University of Virginia Library

35. CHAPTER XXXV.
THE CHESTNUT BURR AGAIN.

WHEN Gregory reached Paris, to his grief
and consternation, he found a dispatch
informing him of the sudden death of old Mr. Burnett,
and the illness of Mr. Seymour, the other
partner. “Return instantly,” it read, “the senior
clerk is coming out to take your place.”

At first it seemed a double grief that he could
scarcely endure, for it seemed that if he went back
now, Annie would be lost to him beyond hope.
But after thinking it all over he became calmer.
“It may be best after all, for as my wife she is lost
to me beyond hope, and God sees that I am not
strong enough to meet her often yet and sustain
myself, and so snatches me from the temptation.”

Thus little children guess at the meaning of an
earthly father, but Gregory did what a child should
—trusted.

He wrote a warm but hasty note to Annie
which through some carelessness was never delivered,
attended to some necessary matters, and was
just in time to catch the French steamer outward
bound.

When Annie reached Paris, she learned in dismay
that he had sailed for New York. Seemingly,

he had left no message, no explanation; all they
could learn at his hotel was that he had received a
dispatch summoning him instantly home. Annie
was deeply wounded, though she tried to believe that
he had written and that the letter had been missent
or lost. A thousand conjectures of evil arose
in her mind, and the thought of his being again on
the ocean, which she now so dreaded, at the stormiest
season of the year, was a constant source of
anxiety. In her morbid fears she even thought that
the scheming Hunting might have something to do
with it. She gave way to the deepest despondency.
Then her Aunt tried to comfort her by saying:

“Annie, I'm sure I understand you both better
than you do each other, and think I can write Mr.
Gregory a line that will clear up everything.”

But the quiet little lady was quite frightened
by the way Annie turned upon her.

“As you love me, Auntie,” she said, “never
write a line on this subject. I am not one to seek,
but must be sought, even by Gregory. Not one
line, I charge you, containing a hint of my feelings.”

“Well, Annie darling,” she said, gently, “it's
all going to come out right.”

But Annie, in her weak, depressed state, saw
only the dark side. As with Gregory, there was
nothing for her but patient trust.”

But when, in due time, there came a despatch
from him announcing his safe arrival, she was
greatly reassured. The light came back into her
eyes and the color in her cheeks.

“What kind of medicine have you been taking,
to-day?” asked her uncle, slyly.

“She has been treated with electricity,” Miss
Eulie remarked, quietly.

“O, Auntie!” said Annie, with a deep blush,
“when did I ever hear you indulge in such a witticism
before?”

And when, some days later, she received a cordial,
brotherly letter from Gregory, relating all that
had occurred, a deep content stole into her heart,
and she felt, with Miss Eulie, that all would eventually
be well. She replied scrupulously, in like vein
with himself, and thus commenced a correspondence
that to each became the source of the truest happiness.
Their letters were intensely brotherly and
sisterly in their character, but Annie felt almost
sure that, under his fraternal disguise, she detected
the warmth and glow of a far stronger affection;
and, before many months had passed, he hoped the
same of her dainty letters, though he could not lay
his finger on a single word and say, “This proves
it.” But Annie's warm heart unconsciously colored
the pages, nevertheless.

Of Hunting he briefly wrote: “God pity him,
and God be praised. I love Him more than ever
for shielding you.”

In May, Gregory was glad to find that he would
have to go to Europe again, and purposed to give
Annie a surprise. But he only received a very sad
one himself, for, on arriving at Paris, he learned, to
his intense disappointment, that Mr. Kemp and his

party had suddenly decided to return home. He
was eventually comforted by receiving a letter
from Annie, showing clearly that she had been as
greatly disappointed as himself; but, woman-like,
most of the letter was an effort to cheer him.

Still he was almost growing superstitious at the
manner in which she seemed to elude his loving
grasp and sighed:

“I fear she will always prove to me a spirit of
the air.”

One bright morning, the ensuing October, Gregory
again greeted, like the face of a friend, the
shores of his native land, and the thought that
Annie was beyond that blue line of land, thrilled his
heart with impatient expectation.

As they approached Sandy Hook, the pilot
brought aboard a New York paper, and as he was
carelessly glancing it over, his eyes were caught by
an advertisement of the sale by auction of the Walton
Estate, and his old home. He saw by the date
that the sale would not take place till the following
day, and he now felt sure that he could give Annie
a double surprise, for he had not written of his return.
He had learned from Annie that her father must
have intrusted large sums to Hunting which
could not be accounted for, and that beyond
the country-place not much had been left. He rightly
guessed that this place was about to be sold to
provide means for the support of the family. He
was surprised that Annie had not written to him
about the sale, and indeed she had wished to, thinking

that he might wish to buy it. But Mr. Kemp
had dissuaded her, saying that it was not at all probable
that Gregory had the means to buy so large
a property, and, judging Gregory by himself, said:

“A business man does not want a country place
anyway. Besides, Annie, if you should suggest it,
it might be a source of much pain to him to feel
that he could not.”

But as soon as Gregory was ashore he hunted up
one of his senior clerks, and instructed him to go
up the following morning and buy the place at any
cost, but not to let any one know it was for him.
He also told him to assure the family that they
need not vacate in any haste.

It soon became evident at the sale that the
stranger from the city was determined to have the
place, and the other bidders gave way.

When the clerk returned that evening, Gregory
plied him with questions, and learned that Miss
Walton seemed to have great regret at leaving,
and was very grateful when told that she could
take her own time for departure. In fact, Annie
begrudged every October day at the old place, that
brought back the past so vividly. Gregory could
not forbear asking with a slight flush,

“How did Miss Walton look?”

“Like her surroundings,” said the clerk, politely
blind, “and not like a city belle. Mr. Gregory, I
congratulate you on possessing the most home-like
place on the river.”

Gregory took the earliest train the following

morning, and by noon found himself by the cedar
thicket again, with a strange thrill, as he recalled all
that had occurred there, and since. He sat down
to rest for a moment on the rock where Annie had
first found him more than a year before. Beneath
him lay his home—his now in truth—embowered
in crimson and golden foliage, that seemed doubly,
doubly bright in the genial October sunlight, while
at his very feet were the laden boughs of the orchard
where he had proved to Annie the reality and depth
of his love; and then beyond was the cottage of
Daddy Tuggar, with that old man smoking upon
the porch. But chief of all, he could mark the
very spot by the brook in the garden where Annie's
hand, like an angel's, had plucked him from the
brink of despair, and given the first faint hope of
immortal life. Tears blinded his eyes, but the bow
of promise shone in them as he looked heavenward,
and said,

“Merciful Father! how kind of Thee, in view of
my past, to give me this dear earnest of my heavenly
home.”

The sound of approaching steps aroused him,
and springing up he saw through the thicket, with
an emotion so deep that it made him tremble, the
one woman of the world to him.

With an expression of deep sadness, and the
manner of one taking a lingering leave of a very
dear friend, Annie came slowly toward him along
the brow of the hill. He tried to still even the
beating of his heart, for he would not lose even one

moment of exquisite expectation. And yet he was
deeply agitated, for he knew that he could not
maintain the brotherly disguise an hour longer.

Suddenly she looked toward the cedar thicket,
and, as if recalling what had occurred there, covered
her face with her hands, as if to hide the painful
scene. Then he saw that she would not even come
to the place, but was turning to go to the house by
another way.

He darted out from his concealment and rushed
toward her. At first, in wild alarm, she put her
hand to her side, and leaned against a chestnut tree
for support. Then recognizing him, with a glad cry,
she permitted him to take her in his arms, while
she hid her face on his shoulder. A moment later
they recoiled from each other in blushing confusion.

“Well,” said Gregory, stupidly.

She was the first to recover herself, and said:

“Oh, Walter, my long-lost brother! I'm so—so
glad you have come at last!”

“Do I look sorry, little sister?” he asked, taking
her hand.

“Oh!” she exclaimed; “this is too good to be
true!”

“That's what I think. I feared you would
take flight the moment I appeared.”

“When did you arrive? Come, tell me everything.”

“Not all at once, dear—Annie. But let me
give you a seat on the rock by the thicket and then
I will say the catechism.”

“Please, no Walter, not there,” she said drawing
back.

“Yes, there, we will give that place a new association.”

But she was glad to reach the seat, for she
trembled so she could hardly stand.

Then he told her how he purposed to surprise
her, and answered every eager question.

“O Annie!” he concluded, “how I have longed
for this hour, never did that dreadful ocean seem so
wide before.”

She looked at him more fondly than she knew
and said:

“Ah Walter! your blood is not on my hands
after all.”

“Let me see,” he said.

“I know it is not,” she replied, putting them
behind her back, “don't I see you there well and
happy?”

“I don't know but it will be on your hands yet,”
he said half tragically, springing up.

She gave him a swift look of inquiry, but her
eyes dropped as quickly beneath his eager gaze,
while her deep blush caused her to vie with the
sugar-maple on the lawn in very truth. But he said
after a moment,

“Annie, dear, wont you let me interpret another
chestnut burr for you?”

“Certainly, Walter,” she tried to say innocently,
“all that are on the tree.”

“Now don't make fun of me because I'm desparately

in earnest. I don't want one like that I
chose with a great lonely worm-infected chestnut
in it. What a good, wholesome lesson you gave me
then! Thank you, Annie, darling.”

“Brothers don't use such strong language toward
their sisters,” said Annie, looking on the ground.

“I can't help it. To tell the honest truth I'm
not much of a brother. Neither do I want one like
that which you chose with three chestnuts in it.
Three, faugh! I've had enough of that. I want to
find one like that which you sent me the first day
I met you here.”

“You will never find it if you stand talking forever.”

“You won't go away?”

“Perhaps not.”

He looked at her doubtfully, but she would not
meet his eye. Then he started on his search, but
kept looking back so often that she laughed, and
said: “I'm not a chestnut burr.”

“I'm afraid of you.”

“Then you had better run away.”

“Sisters should'nt teaze their brothers.”

“Well, forgive me this time.”

He caught a branch full of half-open burrs, and
peered eagerly in them till he found one to his
mind, and pulled it off regardless of the pricking
spines, then came and knelt at her side, and said:

“Now Annie, dear, look into it carefully. This
is nature's oracle. You see two solid, plump, chestnuts.”

“Well?” she said, faintly.

“And you see this false, empty form of shell,
between them?”

“Yes;” with a touch of sadness.

“That's Hunting, poor wretch! How unspeakable
was his loss!” and he tossed the worthless
emblem away.

“And now, Annie, loved beyond all words I can
ever find to tell you, see how near these two chestnuts
are together—as near as you and I are in
heart, I trust. Surely my poor pretense of brotherly
character has not deceived you for a moment.
Won't you please put your dainty little finger down
in the burr and join the two together?”

She lifted her drooping eyes a moment to the
more eloquent pleading of his face, but they fell as
speedily.

In a low, thrilling tone, she said:

“No, Walter, but you may.”

He dropped the burr and sealed the unspoken
covenant upon her lips.

After a few moments he said, very gently, and
gravely, “Annie, do you remember when my arm
last encircled you?”

The crimson face turned pale, as she recalled
that awful midnight when he rescued her from
death.

Both breathed fervently, “How good God has
been to us!”

In their joy, as in fear and sorrow, they remembered
Him.

“Oh, see!” cried Annie, “your hands are
bleeding, and you have stained my hands again.
Your blood is on them,” she added almost in
fear.

“Yes, and the best of my heart ever will be. Is
not the blood upon us, the deepest and most sacred
hope of our hearts? Is it not the proof of the
strongest love the world has known? Let mine
then be the pledge that my life is as nothing when
it can shield and shelter you.”

And so he changed the meaning of the omen.

The hours passed ere they were aware. They
went then across the orchard as before, and stopped
and looked at the place where the ladder fell, and
then at each other.

“Walter,” said Annie shyly, “I gave you my
first kiss here.”

“I am repaid then.”

Before going to the house, they called on Daddy
Tuggar. He was so amazed that he could only
ejaculate,

“Evenin'.”

“Mr. Tuggar, I have acted on your suggestion,”
said Gregory. “I thought Miss Walton would be
good company forever and ever, and I have the
promise of it.”

“To think that I should have cussed you!”
said the old man, in an awed tone.

“But you will give us your blessing, now?” said
Annie, smiling.

“My blessin' aint worth nothin'; but I know

the good Lord will bless you both, even if Miss Annie
never was a dreadful sinner.”

“Mr. Tuggar,” said Gregory, “I own that
place over there. Will you take me for a neighbor
till you are ready to be Mr. Walton's?”

“O, Walter!” said Annie, with a glad cry, is
that really true?”

“Yes, it became mine yesterday; or, rather, it
remained yours.”

“Mr. Gregory,” said Daddy Tuggar, his quaint
face twitching strangely, “if anybody steals your
apples I'm afraid I'll swear at 'em, even yet.”

“No you won't, Daddy,” said he, “you will tell
them that they are dreadful sinners. But I'm going
to bring you over to spend an evening with us,
soon. Good-by!”

They found Miss Eulie in the parlor, passively
packing up some dear little relics of a home she
supposed lost. Gregory took her in his arms and
said:

“Auntie, (I'm going to claim relationship right
away,) put those things back where you found them,
and sit right down here in the cosiest corner of the
hearth, your place from this time forth.”

“How is this?” she exclaimed, in breathless astonishment.

“Well, Annie owns me, and therefore, this
place.”

Johnnie came bounding in, and Gregory caught
him, and said:

“There is the prophet of my fate. How did

you tell me your Aunt Annie managed the people,
the morning after my first arrival here?”

“I said she kinder made people love her, and
then they wanted to do as she said,” replied the
boy, timidly.

“Let me tell you a secret,” and he drew the boy
and whispered in his ear: “She is going to manage
me on just those terms.”

“Then little Susie came sidling in, and Gregory
ran and caught her arms, saying,

“So dimpled, yet so false, you renounced me
for a chipmunk; and now I am going to be Aunt
Annie's beau till I'm yours.”

Then Jeff came running in with a basket of
wood. Gregory gave his black hand an honest shake,
and said,

“Why Jeff, old fellow, what is the matter with
you to-night? The last time I saw you you looked
as if you were driving me to the cemetery.”

“Well, Misser Gregory,” said Jeff, ducking and
shuffling, “Ise did come mighty nea takin' de
turnin' to the cem'try dat day. I tho't you looked
as if you wanted to go there.”

As they sat down to tea, Zibbie put her head in
the door, and said,

“The gude God bless ye, for ye ha kept the ould
'ooman fra the cold wourld yet.”

Delighted Hannah could not pass a biscuit without
a courtesy.

That evening the hickory fire glowed and turned
to bright and fragrant coals as in the days past, but

Annie looked wistfully toward her father's vacant
chair, and sighed,

“If father were only here!”

“Don't grieve, darling,” said Gregory, tenderly,
“He is at home, as we are.”

A few evenings later Gregory brought up from
the city a large square bundle.

“What have you there?” said Annie, greeting
him as the reader can imagine.

“Your epitaph.”

“O Walter, so soon?”

His answer was a smile, and quickly opening it,
showed a rich quaint frame containing some lines in
illuminated text. Placing it where the light fell
clear, he drew her to him and said,

“Read that.”

With a caress of unspeakable tenderness he said,
“You are the maiden and God sent you to me.”