University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.
OPENING A CHESTNUT BURR.

IF the reader can imagine a man visiting his own
grave, he might obtain some idea of the feelings
with which Walter Gregory took the boat which
would land him not far from his early home. And
yet so different was he from the boy who left that
home fifteen years before, that it might be 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 each
other 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, and Walter'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 light shines
at the farther 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 attractions.

There was no marked change in the foliage as
yet, but only a deepening of color, like a faint 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 the faces of
old friends. At last, nestling in a wild, picturesque
valley, he saw 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 sprang 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 in 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 me 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 this
is but a beautiful and mocking mirage?”

He felt that he could not meet any one until becoming
more composed, and so passed on up the valley.
Before turning away he noticed that a lady,
dressed in Scotch plaid, came out of the front door.
The children joined her and they seemingly started
for a walk.

Looking wistfully on either side, Walter 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 on the porch of a little house opposite
did. As Walter 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 even shocked his hardened
ears. Turning gingerly around so as not to loose 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?”

Walter 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 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
Walter 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 Walter 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 an old, lame man.”

Walter took off his hat with a polite bow and
said, “I beg your pardon, I was under the impression
that you 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 sprang from the fence on the orchard side,

and made his way to the hill back of the Walton
residence, leaving the old man mumbling and muttering
in a very profane manner that—

“Like enough it was somebody visitin' at the
Waltons, and he had made a—fool of himself after all.
What's worse, that poor, little, sick Miss Eulie will
hear I've been swearin' agin, and there'll be
another awful prayin' time. What a cussed old fool I
am to promise to quit swearin' I know I can't. What
is 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 Walter 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 cow-bells, the slumbrous monitone 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 quiet and
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 there were any.

Not a person was visible on the premises, 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 sweet and beautiful 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 what mother 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 Walter 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 farther behind the cedars he purposed
to reconnoitre a little before making himself known.
He noticed that she was dressed in Scotch plaid, that
seemed to have a pretty fitness for rambling among
the hills. At first he thought she was pretty, and
then that she was not. His quick, critical eye detected
that her features were not regular, that a
classic profile was wanting. It was only the rich
glow of exercise and 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 so vociferously
about. She was glancing around for some means
to break it open, and Walter 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 taking flight.

“Pardon me for so alarming you,” Walter hastened
to say, “and also pardon a seeming stranger
for addressing you informally. My name may not
be unknown to you, though 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, though 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 chesnuts in it, let them be a token that I am
what I represent myself. If not, then you may
justly ask 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 though the sharp spines stung him sorely he
permitted no sign of pain to come out 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 oracles, 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, lest I cause
your death.”

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 the first time I took 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 will 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 interpretess,
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 shy, curious glances, approached.

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

Walter 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 her cheek that his moustache had tickled.

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

“Do you think it would be right, Johnnie, 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 looked very much like
a white scalloped night-cap. 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 each other's rights and feelings
that reminded one unpleasantly of political aspirants
just after a Presidential election. Johnnie
made a dive for an old gobbler, and the huge bird
dropped its wings and seemed inclined to show
fight, but a reluctant armistice was brought about
between them by the old woman screaming:

“Maister Johnnie, an ye let not the fowls alone
ye'll ha na apples roast the night.”

Susie clung timidly to her auntie'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, as it
were, from babies,” 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 towards him screaming, “Grandpa.”

A colored man appeared from the barn-yard and
took the horse, and Mr. Walton, with a briskness
that one would not suspect at his advanced age,
came toward them.

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

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

“Really, 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
stay with us, as truly as ever it was.”

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