 | CHAPTER XIII.
INTERPRETING CHESTNUT BURRS. Opening a chestnut burr |  |
13. CHAPTER XIII.
INTERPRETING CHESTNUT BURRS.
THE conversation had taken a turn that Gregory
wished to avoid, so he said:
“Miss Walton, you regard me as wretched authority
on theology, and therefore my opinions will go
for nothing. I move we join the children on the
hill, for I am most anxious to commence the search
for the clue to your favor. Give me your hand, that
as your attendant I may at least appear to assist you
in climbing, though I suppose you justly think you
could help me more than I can you.”
“And if I can, why should I not?” asked Annie
kindly.”
“Indeed, Miss Walton, I would crawl up first.
But thanks to your reviving influences, I am not so
far gone as that.”
“Then you would not permit a woman to reach
out a helping hand to you? Talk not against Turks
and Arabs. How do Christian men regard us?”
“But you look upon me as a `heathen.'”
“Beg your pardon, I do not.”
“Miss Walton, give your honest opinion of me—
just what you think.”
“Will you do the same of me?”
“Oh, certainly!”
“No, do not answer in that tone. On your honor
as a gentleman.”
Walter was now caught. If he agreed he must
state the doubts of her real goodness; his low estimate
of women in general which led to his purpose
to tempt her. This would not only arm her against
his efforts but place him in a very unpleasant light,
So he said hastily:
“I beat a retreat, Miss Walton. I am satisfied
that your opinion would discourage me utterly.”
“You need have no fears of that kind,” she
said; “though my opinion would not be flattering,
it would be most encouraging.”
“No, Miss Walton, I am not to be caught. My
every glance and word reveal my opinion of you,
while yours of me amounts to what I used to hear
years ago: “You are a bad boy now, but may
become a good one.' Come, give me your hand,
and let me seem something like a man as long as I
can.”
As she complied she gave him a quick, keen look.
Her intuition told her of something hidden, and yet
he puzzled her.
Her hand was ungloved, and he thought, “When
have I clasped such a hand before? It could help a
Hercules. At any rate he would like to hold it, for
it is alive.”
There is as much diversity in the character of
hands as in faces. Some are very white and shapely
and a diamond flashes prettily upon them, but having
work and plenty of it, and for such the sensible will
ever have real respect. There are some hands that
make you think of creatures whose blood is cold.
A lady's hand in society often suggests feebleness,
lack of vitality. It is a thing to touch decorously,
and if feeling betray you into giving a hearty grasp
and pressure, you find that you are only causing
pain and reducing the member to a confused jumble
of bones and sinews. These are hands that suggest
fancy work, light crochet needles, and neuralgia.
Annie's hand was not one that a sculptor would
care to copy, though he would find no great fault
with it; but a sculptor would certainly find it a
pleasure to shake hands with her—the pleasure that
is the contrast with our shrinking from taking the
hand of the dead. It was soft and delicate to the
pressure and yet firm. It reminded one of silk
drawn over steel, and all electric and throbbing with
life. You felt that it could give you the true grasp
of friendship—that it had power to do more than
barely cling to something, but could both help and
sustain, and yet its touch would be gentleness itself
around the couch of suffering.
Walter believed in magnetism, and determined
to test her power the first opportunity that occurred.
Indeed, he scarcely dreaded one of his nervous headaches
in his wish to try her healing touch.
When they had reached the brow of the hill he
was much more exhausted than she, and sat down
panting.
“Miss Walton,” he asked, “do you not despise
a feeble man?”
“What kind of feebleness do you mean?”
“The weakness that makes me sit pale and panting
here, while you stand there glowing with life and
vigor, a veritable Hebe.”
“Now, sir, all your compliments cannot balance
that imputation against me. Such weakness
awakens my pity, sympathy, and wish to help.”
“Ah! the emotions you would bestow on a beggar.
Very agreeable to a man. Well, what kind of
feebleness do you despise?”
“I think I should despise a feeble, vacillating
Hercules most of all—a burly, assuming sort of person,
who could be made a tool of, and led to do
what he knew to be mean and wrong.”
“You must despise a great many people then.”
“No, I do not. Honestly, Mr. Gregory, I have
no right to despise anyone. I was only giving the
reverse of my ideal man. But I assure you I share
too deeply in humanity's faults to be very critical.
The best man that ever lived came not to condemn
but to help.”
“I am delighted to hear, Miss Walton, that you
share in our fallen humanity, for I was beginning to
doubt it, and you can well understand that I would
be dreadfully uncomfortable in the presence of perfection.”
“If you could escape all other sources of discomfort
as surely as this one, you would be a happy
man,” replied Annie with heightened color. “I
that style.”
“A truce, Miss Walton; only, in mercy to my
poor mortality, be as human as you can. Though
you seem to suspect me of a low estimate of your
sex, I much prefer women to saints and Madonnas.
I am going to look for the burr.”
This was adroitness itself on the part of Gregory,
for of all things sensible Annie, conscious of faults
and many struggles, did not wish to give the impression
that she thought herself approaching perfection.
And yet he had managed to make her sensitive on
that point, and given her a strong motive to relax
strict rules of duty, and act “like other people,” as
he would say.
Jeff's limber-pole was now doing effective service.
With a soft thud upon the sward and leaves the
burrs rained around, while the detached chestnuts
rattled down like hail. The children were careering
about this little tempest of Jeff's manufacture in a
state of wild glee, dodging the random burrs and
snatching what nuts they could in safety on the outskirts
of the prickly shower. At last the tree was
well thrashed, and had the appearance of a school-boy
bully who, after bristling with threats and boasts
for a long time, suddenly meets his master and is
left in a very meek and plucked condition.
But the moment Jeff's pole ceased its sturdy
strokes there was a rush for the spoils, the children
awakening the echoes with their exclamations of
delight as they found the ground covered with what
Gregory's sluggish pulses tingled and quickened at
the well remembered scene, and felt the contagion
of their excitement. For the moment he determined
to be a boy again, and running into the charmed
circle, picked away as fast as any of them till his
physical weakness painfully reminded him that his
old tireless activity had passed away, perhaps forever.
He leaned against the trunk of the tree and
commenced noting, with something of an artist's
eye, the pretty picture. The valley beneath was
beginning to glow with the richest October tints, in
the midst of which was his old home, that to his
affection seemed like a gem set in gold, ruby, and
emerald. The stream appeared white and silvery as
seen through openings of the bordering trees, and
in the distance, the purple haze and mountains
blended together, leaving it in uncertainty where
the granite began, even as in Gregory's mind fact
and fancy were confusedly mingling in regard to
Miss Walton.
And he soon turned even from that loved and
beautiful landscape to her as an object of piquant
interest, and the pleasure of analyzing and testing
her character and—well, some hidden fascination of
her own—caused a faint stir of excitement at his
heart, even as the October air and exercise had
just tinged his pale cheeks into slight resemblance
to the Autumn foliage.
But Miss Walton reminded him of a young
window that morning, so rich and high was her
color, as, still intent upon the thickly scattered nuts,
she followed the old unspent childish impulse to
gather now as she had when like Susie at her side.
With a half wondering smile Walter watched her
intent childlike expression, so like that of the other
children, and thought:
“Well, she is the freshest and most unhackneyed
young lady I have ever met for one who knows so
much. It seems true, as she said, that she draws
her life from nature and will never grow old. Now
she is a child with those children, looking and acting
like them. A moment later she will be a self-possessed
young lady, with a quick, trained intellect
that I can scarcely cope with. And yet in each and
every character she seems so real and vital that even
I, in spite of myself, feel compelled to admit her
truth. Her life is like a glad, musical mountain
stream, while I am a stagnant pool that she passes
and leaves behind. I wonder if it is possible for
one life to be awakened and quickened by another?
I wonder if her vital force would be strong enough
to drag another on who had almost lost the power
to follow? It is said that young fresh blood can be
infused directly into the veins of the old and feeble.
Can the same be true of moral forces, and a glad
zest and interest in life be breathed into the jaded,
cloyed, ennui-cursed spirit of one who regards existence
with dull eye, a sluggish pulse, and heart of
lead? It seems to me that if any one could have
intense vitality and subtle connection with nature,
which as she says, is ever young and vigorous.
And yet I propose to reveal her to herself as a weak,
vain creature, and that her fair seeming is like a
pasteboard castle that the breath of flattery can
destroy. By Jove, I half hope I won't succeed, and
yet to satisfy myself I shall carry the test to the
utmost limit.”
In her absorbed search for nuts, Annie had
approached the trunk of the tree, and was stooping
almost at Gregory's feet without noticing him. Suddenly
she turned up a burr whose appearance so
interested her that she stood up to examine it, and
then became conscious of his intent gaze.
“There you stand,” she said, “cool and superior,
criticising and laughing at me as a great overgrown
child.”
“If you had looked more closely you would have
seen anything rather than cool criticism in my face.
I wish you could tell me your secret, Miss Walton.
What is your hidden connection with nature that her
strong, beautiful life flows so freely into yours?”
“If I told you you would not believe me.”
“Indeed, Miss Walton, I should be inclined to
believe anything you told me, you seem so real.
But pardon me, you have in your hand the very burr
I have been looking vainly for. Perhaps in it I may
find the coveted clue to your favor. It may winningly
suggest to you my meaning, while plain, bald
words would only repel. If I could only interpret
leaves of the forest like those of a superbly bound
copy of Shakespeare, and every object—even such an
insignificant one as this burr—an inspired illustration.
When men come to read nature's open book,
publishers may despair. If I wished to tell you how
I would dwell in your thoughts, what poet has written
anything equal to this half-open burr? It portrays
our past, it gives our present relations, and
suggests the future; only, like all parables, it must
not be pressed too far or too much prominence given
to some mere detail. These prickly outward pointing
spines represent the reserve and formality which
keeps comparative strangers apart. But now the
burr is half open, revealing its heart of silk and
down. So if one could get past the barriers which
you, alike with all, turn toward an indifferent or unfriendly
world, a kindliness would be found that
would surround a cherished friend as these silken
sides envelop this sole and favored chestnut. Again,
note that the burr is half open now, indicating, I
hope, the progress we have made toward such friendship.
I have no true friend in the wide world that I
can trust, and I would like to believe that your regard,
like this burr, is opening toward me. The final
suggestion that I would draw may seem selfish, and
yet is it not natural? This chestnut dwells alone in
the very centre of the burr. We do not like to
share a supreme friendship. There are some in
whose esteem we would be first.”
When Walter finished he was half frightened at
figure and in the bold style of coquetry he had
learned to employ toward the belles of the ball-room,
and from a certain unaccountable fascination that
Annie herself had for him, he had said more than he
meant.
“Good heavens!” he thought, “if she should
take this for a declaration and accept me on the
spot, I should then be in the worst scrape of my
sorry life.”
A man may be very much interested in a lady
before reaching the point of wishing to marry her,
and vice versa, of course.
Miss Walton's manner rather puzzled him. Her
heightened color and quickened breathing alarmed
him, while the contraction of her brow and firmness
of her lips, together with an intent look on the chestnut
in the centre of the burr rather than a languishing
look at him or at nothing, were more assuring.
She puzzled him still more when, as her only response
to all this sentiment, she asked:
“Mr. Gregory, will you lend me your penknife?”
Without a word he handed it to her, and she at
the same time took the burr from his hand, and daintily
plucking out the chestnut tossed the burr rather
contemptuously away.
“Mr. Gregory, if I understand your rather far-fetched
and forced interpretation of this little paradox
of nature, you chose to represent yourself by this
great lonely chestnut occupying the space where
three might have grown. On observing this emblematic
have a place in your `parable;'” and she pushed
aside the little quirl at the small end of the nut,
which partially concealed a worm-hole, and cutting
through the shell showed the destroyer in the very
heart of the kernel.
There was nothing far-fetched in this suggestion
of nature, and he saw—and he understood that Miss
Walton saw—evil enthroned in the very depths of
his soul. The revelation of the hateful truth was so
sudden and sharp that his face darkened with involuntary
pain and anger. It seemed to him that by
the simple act of showing him the worm-infested
chestnut, she had rejected anything approaching
even friendship, and had also given him a good but
humiliating reason why. He lost his self-possession
and forgot that he deserved a stinging rebuke for
his insincerity. He would have turned away in
coldness and resentment. His visit to the Waltons
might have come to an abrupt termination had not
Annie, with that delicate, womanly tact which was
one of her most marked characteristics, interrupted
him as he was about to say something to the effect:
“Miss Walton, since you are so much holier than I,
it were better that I should contaminate the air
you breathe no longer.”
She looked into his clouded face with an open
smile, and said:
“Mr. Gregory, you have been unfortunate in the
choice of a burr. Now let me choose for you.” And
and purpose.
This gave him time to recover himself and to
realize the folly of quarrelling or showing any special
feeling in regard to the matter. After a moment he
was only desirous of some pretext for laughing the
whole matter off, but how to manage it he did not
know, and was inwardly cursing himself as a blundering
fool and no match for this child of nature.
Annie soon came toward him, saying, “Perhaps
this burr will suggest better meanings. You see it
is wide open. That means perfect frankness. There
are three chestnuts here instead of one. We must
be willing to share the regard of others. One of
these nuts has the central place. As we come to
know people well, we usually find some one occupying
the supreme place in their esteem, and though
we may approach closely we should not wish to
usurp what belongs to another. Under Jeff's vigorous
blows the burr and its contents have had a tremendous
downfall, but they have not parted company.
True friends should stick together in adversity.
What do you think of my interpretation?”
“I think you are a witch, beyond doubt, and if
you had lived a few centuries ago, you would have
been sent to heaven in a chariot of fire.”
“Really, Mr. Gregory, you give me a hot answer,
but it is with such a smiling face that I will take no
exception, but rather take your arm and follow Jeff
and the children along the brow of the hill to the
next tree. The fact is I am a little tired.”
What controversy could a man have with a pretty
and wearied girl who leaned confidingly on his arm?
Gregory felt like a boy who had received a deserved
whipping and yet was compelled and somewhat
inclined to act very amiably toward the donor. But
he was fast coming to the conclusion that this unassuming
country girl was a difficult subject on which
to perform his experiment. He was learning to have
a wholesome respect for her that was slightly tinged
with fear, and doubts of success in his plot against
her grew stronger every moment. And yet the element
of persistency was large in his character, and
he could not give over his purpose readily, though
his cynical confidence had vanished. He now determined
to observe her closely and discover if possible
her weak points. He still held to the theory
that flattery was the most available weapon, though
he saw he could employ it no longer in the
form of fulsome and outspoken compliment. The
innate refinement and truthfulness of Annie's nature
revolted at broad gallantry and adulation. He believed
that he must reverse the tactics he usually
employed in society but not the principles. Therefore
he resolved that his flattery should be delicate,
subtle—manifested in manner rather than in words.
He would seem submissive; he would humbly wear
the air of a conquered one. He would delicately
maintain the “I-am-at-your-mercy,” attitude.
These thoughts flashed through his mind as they
passed along the brow of the hill, which at every
turn gave them a new and beautiful landscape. But
then. To his perplexity this new acquaintance had
secured his undivided interest. He felt that he
ought to be angry at her, and yet was not. He
felt that a man who had seen as much of the world
as he, should be able to play with this little country
girl as with a child; but he was becoming convinced
that, with all his art, he was no match for her artlessness.
In the interpretation of the burr of her own
choice, Annie had suggested that the central and
supreme place in her heart was already occupied, and
his thoughts recurred frequently to that fact with
uneasiness. The slightest trace of jealousy, even as
the merest twinge of pain is often precursor of serious
disease, indicated the power Miss Walton might
gain over one who thought himself proof against all
such influence. But he tried to satisfy himself in
thinking, “It is her father who occupies the first
place in her affections.”
Then a moment later with a mental protest at his
folly, “What do I care who has the first place?
Well, I may not, for she will not permit such a
reprobate as I, with evil in my heart like that cursed
worm in the chestnut, to have any place worth naming—unless
I can introduce a little canker of evil in
her heart also. I wish I could. That would bring
us nearer together and upon the same level.”
Annie saw the landscapes. She looked away
from the man upon whose arm she leaned and for a
few moments forgot him. The scenes upon which
she ardently wished that other and more favored one
could exchange places with Gregory. Her eyes
grew dreamy and tender as she recalled words spoken
in days gone by when, with her heart thrilling
with a young girl's first dream of love, she leaned
upon Charles Hunting's arm, and listened to that
sweetest music of earth, all the more perfect when
most broken and incoherent; and Hunting, with all
his coolness and precision in Wall Street, was excessively
nervous and unhappy in his phraseology upon
one occasion, and tremblingly glad to get any terms
from the girl who seemed a child beside him. Annie
would not permit an engagement to take place.
Hunting was a distant relative. She had always
liked him very much, but was not sure she loved
him. She was extremely reluctant to leave her
father and not ready for a speedy marriage; so she
frankly told him that he had no rival, nor was there
a prospect of any, but she would not bind him, nor
permit herself to be bound at that time. If they
were fated for each other the way would eventually
be made perfectly clear.
He was quite content, especially as Mr. Walton
gave his hearty approval to the match, and he regarded
the understanding as a virtual engagement.
He wanted Annie to wear the significant ring, saying
that he would not look upon it as binding, but she
would not.
Nearly two years had passed, and while she put
him off, she had satisfied him that he was steadily
He was gifted with much tact and did not
press his suit, but quietly acted as if the matter
were really settled, and it were only a question of
time. Annie had also come to feel in the same way,
She did not see such a very great deal of him, though
he wrote regularly and his letters were admirable.
He became her ideal man and dwelt in her imagination
as a demi-god. To the practical mind of this
American girl his successes in the vast and complicated
transactions of business were as grand as the
achievements of any hero. Her father had been a
merchant and she inherited a respect for the calling.
Her father also often assured her that her lover bade
fair to lead in commercial circles.
“Hunting had both nerve and prudence,” he
was wont to say; and to impetuous Annie these
qualities, combined with Christian principles, formed
her very ideal man.
Hunting took great pains not to undeceive her
as to his character, and indeed, with the infatuation
of his class, hoped that when he had amassed the
fortune that glittered ever just before him, he could
assume in some princely mansion, the princely,
knightly soul with which she had endowed him.
So he did not press matters. Indeed in his rapid
accumulation of money he scarcely wished any interruption,
and Annie thought all the more of him that
he was not dawdling around making love half the
time. Also, there was less danger of disenchanting
her by his presence, for woman's perception is quick.
But now she inwardly contrasted her strong, masterful
knight, “sans peur et reproach” as she believed,
with the enfeebled, shrunken man at her
side. Gregory suffered dreadfully by the comparison.
The worm-eaten chestnut seemed truly emblematic,
and in spite of herself her face lighted
up with exultation and joy that the man of her
choice was a man and not the sin-marred creature
upon whom she could not lean even for physical
support.
Gregory caught her expression and said quickly:
“Your face is full of sudden gleams. Tell me
what you are thinking about.”
She blushed deeply in the consciousness of her
thoughts, but after a moment said:
“I do not believe in the confessional.”
He looked at her keenly, saying, “I wish you
did and I were your father confessor.”
“She replied laughing, “You are neither old nor
good enough. If I were of that faith I would require
one a great deal older and better than myself. But
here we are at our second tree which Jeff has just
finished. I am going to be a child again and gather
nuts as before. I hope you will follow suit, and
not stand leaning against the tree laughing at me.”
| CHAPTER XIII.
INTERPRETING CHESTNUT BURRS. Opening a chestnut burr | |