Friends and Neighbors Part 31

I will tell him all the sweet things you said about him. I will tell him there is not one bit of anger in your heart, and that you forgive and love him dearly. I am sure when he hears this he will be glad. Any way, it will not make matters worse. Now, do have some confidence in me.

Indeed I am not so childish as I seem. I am turned of sixteen now, and Richard and Sophy often say I have the heart of a woman, even if I have the ways of a child. Let me go now, dear Aunt Margaret; I will soon come back to you with such good news."

Miss Greylston stooped down and kissed Annie's brow solemnly, tenderly.

"Go, my darling, and may G.o.d be with you." Then she turned away.

And with willing feet Annie Bermond went forth upon her blessed errand.

She soon found her uncle. He was sitting beneath the shade of the old pines, and he seemed to be in very deep thought. Annie got down on the gra.s.s beside him, and laid her soft cheek upon his sunburnt hand. How gently he spoke--

"What did you come here for, sweet bird?"

"Because I love you so much, Uncle John; that is the reason; but won't you tell me why you look so very sad and grave? I wish I knew your thoughts just now."

"And if you did, fairy, they would not make you any prettier or better than you are."

"I wonder if they do you any good, uncle?" she quickly replied; but her companion made no answer; he only smiled.

Let me write here what John Greylston's tongue refused to say. Those thoughts, indeed, had done him good; they were tender, self-upbraiding, loving thoughts, mingled, all the while, with touching memories, mournful glimpses of the past--the days of his sore bereavement, when the coffin-lid was first shut down over Ellen Day's sweet face, and he was smitten to the earth with anguish. Then Margaret's sympathy and love, so beautiful in its strength, and unselfishness, so unwearying and sublime in its sacrifices, became to him a stay and comfort. And had she not, for his sake, uncomplainingly given up the best years of her life, as it seemed? Had her love ever faltered? Had it ever wavered in its sweet endeavours to make him happy? These memories, these thoughts, closed round John Greylston like a circle of rebuking angels. Not for the first time were they with him when Annie found him beneath the old pines. Ever since that morning of violent and unjust anger they had been struggling in his heart, growing stronger, it seemed, every hour in their reproachful tenderness. Those loving, silent attentions to his wishes John Greylston had noted, and they rankled like sharp thorns in his soul. He was not worthy of them; this he knew. How he loathed himself for his sharp and angry words! He had it in his heart to tell his sister this, but an overpowering shame held him back.

"If I only knew how Madge felt towards me," he said many times to himself, "then I could speak; but I have been such a brute. She can do nothing else but repulse me;" and this threw around him that chill reserve which kept Margaret's generous and forgiving heart at a distance.

Even every-day life has its wonders, and perhaps not one of the least was that this brother and sister, so long fellow-pilgrims, so long readers of each other's hearts, should for a little while be kept asunder by mutual blindness. Yet the hand which is to chase the mists from their darkened eyes, even now is raised, what though it be but small? G.o.d in his wisdom and mercy will cause its strength to be sufficient.

When John Greylston gave his niece no answer, she looked intently in his face and said,

"You will not tell me what you have been thinking about; but I can guess, Uncle John. I know the reason you did not take Aunt Margaret to the rock to see the sunset."

"Do you?" he asked, startled from his composure, his face flus.h.i.+ng deeply.

"Yes; for I would not rest until aunty told me the whole story, and I just came out to talk to you about it. Now, Uncle John, don't frown, and draw away your hand; just listen to me a little while; I am sure you will be glad." Then she repeated, in her pretty, girlish way, touching in its earnestness, all Miss Greylston had told her. "Oh, if you had only heard her say those sweet things, I know you would not keep vexed one minute longer! Aunt Margaret told me that she did not blame you at all, only herself; that she loved you dearly, and she is so sorry because you seem cold and angry yet, for she wants so very, very much to beg your forgiveness, and tell you all this, dear Uncle John, if you would only--"

"Annie," he suddenly interrupted, drawing her closely to his bosom; "Annie, you precious child, in telling me all this you have taken a great weight off of my heart. You have done your old uncle a world of good. G.o.d bless you a thousand times! If I had known this at once; if I had been sure, from the first, of Margaret's forgiveness for my cruel words, how quickly I would have sought it. My dear, n.o.ble sister!"

The tears filled John Greylston's dark blue eyes, but his smile was so exceedingly tender and beautiful, that Annie drew closer to his side.

"Oh, that lovely smile!" she cried, "how it lights your face; and now you look so good and forgiving, dearer and better even than a king.

Uncle John, kiss me again; my heart is so glad! shall I run now and tell Aunt Margaret all this sweet news?"

"No, no, darling little peace-maker, stay here; I will go to her myself;" and he hurried away.

Annie Bermond sat alone upon the hill, musingly platting the long gra.s.s together, but she heeded not the work of her fingers. Her face was bright with joy, her heart full of happiness. Dear child! in one brief hour she had learned the blessedness of that birthright which is for all G.o.d's sons and daughters, if they will but claim it. I mean _the privilege of doing good, of being useful_.

Miss Greylston sat by the parlour window, just where she could see who crossed the lawn. She was waiting with a kind of nervous impatience for Annie. She heard a footstep, but it was only Liddy going down to the dairy. Then Reuben went by on his way to the meadow, and all was silent again. Where was Annie?--but now quick feet sounded upon the crisp and faded leaves. Miss Margaret looked out, and saw her brother coming,--then she was sure Annie had in some way missed him, and she drew back from the window keenly disappointed, not even a faint suspicion of the blessed truth crossing her mind. As John Greylston entered the hall, a sudden and irresistible desire prompted Margaret to go and tell him all the loving and forgiving thoughts of her heart, no matter what his mood should be. So she threw down her work, and went quickly towards the parlour door. And the brother and sister met, just on the threshold.

"John--John," she said, falteringly, "I must speak to you; I cannot bear this any longer."

"Nor can I, Margaret."

Miss Greylston looked up in her brother's face; it was beaming with love and tenderness. Then she knew the hour of reconciliation had come, and with a quick, glad cry, she sprang into his arms and laid her head down upon his shoulder.

"Can you ever forgive me, Madge?"

She made no reply--words had melted into tears, but they were eloquent, and for a little while it was quite still in the parlour.

"You shall blame yourself no longer, Margaret. All along you have behaved like a sweet Christian woman as you are, but I have been an old fool, unreasonable and cross from the very beginning. Can you really forgive me all those harsh words, for which I hated myself not ten hours after they were said? Can you, indeed, forgive and forget these? Tell me so again."

"John," she said, raising her tearful face from his shoulder, "I do forgive you most completely, with my whole heart, and, O! I wanted so to tell you this two days ago, but your coldness kept me back. I was afraid your anger was not over, and that you would repel me."

"Ah, that coldness was but shame--deep and painful shame. I was needlessly harsh with you, and moments of reflection only served to fasten on me the belief that I had lost all claim to your love, that you could not forgive me. Yes! I did misjudge you, Madge, I know, but when I looked back upon the past, and all your faithful love for me, I saw you as I had ever seen you, the best of sisters, and then my shameful and ungrateful conduct rose up clearly before me. I felt so utterly unworthy."

Miss Greylston laid her finger upon her brother's lips. "Nor will I listen to you blaming yourself so heavily any longer. John, you had cause to be angry with me; I was unreasonably urgent about the trees,"

and she sighed; "I forgot to be gentle and patient; so you see I am to blame as well as yourself."

"But I forgot even common kindness and courtesy;" he said gravely. "What demon was in my heart, Margaret, I do not know. Avarice, I am afraid, was at the bottom of all this, for rich as I am, I somehow felt very obstinate about running into any more expense or trouble about the road; and then, you remember, I never could love inanimate things as you do.

But from this time forth I will try--and the pines"--

"Let the pines go down, my dear brother, I see now how unreasonable I have been," suddenly interrupted Miss Greylston; "and indeed these few days past I could not look at them with any pleasure; they only reminded me of our separation. Cut them down: I will not say one word."

"Now, what a very woman you are, Madge! Just when you have gained your will, you want to turn about; but, love, the trees shall not come down.

I will give them to you; and you cannot refuse my peace-offering; and never, whilst John Greylston lives, shall an axe touch those pines, unless you say so, Margaret."

He laughed when he said this, but her tears were falling fast.

"Next month will be November; then comes our birth-day; we will be fifty years old, Margaret. Time is hurrying on with us; he has given me gray locks, and laid some wrinkles on your dear face; but that is nothing if our hearts are untouched. O, for so many long years, ever since my Ellen was s.n.a.t.c.hed from me,"--and here John Greylston paused a moment--"you have been to me a sweet, faithful comforter. Madge, dear twin sister, your love has always been a treasure to me; but you well know for many years past it has been my _only_ earthly treasure. Henceforth, G.o.d helping me, I will seek to restrain my evil temper. I will be more watchful; if sometimes I fail, Margaret, will you not love me, and bear with me?"

Was there any need for that question? Miss Margaret only answered by clasping her brother's hand more closely in her own. As they stood there in the autumn sunlight, united so lovingly, hand in hand, each silently prayed that thus it might be with them always; not only through life's autumn, but in that winter so surely for them approaching, and which would give place to the fair and beautiful spring of the better land.

Annie Bermond's bright face looked in timidly at the open door.

"Come here, darling, come and stand right beside your old uncle and aunt, and let us thank you with all our hearts for the good you have done us. Don't cry any more, Margaret. Why, fairy, what is the matter with you?" for Annie's tears were falling fast upon his hand.

"I hardly know, Uncle John; I never felt so glad in my life before, but I cannot help crying. Oh, it is so sweet to think the cloud has gone."

"And whose dear hand, under G.o.d's blessing, drove the cloud away, but yours, my child?"

Annie was silent; she only clung the tighter to her uncle's arm, and Miss Greylston said, with a beaming smile,

"Now, Annie, we see the good purpose G.o.d had in sending you here to-day.

You have done for us the blessed work of a peace-maker."

Annie had always been dear to her uncle and aunt, but from that golden autumn day, she became, if such a thing could be, dearer than ever--bound to them by an exceedingly sweet tie.

Years went by. One snowy evening, a merry Christmas party was gathered together in the wide parlour at Greylston Cottage,--nearly all the nephews and nieces were there. Mrs. Lennox, the "Sophy" of earlier days, with her husband; Richard Bermond and his pretty little wife were amongst the number; and Annie, dear, bright Annie--her fair face only the fairer and sweeter for time--sat, talking in a corner with young Walter Selwyn. John Greylston went slowly to the window, and pushed aside the curtains, and as he stood there looking out somewhat gravely in the bleak and wintry night, he felt a soft hand touch him, and he turned and found Annie Bermond by his side.

"You looked so lonely, my dear uncle."

"And that is the reason you deserted Walter?" he said, laughing. "Well, I will soon send you back to him. But, look out here first, Annie, and tell me what you see;" and she laid her face close to the window-pane, and, after a minute's silence, said,

"I see the ground white with snow, the sky gleaming with stars, and the dear old pines, tall and stately as ever."

"Yes, the pines; that is what I meant, my child. Ah, they have been my silent monitors ever since that day; you remember it, Annie! Bless you, child! how much good you did us then."