Verty aroused himself, and smiled upon Mr. Roundjacket—a proceeding which seemed to be eminently satisfactory to that gentleman.
With many preparatory, "hems," therefore, the poet commenced reading.
At the risk of bringing down upon our heads the anathema of antiquaries in general, we are compelled to forbear from making any quotations from the Roundjacket Iliad. It was not quite equal to Homer, and inferior, in many points, to both the Aeniad and the Dunciad;—but not on that account did the poet undervalue it. He read with that deep appreciation which authors in all ages have brought to bear upon their own productions.
Verty preserved a profound and respectful silence, which flattered the poet hugely. He recited with new energy and pleasure—becoming, at times, so enthusiastic, indeed, that a smothered growl from the adjoining apartment bore soothing testimony to his eloquence.
Mr. Roundjacket wound up with a gigantic figure, in which the muse of Chancery was represented as mounted upon a golden car, and dispensing from her outstretched hands all sorts of fruits, and flowers, and blessings on humanity;—and having thus brought his noble poem to a noble termination, the poet, modestly smiling, and ready for applause, rolled up his manuscript, and raised his eyes to the countenance of his silent and admiring listener—that listener who had been so rapt in the glowing images and sonorous couplets, that he had not uttered so much as a word.
Verty was asleep.
Mr. Roundjacket's illusions were all dissipated—the attentive listener was a sleeping listener—his poem, dreadful to think of, had absolutely lulled Verty to slumber.
We may understand the mortification of the great writer; theirritable genushad in him no unfit representative, thus far at least. He caught Verty by the shoulder and shook him.
"Wake up, you young savage!" he cried, "sleeping when I am reading to you; rouse! rouse! or by the immortal gods I'll commit an assault and battery upon your barbarous person! Savage! barbarian! monster!"
Suddenly Mr. Roundjacket heard a hoarse growl, and something like a row of glittering steel knives attracted his attention in the direction of his legs. This phenomenon was caused by the opening of Longears' huge mouth—that intelligent animal having espoused the cause of his master, so rudely assaulted, and prepared for instant battle.
Fortunately, Verty woke up before the combat commenced; and seeing the hound standing in a threatening attitude, he ordered him to lie down. Longears obeyed with great alacrity, and was soon dozing again.
Then commenced, on the part of Mr. Roundjacket, an eloquent and animated remonstrance with Verty on the impropriety of that proceeding which he had just been guilty of. It was unfeeling, and barbarous, and unheard of, the poet observed, and but one thing induced him to pardon it—the wild bringing up of the young man, which naturally rendered him incapable of appreciating a great work of art.
Verty explained that he had been hunting throughout the preceding night—setting traps, and tramping over hill and through dale—and thus he had been overcome by drowsiness. He smiled with great good nature upon Mr. Roundjacket, as he uttered this simple excuse, and so winning was the careless sunshine of his countenance, that honest Roundjacket, uttering an expiring grumble, declared that nothing was more natural than his drowsiness. In future, he said, he would select those seasons when his—Verty's—senses were bright and wide-awake; and he begged the young man not to fear a repetition of what he might have heard—there were fifteen more cantos, all of which he would read, slowly and carefully explaining, as he went along, any difficulties.
Verty received this announcement with great good humor, and then began tracing over his paper, listlessly, the word "Redbud." That word had been the key-note of his mind throughout the morning—that was the real secret of his abstraction.
Miss Lavinia had informed him on that morning, when she had dismissed him from Apple Orchard, that Redbud was going away for the purpose of being educated; and that he, Verty, would act very incorrectly if he asked any one whither Redbud was going. Thus the boy had been rendered gloomy and sad—he had wandered about Apple Orchard, never daring to ask whither the young girl had gone—and so, in one of his wanderings, had encountered Mr. Rushton, who indeed was seeking him. He had easily yielded to the representations of that gentleman, when he assured him that he ought to apply his mind to something in order to provide for all the wants of his Indian mother—and this scheme was all the more attractive, as the neighborhood of Apple Orchard, to which his steps ever wandered, occasioned him more sadness than he had ever felt before. Redbud was gone—why should he go near the place again? The sunshine had left it—he had better seek new scenes, and try what effect they would have.
Therefore was it that Verty had become a lawyer's clerk; and it was the recollection of these causes of sadness which had made the boy so dull and languid.
Without Redbud, everything seemed dim to him; and he could not ask whither she had flown.
This was his sad predicament.
After receiving the assurance of Roundjacket's pardon, Verty, as we have said, began scrawling over the copy of the deed he was making the name of Redbud. This persevering and thoughtful occupation at last attracted the attention of his companion.
"Redbud!" asked the poet, "who is Redbud, my young friend? I should conjecture that she was a young lady, from the name.—Stay, is there not a Miss Redbud Summers, daughter of the Squire of said name?"
Verty nodded.
"A friend of yours?"
"Yes," sighed Verty.
Mr. Roundjacket smiled.
"Perhaps you are making love to her?" he said.
"Making love?" asked Verty, "what is that?"
"How!" cried the poet, "you don't mean to say you are ignorant of the nature of that divine sentiment which elevates and ennobles in so remarkable a degree—hem!—all humanity!"
"Anan!" said Verty, with an inquiring look.
Mr. Roundjacket returned this look for some moments, preserving a profound silence.
"My young friend," he said at last, "how old are you?"
"Eighteen,ma meresays."
"Who'smommer, pray?"
"Mother."
"Oh," said the poet, with some confusion, "the fact is, your pronunciation—but don't let us discuss that. I was going to say, that it is impossible for you to have reached your present period of life without making love to some lady."
Verty looked bewildered, but smiled.
Mr. Roundjacket was astounded at finding such savage ignorance in his companion;—he revolved in his mind the means of enlightening Verty, in vain.
At last he placed the end of his ruler upon his waistcoat, and said, mysteriously:
"Do you see me?"
"Yes," replied Verty.
"Well, sir, I made love to a young woman when I was six."
Verty looked interested.
"At twelve I had already had my heart broken three times," continued Mr. Roundjacket; "and now, sir, I make it a point to pay my addresses—yes, to proceed to the last word, the 'will you,' namely,—once, at least, a year."
Verty replied that this was very kind in Mr. Roundjacket, and then rising, stretched himself, and took up his bow.
"I feel very tired," he said, "I wish I was in the woods."
And Verty turned his back on Mr. Roundjacket, strolled to the door, and leaning on his bow, gazed languidly out upon the busy street.
He presented a strange appearance there, at the door of the dingy office, in the middle of the busy and thriving town. He seemed to have been translated thither, from the far forest wilds, by the wave of some magician's wand, so little did he appear to be a portion of the scene. Verty looked even wilder than ever, from the contrast, and his long bow, and rugged dress, and drooping hat of fur, would have induced the passers-by to take him for an Indian, but for the curling hair and the un-Indian face.
Verty gazed up into the sky and mused—the full sunlight of the brightOctober morning falling in a flood upon his wild accoutrements.
By gazing at the blue heavens, over which passed white clouds, ever-changing and of rare loveliness, the forest boy forgot the uncongenial scenes around him, the reality;—and passing perforce of his imagination into the bright realm of cloud-land, was again on the hills, breathing the pure air, and following the deer.
Verty had always loved the clouds; he had dreamed of Redbud often, while gazing on them; and now he smiled, and felt brighter as he looked.
His forest instincts returned, and, bending his bow, he carelessly fitted an arrow upon the leather string. What should he shoot at?
There was a very handsome fish upon a neighboring belfry, which was veering in the wind; and this glittering object seemed to Verty an excellent mark. As he was about to take aim, however, his quick eye caught sight of a far speck in the blue sky; and he lowered his bow again.
Placing one hand above his eyes, he raised his head, and fixed his penetrating gaze upon the white speck, which rapidly increased in size as it drew nearer. It was a bird with white wings, clearly defined against the azure.
Verty selected his best arrow, and placing it on the string, waited until the air-sailer came within striking distance. Then drawing the arrow to its head, he let it fly at the bird, whose ruffled breast presented an excellent mark.
The slender shaft ascended like a flash of light into the air—struck the bird in full flight; and, tumbling headlong, the fowl fell toward Verty, who, with hair thrown back, and outstretched arms, ran to catch it.
It was a white pigeon; the sharp pointed arrow had penetrated and lodged in one of its wings, and it had paused in its onward career, like a bark whose slender mast, overladen with canvas, snaps in a sudden gust.
Verty caught the pigeon, and drew the arrow from its wing, which was all stained with blood.
"Oh, what large eyes you have!" he said, smiling; "you're a handsome pigeon. I will not kill you. I will take you home and cure your wing, and then, if ever I again see Redbud, I will give you to her, my pretty bird."
Poor Verty sighed, and his eyes drooped as he thought of the girl.
Suddenly, however, a small scroll of yellow paper encircling the pigeon's neck, and concealed before by the ruffled plumage, caught his eye.
"Paper! and writing on it!" he said; "why, this is somebody's pet-pigeon I have shot!"
And tearing off the scroll, Verty read these words, written in a delicate, running-hand:
"I am Miss Redbud's pigeon; and Fanny gave me to her!" Verty remained for a moment motionless—his eyes expanded till they resembled two rising moons;—"I am Miss Redbud's pigeon!" Then Redbud was somewhere in the neighborhood of the town—she had not gone far out into the wide, unknown world—this pigeon might direct him;—Verty found a thousand thoughts rushing through his mind, like so many deer in a herd, jostling each other, and entangling their horns.
Surely, it would not be wrong for him to embrace this chance of discovering Redbud's residence—a chance which seemed to have been afforded him by some unseen power. Why should he not keep the bird until its wing was healed, and then observe the direction of its flight? Why not thus find the abode of one in whose society so much of his happiness consisted? Was there any thing wrong in it—would any one blame him?
These were the questions which Verty asked himself, standing in the October sunshine, and holding the wounded pigeon to his breast. And the conclusion was ere long reached. He decided, to his own perfect satisfaction, that he had the full right to do as he wished; and then he re-entered the office.
Mr. Roundjacket was busy at some more law papers, and did not observe the object which he carried. Verty sat down at his desk; betook himself to copying, having rejected the sketch-ornamented sheet; and by evening had done a very fair day's work.
Then he put on his hat, placed the wounded pigeon in his bosom, and, mounting his horse, set forward toward the hills.
"In three days," he said, "you will be cured, pretty pigeon, and then I will let you go; and it will be hard if I don't follow your flight, and find out where your mistress lives. Oh, me! I must see Redbud—I can't tell why, but I know I must see her!"
And Verty smiled, and went on with a lighter heart than he had possessed for many a day.
Verty nursed the wounded pigeon with the tenderness of a woman and the skill of a physician; so that on the third day, as he had promised himself, the bird was completely "restored to health." The wing had healed, the eyes grown bright again, every movement of the graceful head and burnished neck showed how impatient the air-sailer was to return to his mistress and his home.
"Ma mere" said Verty, standing at the door of the old Indian woman's lodge, "I think this pretty pigeon is well. Now I shall carry it back, and I know I shall find Redbud."
Verty, it will be seen, had concealed nothing from his mother; indeed, he never concealed anything from anybody. He had told her quite simply that he wanted to see Redbud again; that they wouldn't tell him where she was; and that the pigeon would enable him to find her. The old woman had smiled, and muttered something, and that was all.
Verty now stood with one hand on Cloud's mane, in the early morning, ready to set forth.
The pigeon was perched upon his left hand, secured to Verty's arm by a ribbon tied around one of its feet. This ribbon had been given him by Redbud.
In the other hand he carried his rifle, for some days disused—at his feet lay Longears and Wolf, in vain pleading with down-cast eyes for permission to accompany him.
"What a lovely morning!" said Verty, "and look at Cloud,ma mere!—he seems to know it's fall. Then there's Wolf, who can't understand what I told him about Mr. Rushton's not liking so many dogs—see how sorry he is."
"The gun makes him so," said the old woman; "he thinks my boy is going a hunting."
"Maybe I shall—who knows?" Verty said. "If I see a deer upon my way, good-bye to the law work!"
And bounding lightly into the saddle—a movement which caused the pigeon to open and flutter its wings—Verty smiled on the old woman, placed his hand on his breast, and touched Cloud with his heel.
Cloud shook his head, and set forward cheerfully, Longears galloping by his master's side.
Verty drank in the Autumn loveliness with that delight which he always experienced in the fresh pure hills, with the mountain winds around him. The trees seemed to be growing more and more gorgeous in their coloring, and the cries of wild birds were far more jubilant than ever. As he went on along the narrow bridle path, under the magnificent boughs, his countenance was brighter and more joyous, and he broke once or twice into a song.
Suddenly, while he was humming thus in a low tune, to himself, a still "croak!" attracted his attention, and he stopped abruptly.
"Ah!" he murmured, "that's a good big gobbler, and I'll see about him!"
And Verty cautiously dismounted, and with one foot raised, listened for a repetition of the sound.
It was not long before the turkey's call was again heard from a thick copse on his left.
The young hunter turned, and imprisoning Cloud's nostril in his nervous grasp, looked fixedly into that intelligent animal's eyes. Cloud seemed to understand very well—nodded his head—drew a long breath—and stood like a statue. Verty then placed his foot upon Longears, made a gesture with his hand, and Longears showed himself equally docile. He laid down, and without moving, followed his master with his eyes, and listened.
Verty crept noiselessly, without treading on a leaf or a twig, to a neighboring thicket, from which the horse and dog were not visible. He then lay down in the bushy top of a fallen pine, and without the assistance of any "call," such as hunters generally make use of, uttered the low, cautious cry of the wild turkey. This he repeated a number of times, and then remained still.
For ten or fifteen minutes no noise disturbed the stillness of the forest; all was quiet. Then a slight agitation of the leaves was visible at the distance of fifty or sixty yards, and a magnificent gobbler made his appearance, moving his bright head, and darting upon every side glances of curiosity and circumspection.
He was looking for the female who had called him.
Verty cocked his rifle, and uttered the low croak again.
This seemed to remove any fears which the turkey had—he replied to it, and advanced toward Verty's impromptu "blind." A streak of sunlight through the boughs fell on his burnished neck and brilliant head, and he paused again.
Verty ran his eye along the barrel—covered the turkey bashaw's head, and fired. The ball passed through the fowl's throat, and he fell back with violent flutterings—no longer anything but the memory of a living turkey.
"Very well," said Verty, smoothing the head of his pigeon, which had been greatly startled by the explosion, "I can shoot better than that—I ought to have hit your eye, Monsieur."
And going to the spot he took up the turkey, and then returned toCloud, who, with Longears at his feet, remained perfectly quiet,
Verty tied the turkey to his saddle-bow, and went on laughing. He made his entry into Winchester in this extremely lawyer-like guise; that is to say, in moccasins and leggins, with a rifle in one hand, a pigeon on the wrist of the other, and a turkey dangling at his horse's side. Cloud, in order to complete the picture, was shaggier than ever, and Verty himself had never possessed so many tangled curls. His shoulders were positively covered with them.
Unfortunately Winchester had no artist at the period.
Mr. Roundjacket was standing at the door of the office, and he greetedVerty with a loud laugh.
"You young savage!" he said, "there you are looking like a barbarous backwoodsman, when we are trying our very best to make a respectable lawyer of you."
Verty smiled, and let Cloud dip his muzzle into the trough of a pump which stood by the door, venerable-looking and iron-handled, like all parish pumps.
"What excuse have you, young man?" said Mr. Roundjacket. "The individual who arrives late at the locality of his daily exercitation will eventually become a candidate for the high and responsible position of public suspension."
"Anan? said Verty, who was not accustomed to paraphrase. Then turning his eyes toward the pigeon, he said:
"Pretty fellow! Oh! will you show me the way? You shall—to seeRedbud!"
And Verty, for the first time, seemed to realize the fact, that he could see her again. His countenance became brilliant—his eyes were filled with light—his lips wreathed with smiles.
Mr. Roundjacket was astounded.
"Young man," he said, sticking his pen behind his ear, "I should be pleased to know what you are thinking about! You are really extravagant, sir—you need the purifying and solidifying influence of the law; believe me—hey! what are you doing there?"
Verty was gnawing off the ribbon from the pigeon's foot, tied too tightly; he could not undo it, and having no knife, used his sharp white teeth for the purpose.
The pigeon sank down toward the horizon—seemed about to disappear—Verty uttered a deep sigh. But no: the bird suddenly pauses, drops from the clouds, and settles upon the roof of a house crowning a grassy hill, which hill was distant from Verty not more than a quarter of a mile.
A smile of delight passed over Verty's countenance. He had foundRedbud—she was there!
There was no longer any necessity for such headlong speed—he could go on slowly now—the goal was near, and would not fly as he approached.
Verty drew near the house, which was a tall, wooden structure, embowered in trees, and carefully reconnoitered with true huntsman-like precision. He thought that the place looked like the residence of Redbud—it was so bright, and sunny, and cheerful.
On the roof sat the returned pigeon, cooing, and pluming his wings among his fellows.
Just as Verty was making this latter observation, his smiling eyes fixed on the mansion before him, he heard a voice at his feet, so to speak, which had the effect of bringing him to earth once more, and this voice said, loftily—
"You seem to be interested, sir—handsome house, sir—very handsome house, sir—also the occupants thereof."
Verty looked, and descried a gentleman of very odd appearance, who was looking at him intently. This gentleman was slender of limb, and tall; his lower extremities were clad in a tight pair of short breeches, beneath which, scarlet stockings plunged themselves into enormous shoes, decorated with huge rosettes; his coat was half-military, half-fop; and a long sword buckled round his waist, knocked against his fantastic grasshopper legs. His hair was frizzled; his countenance, a most extraordinary one; his manner, a mixture of the hero and the bully, of noble dignity and truculent swagger, as if Ancient Pistol had taken the part of Coriolanus, and had not become proficient wholly in his lofty personation.
When this gentleman walked, his long sword bobbed, as we have said, against his legs; when he bowed, his attitude was full of dignity; when he grimaced, he presented an appearance which would have made Punchinello serious, and induced a circus clown to fall into convulsions of despair.
This was the figure which now stood before Verty, and caused that young man to lower his eyes from the roof and the pigeons. Verty looked at the gentleman for a moment, and smiled.
"It is a handsome house," he said.
"Handsome?" said the tall gentleman, with dignity. "I believe you.That house, sir, is the finest I ever saw."
"Is it?" said Verty.
"Yes, sir."
Verty nodded.
"I am a traveller, sir."
"Are you?"
"I am," said the military gentleman, solemnly. "I have been everywhere, sir; and even in Philadelphia and Paris there is nothing like that house."
"Indeed?" Verty said, surveying the remarkable edifice.
"Do you see the portico?" said the gentleman, frowning.
"Yes," said Verty.
"That, sir, is exactly similar to the Acropolis—Pantheon at Rome."
"Eh?" said Verty.
"Yes, sir; and then the wings—do you see the wings?"
"Plainly," said Verty.
"Those, sir, are modeled on the State-House in Paris, and are intended to shelter the youthful damsels, here assembled, as the wings of a hen do the chickens of her bosom—hem! Cause and effect, sir—philosophy and poetry unite to render this edifice the paragon and brag of architectural magnificence."
"Anan?" said Verty.
"I see you speak French."
"That ain't French."
"No? Then it's something else. Going up there?"
"Yes," said Verty.
"Fine turkey that. For the old lady?"
"Who's the old lady?"
"Old Mrs. Scowley—a model of the divine sex, sir."
"No, it ain't for her," said Verty, smiling.
"For Miss Sallianna?"
"Who's that?"
"I see, sir, that you are not acquainted with this still more divine specimen of the—hum—I said that once before. Miss Sallianna, sir, is the beautiful sister of the respected Scowley."
"And who is here besides, if you please?" said Verty.
"A number of charming young ladies, sir. It is a seminary, sir,—an abode of science and accomplishments generally, sir;—the delights of philosophy, sir, take up their chosen dwelling here, and—stop! there's my soul's idol! Jinks will never have another!"
And Mr. Jinks kissed his hand, and grimaced at a young lady who appeared at the gate, with a book in her hand.
This young lady was Redbud.
Verty threw himself from his horse, and ran forward toward Redbud with an expression of so much joy, that even Longears perceived it; and, in the excess of his satisfaction, reared up on Mr. Jinks, claiming his sympathy.
Mr. Jinks brushed his clothes, and protested, frowning. Verty did not hear him, however—he was at the gate with Redbud.
"Oh!" he cried, "how glad I am to see you! What in the world made you come here, Redbud, and stay away from me so long!"
Redbud blushed, and murmured something.
"Never mind," said Verty; "I'm so glad to see you, that I won't quarrel."
And he pressed the little hand which he held with such ardor, thatRedbud blushed more than ever.
But she had scarcely uttered a word—scarcely smiled on him. What did it mean? Poor Verty's face began to be overclouded.
What did it mean. That is not a very difficult question to us, however much it might have puzzled Verty. It meant that Miss Lavinia had suggested to Redbud the impropriety of remaining on terms of cordiality and friendship with a young gentleman, who, after the fashion of all youths, in all ages of the world, was desperately anxious to become some young lady's husband. It meant that the "lecture" of this great female philosopher had produced its effect,—that Miss Redbud had waked to a consciousness of the fact, that she was a "young lady," and that her demeanor toward Verty was improper.
Before, she had thought that there was no great impropriety in running to meet the forest boy, with whom she had played for years, and whom she knew so very well. Now this was changed. Cousin Lavinia saw a decided impropriety in her meeting Verty with a bright smile, and giving him her hand, and saying, in her frank, affectionate voice: "Oh! I'm so glad to see you!" Of course, cousin Lavinia knew all about it; and it was very dreadful in her to have been treating Verty with so little ceremony—very, very dreadful. Was she not growing up, and even did she not wear long dresses? Was such conduct in a lady of sixteen proper?
So, innocence listened to worldly wisdom, and pride overturned simplicity; and, in consequence, our friend Verty found himself opposite a young lady who blushed, and exhibited a most unaccountable constraint, and only gave him the tips of her fingers, when he was ready for, and expected, the most enthusiastic greeting.
We must, however, speak of another influence which made Redbud so cool;—and this will, very probably, have occurred to our lady readers, if we have any, as the better explanation. Separation! Yes, the separation which stimulates affection, and bathes the eyes in the languid dews of memory. Strephon is never so devoted as when Chloe has been removed from him—when his glances seek for her in vain on the well-remembered lawn. And Chloe, too, is disconsolate, when she no longer sees the crook of her shepherd, or hears the madrigals he sings. Absence smoothes all rough places; and the friend from whom we are separated, takes the dearest place in the heart of hearts.
Redbud did not discover how much she loved Verty, until she was gone from him, and the fresh music of his laughter was no longer in her ears. Then she found that he held a very different place in her heart from what she had supposed;—or rather, to speak more accurately, she did not reflect in the least upon the matter, but only felt that he was not there near her, and that she was not happy.
This will explain the prim little ladylike air of bashfulness and constraint which Redbud exhibited, when her eyes fell on Verty, and the coolness with which she gave him her hand. The old things had passed away—Verty could be the boy-playmate no more, however much it grieved her. Thus reflected Miss Redbud; and in accordance with this train of reasoning, did she conduct herself upon the occasion of which we speak.
So, to Strephon's request to be informed why she came thither, without telling him, Chloe replied with a blush:
"Oh, I came to school—sir," she was about to add, but did not.
"To school? Is this a school for young ladies?"
Redbud, with a delicate little inclination of the head, said yes.
"Well," Verty went on, "I am glad I found you; for, Redbud, you can't tell how I've been feeling, ever since you went away. It seemed to me that there was a big weight resting on my breast."
Redbud colored, and laughed.
"Sometimes," said Verty, smiling, "I would try and get it away by drawing in my breath, and ever so long; but I could'nt," he added, shaking his head; "I don't know what it means."
Mr. Jinks, who was dusting his rosetted shoes with a white pocket handkerchief, grimaced at this.
"Well, well," Verty went on, "I begin to feel better now, since I've seen you; and, I think, I'll do better in my office work."
"Office work?" asked Redbud, beginning to grow more like her former self.
"Oh, yes!" Verty replied; "I'm in Mr. Rushton's office now, and I'm a lawyer's clerk;—that's what they call it, I believe."
Redbud returned his bright smile. Her eye wandered toward Cloud, who stood perfectly still—the turkey, which had not been removed, yet dangling at his saddle-bow.
Verty followed the young girl's glance, and smiled.
"I know what you are looking at," he said; "you are looking at that wild turkey, and thinking that I am a poor sort of a lawyer, with such a book to read out of. But I shot him coming along."
Redbud laughed; her coolness could not last in Verty's presence; his fresh voice, so full of their old happy times, made her a child again.
"And how did you find me'?" she said, in her old tone.
"By your pigeon!"
"My pigeon?
"Yes, indeed; I shot him."
"You shot him, Verty?"
Verty experienced,—he knew not why,—a feeling of extreme delight, on hearing his name from her lips.
"Yes, I did so, Redbud," he replied, confidentially, "and I cured him, too. Look at him, up there on the roof, coo-cooing! He was sailing over the town, and I sent an arrow after him, and brought him straight down."
"Oh, Verty! how cruel!"
"I never would 'a shot him if I had seen the name on his neck."
"The name—yes—"
"Yours, Redbud. There was a piece of paper, and on it—but here's the paper."
And Verty took from his bosom the yellow scroll, and placed it inRedbud's hand.
She took it, smiling, and read the words—"I am Miss Redbud's pigeon, and Fanny gave me to her."
"Oh, yes," she said, "and I am glad he's come back; poor fellow, I hav'nt seen him for days!"
"I had him," said Verty.
"At home?"
"Yes."
"Curing him?"
Verty nodded.
"You know that was what I wanted. I cured him, and then let him go, and followed him, and found you."
Verty, in an absent way, took Miss Redbud's hand, and was guilty of the bad taste of squeezing it.
The reply and the action seemed to recall Redbud to herself; and she suddenly drew back with a blush.
Verty looked astounded. In the midst of his confusion a martial "hem!" was heard, and Mr. Jinks, who had been carefully adjusting his toilette, drew near the lovers.
"Hem!" said Mr. Jinks, "a very fine day, Miss Redbud. Loveliest of your sex and delight of the world, have I the pleasure of seeing you in that high state of happiness and health which of right should belong to you?"
With this Mr. Jinks bowed and gesticulated, and spread out his arms like a graceful giraffe, and dispensed on every side the most engaging grimaces.
Redbud bowed, with an amused look in her little blushing face; and just as she had got through with this ceremony, another personage was added to the company.
This was an elderly lady of severe aspect, who, clad in black, and with an awfully high cap, which cast a shadow as it came, appeared at the door of the house, and descended like a hawk upon the group.
"Well, Miss Summers!" she said, in a crooked and shrill voice, "talking to gentlemen, I see! Mr. Jinks, against rules, sir—come, Miss, you know my wishes on this subject."
As she spoke, her eyes fell upon the turkey hanging from Cloud's saddle-bow.
"Young man," she said to Verty, "what's the price of that turkey?"
Verty was looking at Redbud, and only knew that the awful Mrs. Scowley had addressed him, from Redbud's whispering to him.
"Anan?" he said.
"I say, what's the price of that turkey?" continued the old lady; "if you are moderate, I'll buy it. Don't think, though, that I am going to give you a high price. You mountain people," she added, looking at Verty's wild costume, "can get along with very little money. Come, how much?"
Verty on that occasion did the only artful thing which he ever accomplished—but what will not a lover do?
He went to Cloud, took the fine gobbler from the saddle, and bringing it to Mrs. Scowley, laid it at the feet of that awful matron with a smile.
"You may have him," said Verty, "I don't want him."
"Don't want him!"
"No, ma'am—I just shot him so—on my way to my writing."
"Your writing, sir?" said Mrs. Scowley, gazing at Verty with some astonishment—"what writing?"
"I'm in Mr. Rushton's office, and I write," Verty replied, "but I don't like it much."
Mrs. Scowley for a moment endeavored to look Verty out of countenance, but finding that the young man seemed to have no consciousness of the fact, and that he returned her gaze with friendly interest, the ogress uttered a sound between a snort and a cough, and said:—
"Then you did'nt come to sell the turkey?"
"No, indeed, ma'am."
"For what, then?"
"I came to see Redbud," replied Verty; "you know, ma'am, that we know each other very well; I thought I'd come." And Verty smiled.
Mrs. Scowley was completely puzzled—she had never before seen a gentleman of Verty's candor, and could find no words to reply. She thought of saying to our friend that visiting a young lady at school was highly criminal and reprehensible, but a glance at the fat turkey lying on the grass at her feet, caused her to suppress this speech.
As she gazed, her feeling relented more and more—Verty grew still more amiable in her eyes—the turkey evidently weighed more than twenty pounds.
"I'm much obliged to you, young man," she said, "and I'll take the turkey from you as a friend. Come in and have some apples—there's a bell-mouth tree."
"Oh yes!" said Verty, "I'm very fond of apples—but Redbud may have some, too?" he added, smiling innocently.
"Hum!" said the ogress.
"Just a few, you know, ma'am," said Verty, with his bright smile. "I know from the way she looks that she wants some. Don't you, Redbud?"
Poor Redbud's resolutions all melted—Verty's voice did it all—she blushed and nodded, and said yes, she should like very much to have some apples.
"Then you may go," said the ogress, somewhat mollified, "but don't touch the small trees—I'm keeping them."
"Not for worlds!" said Verty.
"No, ma'am," said Redbud.
And they crossed the lawn, and opening the gate of the spacious and well-kept garden, passed in under the apple boughs. As for Mr. Jinks, he accompanied Mrs. Scowley to the house, bowing, grimacing, ambling, and making himself generally agreeable. True, he resembled a grasshopper, standing erect, and going through the steps of a minuet; but there was much elegance in Mr. Jinks' evolutions, and unbounded elasticity of limb. He entered with Mrs. Scowley; and there, for the present, we shall leave him.
It was a beautiful garden which Verty and Redbud entered, hand in hand;—one of those old pleasure-grounds which, with their grass and flowers, and long-armed trees, laden with fruit or blossoms, afford such a grateful retreat to the weary or the sorrowful. The breath of the world comes not into such places—all its jar and tumult and turmoil, faint, die and disappear upon the flower-enameled threshold; and the cool breath of the bright heavens fans no longer wrinkled foreheads and compressed lips. All care passes from us in these fairy-land retreats; and if we can be happy any where, it is there.
We said that Verty and Redbud entered, hand in hand, and this may serve to show that the young pupil of Miss Lavinia had not profited much by the lessons of her mentor.
In truth, Redbud began to return to her childhood, which she had promised herself to forget; and, as a result of this change of feeling, she became again the friend and playfellow of her childhood's friend, and lost sight, completely, of the "young lady" theory. True, she did not run on, as the phrase is, with Verty, as in the old days—her manner had far more softness in it—she was more quiet and reserved; but still, those constrained, restless looks were gone, and when Verty laughed, the winning smile came to the little face; and the small hand which he had taken was suffered to rest quietly in his own.
They strolled under the trees, and Verty picked up some of the long yellow-rinded apples, which, lay upon the ground under the trees, and offered them to Redbud.
"I didn't want the apples," he said, smiling, "I wanted to see you, Redbud, for I've not felt right since you went away. Oh, it's been so long—so long!"
"Only a few days," said Redbud, returning the smile.
"But you know a few days is a very long time, when you want to see anybody very much."
Redbud returned his frank smile, and said, with a delicious little prim expression:
"Did you want to see me very much, Verty?"
"Yes, indeed; I didn't know how much I liked you," said the boy, with his ingenuous laugh; "the woods didn't look right, and I was always thinking about you."
Redbud colored slightly, but this soon disappeared, and she laughed in that low, joyous, musical tone, which characterized her.
"There it is!" said Verty, going through the same ceremony; "that's one thing I missed."
"What?"
"Your laughing!"
"Indeed!" Redbud said.
"Yes, indeed. I declare, on my word, that I would rather hear you laugh, than listen to the finest mocking-bird in the world."
"You are very gallant!" said Miss Redbud.
"Anan?" said Verty.
"I mean you are very friendly to me, Verty," said Redbud, with a bright look at his frank face.
"Why, what have I done? I hav'nt done anything for you, for ages. Let me see—can't I do something now? Oh yes, there are some flowers, and I can make a nice wreath!"
And Verty ran and gathered an armful of primroses, marigolds, and golden rods; some late roses, too, and so returned to Redbud.
"Now come to the arbor here—it's just like the Apple Orchard one—come, and I'll make you a crown."
"Oh! I don't deserve it," laughed the young girl.
Verty smiled.
"Yes, you do," he said, "for you are my queen."
And he went and sat down upon the trellised bench, and began weaving a wreath of the delicate yellow autumn primroses and other flowers.
Redbud sat down and watched him.
Placed thus, they presented a singular contrast, and, together, formed a picture, not wanting in a wild interest—Verty, clothed in his forest costume of fur and beads, his long, profusely-curling hair hanging upon his shoulders, and his swarthy cheeks, round, and reddened with health, presented rather the appearance of an Indian than an Anglo-Saxon—a handsome wild animal rather than a pleasant young man. Redbud's face and dress were in perfect contrast with all this—she was fair, with that delicate rose-color, which resembles the tender flush of sunset, in her cheeks; her hair was brushed back from her forehead, and secured behind with a large bow of scarlet ribbon; her dress was of rich silk, with hanging sleeves; a profusion of yellow lace, and a dozen rosettes affixed to the dress, in front, set off the costume admirably, and gave to the young girl that pretty attractivetoute ensemblewhich corresponded with her real character.
As she followed Verty's movements, the frank little face wore a very pleasant smile, and at times she would pick up and hand to him a leaf or a bud, which attention he rewarded with a smile in return.
At last the wreath was finished, and, rising up, Verty placed it onRedbud's forehead.
"How nicely it fits," he said; "who would have imagined that my awkward fingers could have done it?"
Redbud sat down with a slight color in her cheek.
"I am very much obliged to you, Verty," she said; "it was very good in you to make this for me—though I don't deserve it."
"Indeed you do—you are my queen: and here is the right place for me."
So saying, Verty smiled, and lay down at the feet of Redbud, leaning on the trellised bench, and looking up into that young lady's eyes.
"You look so pretty!" he said, after a silence of some moments, "so nice and pretty, Redbud!"
"Do I?" said Redbud, smiling and blushing.
"And so good."
"Oh, no—I am not!"
"Not good?"
"Far from it, Verty."
"Hum!" said Verty, "I should like to know how! I might be better if you were at Apple Orchard again."
"Better?"
"Yes, yes—why can't you live at Apple Orchard, where we were so happy?"
Redbud smiled.
"You know I am growing up now," she said.
"Growing up?"
"Yes; and I must learn my lessons—those lessons which cousin Lavinia can't teach me!"
"What lessons are they?"
"Music, and dancing, and singing, and all."
Verty reflected.
"Are they better than the Bible?" he said, at length.
Redbud looked shocked, and replied to the young savage:
"Oh no, no!—I hardly think they are important at all; but I suppose every young lady learns them. It is necessary," added the little maiden, primly.
"Ah, indeed? well, I suppose it is," Verty replied, thoughtfully; "a real lady could'nt get along without knowing the minuet, and all that. But I'm mighty sorry you had to go. I've lostmyteacher by your going."
Redbud returned his frank look, and said:
"I'm very sorry, Verty; but never mind—you read your Bible, don't you?"
"Yes," Verty replied, "I promised you; and I read all about Joseph, and Nimrod, who was a hunter, and other people."
"Don't you ever read in the New Testament?" Redbud said. "I wish you would read in that, too, Verty."
And Redbud, with all the laughter gone away from her countenance, regarded Verty with her tender, earnest eyes, full of kindness and sincerity.
"I do," Verty replied, "and I like it better. But I'm very bad. I don't think I'm so good when you are away, Redbud. I don't do what you tell me. The fact is, I believe I'm a wild Indian; but I'll grow better as I grow older."
"I know you will," said the kind eyes, plainly, and Verty smiled.
"I'm coming to see you very often here," he said, smiling, "and I'm going to do my work down at the office—that old lady will let me come to see you, I know."
Redbud looked dubious.
"I don't know whether cousin Lavinia would think it was right," she said.
And her head drooped, the long dusky lashes covering her eyes and reposing on her cheek. It was hard for Redbud thus to forbid her boy-playmate, but she felt that she ought to do so.
"Think it right!" cried Verty, rising half up, and resting on his hand, "why, what's the harm?"
"I don't know," Redbud said, blushing, "but I think you had better ask cousin Lavinia."
Her head sank again.
Verty remained silent for some moments, then said:
"Well, I will! I'll go this very day, on my way home."
"That's right, Verty," replied the young girl, smiling hopefully, "and I think you will get cousin Lavinia to let you come. You know that I want you to."
Verty smiled, then looking at his companion, said:
"What made you so cold to me when I came at first? I thought you had forgotten me."
Redbud, conscious of her feelings, blushed and hesitated. Just as she was about to stammer out some disconnected words, however, voices were heard behind the shrubbery, which separated the arbor from a neighboring walk, and this created a diversion.
Verty and Redbud could not help overhearing this conversation.
The voice which they heard first was that of Mr. Jinks; and that gentleman was apparently engaged in the pleasant occupation of complimenting a lady.
"Fairest of your sex!" said the enthusiastic Mr. Jinks, "how can I express the delight which your presence inspires me with—ahem!"
The sound of a fan coming in contact with a masculine hand was heard, and a mincing voice replied:—
"Oh, you are a great flatterer, Mr. Jinks. You are really too bad. Let us view the beauties of nature."
"They are not so lovely as those beauties which I have been viewing since I saw you, my dearest Miss Sallianna."
("That's old Scowley's sister, he said so," whispered Verty.)
"Really, you make me blush," replied the mincing and languishing voice—"you men are dreadful creatures!"
"Dreadful!"
"You take advantage of our simplicity and confidence to make us believe you think very highly of us."
"Highly! divinest Miss Sallianna!highlyis not the word; extravagantly is better! In the presence of your lovely sex we feel our hearts expand; our bosoms—hem!—are enlarged, and we are all your slaves."
("Just listen, Redbud!" whispered Verty, laughing.)
"La!" replied the voice, "how gallant you are, Mr. Jinks!"
"No, Madam!" said Mr. Jinks, "I am not gallant!"
"You?"
"Far from it, Madam—I am a bear, a savage, with all the rest of the female sex; but with you—you—hem! that is different!"
("Don't go, Redbud!—"
"But, Verty—"
"Just a minute, Redbud.")
"Yes, a savage; I hate the sex—I distrust them!" continued Mr. Jinks, in a gloomy tone; "before seeing you, I had made up my mind to retire forever from the sight of mankind, and live on roots, or something of that description. But you have changed me—you have made me human."
And Mr. Jinks, to judge from his tone of voice, was looking dignified.
The fair lady uttered a little laugh.
"There it is!" cried Mr. Jinks, "you are always happy—always smiling and seducing—you are the paragon of your sex. If it will be any satisfaction to you, Madam, I will immediately die for you, and give up the ghost."
Which Mr. Jinks seemed to consider wholly different from the former.
"Heigho!" said the lady, "you are very devoted, sir."
"I should be, Madam."
"I am not worthy of so much praise."
"You are the pearl of your sex, Madam."
"Oh, no! I am only a simple young girl—but twenty-five lastJanuary—and I have no pretensions in comparison with many others.Immured in this quiet retreat, with a small property, and engaged inthe opprobrious occupation of cultivating the youthful mind—"
"A noble employment, Madam."
"Yes, very pleasing; with this, and with a contemplation of the beautiful criterions of nature, I am happy."
"Fairest of your sex, is this all that is necessary for happiness?" observed Mr. Jinks.
"What more!"
"Is solitude the proper sphere of that divine sex which in all ages of the world—ahem!—has—"
"Oh, sir!"
And the flirting of the fan was heard.
"Should not woman have a companion—a consoler, who—"
The fan was evidently used to hide a number of blushes.
"Should not such a lovely creature as yourself," continued the enthusiastic Jinks, "choose one to—"
Redbud rose quickly, and said, blushing and laughing:—
"Oh, come, Verty!"
"No, no—listen!" said Verty, "I do believe—"
"No, no, no!" cried Redbud, hurriedly, "it was very wrong—"
"What?—courting."
"Oh, no! It's mean in us to listen!"
And she went out of the arbor, followed by Verty, who said, "I'm glad courting ain't wrong; I think I should like to court you, Redbud."
Redbud made no reply to this innocent speech of Mr. Verty, but walked on. The noise which they made in leaving the arbor attracted the attention of the personages whose conversation we have been compelled to overhear; and Mr. Jinks and his companion passed through an opening in the shrubbery, and appeared in full view.
Miss Sallianna was a young lady of thirty-two or three, with long corkscrew curls, a wiry figure—a smile, of the description called "simper," on her lips, and an elegant mincing carriage of the person as she moved. She carried a fan, which seemed to serve for a number of purposes: to raise artificial breezes, cover imaginary blushes, and flirt itself against the hands or other portions of the persons of gentlemen making complimentary speeches.
She displayed some temporary embarrassment upon seeing Redbud andVerty; and especially stared at that young gentleman.
Mr. Jinks was more self-possessed.
"Ah, my dear sir!" he said, stalking toward Verty, and grimacing, at the same time, at Redbud, "are you there, and with the fairest of her—hem!"
And Mr. Jinks stopped, nearly caught in the meshes of his gallantry.
"Yes, this is me, and I've been talking with Redbud," said Verty; "is that Miss Sallianna?"
The lady had recovered her simper; and now flirted her fan as gracefully as ever.
"See how your reputation has gone far and wide," said Mr. Jinks, with a fascinating grimace.
"You know you were talking of her when—how do you do, MissSallianna," said Verty, holding out his hand.
"La!" said the fair one, inserting the points of her fingers into Verty's palm, "and Mr. Jinks was talking of me? What did he say, sir,—I suppose it was in town."
"No, ma'am," said Verty, "it was at the gate, when I came to seeRedbud—the pigeon showed me the way. He said you were something—butI've forgot."
"The paragon of beauties and the pearl of loveliness," suggested Mr.Jinks.
"I don't think it was that," Verty replied, "but it was something pretty—prettier than what you said just now, when you were courting Miss Sallianna, you know."
Mr. Jinks cleared his throat—Miss Sallianna blushed.
"Really—" said Mr. Jinks.
"What children!" said the lady, with a patronizing air; "Reddy, do you know your lesson?"
By which question, Miss Sallianna evidently intended to reduce MissRedbud to her proper position of child.
"Yes, ma'am," said Redbud "and Mrs. Scowley said I might come in here."
"With this—young man?"
"Yes, ma'am. He is a very old friend of mine."
"Indeed!" simpered the lady.
"Are you not, Verty?"
But Verty was intently watching Longears, who was trying to insert his nose between two bars of the garden gate.
"Anan?" he said.
"La, what does he mean?" said the lady; "see! he's looking at something."
Verty was only making friendly signs to Longears to enter the garden. Longears no sooner understood that he was called, than he cleared the fence at one bound, and came up to his master.
Mr. Jinks had not heard his own voice for at least half a minute; so he observed, loftily:
"A handsome dog! a very handsome dog, sir! What did you say his name was? Longears? Yes? Here, Longears!"
And he made friendly signs of invitation to the hound. Longears availed himself of these indications of friendship by rearing up on Mr. Jinks, and leaving a dust-impression of his two paws upon that gentleman's ruffled shirt-bosom.
Verty laughed, and dragged him away.
"Longears," he said, "I'm surprised at you—and here, too, where you should conduct yourself better than usual!"
Miss Sallianna was about to say something, when a bell was heard to ring.
"Oh!" said Redbud, "there's school. Playtime's over."
"Over?" said Verty, with an exhibition of decided ill-humor.
"Yes, sir," said Miss Sallianna, "and my young pupil must now return to her studies. Mr. Jinks—"
And the lady threw a languishing glance on her cavalier.
"You will come soon again, and continue our discussion—of—of—the beauties of nature? We are very lonely here."
"Will I come?" cried the enthusiastic Jinks; and having thus displayed, by the tone in which his words were uttered, the depth of his devotion, the grasshopper gentleman gallantly pressed the hand held out to him, and, with a lofty look, made his exit out of the garden.
Verty followed. But first he said to Redbud, smiling:
"I'm going to see Miss Lavinia this very day, to ask her to let me come to see you. You know I must come to see you, Redbud. I don't know why, but I must."
Redbud blushed, and continued to caress Longears, who submitted to this ceremony with great equanimity.
"Come!" said Miss Sallianna, "let us return, Miss Summers."
"Yes, ma'am," said Redbud; "good-bye, Verty," she added, looking at the boy with her kind, smiling eyes, and lowering her voice, "remember what you promised me—to read your Bible."
And smiling again, Redbud gave him her hand, and then followed Miss Sallianna, who sailed on before—her head resting languidly on one shoulder—her fan arranged primly upon her maiden chin—her eyes raised in contemplation to the sky.
Poor Verty smiled and sighed, and followed Redbud with his eyes, and saw her disappear—the kind, tender eyes fixed on him to the last. He sighed again, as she passed from his sight; and so left the garden. Mr. Jinks was swaggering amiably toward town—Cloud was standing, like a statue, where his master had left him. Verty, leaning one arm on the saddle, murmured:
"Really, Redbud is getting prettier than ever, and I wonder if I am what Mr. Roundjacket calls 'in love' with her?"
Finding himself unable to answer this question, Verty shook his head wisely, got into the saddle, and set forward toward the town, Longears following duly in his wake.