been her malign ingenuity and deliberation in spoiling the
dinner. She could never claim that it was accidental. Hannah no longer
waited as if it were a funeral occasion, and the domestic skies were
fast brightening up, except in one quarter: Mr. Walton's chair was
vacant, and Gregory noticed that Annie often looked wistfully and
sadly toward it.

With the sensitiveness of one who habitually hid his deeper feeling
from the world, Gregory tried to act as if his last conversation with
Annie had been upon the weather; and as might be expected of refined
people, no allusion was made to the unpleasant features of the day.
Neither then nor afterward was a word adverse to the Camdens spoken.
They had been guests, and that was enough for the Waltons' nice sense
of courtesy. Only Susie, with a little sigh of relief, gave expression
to the general feeling by saying, "Somehow I feel kind of light to-
night. I felt dreadfully heavy this morning."

Annie, with a smile on her lips and something like a tear in her eye,
noticed the child's remark by adding, "I think we should all feel
light if grandpa were only here."

After supper she sung to the children and told them a bedtime story,
and then with a kiss of peace sent them off to their dream-wanderings.

During Annie's absence from the parlor, Gregory remained in his room.
He was in no mood to talk with any one else. Even Miss Eulie's gentle
patter of words would fall with a sting of pain.

When Annie came down to the parlor she said, "Now, Mr. Gregory, I will
sing as much as you wish, to make up for last evening. Indeed I must
do something to get through the hours till father's return, for I feel
so anxious and self-reproachful about him."

"And so make happiness for others out of your pain," said he. "Why
don't you complain and fret all the evening and make it uncomfortable
generally?"

"I have done enough of that for one day. What will you have?"

An impulse prompted him to say "You," but he only said, "Your own
choice," and walked softly up and down the room while she sung, now a
ballad, now a hymn, and again a simple air from an opera, but nothing
light or gay.

He was taking a dangerous course for his own peace. As we have seen,
Annie's voice was not one to win special admiration. It was not
brilliant and highly cultivated, and had no very great compass. She
could not produce any of the remarkable effects of the trained
vocalist. But it was exceedingly sweet in the low, minor notes. It was
sympathetic, and so colored by the sentiment of the words that she
made a beautiful language of song. It was a voice that stole into the
heart, and kept vibrating there long hours after, like an Aeolian harp
just breathed upon by a dying zephyr.

As was often the case, she forgot her auditor, and began to reveal
herself in this mode of expression so natural to her, and to sing as
she did long evenings when alone. At times her tones would be
tremulous with pathos and feeling, and again strong and hopeful. Then,
as if remembering the great joy that soon would be hers in welcoming
back her absent lover, it grew as tender and alluring as a thrush's
call to its mate.

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