University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.
HOW MISS WALTON MANAGED PEOPLE.

REST, the sunny light and bracing air of the following
morning banished much of Walter's
moodiness, and he descended the stairs purposing to
dismiss painful thoughts and get what comfort and
semblance of enjoyment he could out of the passing
hour. Mr. Walton met him cordially—indeed with
almost fatherly solicitude—and led him at once to
the dining-room, where an inviting breakfast awaited.
Miss Walton also was genial, and introduced Miss
Eulalia Morton, a maiden sister of her mother. Miss
Eulie, as she was familiarly called, was a pale, delicate
little lady, with a face sweetened rather than hardened
and embittered by time. If, as some believe, the
flesh and the spirit, the soul and the body, are ever at
variance, she gave the impression at first glance that
the body was getting the worst of the conflict. But
in truth the faintest thoughts of strife seemed to
have no association with her whatever. She appeared
so light and ærial that one could imagine
her flying over the rough places of life, and vanishing
when any one opposed her.

Miss Walton reversed all this, for she was decidedly
substantial. A fine figure made her appear

taller than she really was, for she was only of medium
height. She immediately gave the impression of
power and reserve force. You felt it in her quick
elastic step. You saw it in her decided though not
abrupt movements, and heard it in her tone. Even
the nonchalant Mr. Gregory could not ignore her in
his customary polite manner, though a quiet refinement
and peculiar unobtrusiveness seemed her characteristics.
She won attention, not because she
sought it, nor on the ground of eccentricities, but
because of her own intense vitality. From her dark
eyes a close observer might catch glimpses of a
quick, active mind, an eager spirit, and, well—perhaps
a passionate temper. Though chastened and
subdued, she ever gave the impression of power to
those who came to know her well. In certain ways
as they interpreted her people did acknowledge this
force of her character. Some spoke of her as very
lively others as exceedingly energetic and willing to
enter on any good work. Some thought her ambitious,
else why was she so prominent in church matters,
and so ready to visit the sick and poor. They
could explain this in but one way. And some looked
knowingly at each other and said:

“I wonder if she is always as smiling and
sweet as when in society?” and then followed shaking
of heads which intimated, “look out for sudden
gusts.”

Again, as in simple morning wrapper, she turned
to greet Walter, she gave him the impression of
something like beauty. But his taste, rendered nice

and critical by much observation both at home
and abroad, at once told him that he was mistaken.

“The expression is well enough,” he thought,
“but she has not a single perfect feature—not one
that an artist would copy, except perhaps the eyes,
and even they are not soft and Madonna-like.”

Walter had a sybarite's eye for beauty, and intense
admiration for it. At the same time he was
too intellectual to be satisfied with the mere sensuous
type. And yet when he decided that a woman
was not pretty, she ceased to interest him. His
exacting taste required no small degree of outward
perfection crowned by ready wit and society polish.
With such he had frequently amused himself in New
York and Paris by a passing flirtation since the politic
Miss Bently had made him a skeptic in regard
to women. All his intercourse with society had confirmed
his cynicism. The most beautiful and brilliant
in the drawing-rooms were seldom the best
present. He flattered them to their faces and
sneered at them in his heart. His attentions were
merely of a nature to excite their vanity, fed by
much incense from other sources. He saw this
plainly manifested vanity which he contributed to
develop and despised it. He saw them as eager for
a good match as ever the adored Miss Bently had
been, and that, though they liked his compliments,
they cared nothing for him. Why should they? Insincere
and selfish himself, why should he expect to
awaken better feelings on the part of those who were

anything but unsophisticated, and from knowledge
of the world could gague him at his true worth.
Not even a silly sentimental girl would show her
heart to such a man. And yet with the blind egotism
of selfishness he smiled grimly at their heartlessness
and said, “Such is woman.”

At the same time in justice it must be said that
he despised men in general quite as sincerely.

“Human nature is wretched stuff,” had come to
be the first article in his creed.

He concluded in regard to Miss Walton: “She
is a goodish girl, more of a lady than the average,
pious and orthodox, excellent housekeeper, and a
great comfort to her father, no doubt. She is safe,
from her very plainness, though confident, of course,
that she could resist temptation and be a saint under
all circumstances;” and he dismissed her from his
mind with a sort of inward groan and protest against
the necessity of making himself agreeable to her
during his visit.

He did not think it worth while to specially disguise
his face, as he made these brief critical observations,
and quick-witted Anne gathered something of
the drift of his thoughts, as she stole a few glances
at him from behind the coffee-urn. It piqued her a
pride a little, and she was disappointed in him, for
she had hoped for an agreeable addition to their
society for a time. But she was so supremely indifferent
to him, and had so much to pleasurably fill
her thoughts and days, that his slight promise to
prove an agreeable visitor caused but momentary

annoyance. But a glimmer of a smile flitted across
her face as she thought:

“He may find himself slightly mistaken in regard
to me after all. His face seemed to say, “No doubt
she is a good young woman, and well enough for
this slow country place, but she has no beauty, no
style.”

“I think I can manage to disturb the even current
of his vanity,” she thought, “if he will stay
long enough, and he shall learn at least that I will
not gape admiringly at his artificial metropolitan
airs.”

Her manner toward Gregory remained full of
kindness and grace, but she made no effort to secure
his attention and conversation, as he feared. She
acted as if she were accustomed to see such persons
as himself at her father's breakfast-table every morning;
and, though habitually wrapped up in himself,
Gregory soon became dimly conscious that her
course toward him was different from what he expected.

Miss Eulie was all solicitude in view of his character
of invalid, and the children looked at him with
curious eyes and growing disapprobation. There
was nothing in him to secure their instinctive friendship,
and he made no effort to win their sympathies.

The morning meal commenced with a reverent
looking to heaven for God's blessing on the gifts
which were acknowledged as coming from Him;
and even Gregory was compelled to admit that the
brief rite did not appear like a careless signing of the

cross, nor a shrivelled form from which spirit and
meaning had departed, but a sincere expression of
loving trust and gratitude.

Mr. Walton dwelt on the circumstances that led
to his friendship with Walter's father during the
greater part of the meal, but at last the conversation
flagged a little as the young man made so little
effort to maintain it.

Suddenly Mr. Walton turned to his daughter
and said: “By the way, Annie, you have not told
me where you found Mr. Gregory, for my impression
is that you brought him down from the hills.”

“I was about to say that I found him in a chestnut
burr,” replied Annie, with a twinkle in her eye.
“At least I found a stranger by the cedar thicket,
and he proved out of a chestnut burr who he was,
and his right to acquaintance with a better logic
than I supposed him capable of.”

“Indeed,” asked Walter quickly, feeling the
prick of her last words; “on what ground were you
led to estimate my logic so slightingly?”

“On merely general grounds; but you see I am
open to all evidence in your favor. City life has no
doubt great advantages, but it also has greater drawbacks.”

“What are they?”

“I cannot think of them all now. Suffice it to
say that if you had always lived in the city you
could not have interpreted a chestnut burr so
gracefully. Many there seem to forget nature's
lore.”

“But may they not learn other things more valuable?”

Miss Walton shook her head, and said with a
laugh, “An ignorant exhorter once stated to his
little schoolhouse audience that Paul was brought up
at the foot of the hill Gamaliel. I almost wish he
were right, for I should have had more confidence in
the teachings of the hill than of the narrow-minded
Jewish Rabbi.”

“And yet you regard Paul as the very chief of
the apostles.”

“He became such after he was taught of Him
who teaches through the hills and nature generally.”

“My daughter is an enthusiast for nature,” remarked
Mr. Walton.

“If the people are the same as when I was here
a boy, the hills have not taught the majority very
much,” said Walter with a French shrug.

“Many of them have a better wisdom than you
think,” answered Annie quietly.

“In what does it consist?”

“Well, for one thing they know how to enjoy
life, and add to the enjoyment of others.”

Walter looked at her keenly for a moment, but
saw nothing that would lead him to think that she
was speaking on other than general principles; but
he said, a little moodily, as they rose from the table,
“that certainly is a better wisdom than is usually
attained in either city or country.”

“It is not our custom to make company of our
friends,” said Mr. Walton cordially. “We hope

you will feel completely at home, and come and go
and do just what you find agreeable. We dine at
two, and have an early supper on account of the
children. There are one or two fair saddle horses
on the place, but if you do not feel strong enough
for that Annie can drive you out, and I assure you
she is at home in the management of a horse.”

“Yes, indeed,” echoed the little boy. Aunt Annie
can manage anything or anybody.”

“That is a remarkable power,” said Walter with
an amused look and side glance at the young lady.
“How does she do it?”

“Oh, I dont know,” replied the boy; “she sorter
makes them love her and then they want to do as
she says.”

A momentary wrathful gleam shot from Annie's
eyes at her indiscreet little champion, but with
heightened color she joined in the laugh that followed.

Gregory had the ill grace to say with a sort of
mocking gallantry as he bowed himself out.

“It must be delightful to be managed on such
terms.”