Opening a Chestnut Burr | Page 7

was suspicious of Gregory, and disposed to blame him
very much. But when he proved to them that he had lost his private
means by Hunting's treachery, and insisted on making over to them all
his right and title to the property he had invested with them, they saw
that he was no confederate of the swindler, but that he had suffered
more than any of them.
He had, indeed. He had lost his ambition. The large sum of money that
was to be the basis of the immense fortune he had hoped to amass was
gone. He had greatly prided himself on his business ability, but had
signalized his entrance on his new and responsible position by being
overreached and swindled in a transaction that had impoverished
himself and almost ruined his partners. He grew very misanthropic, and
was quite as bitter against himself as against others. In his estimation
people were either cloaking their evil or had not been tempted, and he
felt after Hunting dropped the mask that he would never trust any one
again.
It may be said, all this is very unreasonable. Yes, it is; but then people
will judge the world by their own experience of it, and some natures are
more easily warped by wrong than others. No logic can cope with
feeling and prejudice. Because of his own misguided life and the wrong
he had received from others, Walter Gregory was no more able to form
a correct estimate of society than one color-blind is to judge of the tints

of flowers. And yet he belonged to that class who claim pre- eminently
to know the world. Because he thought he knew it so well he hated and
despised it, and himself as part of it.
The months that followed his great and sudden downfall dragged their
slow length along. He worked early and late, without thought of
sparing himself. If he could only see what the firm had lost through him
made good, he did not care what became of himself. Why should he?
There was little in the present to interest him, and the future looked, in
his depressed, morbid state, as monotonous and barren as the sands of a
desert. Seemingly, he had exhausted life, and it had lost all zest for
him.
But while his power to enjoy had gone, not so his power to suffer. His
conscience was uneasy, and told him in a vague way that something
was wrong. Reason, or, more correctly speaking, instinct, condemned
his life as a wretched blunder. He had lived for his own enjoyment, and
now, when but half through life, what was there for him to enjoy?
As in increasing weakness he dragged himself to the office on a sultry
September day, the thought occurred to him that the end was nearer
than he expected.
"Let it come," he said, bitterly. "Why should I live?"
The thought of his early home recurred to him with increasing
frequency, and he had a growing desire to visit it before his strength
failed utterly. Therefore it was with a certain melancholy pleasure that
he found himself at liberty, through the kindness of his partners, to
make this visit, and at the season, too, when his boyish memories of the
place, like the foliage, would be most varied and vivid.
CHAPTER II
OPENING A CHESTNUT BURR

If the reader could imagine a man visiting his own grave, he might
obtain some idea of Walter Gregory's feelings as he took the boat
which would land him not far from his early home. And yet, so
different was he from the boy who had left that home fifteen years
before, that it was almost the same as if he were visiting the grave of a
brother who had died in youth.
Though the day was mild, a fresh bracing wind blew from the west.
Shielding himself from this on the after-deck, he half reclined, on
account of his weakness, in a position from which he could see the
shores and passing vessels upon the river. The swift gliding motion, the
beautiful and familiar scenery, the sense of freedom from routine work,
and the crisp, pure air, that seemed like a delicate wine, all combined to
form a mystic lever that began to lift his heart out of the depths of
despondency.
A storm had passed away, leaving not a trace. The October sun shone
in undimmed splendor, and all nature appeared to rejoice in its light.
The waves with their silver crests seemed chasing one another in mad
glee. The sailing vessels, as they tacked to and fro across the river
under the stiff western breeze, made the water foam about their blunt
prows, and the white-winged gulls wheeled in graceful circles overhead.
There was a sense of