 | CHAPTER XVI.
AN ACCIDENT IN THE MOUNTAINS. Opening a chestnut burr |  |
16. CHAPTER XVI.
AN ACCIDENT IN THE MOUNTAINS.
IN view of her recent stormy mood, nature seemed
full of regretful relentings on Monday, and, as if
to make amends for her harshness, assumed something
of a summer softness. The sun had not the
glaring brightness that dazzles, and the atmosphere,
purified by the recent rain, revealed through its
crystal depths objects with unusual distinctness.
“It is a splendid day for a mountain ramble,”
said Annie, with vivacity, at the breakfast table.
“Why don't you take old Dolly and the mountain
wagon, and show Mr. Gregory some of our fine
views, this afternoon?” asked Mr. Walton.
“Nothing would please me more,” said his
daughter cordially; “that is if Mr. Gregory feels
equal to the fatigue.”
“I'd be at my last gasp if I refused such an
offer,” said Walter eagerly; “it would do me good,
for I feel much stronger than when I first came, and
Miss Walton's society is the best tonic I know of.”
“Very well,” said she, laughing. “You shall
take me this afternoon as a continuation of the tonic
treatment under which you say you are improving.”
“To carry on the medical figure,” he replied, “I
fear that I am to you the embodiment of the depletive
system.”
“From my feelings this bright morning you have
very little effect. I prescribe for you a quiet forenoon,
as our mountain roads will give you an awful
jolting. You, if not your medicine, will be well
shaken to-day.”
“You are my medicine, as I understand it, so I
shall take it according to the old orthodox couplet.”
“No, the mountain is your medicine, and I anticipate
no earthquakes.”
“It is settled then,” said Mr. Walton, smiling,
“that you adopt Mahomet's compromise and go to
the mountain. I will tell Jeff to fit you out in
suitable style.”
Walter retired to his room for a quiet morning
in excellent spirits. The prospect for the afternoon
pleased him greatly, and a long tête-à-tête
with Annie among the grand and beautiful solitudes
of nature had for him an attraction that he could
scarcely understand.
“She is just the one for a companion on such an
expedition,” he said to himself. “She seems a part
of the scenes we shall look upon. The free, strong
mountain spirit breathes in her every word and act.
Old Greek mythology would certainly make her a
nymph of the hills.”
After dinner they started, Walter's interest centring
mainly in his companion, but Annie regarding
holiday in her busy life, and expecting more enjoyment
from the scenery and exhilarating air than from
his best efforts to entertain her. And yet in this
respect she was agreeably disappointed. Gregory
was in a mood that he scarcely understood himself.
If Annie had been somewhat vain and shallow,
though possessing many other good traits, with the
practised skill of a society man he would have availed
himself of these weaknesses, amused himself with a
piquant flirtation, and soon have been ready for his
departure to New York with a contemptuous French
shrug at the whole affair. But Annie's weaknesses
did not lie in that direction. Her naturally truthful
and earnest nature, deepened and strengthened by
Christian principle, from the first had foiled his unworthy
purposes, and disturbed his contemptuous
cynicism. Then as he was compelled to believe in
her reality, her truth and nobleness, all that was in
his own nature responsive to these traits began to
assert itself. Even while he clung to it and felt that
he had no power to escape it, the evil of his life
grew more hateful to him, and he condemned himself
with increasing bitterness. When good influences
are felt in a man's soul, evil seems to become
specially active. The kingdom of darkness disputes
every inch of its ill-gotten power. Winter passes
away in March storms. It is the still cold of indifference
that is nearest akin to death.
The visit to his old home and the influence of
Annie Walton were creating March weather in Walter
like gleams of early spring sunshine. There were
sudden relentings and passionate longings for better
life, as at times gentle, frost-relaxing showers soften
the flinty ground. There were fierce spiritual conflicts,
wild questionings, doubts, fears, and forebodings,
and sometimes despair, even as, in this gusty
month, nature often seems resolving itself back to
primeval chaos. But too often his mood was that
of cold hard skepticism, the frost of mid-winter. The
impetus of his evil life would seemingly be long in
spending itself.
And yet the influence of the previous quiet hallowed
Sabbath evening, and Annie Walton's hymns
of faith and love, could not readily be lost. The
father's prayer still echoed in his soul, and even to
him it seemed the heavens could not be deaf to
such an appeal. They affected him as no direct
appeals possibly could. They were like the gentle
but irresistible south wind.
He was now simply drifting. He had not definitely
abandoned his purpose of tempting Annie, nor
did he consciously thrust it from him. Quite convinced
that she was what she seemed, and doubting
greatly whether during his brief visit there would be
time to affect her mind seriously by any evil influence
he could bring to bear, and won unwittingly
by her pure spirit to better things himself, he let the
new and unexpected influences have full play.
He was like a man who finds himself in the current
above Niagara, and gives up in despair, allowing
breeze springs up and blows against the current.
He spreads a sail and finds his progress downward
checked. If the wind increases and blows steadily,
he may stem the rushing tide and reach smooth still
waters.
A faint glimmering of hope began to dawn in
Gregory's heart. An unexpected gale from heaven
blowing against the current of evil, made it seem
possible that he too might gain the still waters of a
peaceful faith. Still the hope dwelt in his mind
more as a passing thought, a possibility, than an
expectation.
In his wavering state how the scales would turn
depended mainly upon the mood of his companion.
If she had been flighty and inclined to flirt, full of
frivolous nonsense, bent upon having a good time in
the frequent acceptance of the phrase, little recking
the consequences of words or acts, as is often the
case with many girls in the main good-hearted and
well meaning, Walter would have fallen in with
such a mood and pushed it to the extreme.
But Annie was simply herself, bright and exhilarating
as the October sunshine, but as pure and
strong. She was ready for jest and repartee. She
showed almost a childish delight for every odd and
pretty thing that met her eye, but never for a
moment permitted her companion to lose respect for
her.
Her cheeks were like the crimson maple-leaves
under which they rode. Her eyes were like the dark
causeway over which they drove. Her brown hair,
tossed by the wind, escaped somewhat from its neat
bands, and enhanced the snowy whiteness of her neck,
and the thought occurred to Gregory more than
once:
“If she is not pretty, I never saw a face more
pleasant to look at.”
The wish to gain her esteem and friendship grew
stronger every moment, and he exerted himself to
the utmost to please her. Abandoning utterly his
French gallantry, his morbid cynicism, he came out
into the honest sunlight of truth, where Annie's
mind dwelt, and directed the conversation to subjects
concerning which, as an educated and travelled
man, he could speak frankly and intelligently.
Annie had strong social tastes and the fondness for
companionship natural to the young, and she was
surprised to find how he stimulated and interested
her mind, and how much they had in common.
He appeared to understand her immediately,
and to lead her thoughts to new and exciting flights.
It was their purpose to direct their course so as to
cross a spur of the main mountain-range. After a
long and toilsome climb, stopping to give Dolly
many a breathing spell, they at last reached the
brow of the wooded height, and turned to look at
the autumn landscape glimmering in the bright
October sunshine. It is impossible either by pen or
brush to give a true picture of wide reaches of broken
and beautiful country, as seen from some of the
on the Hudson. The loveliness of a pretty bit of
scenery or of a landscape may be enhanced by art,
but the impressive grandeur of nature, when the
feature of vast and varied expanse predominates,
cannot adequately be expressed. The mind itself
is oppressed by the extensiveness of the scene, and
tends to select some definite object, as a village, hamlet,
or tree-embowered farm-house, on which to dwell.
These accord more with the finite nature of the
beholder, and spires and curling wreaths of smoke
suggested to Annie and Gregory many a simple
altar and quiet hearth around which gathered the
homely, contented life, spiritual and domestic, of
those who occupied their own little niche in the
great world, and were all unburdened with thought
or care for the indefinite regions that stretched away
beyond their narrow circle of daily acquaintance.
Only God can give the all-seeing gaze to the whole
of his creation that we bestow upon some familiar
scene. His glance around the globe is that of a
mother around her nursery, with her little children
grouped at her feet.
The laden orchards, with men climbing long ladders,
and boys in the topmost branches looking like
huge squirrels in the distance, were pleasant objects
to the mountain rambles. Huskers could be discerned
in the nearer corn-fields and the great yellow
ears glistened momentarily in the light, as they
were tossed into golden heaps. There was no hum
of industry as from a manufacturing village, nor roar
evidence to the eye of a life kindred to that which
nature so silently and beautifully elaborates.
“How insignificant we are!” said Walter gloomily;
“how the great world goes right on without
us. It is the same when one dies and leaves it,
as we left it by climbing this mountain. In the
main we are unknown and uncared for, and even to
those who knew us, it is soon the same as if we had
never been.”
“But the world cannot go on without God.
Though forgotten, he never forgets! His friends
need never have the sense of being lost or lonely—
no more than a child travelling in a foreign land with
his father among indifferent strangers. God does
not look at us, his creatures, as we do at the foliage
of these forests, seeing only the general effect. He
sees each one as directly as I now look at you.”
“I wish I could believe He looked as kindly.”
“I wish you could, Mr. Gregory. It is sad to
me that people can't believe what is so true. The
fondest look your mother ever gave you was cold,
compared with the yearning, loving face God turns
toward every one of us, even as we go away from
Him.”
He looked at her earnestly for a moment and
saw that sincerity was written on her face. He
shook his head sadly, and then said rather abruptly:
“Those lengthening shadows remind us that we
must be on our way;” and their thoughts dwelt
on lighter subjects as they ascended another lofty
wider prospect that made the sense of daily life in
the valleys below as remote as the world to the
hermit in his devotional seclusion. Then they commenced
descending the sloping plateau which inclined
toward the brow of the hill overlooking the
region wherein was located the Walton residence.
After one or two hours of broken but very agreeable
conversation Annie suddenly sighed deeply.
“Now, Miss Walton,” said Gregory, “that sigh
came from the depths. What hidden sorrow could
have caused it?”
With a slight flush and laugh, she said:
“It was caused by a mere passing thought, like
that cloud there sailing over the mountain slope.”
“Your simile is so pretty that I would like to
know the thought.”
“I hardly know whether to tell it to you. It
might have the same effect as if that cloud should
expand and cover the sky.”
“Might not the telling also have the effect as if
the cloud were dissipated altogether?”
She looked at him quickly and said: “How apt
your answer is! Yes, it might if you would be sensible.
I do not know you so very well yet. Are you
not a little ready to take offence?”
“You do not look as if about to say anything I
should resent very deeply. But I promise that the
cloud shall vanish.”
“I am not so sure about that. The cloud represents
my thought; and yet I hope it may eventually
after the pleasant hours of this afternoon what congenial
friends we might be.”
“And that caused you to sigh so deeply?”
“I laid emphasis on the word might.”
“And why should you, Miss Annie? Why need
you?” he asked eagerly.
“You have shown a great deal of tact and consideration
this afternoon, Mr. Gregory, in choosing
topics on which we could agree, or about which it is
as nice to differ a little. I wish it were the same in
regard to those things that make up one's life as it
were,” and she looked at him closely to see how he
would take this.
After a moment, he said, a little bitterly: “In
order to be your friend, must one look at everything
through the same colored glass as yourself?”
“Oh no,” she replied earnestly, “it is not fair to
say that. But you seem almost hostile to all that I
love best and think most of, and my sigh was rather
an earnest and oft-recurring wish that it were otherwise.”
Again he was silent for a short time, then said
with sudden vehemence:
“And I also wish it were otherwise;” adding more
quietly, “but it is not, Miss Walton. You know
me too well, even if I wished to deceive you. And
yet I would give a great deal for such a friendship
as you could bestow. Why can you not give it
as it is? The founder of your faith was a friend of
publicans and sinners.”
“He was indeed their friend, and has been ever
since,” she answered; “but was it not natural that
he found more that was attractive and congenial in
that little group of disciples who were learning to
know and believe in him?”
“I understand you, Miss Walton. I was unfortunate
in my illustration, and you have turned it
against me. You can be my friend, as the missionary
is the friend of the heathen.”
“You go to extremes, Mr. Gregory, and are
hardly fair. I am not a missionary nor you a heathen.
I make my meaning clear when I echo your
thought of a moment ago, and wish that just such
a friendship might exist between us as that between
your father and mine.”
“I am what I am,” he said, with genuine sadness.
“I wish you had my faith in the possibilities of
the future,” she replied, turning brightly toward
him.
But he shook his head, saying, “I have about
lost all faith in everything as far as I am concerned.
Still I feel that if any one could do me any good,
you might, but I fear it is a hopeless task.” Then
he changed the subject in such a way as to show
that it was painful, and that he preferred it should
drop.
After all, the cloud had overcast the sky. The inevitable
separation between those guided by Divine
and earthly principles began to dawn upon him. He
caught a glimpse of the “great gulf,” that is ever
consciousness. The “loneliness of guilt” chilled and
oppressed him even with the cheery sympathetic
companion at his side. But he hid his feelings
under a forced gayety, in which Annie joined somewhat,
though it gave her a vague shiver of pain.
She felt they had been en rapport for a little while,
but now a change had come, even as the damp and
chill of approaching night was taking the place of
the genial sunshine.
Suddenly she said, as they were riding along on
the comparatively level plateau among thick copsewood
and overshadowing trees that already created
a premature twilight:
“It is strange we do not come out on the brow
of the mountain overlooking our home. This wood
does not seem familiar either, though it is two or
three years since I have been over it, and then Jeff
drove. I thought I knew the way well. Can it be
possible we have taken the wrong turning?”
“I ought to be familiar with these roads, Miss
Walton, but I am sorry to say I too am confused. I
hunted over these hills when a boy, to some extent,
but did not pay much heed to the roads, as I took
my own courses through the woods.”
“I think I must be right,” said Annie, after a
little time; “the brow of the hill must be near;”
and they hastened the old horse along as fast as possible
under the circumstances. But the road continually
grew rougher and gave evidence of very
little travel, and the evening deepened rapidly. At
would permit of it, but this was not readily found,
there being only a single wheel-track, which now
stretched away before them like a narrow cut between
banks of foilage, that looked solid in the increasing
darkness; the road also was full of rocks, loose
stones, deep ruts, over which the wagon jolted painfully.
With a less sure-footed horse than Dolly
they would have soon come to grief. Gregory was
becoming greatly fatigued, though he strove to hide
it, and both were filled with genuine uneasiness at
the prospect before them. To make matters seemingly
desperate, as they were descending a little hill
a fore-wheel caught between two stones and was
wrenched sharply off. Quick, agile Annie sprang as
she felt the wagon giving, but Walter was thrown
out among the brushwood by the roadside. Though
scratched and bruised, he was not seriously hurt,
and as quickly as possible came to the assistance of
his companion. He found her standing by Dolly's
head, holding and soothing the startled beast. Apparently
she was unhurt. They looked searchingly
at the dusky forest, their broken vehicle, and then at
each other. Words were unnecessary to explain the
awkwardness of their situation.
| CHAPTER XVI.
AN ACCIDENT IN THE MOUNTAINS. Opening a chestnut burr | |