Friends and Neighbors Part 30

"I have consulted Margaret's will always; in many things I have given up to it, but here, where reason is so fully on my side, I will go on.

I have no patience with her weak stubbornness, no patience with her presumption in forbidding my servants to do as I have told them; such measures I will never allow in my house;" and John Greylston, in his angry musings, struck his cane smartly against a tall crimson dahlia, which grew in the gra.s.s-plat. It fell quivering across his path, but he walked on, never heeding what he had done. There was a faint sense of shame rising in his heart, a feeble conviction of having been himself to blame; but just then they seemed only to fan and increase his keen indignation. Yet in the midst of his anger, John Greylston had the delicate consideration for his sister and himself to repeat to the men the command she had given them.

"Do as Miss Greylston bade you; let the trees stand until further orders." But pride prompted this, for he said to himself, "If Margaret and I keep at this childish work of unsaying each other's commands, that sharp old fellow, Reuben, will suspect that we have quarrelled."

Mr. Greylston's wrath did not abate; and when he came home at dinner-time, and found the table so nicely set, and no one but the little servant to wait upon him, Margaret away, shut up with a bad headache, in her own room, he somehow felt relieved,--just then he did not want to see her. But when eventide came, and he sat down to supper, and missed again his sister's calm and pleasant face, a half-regretful feeling stole over him, and he grew lonely, for John Greylston's heart was the home of every kindly affection. He loved Margaret dearly. Still, pride and anger kept him aloof from her; still his soul was full of harsh, unforgiving thoughts. And Margaret Greylston, as she lay with a throbbing head and an aching heart upon her snowy pillow, thought the hours of that bright afternoon and evening very long and very weary. And yet those hours were full of light, and melody, and fragrance, for the sun shone, and the sky was blue, the birds sang, and the waters rippled; even the autumn flowers were giving their sweet, last kisses to the air. Earth was fair,--why, then, should not human hearts rejoice? Ah!

_Nature's_ loveliness _alone_ cannot cheer the soul. There was once a day when the beauty even of _Eden_ ceased to gladden two guilty tremblers who hid in its bowers.

"A soft answer turneth away wrath, but grievous words stir up anger."

When Margaret Greylston came across that verse, she closed her Bible, and sat down beside the window to muse. "Ah," she thought, "how true is that saying of the wise man! If I had only from the first given John soft answers, instead of grievous words, we might now have been at peace. I knew his quick temper so well; I should have been more gentle with him." Then she recalled all John's constant and tender attention to her wishes; the many instances in which he had gone back from his own pleasure to gratify her; but whilst she remembered these things, never once did her n.o.ble, unselfish heart dwell upon the sacrifices, great and numerous, which she had made for his sake. Miss Margaret began to think she had indeed acted very weakly and unjustly towards her brother. She had half a mind just then to go to him, and make this confession. But she looked out and saw the dear old trees, so stately and beautiful, and then the memory of all John's harsh and cruel words rushed back upon her. She struggled vainly to banish them from her mind, she strove to quell the angry feelings which arose with those memories. At last she knelt and prayed. When she got up from her knees traces of tears were on her face, but her heart was calm. Margaret Greylston had been enabled, in the strength of "that grace which cometh from above," to forgive her brother freely, yet she scarcely hoped that he would give her the opportunity to tell him this.

"Good-morning," John Greylston said, curtly and chillingly enough to his sister. Somehow she was disappointed, even though she knew his proud temper so well, yet she had prayed that there would have been some kindly relentings towards her; but there seemed none. So she answered him sadly, and the two sat down to their gloomy, silent breakfast. And thus it was all that day. Mr. Greylston still mute and ungracious; his sister shrank away from him. In that mood she scarcely knew him; and her face was grave, and her voice so sad, even the servants wondered what was the matter. Margaret Greylston had fully overcome all angry, reproachful feelings against her brother. So far her soul had peace, yet she mourned for his love, his kind words, and pleasant smiles; and she longed to tell him this, but his coldness held her back. Mr. Greylston found his comfort in every way consulted; favourite dishes were silently placed before him; sweet flowers, as of old, laid upon his table. He knew the hand which wrought these loving acts. But did this knowledge melt his heart? In a little while we shall see.

And the third morning dawned. Yet the cloud seemed in no wise lifted.

John Greylston's portrait hung in the parlour; it was painted in his young days, when he was very handsome. His sister could not weary of looking at it; to her this picture seemed the very embodiment of beauty.

Dear, unconscious soul, she never thought how much it was like herself, or even the portrait of her which hung in the opposite recess--for brother and sister strikingly resembled each other. Both had the same high brows, the same deep blue eyes and finely chiselled features, the same sweet and pleasant smiles; there was but one difference: Miss Margaret's hair was of a pale golden colour, and yet unchanged; she wore it now put back very smoothly and plainly from her face. When John was young, his curls were of so dark a brown as to look almost black in the shade. They were bleached a good deal by time, but yet they cl.u.s.tered round his brow in the same careless, boyish fas.h.i.+on as of old.

Just now Miss Margaret could only look at her brother's picture with tears. On that very morning she stood before it, her spirit so full of tender memories, so crowded with sad yearnings, she felt as though they would crush her to the earth. Oh, weary heart! endure yet "a little while" longer. Even now the angel of reconciliation is on the wing.

Whilst John Greylston sat alone upon the foot of the porch at the front of the house, and his sister stood so sadly in the parlour, the city stage came whirling along the dusty turnpike. It stopped for a few minutes opposite the lane which led to John Greylston's place. The door was opened, and a grave-looking young man sprang out. He was followed by a fairy little creature, who clapped her hands, and danced for joy when she saw the white chimneys and vine-covered porches of "Greylston Cottage."

"Annie! Annie!" but she only laughed, and gathering up the folds of her travelling dress, managed to get so quickly and skilfully over the fence, that her brother, who was unfastening the gate, looked at her in perfect amazement.

"What in the world," he asked, with a smile on his grave face, "possessed you to get over the fence in that monkey fas.h.i.+on? All those people looking at you, too. For shame, Annie! Will you never be done with those childish capers?"

"Yes, maybe when I am a gray-haired old woman; not before. Don't scold now, Richard; you know very well you, and the pa.s.sengers beside, would give your ears to climb a fence as gracefully as I did just now. There, won't you hand me my basket, please?"

He did so, and then, with a gentle smile, took the white, ungloved fingers in his.

"My darling Annie, remember"--

"Stage waits," cried the driver.

So Richard Bermon's lecture was cut short; he had only time to bid his merry young sister good-bye. Soon he was lost to sight.

Annie Bermon hurried down the lane, swinging her light willow basket carelessly on her arm, and humming a joyous air all the way. Just as she opened the outer lawn gate, the great Newfoundland dog came towards her with a low growl; it changed directly though into a glad bark.

"I was sure you would know me, you dear old fellow; but I can't stop to talk to you just now." And Annie patted his silken ears, and then went on to the house, the dog bounding on before her, as though he had found an old playmate.

John Greylston rubbed his eyes. No, it was not a dream. His darling niece was really by his side, her soft curls touching his cheek; he flung his arms tightly around her.

"Dear child, I was just dreaming about you; how glad I am to see your sweet face again."

"I was sure you would be, Uncle John," she answered gayly, "and so I started off from home this morning just, in a hurry. I took a sudden fancy that I would come, and they could not keep me. But where is dear Aunt Margaret? Oh, I know what I will do. I'll just run in and take her by surprise. How well you look, uncle--so n.o.ble and grand too; by the way, I always think King Robert Bruce must just have been such a man like you."

"No laughing at your old uncle, you little rogue," said John Greylston pleasantly, "but run and find your aunt. She is somewhere in the house."

And he looked after her with a loving smile as she flitted by him. Annie Bermon pa.s.sed quickly through the shaded sitting-room into the cool and matted hall, catching glimpses as she went of the pretty parlour and wide library; but her aunt was in neither of these rooms; so she hurried up stairs, and stealing on tiptoe, with gentle fingers she pushed open the door. Margaret Greylston was sitting by the table, sewing; her face was flushed, and her eyes red and swollen as with weeping. Annie stood still in wonder. But Miss Margaret suddenly looked up, and her niece sprang, with a glad cry, into her arms.

"You are not well, Aunt Margaret? Oh! how sorry I am to hear that, but it seems to me I could never get sick in this sweet place; everything looks so bright and lovely here. And I _would_ come this morning, Aunt Margaret, in spite of everything Sophy and all of them could say. They told me I had been here once before this summer, and stayed a long time, and if I would, come again, my welcome would be worn out, just as if I was going to believe _such_ nonsense;" and Annie tossed her head. "But I persevered, and you see, aunty dear, I am here, we will trust for some good purpose, as Richard would say."

A silent Amen to this rose up in Miss Margaret's heart, and with it came a hope dim and shadowy, yet beautiful withal; she hardly dared to cherish it. Annie went on talking,--

"I can only stay two weeks with you--school commences then, and I must hurry back to it; but I am always so glad to get here, away from the noise and dust of the city; this is the best place in the world. Do you know when we were travelling this summer, I was pining all the time to get here. I was so tired of Newport and Saratoga, and all the crowds we met."

"You are singular in your tastes, some would think, Annie," said Miss Greylston, smiling fondly on her darling.

"So Madge and Sophy were always saying; even Clare laughed at me, and my brothers, too,--only Richard,--Oh! by the way, I did torment him this morning, he is so grave and good, and he was just beginning a nice lecture at the gate, when the driver called, and poor Richard had only time to send his love to you. Wasn't it droll, though, that lecture being cut so short?" and Annie threw herself down in the great cus.h.i.+oned chair, and laughed heartily.

Annie Bermond was the youngest of John and Margaret Greylston's nieces and nephews. Her beauty, her sweet and sunny temper made her a favourite at home and abroad. John Greylston loved her dearly; he always thought she looked like his chosen bride, Ellen Day. Perhaps there was some likeness, for Annie had the same bright eyes, and the same pouting, rose-bud lips--but Margaret thought she was more like their own family.

She loved to trace a resemblance in the smiling face, rich golden curls, and slight figure of Annie to her young sister Edith, who died when Annie was a little baby. Just sixteen years old was Annie, and wild and active as any deer, as her city-bred sisters sometimes declared half mournfully.

Somehow, Annie Bermond thought it uncommonly grave and dull at the dinner-table, yet why should it be so? Her uncle and aunt, as kind and dear as ever, were there; she, herself, a blithe fairy, sat in her accustomed seat; the day was bright, birds were singing, flowers were gleaming, but there was a change. What could it be? Annie knew not, yet her quick perception warned her of the presence of some trouble--some cloud. In her haste to talk and cheer her uncle and aunt, the poor child said what would have been best left unsaid.

"How beautiful those trees are; I mean those pines on the hill; don't you admire them very much, Uncle John?"

"Tolerably," was the rather short answer. "I am too well used to trees to go into the raptures of my little city niece about them;" and all this time Margaret looked fixedly down upon the floor.

"Don't you frown so, uncle, or I will run right home to-morrow," said Annie, with the a.s.surance of a privileged pet; "but I was going to ask you about the rock just back of those pines. Do you and Aunt Margaret still go there to see the sunset? I was thinking about you these two past evenings, when the sunsets were so grand, and wis.h.i.+ng I was with you on the rock; and you were both there, weren't you?"

This time John Greylston gave no answer, but his sister said briefly,

"No, Annie, we have not been at the rock for several evenings;" and then a rather painful silence followed.

Annie at last spoke:

"You both, somehow, seem so changed and dull; I would just like to know the reason. May be aunty is going to be married. Is that it, Uncle John?"

Miss Margaret smiled, but the colour came brightly to her face.

"If this is really so, I don't wonder you are sad and grave; you, especially, Uncle John; how lonely and wretched you would be! Oh! would you not be very sorry if Aunt Madge should leave you, never to come back again? Would not your heart almost break?"

John Greylston threw down his knife and fork violently upon the table, and pus.h.i.+ng back his chair, went from the room.

Annie Bermond looked in perfect bewilderment at her aunt, but Miss Margaret was silent and tearful.

"Aunt! darling aunt! don't look so distressed;" and Annie put her arms around her neck; "but tell me what have I done; what is the matter?"

Miss Greylston shook her head.

"You will not speak now, Aunt Margaret; you might tell me; I am sure something has happened to distress you. Just as soon as I came here, I saw a change, but I could not understand it. I cannot yet. Tell me, dear aunt!" and she knelt beside her.

So Miss Greylston told her niece the whole story, softening, as far as truth would permit, many of John's harsh speeches; but she was, not slow to blame herself. Annie listened attentively. Young as she was, her heart took in with the deepest sympathy the sorrow which shaded her beloved friends.

"Oh! I am so very sorry for all this," she said half crying; "but aunty, dear, I do not think uncle will have those nice old trees cut down. He loves you too much to do it; I am sure he is sorry now for all those sharp things he said; but his pride keeps him back from telling you this, and maybe he thinks you are angry with him still. Aunt Margaret, let me go and say to him that your love is as warm as ever, and that you forgive him freely. Oh! it may do so much good. May I not go?"

But Miss Greylston tightened her grasp on the young girl's hand.

"Annie, you do not know your uncle as well as I do. Such a step can do no good,--love, you cannot help us."

"Only let me try," she returned, earnestly; "Uncle John loves me so much, and on the first day of my visit, he will not refuse to hear me.