 | CHAPTER XII.
FOILED IN ONE DIRECTION. Opening a chestnut burr |  |
12. CHAPTER XII.
FOILED IN ONE DIRECTION.
GREGORY lifted Miss Walton into the carriage
very tenderly, and took his place by her side,
while her father was detained by some little matter
of business.
“I am not an invalid,” said Annie, rather curtly.
“Indeed you are not, Miss Walton; from your
super-abundance you are even giving life to me.”
“I thought from your manner you feared I was
about to faint,” she answered dryly.
Mr. Walton joined them and they started homeward.
“Come, Miss Annie,” said Walter (addressing
her thus for the first time). “Why so distant? Was
I not called a brother in the meeting? If I am a
brother you are a sister. I told you I would secure
this relationship.”
She did not answer him.
“I think it was too bad,” he continued, “that
you did not second my efforts better. You would
not help me sing either of the tunes I started.”
“Mr. Gregory,” said Annie emphatically, “I
will never go to a prayer-meeting with you again.”
“What a rash resolve! But I confess that I preferred
to have you stay at home with me.”
“You have spoiled the whole evening for me.”
“And you spoiled mine. So we are just even,”
he replied laughingly.
“No we are not. How can you turn sacred
things into a jest?”
“I was possessed to see a smile light up the
awful gravity of your face, and feel amply repaid in
that I succeeded. It was a delicious bit of sunshine
on a cloudy day.”
“And I am provoked with myself beyond measure,
that I could have laughed like a silly child.”
“But did you not like the first tune I sang?
`Old Hundred' was selected in deference to the
wishes of the meeting.”
“No, I did not like it. It was not suitable to
the place and words. Though I never heard it
before, its somewhat slow movement did not prevent
it from smacking of something very foreign from a
prayer-meeting.”
“A most happy and inspired expression! Many
a time I have smacked my lips when it was being
sung over the best of wine.”
“Was it a drinking song, then?” she asked
quickly.
“What will you do with me if I say it was?”
“Mr. Gregory, I would not have thought this
even of you.”
“Even of me! Come, that is complimentary.
I now learn what a low estimate you have of me.
of the church militant are ever saying, `It's a
pity the devil should have all the good music,' and
so half the Sunday-school tunes, and many sung in
churches have had a lower origin than my drinking
song. I assure you the words are as fine as the air.
Why have I not as good a right to hook a tune from
the devil as the rest of them?”
“It's the motive that makes all the difference,”
said Annie. “But I fear that in this case the devil
suffered no loss.”
“I'm sure my motive was not bad. I only
wished to see a bonny smile light up your face.”
Before she could reply the carriage stopped at
Mr. Walton's door, and with Mr. Gregory she passed
into the cosey parlor. Her father did not immediately
join them.
As Walter looked at her while she took off her
wraps, he thought:
“By Jove! she's handsome if she is not pretty.”
In fact Annie's face at that time would have
attracted attention anywhere. The crisp air had
given her a fine color. Her eyes glowed with a
suppressed excitement and anger, while the firm
lines about the mouth indicated that when she spoke
it would be decidedly. In spite of herself the audacity,
cleverness, and wickedness of this stranger had
affected her strangely. As he threw off his moodiness,
as he revealed himself by word and action, she
saw that he was no ordinary character, but a thorough
man of the world and with some strange
might be as dangerous as he was in danger himself.
But she had determined during the ride home that
even though he meant no slur upon them he should
carry his mocking spirit no more into sacred things.
Therefore, after a moment's thought, she turned toward
him with a manner of mingled frankness and
dignity, and said:
“Mr. Gregory, I regret what has occurred this
evening. I have a painful sense of the ludicrous,
and you have taken unfair advantage of it. I am
usually better and happier for going to our simple
little meeting, but now I can only think of the whole
hour with pain. I think I am as mirth-loving as the
majority of my age, and perhaps more so. I say
truly that my heart is very light and happy. But
Mr. Gregory, we look at certain things very differently
from you. While I would not for a moment
have you think that religion brings into my life
gloom and restraint—quite the reverse—still it gives
me great pain when anything connected with my
faith is made a matter of jest. These things are
sacred to us, and I know my father would feel deeply
grieved if he understood you this evening. Do you
not see? It appears to us differently from what it
does to you and perhaps to the world at large.
These things are to us what your mother's memory
is to you. I would sooner cut off my right hand
than trifle with that.”
Gregory had been able to maintain his quizzical
look of mischief till she named his mother; then his
it, and after a moment, with an expression something
like true manhood, he stepped forward and
took Annie's hand, saying:
“Miss Walton, I sincerely ask your pardon. I
did not know—I could not believe that you felt as
you do. I will give you no further reason to complain
of me on this ground. I hope you will forgive
me.” She at once relented, and said:
Is not of heaven nor earth.'
Shakespeare.”
“You seem a delightful mixture of both, Miss
Walton.”
“If you were a better judge, sir, you would know
that the earthly ingredient is too great. But that is
in your favor, for I am sufficiently human to make
allowance for human folly.”
“I shall tax your charity to the utmost.”
As Walter sat down in his arm-chair to recall the
events of the day before retiring, he thought:
“Well, my attempt has failed signally. While
by her involuntary smile she showed that she was
human, she has also managed this evening to prove
that she is perfectly sincere in her religion, and to
render it impossible for me to assail her in that direction
again. As the old hymn goes, I must `let her
religious hours alone.' But how far her religion or
superstition will control her action is another question.
I have learned both at home and abroad that
matters of faith and ceremony, and jealous of any
hand stretched out to touch their sacred ark, but
when through with the holy business they can live
the life of very ordinary mortals. This may be true of
Miss Walton. At any rate I have made a mistake in
showing my hand somewhat at a prayer-meeting, for
women are so tenacious on religious matters. Deference,
personal attention, and compliments—these are
the irresistible weapons. These inflate pride and
vanity to such a degree that a miserable collapse is
necessary. And yet I must be careful, for she is
not like some belles I know, who have the swallow
of a whale for flattery. She is too intelligent, too refined
to take compliments as large and glaring as a
sunflower. Something in the way of a moss-rose
bud will acomplish more. I will appear as if falling
under her power; as if bewitched by her charms.
Nothing pleases your plain girls more than to be
thought beautiful. I will have her head turned in a
week. I am more bent than ever on teaching this
little Puritan that she and I live upon the same
level.”
Saturday morning dawned clear and bracing, and
the grass was white with hoar frost. The children
came in to breakfast with glowing cheeks and hair
awry, crying excitedly in the same breath that they
“had been to the chestnut trees and that Jack had
opened the burrs all night.”
In answer to their clamorous petitions a one
o'clock dinner was promised, and Aunt Annie was to
as pioneer to thrash and club the trees.
“Can I go too?” asked Walter of the children.
“I suppose so,” said Johnnie, rather coldly, “If
Aunt Annie is willing.”
“You can go with me,” said kind-hearted little
Susie.
“Now I can go whether Aunt Annie is willing or
not,” said Walter with mock defiance at the boy.
He glanced at his aunt's face to gather how he
should take this, but she settled the matter satisfactorily
to him by saying:
“You shall be my beau, and Mr. Gregory will
be Susie's.”
“Good, good!” exclaimed Susie. “I've got a
beau already;” and she beamed upon Walter in a
way that made them all laugh.
“`Coming events cart their shadows before,' you
perceive, Miss Walton,” said Walter meaningly.
“Sometimes the events themselves are but shadows,”
she replied, drily.
“Now that is severe upon the beaux. How
about the belles?” he asked quickly.
“I have nothing to say against my own sex,
sir.”
“That is not fair. Of course I can say nothing
adverse.”
“If you would say what you think I fear we
would be little inclined to cry with Shylock, `A
Daniel come to judgment'!”
“You have a dreadful opinion of me Miss
change it.”
“You found so much in a chestnut burr the day
you came I should not be surprised if you found
everything else there that you wish to know.”
“I shall not look in burrs for chestnuts this afternoon,
but something else far more important.”
Walter spent the forenoon quietly in his own
room reading, in order that he might have all the
strength and vigor possible for the ramble. And to
Annie, as housekeeper, Saturday morning brought
many duties.
By two o'clock the nutting expedition was organized,
and with Jeff in advance with a short ladder on
his left shoulder and a long, limber pole in his right
hand, the party started for the hills. At first Johnnie
oppressed with his dignity as Aunt Annie's
“beau,” stalked soberly at her side, and Susie also
claimed Walter according to agreement, and insisted
on keeping hold of his hand.
Walter submitted with such grace as he could
muster, for children were tiresome to him, and he
wanted to talk to Miss Walton, without “little
pitchers with large ears” around.
Annie smiled to herself at his half-concealed
annoyance and wooden gallantry to Susie, but she
understood childish life well enough to know that
the present arrangement would not last very long.
And she was right. They had hardly entered
the shady lane leading to the trees before a
chipmonk, with its shrill note of exclamation at
near and ran for its hole.
Away went Aunt Annie's beau after it, and
Susie also, quite oblivious of her first possession in
that line, joined in the pursuit. There was an excited
consultation above the squirrel's retreat, and then
Johnnie out with his knife and cut a flexible rod
with which to investigate the “robber's den.”
Gregory at once joined Annie, saying, “Since
the beau of your choice has deserted you, will you
except of another?”
“Yes, till he proves alike inconstant.”
“I will see to that. A burr shall be my emblem.”
“Or I do,” she added, laughing.
“Now the future is beyond my power.”
`Perhaps it is anyway. Johnnie was bent upon
being a true knight. You may see something that
will be to you what the chipmonk was to him,”
“And such is your opinion of men's constancy?
Miss Walton, you are more of a cynic than I am.”
“Indeed! Do women dwell in your fancy as
fixed stars?”
“Fixed stars are all suns, are they not? I know
of one with wonderful powers of attraction,” said
Walter with a significant glance.
“Does she live in New York?” quietly asked
Annie.
“You know well she does not. She is a votress
of nature, and, as I said, I shall search in every burr
for the hidden clue to her favor.”
“You had better look for chestnuts, sir.”
“Chestnuts! Fit food for children and chipmonks.
I am in quest of the only manna that ever
fell from Heaven. Have you read Longfellow's
Golden Legend, Miss Walton?”
“Yes,” she replied with a slight contraction of
the brow as if the suggestion were not pleasing.
The children now came bounding towards, them
and each wanted to resume their old places.
“No, sir,” said Walter decisively. “You deserted
your fair lady's side and your place is filled;
and Susie—
“`Thou fair, false one,'
heart has found solace in another.”
Johnnie received this charge against his gallantry
with a red face and eyes that began to dilate with
anger, while Susie looked at Walter poutingly and
said:
“I don't like big beaux. I think chipmonks are
ever so much nicer.”
The laugh that followed broke the force of the
storm that was brewing; and Annie, by saying, “See,
children, Jeff is climbing the tree on top of the hill,
I wonder who will get the first nuts,” caused the
wind to veer round from the threatening quarter,
and away they scampered with grievances all forgotten.
“If grown-up children could only forget their
troubles as easily!” sighed Walter. “Miss Walton,
has cleared up another storm.”
“They have not forgotten,” said Annie, ignoring
the compliment—“they have only been diverted
from their trouble. Children can do by nature
what we should from intelligent choice—turn away
the mind from painful subjects to those that are
pleasing. You don't catch me brooding over trouble
when there are a thousand pleasant things to
think of.”
“That is easier said than done, Miss Walton. I
read on your smooth brow that you have had few
serious troubles, and, as you say, `you have a thousand
pleasant things to think of.' But with others
it may be very different. Some troubles have a terrible
magnetism that draws the mind back to them
as if by a malign spell, and there are no `pleasant
things to think of.'”
“No `pleasant things'? Why, Mr. Gregory!
The universe is very wide.”
“Present company excepted,” replied he gallantly.
“But what do I care for the universe? As
you say, it is `very wide,'—a big, uncomfortable
place, that one is afraid of getting lost in.”
“I am not,” said Annie, gently.
“How so?”
“It's all my Father's house. I am never for a
moment lost sight of. Wherever I am, I am like a
little child playing outside the door while its mother,
unseen, is watching it from the window.”
He looked at her keenly to see if she were perfectly
little child, and the thought flashed across him:
“If she is so watched and guarded, how vain are
my attempts!”
But he only said with a shrug:
“It would be a pity to dissipate your happy superstition,
Miss Walton, but after what I have seen
and experienced in the world, it would seem more
generally true that the mother forgot her charge,
left the window, and the child was run over by the
butcher's cart.”
“Do not think it vain confidence,” said Annie,
earnestly, “when I say that you could not dissipate
what you term my `superstition,' any more than
you could argue me out of my belief in my good old
father's love.”
| CHAPTER XII.
FOILED IN ONE DIRECTION. Opening a chestnut burr | |