Books: Opening a Chestnut Burr

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

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29

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.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29