University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.
UNEXPECTED CHESTNUT BURRS.

WALTER'S afternoon walk was not very prolonged,
for a shivering sense of discomfort
soon drove him back to the house. Though the
morning had been cool the sun shone brightly and
warmly, but now the foreshadowing of a storm was
evident. A haze had spread over the sky, increasing
in leaden hue and density toward the west.
The chilly wind moaned fitfully through the trees,
and the landscape darkened as a face might with
the shadow of coming trouble.

Walter dreaded a storm, fearing it would shut
him up with the family without escape; but at last
the sun so enshrouded itself in gloom that he was
compelled to return. He went up to his room to
get a book that he had brought, hoping that when
they saw him engaged in that he might escape conversation
somewhat. But to his agreeable surprise
he found a cheerful fire blazing on the hearth, and
an ample supply of wood in a box near. The easy-chair
was wheeled forward, and a plate of grapes
and the latest magazine were placed invitingly on
the table by its side. Even his cynicism was not

proof against this delicate thoughtfulness of his comfort,
and he exclaimed:

“Ah, this is better than I expected, and a hundred-fold
better than I deserve. I make but poor
return for their kindness. This cosey room seems to
say, `We won't force ourselves on you. You can be
alone as much as you like,' for I suppose they must
have noticed my disinclination for society and talk.
But they are wise after all, for I am cursed poor
company for myself and worse than none at all for
others.”

Eating from time to time a ripe Concord grape,
that type of juicy steak among fruits, he so lost himself
in the fresh thoughts of the magazine that the
tea-bell rang ere he was aware.

“In the name of decency I must try to make
myself agreeable for a little while this evening,” he
muttered, as he descended to the cheerful dining-room.
Again simple grace was said; and he found
that at every meal there was the same grateful recognition
of God as the giver of all good to which he
had been accustomed when a boy. The thought
flashed across him, “If they really believe as they
profess, how natural and right is this acknowledgement.”

There is nothing like religion lived out to open a
heart closed against it.

To their solicitude for his health and regret that
the approaching storm had driven him so early to
the house, he replied:

“I found in my room a better substitute for the

sunlight I had lost; though as a votress of nature,
Miss Walton, I suppose you will regard this assertion
as rank heresy.”

“Not at all, for your firelight is the result of sunlight,”
answered Annie, smiling.

“How is that?”

“It required many summers of sunshine to ripen
the wood that blazed on your hearth. Indeed, good
dry wood is but concentrated sunshine put by for
use on cold, gloomy days and chilly nights.”

That is an odd fancy. I wish there were other
ways for storing up sunshine for future use.”

“There are,” said Miss Walton, cheerily; and
she looked up as if she would like to say more, but
Walter instantly changed the subject in his instinctive
wish to avoid the faintest approach to moralizing.
Still, conversation continued quite brisk till Mr.
Walton asked suddenly:

“By the way, Mr. Gregory, have you ever met
Mr. Hunting of Wall Street?”

There was no immediate answer, and they all
looked inquiringly at him. To their surprise his
face was darkened by the heaviest frown. After a
moment he said, with peculiar emphasis:

“Yes; I know him well.”

A chill seemed to fall on them after that; and
Walter glancing up saw that Annie looked flushed
and indignant, Miss Eulie pained, and Mr. Walton
was very grave. Even the little boy shot vindictive
glances at him. He at once surmised that Hunting
was related to the family, and was oppressed with

the thought that he was fast losing the welcome
given him on his father's account. But in a few
moments Annie rallied and made unwonted efforts
to banish the embarassment they all seemed under,
and with partial success, for Gregory had tact and
good conversational powers if he chose to exert
them. When, soon after, they adjourned to the parlor,
outward serenity reigned.

On either side of the ample hearth, on which
blazed a hickory fire, two tables were drawn up.
An easy-chair stood invitingly by each, with a little
carpet bench on which to rest the feet.

“Take one of these,” said Mr. Walton cordially,
“and join me with a cigar. The ladies of my household
are indulgent to my small vices.”

“And I will send for your magazine,” said Annie,
“and then you can read and chat according to your
moods. You see that we do not intend to make
company of you.”

“For which I am very glad. You treat me far
better than I deserve.”

Instead of some deprecatory remark, or a statement
of the sound but rather trite doctrine that so
all are treated, Annie gave him a quick, half-comical
look which he did not fully understand.

“There is more of her than I thought,” he said
to himself.

Seated with the magazine, Gregory found himself
in the enjoyment of every element of comfort.
That he might be under no constraint to talk, Annie
commenced speaking to her father and Miss Eulie

of some neighborhood affairs, of which he knew
nothing. The children and a large greyhound
were dividing the rug between them. The former
were chatting in low tones and roasting the first
gleaning of chestnuts on a broad shovel that was
placed on the glowing coals. The dog was sleepily
watching them lest in their quick movements his tail
should come to grief.

Walter had something of an artist's eye, and he
could not help glancing up from his reading occasionally,
and thinking what a pretty picture the
roomy parlor made.

“Annie,” said Mr. Walton after a little while,”
I can't get through this article with my old eyes.
Won't you finish it for me?”

And then Walter forgot to read himself in listening
to her. Not that he heard the subject matter
with any interest, for it was merely an account of
some movement on foot in the West. But the
sweet, natural tone and simplicity with which she
read arrested and retained his attention. Even the
statistics and statements of political economy seemed
to fall from her lips in musical cadence, and yet
there was no apparent effort and not a thought of
effect. Walter mused as he listened.

“I would like to hear some quiet, genial book
read in that style, though it is evident that Miss
Walton is no tragedy queen.

Having finished the reading, Annie started briskly
up and said:

“Come little kids, your chestnuts are roasted and

eaten. It's bedtime. The turkeys and squirrels
will be at the nut trees long before you to-morrow
unless you scamper off at once.”

“Oh, Aunt Annie,” chimed their voices, “you
must sing us the chestnut song first; you promised
to.

“Well, if we won't disturb Mr. Gregory, I suppose
I must make my promise good,” said Annie.

“Not at all; I join the children in asking for the
song,” said Walter, glad to get them out of the way
on such easy conditions, though he expected a nursery
ditty or a juvenile hymn from some Sabbath-school
collection, where healthy, growing boys are
made to sing, “I want to be an angel.” “Moreover,
I have read that one must always keep one's
word to a child.”

“Which is a very important truth, do you not
think so?”

“Since you are using the word `truth' so prominently,
Miss Walton, I must say that I have not
thought much about it. But I certainly would have
you keep your word on this occasion.”

“Aunt Annie always keeps her word,” said Johnnie
rather bluntly. By some childish instinct he
divined that Gregory did not appreciate Aunt
Annie sufficiently, and this added to his prejudice
already formed.

“You have a stout little champion there,” said
Walter.

“I cannot complain of his zeal,” she answered
significantly, at the same time giving the boy a

caress. “Mr. Gregory, this is a rude country ballad,
and we are going to sing it in our accustomed way,
even though it shocks your city ears. Johnnie and
Susie, you can join in the chorus,” and she sang the
following simple October glee:

Gregory's expression as she played a simple prelude
was simply that of endurance, but when she
commenced singing the changes of his face were
rapid. First he turned toward her with a look of
interest, then of surprise. Miss Eulie could not
help watching him, for, though well on in life, just
such a character had never risen above her horizon.
Too gentle to censure, she felt that she had much
cause to grieve over him.

At first she was pleased to see that he found the
ditty far different and more to his taste than he expected.
But the rapid alteration from pleased surprise
and enjoyment to something like a scowl of
despair and almost hate she could not understand.
Following his eyes she saw them resting on the boy
who was now, with Susie's childish voice, lustily
joining in the chorus of the last verse. She was not
sufficiently skilled to know that to Gregory's diseased
moral nature things most simple and wholesome in
themselves were most repugnant. She could not
understand that the tripping little song, with its
wild-wood life and movement—that the boy singing
with the delight of a pure, fresh heart—told him, as
no labored language could, how hackneyed and blazé
he was—how far and hopelessly he had drifted from
the same true childhood.

And Miss Walton, turning suddenly toward him,
saw the same dark expression, full of suffering and
impotent revolt at his destiny, as he regarded it, and
she too was puzzled.

“You do not like our foolish little song,” she said.

“I envy that boy, Miss Walton,” was his reply.

Then she began to understand him, and said
gently, “You have no occasion to.”

“I wish you, or any one, could find the logic to
prove that.”

“The proof is not in logic but nature, that is
ever young. They who draw their life from nature
do not fall into the only age we need dread.”

“Do you not expect to grow old?”

She shook her head half humorously and said,
“But these children will before I get them to bed.”

Walter again ostensibly resumed his magazine,
but did not turn any leaves.

His first mental query was, “Have I rightly
guaged Miss Walton? I half believe she understands
me better than I do her. I estimated her as
a goodish, fairly educated country girl, of the church-going
sort, one that would be dreadfully shocked at
finding me out, and deem it at once her mission to
pluck me as a brand from the burning. I know all
about the goodness of such girls. They don't know
the world; they have never been tempted, and they
have a brood of little feminine weaknesses that of
course are not paraded in public.

“And no doubt all this is true of Miss Walton
when I come to find her out, and yet for some reason
she interests me a little this evening. Of course
she is refined and ladylike, but nowhere in the world
will you find drearier monotony and barrenness than
among refined people. Having no real originality,
their little oddities are polished away. In Miss

Walton I'm beginning to catch glimpses of vistas
unexplored, though perhaps I am a fool for thinking
so.

“What a peculiar voice she has. She would
make a poor figure, though, in the best operas, yet
she might render a simple aria very well. But for
songs of nature and ballads I have never heard so
sympathetic a voice. It suggests a power of making
music a sweet home language instead of a difficult,
high art, attainable by few. Really, Miss Walton is
worth investigation for no one with such a voice
can be entirely common-place. What is strange,
also, I cannot ignore her. Though she makes no
effort to attract my attention, I am ever conscious
of her presence.”