Books: Opening a Chestnut Burr

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He did not seek to disguise his deep disappointment. While she felt
sorry for him, she remained firm, and he saw that it would not be wise
to urge her.

Annie would not carelessly give pain to any one, much less to those
she loved. And yet her mind was strong and well-balanced. She knew it
was no great misfortune to Hunting to wait a few months when her own
feelings and the duty she owed another required it. "When Mr. Gregory
gets strong and well and back to business," she thought, "he will
wonder at himself. I have no right almost to destroy him now in his
weakness by doing that which can be done better at another time; and
indeed, for my own sake, I should have required delay."

The next day Hunting was reluctantly compelled to go to the city.
Somewhat to Annie's surprise, Gregory made no effort to secure her
society. In her frank, sisterly regard she was slow in understanding
that her presence caused regretful pain to him. But he seemed
resolutely bent upon getting well, and was gaining rapidly. He walked
out a little while during the middle of the day, and her eyes followed
him wistfully as he moved slowly and feebly along the garden walk. She
saw, with quickly starting tears, that he went to the rustic seat by
the brook where they had spent that memorable Sunday afternoon, and
that he stood in long, deep thought.

When he came back she offered to read to him.

"Not now--not yet," he said, sadly. "I know my own weakness, and would
be true to my word."

"Why do you shun me?" she asked.

"May you never understand from experience," he said with a smile that
was sadder than tears, and passed on up to his room.

And yet, though he did not know it, his course was the best policy,
for it awakened stronger respect and sympathy on her part.

The next morning ushered in the first of the dreamy Indian-summer
days, when Nature, as if grieved over the havoc of the frost, would
hide the dismantled trees and dead flowers by a purple haze, and seek
as do fading beauties to disguise the ravages of time by drawing over
her withered face a deceptive veil.

Gregory felt so much better that he thought he could venture to make a
parting call on Daddy Tuggar. He found the old man smoking on his
porch, and his reception was as warm and demonstrative as his first
had been a month ago, though of a different nature. Gregory lighted a
cigar and sat down beside him.

"I'm wonderful glad to see you," said Mr. Tuggar. "To think that I
should have cussed you when it was the good Lord that brought you
here!"

"Do you think so?" asked Gregory.

"Certain I do. Would that house be there? Wouldn't all our hearts be
broke for Miss Annie if it wasn't for you?"

Gregory felt that his heart was "broke" for her as it was, but he
said, "It was my taking her out to walk that caused her danger. So you
wouldn't have lost her if I had not come."

"You didn't knowin'ly git her in danger, and you did knowin'ly git her
out, and that's enough for me," said the old man.

"Well, well, Mr. Tuggar, if I had broken my neck it would have been a
little thing compared with saving the life of such a woman as Miss
Walton. Still, I fear the Lord has not much to do with me."

"And have you been all this time with John Walton and Miss Annie and
still feel that way?"

"It's not their fault."

"I believe that. Are you willin' to say you are a great sinner?"

"Of course. What else am I?"

"That's it--that's it," cried the old man, delightedly. "Now you're
all right. That's just where I was. When John Walton bid me good-by,
he asked me one question that let more light into my thick head than
all the readin' and preachin' and prayin' I ever heard. He asked,
'Whom did Jesus Christ come to save?' Answer that."

"The Bible says He came to save sinners," replied Gregory, now deeply
interested.

"Well, I should think that meant you and me," said Mr. Tuggar,
emphatically. "Anyhow, I know it means me. John Walton told me that
all I had to do was to just trust the Saviour--not of good people--but
of sinners, and do the best I could; and I have just done it, and I'm
all right, Mr. Gregory, I'm all right. I don't know whether I can stop
swearin', but I'm a tryin'. I don't know whether I can ever get under
my old ugly temper, but I'm a tryin' and a prayin'. But whether I can
or not, I'm all right, for the good Lord came to save sinners; and if
that don't mean me, what's the use of words?"

"But can you trust Him?" asked Gregory.

"Certain I can. Wasn't John Walton an honest man? Wasn't Jesus Christ
honest? Didn't he know what He come for?"

"Admitting that He came to save sinners, how can you be sure He will
save all? He might save you and not me."

"Well," said Mr. Tuggar, "I hadn't been home long before that question
come up to me, and I thought on it a long time. I smoked wellnigh a
hundred pipes on it afore I got it settled, but 'tis settled, and when
I settle a thing I don't go botherin' back about it. But like enough
'twon't satisfy you."

"At any rate, I should like to hear your conclusion."

"Well, I argued it out to myself. I says, 'Suppose there's some
sinners too bad, or too somethin' or other, for the Lord to save, and
suppose you are one of them, ain't ''lected,' as my wife says. If I
could be an unbelievin' sinner for eighty years, it seemed to me that
if anybody wasn't 'lected I wasn't. I was dreadfully down, I tell yer,
for I'd set my heart on bein' John Walton's neighbor again. After I'd
smoked a good many pipes, I cussed myself for an old fool. 'There,
you've brought your case into court,' I says, 'and you're goin' to
give it up afore it's argued.' Then I argued it. I was honest, you may
be sure. It wouldn't do me any good to pettifog in this matter. First
I says, if there was any doubt about the Lord savin' all sinners who
wanted Him to, John Walton orter have spoken of it, and from what I
know of the man he would. Then I says, arter all, it's the Lord I've
got to deal with. Now what kind of a Lord is He? Then I commenced
rememberin' all that Miss Eulie and Miss Annie had read to me about
Him, and all I'd heard, and I got my wife to read some, and my hopes
grew every minute. I tell you what, Mr. Gregory, it was a queer crowd
He often had around Him. I'd kinder felt at home among 'em, 'specially
with that swearin' fisherman Peter.

"Well, the upshot of it was, I couldn't find that He ever turned one
sinner away. Then why should He me? Then my wife, as she was readin',
come across the words, 'Him that cometh to Me I will in no wise cast
out.' I had heard them words afore often, but it seemed now as the
first time, and I just shouted, 'I've got His word for it,' and my
wife thought I was crazy, sure 'nuff, for she didn't know what I was
drivin' at. And now, Mr. Gregory, you're just shut up to two things,
just two things. Either the Lord Jesus will save every sinner that
comes to Him, or he ain't honest, and don't mean what he says, and
won't do as he used to. I tell yer I'm settled, better settled than
yonder mountain. I just let myself go limber right down upon the
promise, and it's all right. I'm going to be John Walton's neighbor
again."

Gregory was more affected by the old man's quaint talk than he would
have believed possible. It seemed true that he was "shut up" to one or
the other of the alternatives presented. He commenced pacing up and
down the little porch in deep thought. Mr. Tuggar puffed away at his
pipe with such vigor that he was exceedingly beclouded, however clear
his mind. At last Gregory said, "I shall think over what you have
said, very carefully, for I admit it has a great deal of force to my
mind."

"That's right," said Mr. Tuggar; "argue it out, just as I did. Show
yourself no favors, and be fair to yourself, and you can't get away
from my conclusion. You've got to come to it."

"I should be very glad to come to it," said Gregory, gravely.

"I should think you would. There'll be some good neighbors up there,
Mr. Gregory; these Waltons are all bound to be there. Miss Annie would
be kinder good company--eh, Mr. Gregory?"

In spite of himself he flushed deeply under the old man's keen
scrutiny.

"There's one thing that's mighty 'plexing to me," said Mr. Tuggar, led
to the subject by its subtle connection with Gregory's blush, "and
that's why the Lord didn't keep John Walton alive a few minutes
longer, so that the marriage could take place."

Gregory gave a great start. "What marriage?" he asked.

"Why, don't you know about it?" said Mr. Tuggar, in much surprise.

"No, nothing at all."

"Then perhaps I ortn't ter speak of it."

"Certainly not, if you don't think it right."

"Well, I've said so much I might as well say it all," said the old
man, musingly. "It's no secret, as I knows of;" and he told Gregory
how near Annie came to being a wife.

Gregory drew a long breath and looked deathly pale and faint.

"Well, now, I'd no idea that you'd be so struck of a heap," said the
old man, in still deeper surprise.

"God's hand was in that," murmured Gregory; "God's hand was in that."

"Do you think so, now? Well, it does seem kinder cur'us, and per'aps
it was, for somehow I never took to that Hunting, though he seems all
right."

"Good-by, Mr. Tuggar," said Gregory, rising; "you have given me a good
deal to think about, and I'm going to think, and act, too, if I can. I
am going to New York to-morrow, and one of the first things I do will
be to fill your pipe for a long time;" and he pressed the old man's
hand most cordially.

"Let yourself go limber when you come to trust, and it will be all
right," were Daddy Tuggar's last words, as he balanced himself on his
crutches in parting.

Gregory found Annie in the parlor, and he said, "I have good news for
you; Daddy Tuggar is a Christian."

Annie sprang joyfully up and said, "I'm going over to see him at
once."

When she returned, Gregory was quietly reading in the parlor, showing
thus that he had no wish to avoid her.

She came directly to him and said, "Daddy Tuggar says that you propose
going home to-morrow."

"Well, really, Miss Walton, I have no home to go to; but I expect to
return to the city."

"Now I protest against it."

"I'm glad you do."

"Then you won't go?"

"Yes, I must; but I'm glad you don't wish me to go"

"Why need you go yet? You ought not. You should wait till you are
strong."

"That is just why I go--to get _strong_. I never could here, with you
looking so kindly at me as you do now. You see I am as frank as I
promised to be. So please say no more, for you cannot and you ought
not to change my purpose."

"O dear!" cried Annie, "how one's faith is tried! Why need this be
so?"

"On the contrary," he said, "what little faith I ever had has been
quite revived this afternoon. Daddy Tuggar has been 'talking religion'
to me, and, pardon me for saying it, I found his words more convincing
than even yours."

"I am not jealous of him," said Annie, gladly.

"I can't help thinking that God does see and care, in that He
prevented your marriage."

Annie blushed deeply, and said, coldly, "I am sorry you touched upon
that subject," and she left the room.

Gregory went quietly on with his reading, or seemed to do so. Indeed,
he made a strong effort, and succeeded, for he was determined to
master himself outwardly.

She soon relented and came back. When she saw him apparently so
undisturbed, the thought came to her, "He has truly given me up. There
is nothing of the lover in that calmness, and he makes no effort to
win my favor," but she said, "Mr. Gregory, I fear I hurt your
feelings. You certainly did mine. I cannot endure the injustice you
persist in doing Mr. Hunting."

"I only repeat your own words, 'We all three shall understand each
other in God's good time'; and after what I heard to-day, I have the
feeling that He is watching over you."

"Won't you promise not to speak any more on this subject?"

"Yes, for I have done my duty."

She took up his book and read to him, thus giving one more hour of
mingled pain and pleasure; though when he thought how long it would be
before he heard that sweet voice again, if ever, his pain almost
reached the point of anguish. As she turned toward him and saw his
look of suffering, she realized somewhat the effort he had made to
keep up before her.

She came to him and said, "I was about to ask a favor, but perhaps
it's hardly right."

"Ask it, anyway," he said, with a smile.

"I don't urge it, but I expect Mr. Hunting this evening. Won't you
come down to supper and meet him?"

"For your sake I will, now that I have gained some self-control. I am
not one to quarrel in a lady's parlor under any provocation. For your
sake I will treat Mr. Hunting like a gentleman, and make my last
evening with you as little of a restraint as possible."

"Thank you--thank you. You now promise to make it one of peculiar
happiness."

Annie drove to the depot for Hunting, and told of Gregory's consent to
meet him. She said, "Now is your opportunity, Charles. Meet him in
such a way as to make enmity impossible."

His manner was not very reassuring, but, in his pleasure at hearing
that Gregory was soon to depart, and that in his absence Annie's
confidence in him had not been disturbed, he promised to do the best
he could. She was nervously excited as the moment of meeting
approached, and, somewhat to her surprise, Hunting seemed to share her
uneasiness.

Gregory did not come down till the family were all in the supper-room.
Annie was struck with his appearance as he entered. Though his left
arm was in a sling, there was a graceful and almost courtly dignity in
his bearing, a brilliancy in his eyes and a firmness, about his mouth,
which proved that he had nerved himself for the ordeal and would
maintain himself. Instantly she thought of the time when he had first
appeared in that room, a half-wrecked, blase man of the world. Now he
looked and acted like a nobleman.

Hunting, on the contrary, had a shuffling and embarrassed manner; but
he approached Gregory and held out his hand, saying, "Come, Mr.
Gregory, let by-gones be by-gones."

But Gregory only bowed with the perfection of distant courtesy, and
said, "Good-evening, Mr. Hunting," and took his seat.

Both Hunting and Annie blushed deeply and resentfully. After they were
seated, Annie looked toward Hunting to say "grace" as usual, but he
could not before the man who knew him so well, and there was another
moment of deep embarrassment, while a sudden satirical light gleamed
from Gregory's eyes. Annie saw it, and it angered her.

Then Gregory broke the ice with quiet, well-bred ease. In natural
tones he commenced conversation, addressing now one, now another, in
such a way that they were forced to answer him in like manner. He
asked Hunting about the news and gossip of the city as naturally as if
they had met that evening for the first time. He even had pleasant
repartee with Johnny and Susie, who had now come to like him very
much, and his manner toward Miss Eulie was peculiarly gentle and
respectful, for he was deeply grateful to her. Indeed, that good lady
could scarcely believe her eyes and ears; but Gregory had always been
an enigma to her. At first he spoke to Annie less frequently than to
any one else, for he dreaded the cloud upon her brow and her outspoken
truthfulness, and he was determined the evening should pass off as he
had planned. Though so crippled that his food had to be prepared for
him, he only made it a matter of graceful jest, and gave ample proof
that a highly bred and cultivated man can be elegant in manners under
circumstances the most adverse.

Even Annie thawed and relented under his graceful tact, and felt that
perhaps he was doing all she could expect in view of the simple
promise to "treat Hunting like a gentleman, for her sake." But it had
pained her deeply that he had not met Hunting's advances; and she saw
that, though perfectly courteous, he was not committing himself in the
slightest degree toward reconciliation.

Moreover, she was excessively annoyed that Hunting acted so poor a
part. It is as natural for a woman to take pride in her lover as to
breathe, but she could have no pride in Hunting that evening. He
seemed annoyed beyond endurance with both himself and Gregory, though
he strove to disguise it. He knew that he was appearing to
disadvantage, and this increased his embarrassment, and he was most
unhappy in his words and manner. Yet he could take exception at
nothing, for Gregory, secure in his polished armor, grew more
brilliant and entertaining as he saw his adversary losing ground.

All were glad when he supper-hour was over and they could adjourn to
the parlor. Here Gregory changed his tactics, and drawing the children
aside, told them a marvellous tale as a good-by souvenir, thus causing
them to feel deep regret for his departure. He next drew Miss Eulie
into an animated discussion upon a subject he knew her to be
interested in. From this he made the conversation general, and
continued to speak to Hunting as naturally as if there were no
differences between them. But all saw that he was growing very weary,
and early in the evening he quietly rose and excused himself, saying
that he needed rest for his journey on the morrow. There was the same
polite, distant bow to Hunting as at first, and in deep disappointment
Annie admitted that nothing had been gained by the interview from
which she had hoped so much. They were no nearer reconciliation. While
Gregory's manner had compelled respect and even admiration, it had
annoyed her excessively, for he had made her lover appear to
disadvantage, and she was almost vexed with Hunting that he had not
been equal to the occasion. She was sorry that she had asked Gregory
to come down while Hunting was present, and yet courtesy seemed to
require that he should be with them, since he was now sufficiently
well. Altogether it was a silent little group that Gregory left in the
parlor, as all were busy with their own thoughts.

Hunting determined to remain the following day and see Gregory off and
out of the way forever, he hoped.

The next morning Gregory did not come down to breakfast. But at about
ten o'clock he started for a short farewell stroll about the old
place. Annie joined him in the garden.

"I do not think you were generous last evening," she said. "Mr.
Hunting met you half-way."

"Did I not do just what I promised?"

"But I was in hopes you would do more, especially when the way was
opened."

"Do you think, Miss Walton, that Mr. Hunting's manner and feelings
toward me were sincerely cordial and friendly? Was it the prompting of
his heart, or your influence, that led him to put out his hand?"

Annie blushed, in conscious confusion. "I fear I shall never reconcile
you," she said, sadly.

"I fear not," he replied. "There must be a great change in us both
before you can. Though the reason I give you was a sufficient one for
not taking his hand in friendly feeling, it was not the one that
influenced me. I would not have taken it under any circumstances."

"Mr. Gregory, you grieve me most deeply," she said, in a tone of real
distress. "Won't you, when you come to part, take his hand for my
sake, and let a little of the ice thaw?"

"No," he said, almost sternly; "not even for your sake, for whom I
would die, will I be dishonest with myself or him; and you are not one
to ask me to act a lie."

"You wound me deeply, sir!" she said, coldly.

"Faithful are the wounds of a friend," he replied. She did not answer.

"We shall not part in this way, Annie," he said, in a low, troubled
voice.

"The best I can do is to give you credit for very mistaken sincerity,"
she answered, sadly.

"That is all now, I fear," replied he, gently. "Good-by, Annie Walton.
We are really parting now. My mission to you is past, and we go our
different ways. You will never believe anything I can say on this
painful subject, and I would not have spoken of it again of my own
accord. Keep your promise to me, and all will yet be well, I believe.
As that poor woman who saved us in the mountains said, 'There will at
least be one good thing about me. Whether I can pray for myself or
not, I shall daily pray for you'; and I feel that God who shielded you
so strangely once, will still guard you. Do not grieve because I go
away with pain in my heart. It's a better kind of suffering than that
with which I came, and lasting good may come out of it, for my old
reckless despair is gone. If I ever do become a good man--a Christian
--I shall have you to thank; and even heaven would be happier if you
were the means of bringing me there."

"When you speak that way, Walter," she said, tears starting to her
eyes, "I must forgive everything; and when you become a Christian you
will love even your enemy. Please take this little package from me,
but do not open it till you reach the quiet and seclusion of your own
rooms. Good-by, my brother, for as such my father told me to act and
feel toward you, and from my heart I obey."

He looked at her with moistened eyes, but did not trust himself to
answer, and without another word they returned to the house.

Gregory's leave-taking from the rest of the household was no mere
form. Especially was this true of Miss Eulie, to whom he said most
feelingly, "Miss Morton, my mother could not have been kinder or more
patient with me."

When he pressed Zibbie's hand and left a banknote in it, she broke out
in the broadest Scotch, "Maister Gregory, an' when I think me auld
gray head would ha' been oot in the stourm wi' na hame to cover it, I
pray the gude God to shelter yours fra a' the cauld blasts o' the
wourld."

Silent Hannah, alike favored, seemed afflicted with a sudden attack of
St. Vitus's dance, so indefinite was the number of her courtesies;
while Jeff, on the driver's seat, looked as solemn as if he were to
drive Gregory to the cemetery instead of the depot.

At the moment of final parting, Gregory merely took Annie's hand and
looked into her eyes with an expression that caused them speedily to
droop, tear-blinded.

To Hunting he had bowed his farewell in the parlor.

When the last object connected with his old home was hidden from his
wistful, lingering gaze, he said, with the sorrow of one who watches
the sod placed above the grave of his dearest, "So it all ends."

But when in his city apartments, which never before had seemed such a
cheerless mockery of the idea of home, he opened the package Annie had
given him--when he found a small, worn Bible, inscribed with the
words, "To my dear little daughter Annie, from mother," and written
beneath, in a child's hand, "I thank you, dear mother. I will read it
every day"--he sprang up, and exclaimed it strongest feeling, "No, all
has not ended yet."

When he became sufficiently calm he again took up the Bible, and found
the leaves turned down at the 14th chapter of St. John, with the
words, "Begin here."

He read, "Let not your heart be troubled: ye believe in God, believe
also in me.

"In my Father's house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would
have told you. I go to prepare a place for you."

"How sweetly--with what exquisite delicacy--she points me beyond the
shadows of time!" he said, musingly. "I believe in God. I ever have.
Then why not _trust_ the 'Man of Sorrows,' who also must be God? Both
Annie and her quaint old friend are right. He never turned one away
who came sincerely. In Him who forgave the outcast and thief there
glimmers hope for me. How thick the darkness as I look elsewhere. Lord
Jesus," he cried, with a rush of tears, "I am palsied through sin:
lift me up, that I may come to Thee."

Better for him that night than a glowing hearth with genial friends
around it was Annie's Bible.

Looking at it fondly, he said, "It links me to her happy childhood
before that false man came, and it may join me to her in the 'place'
which God is preparing, when he who now deceives her is as far removed
as sin."

CHAPTER XXXII

AT SEA--A MYSTERIOUS PASSENGER

Immediately after Mr. Walton's funeral Miss Eulie had written to a
brother-in-law, then, in Europe, full particulars of all that had
occurred. This gentleman's name was Kemp, and he had originally
married a sister of Miss Eulie and Mrs. Walton. But she had died some
years since, and he had married as his second wife one who was an
entire stranger to the Walton family, and with whom there could be but
little sympathy. For this reason, though no unfriendliness existed,
there had been a natural falling-off of the old cordial intimacy. Mr.
Walton had respected Mr. Kemp as a man of sterling worth and
unimpeachable integrity, and his feelings were shared by Miss Eulie
and Annie, while Mr. Kemp himself secretly cherished a tender and
regretful memory of his earlier marriage connection. When he heard
that his niece, Annie, was orphaned, his heart yearned toward her, for
he had always been fond of her as a child. But when he came to read of
her relations with Hunting, and that this man was in charge of her
property, he was in deep distress. He would have returned home
immediately, but his wife's health would not permit his leaving her.
He wrote to Miss Eulie a long letter of honest sympathy, urging her
and Annie to come to him at Paris, saying that the change would be of
great benefit to both.

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