“AND you will really send Reuben to cut down that clump of pines?”
“Yes, Margaret. Well, now, it is necessary, for more reasons than”----
“Don't tell me so, John,” impetuously interrupted Margaret Greylston.
“I am sure there is no necessity in the case, and I am sorry to the very
heart that you have no more feeling than to order _those_ trees to be
cut down.”
“Feeling! well, maybe I have more than you think; yet I don't choose to
let it make a fool of me, for all that. But I wish you would say no more
about those trees, Margaret; they really must come down; I have reasoned
with you on this matter till I am sick of it.”
Miss Greylston got up from her chair, and walked out on the shaded
porch; then she turned and called her brother.
“Will you come here, John?”
“And what have you to say?”
“Nothing, just now; I only want you to stand here and look at the old
pines.”
And so John Greylston did; and he saw the distant woods grave and fading
beneath the autumn wind--while the old pines upreared their stately
heads against the blue sky, unchanged in beauty, fresh and green as
ever.
“You see those trees, John, and so do I; and standing here, with them
full in view, let me plead for them; they are very old, those pines,
older than either of us; we played beneath them when we were children;
but there is still a stronger tie: our mother loved them--our dear,
sainted mother. Thirty years it has been since she died, but I can never
forget or cease to love anything she loved. Oh! John, you remember just
as well as I do, how often she would sit beneath those trees and read
or talk sweetly to us; and of the dear band who gathered there with her,
only we are left, and the old pines. Let them stand, John; time enough
to cut them down when I have gone to sit with those dear ones beneath
the trees of heaven;” and somewhat breathless from long talking, Miss
Margaret paused.
John Greylston was really touched, and he laid his hand kindly on his
sister's shoulder.
“Come, come, Madge, don't talk so sadly. I remember and love those
things as well as you do, but then you see I cannot afford to neglect my
interests for weak sentiment. Now the road must be made, and that clump
of trees stand directly in its course, and they must come down, or the
road will have to take a curve nearly half a mile round, striking into
one of my best meadows, and a good deal more expense this will be, too.
No, no,” he continued, eagerly, “I can't oblige you in this thing. This
place is mine, and I will improve it as I please. I have kept back from
making many a change for your sake, but just here I am determined to go
on.” And all this was said with a raised voice and a flushed face.
“You never spoke so harshly to me in your life before, John, and, after
all, what have I done? Call my feelings on this matter weak sentiment,
if you choose, but it is hard to hear such words from your lips;” and,
with a reproachful sigh, Miss Margaret walked into the house.
They had been a large family, those Greylstons, in their day, but now
all were gone; all but John and Margaret, the two eldest--the twin
brother and sister. They lived alone in their beautiful country
home; neither had ever been married. John had once loved a fair young
creature, with eyes like heaven's stars, and rose-tinged cheeks and
lips, but she fell asleep just one month before her wedding-day, and
John Greylston was left to mourn over her early grave, and his shivered
happiness. Dearly Margaret loved her twin brother, and tenderly she
nursed him through the long and fearful illness which came upon him
after Ellen Day's death. Margaret Greylston was radiant in the bloom of
young womanhood when this great grief first smote her brother, but from
that very hour she put away from her the gayeties of life, and sat down
by his side, to be to him a sweet, unselfish controller for evermore,
and no lover could ever tempt her from her post.
“John Greylston will soon get over his sorrow; in a year or two Ellen
will be forgotten for a new face.”
So said the world; Margaret knew better. Her brother's heart lay before
her like an open book, and she saw indelible lines of grief and
anguish there. The old homestead, with its wide lands, belonged to
John Greylston. He had bought it years before from the other heirs; and
Margaret, the only remaining one, possessed neither claim nor right in
it. She had a handsome annuity, however, and nearly all the rich plate
and linen with which the house was stocked, together with some valuable
pieces of furniture, belonged to her. And John and Margaret Greylston
lived on in their quiet and beautiful home, in peace and happiness;
their solitude being but now and then invaded by a flock of nieces
and nephews, from the neighbouring city--their only and well-beloved
relatives.
It was long after sunset. For two full hours the moon and stars had
watched John Greylston, sitting so moodily alone upon the porch. Now
he got up from his chair, and tossing his cigar away in the long grass,
walked slowly into the house. Miss Margaret did not raise her head; her
eyes, as well as her fingers, seemed intent upon the knitting she held.
So her brother, after a hurried “Good-night,” took a candle and went up
to his own room, never speaking one gentle word; for he said to himself,
“I am not going to worry and coax with Margaret any longer about the
old pines. She is really troublesome with her sentimental notions.” Yet,
after all, John Greylston's heart reproached him, and he felt restless
and ill at ease.
Miss Margaret sat very quietly by the low table, knitting steadily on,
but she was not thinking of her work, neither did she delight in the
beauty of that still autumn evening; the tears came into her eyes, but
she hastily brushed them away; just as though she feared John might
unawares come back and find her crying.
Ah! these _way-side_ thorns are little, but sometimes they pierce as
sharply as the gleaming sword.
“Good-morning, John!”
At the sound of that voice, Mr. Greylston turned suddenly from the
book-case, and his sister was standing near him, her face lit up with a
sweet, yet somewhat anxious smile. He threw down in a hurry the papers
he had been tying together, and the bit of red tape, and holding out his
hand, said fervently,
“I was very harsh last night. I am really sorry for it; will you not
forgive me, Margaret?”
“To be sure I will; for indeed, John, I was quite as much to blame as
you.”
“No, Madge, you were not,” he quickly answered; “but let it pass,
now. We will think and say no more about it;” and, as though he
were perfectly satisfied, and really wished the matter dropped, John
Greylston turned to his papers again.
So Miss Margaret was silent. She was delighted to have peace again, even
though she felt anxious about the pines, and when her brother took his
seat at the breakfast table, looking and speaking so kindly, she felt
comforted to think the cloud had passed away; and John Greylston himself
was very glad. So the two went on eating their breakfast quite happily.
But alas! the storm is not always over when the sky grows light. Reuben
crossed the lawn, followed by the gardener, and Miss Margaret's quick
eye caught the gleaming of the axes swung over their shoulders. She
hurriedly set down the coffee-pot.
“Where are those men going? Reuben and Tom I mean.”
“Only to the woods,” was the careless answer.
“But what woods, John? Oh! I can tell by your face; you are determined
to have the pines cut down.”
“I am.” And John Greylston folded his arms, and looked fixedly at his
sister, but she did not heed him. She talked on eagerly--
“I love the old trees; I will do anything to save them. John, you spoke
last night of additional expense, should the road take that curve. I
will make it up to you; I can afford to do this very well. Now listen to
reason, and let the trees stand.”
“Listen to reason, yourself,” he answered more gently. “I will not
take a cent from you. Margaret, you are a perfect enthusiast about some
things. Now, I love my parents and old times, I am sure, as well as you
do, and that love is not one bit the colder, because I do not let it
stand in the way of interest. Don't say anything more. My mind is made
up in this matter. The place is mine, and I cannot see that you have any
right to interfere in the improvements I choose to make on it.”
A deep flush stole over Miss Greylston's face.
“I have indeed no legal right to counsel or plead with you about these
things,” she answered sadly, “but I have a sister's right, that of
affection--you cannot deny this, John. Once again, I beg of you to let
the old pines alone.”
“And once again, I tell you I will do as I please in this matter,” and
this was said sharply and decidedly.
Margaret Greylston said not another word, but pushing back her chair,
she arose from the breakfast-table and went quickly from the room, even
before her brother could call to her. Reuben and his companion had just
got in the last meadow when Miss Greylston overtook them.
“You, will let the pines alone to-day,” she calmly said, “go to any
other work you choose, but remember those trees are not to be touched.”
“Very well, Miss Margaret,” and Reuben touched his hat respectfully,
“Mr. John is very changeable in his notions,” burst in Tom; “not an hour
ago he was in such a hurry to get us at the pine.”
“Never mind,” authoritatively said Miss Greylston; “do just as you are
bid, without any remarks;” and she turned away, and went down the meadow
path, even as she came, within quick step, without a bonnet, shading her
eyes from the morning sun with her handkerchief.
John Greylston still sat at the breakfast-table, half dreamily balancing
the spoon across the saucer's edge. When his sister came in again, he
raised his head, and mutely-inquiringly looked at her, and she spoke,--
“I left this room just to go after Reuben and Tom; I overtook them
before they had crossed the last meadow, and I told them not to touch
the pine trees, but to go, instead, to any other work they choose. I am
sure you will be angry with me for all this; but, John, I cannot help it
if you are.”
“Don't say so, Margaret,” Mr. Greylston sharply answered, getting up at
the same time from his chair, “don't tell me you could not help it. I
have talked and reasoned with you about those trees, until my patience
is completely worn out; there is no necessity for you to be such an
obstinate fool.”
“Oh! John, hush, hush!”
“I will not,” he thundered. “I am master here, and I will speak and act
in this house as I see fit. Now, who gave you liberty to countermand my
orders; to send my servants back from the Work I had set for them to do?
Margaret, I warn you; for, any more such freaks, you and I, brother and
sister though we be, will live no longer under the same roof.”
“Be still, John Greylston! Remember _her_ patient, self-sacrificing
love. Remember the past--be still.”
But he would not; relentlessly, stubbornly, the waves of passion raged
on in his soul.
“Now, you hear all this; do not forget it; and have done with your silly
obstinacy as soon as possible, for I will be worried no longer with it;”
and roughly pushing away the slight hand which was laid upon his arm,
Mr. Greylston stalked out of the house.
For a moment, Margaret stood where her brother had left her, just in the
centre of the floor. Her cheeks were very white, but quickly a crimson
flush came over them, and her eyes filled with tears; then she sat
down upon the white chintz-covered settle, and hiding her face in the
pillows, wept violently for a long time.
“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 grass-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 noble, 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 clustered
round his brow in the same careless, boyish fashion 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 fashion? 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 passengers 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 noble 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 passed 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 cushioned
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 assurance 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 wishing 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 pushing 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.
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 God 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
grass 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? God 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 flushing
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. God 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, noble 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 grass
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 God'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 snatched 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, God
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 God'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 God 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.”
But Annie was silently crying beside him. John Greylton wiped his eyes,
and then he called his sister Margaret to the window.
“Annie and I have been looking at the old pines, and you can guess what
we were thinking about. As for myself,” he added, “I never see those
trees without feeling saddened and rebuked. I never recall that season
of error, without the deepest shame and grief. And still the old pines
stand. Well, Madge, one day they will shade our graves; and of late I
have thought that day would dawn very soon.”
Annie Bermond let the curtain fall very slowly forward, and buried
her face in her hands; but the two old pilgrims by her side, John and
Margaret Greylston, looked at each other with a smile of hope and joy.
They had long been “good and faithful servants,” and now they awaited
the coming of “the Master,” with a calm, sweet patience, knowing it
would be well with them, when He would call them hence.
The pines creaked mournfully in the winter wind, and the stars looked
down upon bleak wastes, and snow-shrouded meadows; yet the red blaze
heaped blithely on the hearth, taking in, in its fair light, the merry
circle sitting side by side, and the thoughtful little group standing so
quietly by the window. And even now the picture fades, and is gone. The
curtain falls--the story of John and Margaret Greylston is ended.