As Redbud sat thus disconsolate, a footstep in the apartment attracted her attention, and raising her tearful eyes, she saw her friend Fanny, who had run in, laughing, as was her wont. Fanny was a handsome little brunette, about Redbud's age, and full of merriment and glee—perhapssparklewould be the better word, inasmuch as this young lady always seemed to be upon the verge of laughter—brim full with it, and ready to overflow, like a goblet of Bohemian glass filled with the "foaming draught of eastern France," if we may be permitted to make so unworthy a comparison. Her merry black eyes were now dancing, and her ebon curls rippled from her smooth dark brow like midnight waves.
"Oh! here's your beau, Reddy!" cried Miss Fanny, clapping her hands; "you pretended not to know him as he came up the hill. Make haste! you never saw such an elegant cavalier as he has made himself!"
Redbud only smiled sadly, and turned away her head.
Miss Fanny attributed this manoeuvre to a feeling very different from the real one; and clapping her hands more joyfully than ever, cried:
"There you are! I believe you are going to pretend he ain't your beau!But you need not, madam. As if I did'nt know all about it—"
"Oh, Fanny!" murmured poor Redbud.
"Come! no secrets from me! That old Miss Lavinia has treated you badly, I know; I don't know how, but she made you cry, and I will not have anything to say to her, if sheisyour cousin. Forget all about it, Reddy, and make haste down, Verty is waiting for you—and oh! he's so elegant. I never saw a nicer fellow, and you know I always thought he was handsome. I would set my cap at him," said Miss Fanny, with a womanly air, "if it was'nt for you."
Redbud only murmured something.
"Come on!" cried Fanny, trying to raise her friend forcibly, "I tell you Verty is waiting, and you are only losing so much talk; they neverwilllet our beaux stay long enough, and as to-day's holiday, you will have a nice chat. My cousin Ralph, you know, is coming to see me to-day, and we can have such a nice walk out on the hill—come on, Reddy! we'll have such a fine time!"
Suddenly Miss Fanny caught sight of the tears in Redbud's eyes, and stopped.
"What! crying yet at that old Miss Lavinia!" she said; "how can you mind her so!"
"Oh! I'm very unhappy!" said poor Redbud, bursting into tears; her self-control had given away at last. "Don't mind me, Fanny, but I can't help it—please don't talk any more about Verty, or walking out, or anything."
Fanny looked at her friend for a moment, and the deep sadness onRedbud's face banished all her laughter.
"Why not talk about him?" she said, sitting down by Redbud.
"Because I can't see him any more."
"Can't see him!"
"No—not to-day."
"Why?"
Redbud wiped her eyes.
"Because—because—oh! I can't tell you, Fanny!—I can't—it's wrong in cousin Lavinia!—I know it is!—I never meant—oh! I am so unhappy!"
And Redbud ended by bursting into a flood of tears, which caused the impulsive and sympathetic Fanny, whose lips had for some moments been twitching nervously, to do the same.
"Don't cry, Fanny—please don't cry!" said Redbud.
"I'm not crying!" said Miss Fanny, shedding floods of tears—"I'm not sorry—I'm mad with Miss Lavinia for makingyoucry; I hate her!"
"Oh!" sobbed Redbud, "that is very wrong."
"I don't care."
"She's my cousin."
"No matter! She had no business coming here and making you unhappy."
With which Miss Fanny sniffed, if that very inelegant word may be applied to any action performed by so elegant a young lady.
"Yes! she had no business—the old cat!" continued the impulsive Fanny, "and I feel as if I could scratch her eyes out!—to make you cry!"
"But I won't any more," said Redbud, beginning afresh.
"And I will stop, too," said Fanny, becoming hysterical.
After which solemn determination to be calm, and not display any further emotion on any account, the two young ladies, sinking into each other's arms, cried until their white handkerchiefs were completely wetted by their tears.
They had just managed to suppress their emotion somewhat—preparatory to commencing again, doubtless—when the door of the apartment opened, and a servant girl announced to Miss Redbud that a gentleman had come to see her, and was waiting for that purpose at the foot of the stairs.
"Oh! I can't see him," said Redbud, threatening a new shower.
"You shall!" said Fanny, laughing through her tears.
"Oh, no! no!" said Redbud.
"What shall I tell 'um, Miss," said the servant?
"Oh, I can't go down—tell Verty that—"
"She'll be down in a minute," finished Fanny.
"No, no, I must not!"
"You shall!"
"Fanny—!"
"Come, no nonsense, Reddy! there! I hear his voice—oh, me! my goodness gracious!"
These sudden and apparently remarkable exclamations may probably appear mysterious and without reason to the respected readers who do us the honor to peruse our history; but they were in reality not at all extraordinary under the circumstances, and were, indeed, just what might have been expected, on the generally accepted theories of cause and effect.
In a single word, then, the lively Miss Fanny had uttered the emphatic words, "Oh, me!—my goodness gracious!" because she had heard upon the staircase the noise of a masculine footstep, and caught sight of a masculine cocked-hat ascending;—which phenomenon, arguing again upon the theories of cause and effect, plainly indicated that a head was under the chapeau—the head of one of the opposite sex.
Redbud raised her head quickly at her friend's exclamation, and discerned the reason therefor. She understood, at a glance, that Verty had become impatient, waiting in the hall down stairs;—bad heard her voice from the room above; and, following his wont at Apple Orchard, quite innocently bethought himself of saving Redbud the trouble of descending, by ascending to her.
Verty sent his voice before him—a laughing and jubilant voice, which asked for Redbud.
Fanny jumped up and ran to the door, just as the young man placed his foot upon the landing, and stood before the group.
Verty made a low bow, and greeted Miss Fanny with one of the most fascinating smiles which could possibly be imagined. Fanny slammed the door in his face, without the least hesitation.
For a moment, Verty stood motionless and bewildered, vainly striving to make out what this extraordinary occurrence meant. At Apple Orchard, as we have said, the doors had never been slammed in his face. On the contrary, he had ranged freely over the mansion, amusing himself as seemed best to him: taking down a volume here—opening a closet there—strolling into the Squire's room, or Redbud's room, where that young lady was studying—and even into the apartment of the dreadful Miss Lavinia, where sat that solemn lady, engaged in the task of keeping the household wardrobe, stockings, and what not, in good condition. No one had ever told Verty that there was the least impropriety in this proceeding; and now, when he only meant to do what he had done a thousand times before, he had a door banged in his face, as if he were a thief with hostile intentions toward the spoons.
For some moments, therefore, as we have said, the young man stood thunderstruck and motionless. Then, considering the whole affair a joke, he began to laugh; and essayed to open the door.
In vain. Fanny, possibly foreseeing this, had turned the key.
"Redbud!" said Verty.
"Sir?" said a voice; not Redbud's, however.
"Let me in."
"I shall do nothing of the sort," replied the voice.
"Why?" said Verty, with ready philosophy; "it's nobody but me."
"Hum!" said the voice again, in indignant protest against the force of any such reasoning.
"You are not Redbud," continued the cavalier; "I want to see Redbud."
"Well, sir,—go down, and Reddy may come and see you," the voice replied; "as long as you stand there, you will not lay eyes on her—if you stay a week, or a year."
At this dreadful threat, Verty retreated from the door. The idea of not seeing Redbud for a year was horrible.
"Will you come down, Redbud, if I go?" he asked.
Voices heard in debate.
"Say?" said Verty.
After a pause, the voice which had before spoken, said:
"Yes; go down and wait ten minutes."
Verty heaved a sigh, and slowly descended to the hall again. As he disappeared, the door opened, and the face of Fanny was seen carefully watching the enemy's retreat. Then the young girl turned to Redbud, and, clapping her hands, cried:
"Did you ever!—what an impudent fellow! But you promised, Reddy!Come, let me fix your hair!"
Redbud sighed, and assented.
In ten minutes, as she promised, Fanny descended with Redbud,—her arm laced around the slender waist of that young lady, as is the wont with damsels,—and ready to give battle to our friend Verty, upon any additional provocation, with even greater zest than before.
Redbud presented a singular contrast to her companion. Fanny, smiling, and full of glee, seemed only to have become merrier and brighter for her "cry"—like an April landscape after a rain. Redbud, on the contrary, was still sad, and oppressed from the events of the morning; and, indeed, could scarcely return Verty's greeting without emotion.
Resplendent in his elegant plum-colored coat—with stockings, long embroidered waistcoat, and scarlet ribbon tied around his powdered hair, Verty came forward to meet his innamorata, as joyous and careless as ever, and, figuratively speaking, with open arms.
What was his surprise to find that no smile replied to his own. Redbud's face was calm—almost cold; she repelled him even when he held out his hand, and only gave him the tips of her fingers, which, for any warmth or motion in them, might have been wood or marble.
Poor Verty drew back, and colored. Redbud change toward him!—no longer care for him! What could this frigid manner with which she met him, mean;—why this cool and distant bow, in reply to his enthusiastic greeting?
Poor Verty sat down disconsolately, gazing at Redbud. He could not understand. Then his glance questioned Miss Fanny, who sat with a prim and demure affectation of stateliness, on the opposite side of the room. There was no explanation here either.
While Verty was thus gazing silently, and with growing embarrassment, at the two young girls, Redbud, with a beating heart, and trembling lips, played with the tassel of the sofa-cushion, and studied the figure of the carpet.
Fanny came to the rescue of the expiring conversation, and seizing forcibly upon the topic of the weather, inserted that useful wedge into the rapidly closing crack, and waited for Verty to strike the first blow.
Unfortunately, Verty did not hear her; he was gazing at Redbud.
Fanny pouted, and tossed her head. So she was not good enough for the elegant Mr. Verty!—she was not even worth a reply! He might talk himself, then!
Verty did not embrace this tacit permission—he remained silent; and gazing on Redbud, whose color began slowly to rise, as with heaving bosom and down-cast eyes she felt the young man's look—he experienced more and more embarrassment—a sentiment which began to give way to distress.
At last he rose, and going to her side, took her hand.
Redbud slowly drew it away, still without meeting his gaze.
He asked, in a low voice, if she was angry with him.
No—she was not very well to-day; that was all.
And then the long lashes drooped still more with the heavy drops which weighed them down; the cheeks were covered with a deeper crimson; the slender frame became still more agitated. Oh! nothing but those words—"if you would prevent him from suffering"—could bear her through this trying interview: they were enough, however—she would be strong.
And as she came to this determination, Redbud nearly sobbed—the full cup very nearly ran over with its freight of tears. With a beseeching, pleading glance, she appealed to Fanny to come to her assistance.
Such an appeal is never in vain; the free-masonry of the sex has no unworthy members. Fanny forgot in a moment her "miff" with Verty, when she saw that for some reason Redbud was very nearly ready to burst into tears, and wished to have the young man's attention called away from her; she no longer remembered the slight to herself, which had made her toss her head, and vow that she would not open her lips again; she came to the rescue, as women always do, and with the most winning smile, demanded of Mr. Verty whether he would be so kind as to do her a slight favor?
The young man sighed, and moved his head indifferently. Fanny did not choose to see the expression, and positively beaming with smiles, all directed, like a sheaf of arrows, full upon the gentleman, pushed the point of her slipper from the skirt of her dress, and said she would be exceedingly obliged to Mr. Verty, if he would fasten the ribbon which had become loose.
Of course, Verty had to comply. He rose, sighing more than ever, and crossing the room, knelt down to secure the rebellious ribbon.
No sooner had he knelt, than Miss Fanny made a movement which attracted Redbud's attention. Their eyes met, and Fanny saw that her friend was almost exhausted with emotion. The impulsive girl's eyes filled as she looked at Redbud; with a smile, however, and with the rapidity and skill of young ladies at public schools, she spelled something upon her fingers, grazing as she went through the quick motions, the head of Verty, who was bending over the slipper.
Fanny had said, in this sly way: "Say you are sick—indeed you are!—you'll cry!"
Verty rose just as she finished, and Miss Fanny, with negligent ease, thanked him, and looked out of the window. Verty turned again toward Redbud. She was standing up—one hand resting upon the arm of the sofa, from which she had risen, the other placed upon her heart, as if to still its tumultuous beating.
Verty's troubled glance fled to the tender, sorrowful face, and asked why she had risen. Redbud, suppressing her emotion by a powerful effort, said, almost coldly, that she felt unwell, and hoped he would let her go up stairs. Indeed, (with a trembling voice), she was—not well: he must excuse her; if—if—if he would—come again.
And finding her voice failing her, poor Redbud abruptly left the room, and running to her chamber, threw herself on the bed, and burst into a passion of tears.
She had obeyed Miss Lavinia.
Yes! with a throbbing heart, eyes full of tears, a tenderness toward her boy-playmate she had never felt before, she had preserved her calmness. Crying was not wrong she hoped—and that was left her.
So the child cried, and cried, until nature exhausted herself, and rested.
Verty stood for a moment gazing at the door through which Redbud had disappeared, unable to speak or move. Astonishment, compassion, love, distress, by turns filled his mind; and standing there, on a fine October morning, the young man, with the clear sunshine streaming on him joyfully, took his first lesson in human distress—a knowledge which all must acquire at some period of their lives, sooner or later. His mixture of emotions may be easily explained. He was astonished at the extraordinary change in Redbud's whole demeanor; he felt deep pity for the sickness which she had pleaded as an excuse for leaving him. Love and distress clasped hands in his agitated heart, as he threw a backward glance over the short interview which they had just held—and all these feelings mingling together, and struggling each for the mastery, made the young man's bosom heave, his forehead cloud over, and his lips shake with deep, melancholy sighs.
Utterly unable to explain the coldness which Redbud had undoubtedly exhibited, he could only suffer in silence.
Then, after some moments' thought, the idea occurred to him that Miss Fanny—the smiling, obliging, the agreeable Miss Fanny—might clear up the mystery, so he turned round toward her; but as he did so, the young girl passed by him with stately dignity, and requesting, in a cold tone, to be excused, as she was going to attend to her friend, Miss Summers, sailed out of the room and disappeared.
Verty looked after her with deeper astonishment than before. Then everybody disliked him—everybody avoided him: no doubt he had been guilty of some terrible fault toward Redbud, and her friend knew it, and would not stay in his presence.
What could that fault be? Not his costume—not the attempt he had made to intrude upon her privacy. Certainly Redbud never would have punished him so cruelly for such trifling things as these, conceding that they were distasteful to her.
What, then, could be the meaning of all this?
Just as he asked himself the question for the sixth time, there appeared at the door of the apartment no less a personage than Miss Sallianna, who, ambling into the room with that portion of the head which we have more than once mentioned, and the lackadaisical smile which was habitual with her, approached Verty, and graciously extended her yellow hand.
The young man took the extended member, and made a bow. Miss Sallianna received it with a still more gracious smile, and asked Mr. Verty to be seated.
He shook his head.
"I must go away, ma'am," he said, sadly; "Redbud has quarrelled with me, and I cannot stay. Oh! what have I done to cause this!"
And Verty's head sank upon his bosom, and his lips trembled.
Miss Sallianna gazed at him with a curious smile, and after a moment's silence, said:
"Suppose you sit down for a minute, Mr. Verty, and tell me all about this—this—highly intrinsic occurrence. You could not repose your sorrows in a more sympathetic bosom than my own."
And subsiding gracefully upon the sofa, Miss Sallianna made Verty sit by her, and even gently moved her fan before his face, smiling and simpering.
Perhaps the reader may feel some surprise at the change in Miss Sallianna's demeanor toward the young man, the fact of whose existence she had scarcely noticed on the occasion of their first meeting in the garden. The explanation will be neither lengthy nor difficult. Miss Sallianna was one of those ladies who have so profound an admiration for nature, beauty, love, and everything elevated and ennobling, that they are fond of discussing these topics with the opposite sex—exchanging ideas, and comparing opinions, no doubt for the purpose of arriving at sound conclusions upon these interesting subjects. If, in the course of these conversations, the general discussion became particular and personal—if, in a word, the gentleman was induced to regard the lady as an example of the beauties they were talking about, in nature, love, etc., Miss Sallianna did not complain, and even seemed somewhat pleased thereof. Of course there would have been no profit or entertainment in discussing these recondite subjects with a savage such as Verty had appeared to be upon their former interview, when, with his long, tangled hair, hunter's garb, and old slouched hat, he resembled an inhabitant of the backwoods—what could such a personage know of divine philosophy, or what pleasure could a lady take in his society?—no pleasure, evidently. But now that was all changed. The young gentleman now presented a civilized appearance; he was plainly becoming more cultivated, and his education, Miss Sallianna argued, should not be neglected by his lady acquaintances. Who wonders at such reasoning? Is this the only instance which has ever been known? Do sentimental ladies of an uncertain age always refuse to take charge of the growing hearts of innocent and handsome youths, just becoming initiated in the mysteries of the tender passion? Or do they not most willingly assume the onerous duty of directing thenaiveinstincts of such youthful cavaliers into proper channels and toward worthy objects—even occasionally, from their elevated regard, present themselves as the said "worthy objects" for the youthful affection? Queenly and most lovely dames of uncertain age, and tender instincts, it is not the present chronicler who will so far forget his reputation for gallantry, as to assert that "I should like to marry" is your favorite madrigal.
Therefore let it be distinctly understood and remembered, as a thing necessary and indispensable to the true comprehension of this veracious history, that the beautiful Miss Sallianna was not attracted by Verty's handsome dress, his fashionable coat, rosetted shoes, well powdered hair, or embroidered waistcoat gently rubbing against the spotless frill—that these things did not enter into her mind when she resolved to attach the young man to her suit, and turn his affection and "esteem" toward herself. By no means;—she saw in him only a handsome young fellow, whose education could not prosper under the supervision of such a mere child as Redbud; and thus she found herself called upon to superintend it in her proper person, and for that purpose now designed to commence initiating the youthful cavalier into the science of the heart without delay.
These few words may probably serve to explain the unusual favor with which Miss Sallianna seemed to regard Verty—theempressementwith which she gently fanned his agitated brow—the fascinating smile which she threw upon him, a smile which seemed to say, "Come! confide your sorrows to a sympathizing heart."
Verty, preoccupied with his sad reflections, for some moments remained silent. Miss Sallianna broke the pause by saying—
"You seem to be annoyed by something, Mr. Verty. Need I repeat that in me you will find a friend of philosophic partiality and undue influence to repose your confidential secrets in?"
Verty sighed.
"Oh! that is a bad sign," said the lady, simpering.
"What, ma'am?" asked Verty, raising his head.
"That sigh."
"I don't feel very well."
"In the body or the mind?"
"I suppose it's the mind, ma'am."
"Don't call me ma'am—I am not so much your senior. True, the various experiences I have extracted from the circumambient universe render me somewhat more thoughtful, but my heart is very young," said Miss Sallianna, simpering, and slaying Verty with her eyes.
"Yes, ma'am—I mean Miss Sallianna," he said.
"Ah! that is better. Now let us converse about nature, my friend—"
"If you could tell me why Redbud has—"
Verty stopped. He had an undeveloped idea that the subject of nature and Redbud might not appear to have any connection with each other in the mind of Miss Sallianna.
But that lady smiled.
"About Redbud?" she asked, with a languishing glance.
"Yes—Miss."
"What of the dear child?—have you fallen out? You men must not mind the follies of such children—and Reddy is a mere child. I should not think she could appreciate you."
Verty was silent; he did not know exactly whatappreciatemeant, which may serve as a further proof of what we have said above, in relation to the necessity which Miss Sallianna felt she labored under, as a tender-hearted woman, to educate Verty.
The lady seemed to understand from her companion's countenance, that he did not exactly comprehend the signification of her words; but as this had occurred on other occasions, and with other persons, she felt no surprise at the circumstance, attributing it, as was natural, to her own extreme cultivation and philological proficiency. She therefore smiled, and still gently agitating the fan before Verty, repeated:
"Have you and Redbud fallen out?"
"Yes," said the young man.
"Concerning what?"
"I don't know—I mean Redbud has quarreled with me."
"Indeed!"
Verty replied with a sigh.
"Come!" said Miss Sallianna, "make a confidant of me, and confide your feelings to a heart which beats responsive to your own."
With which words the lady ogled Verty.
Verty looked at Miss Sallianna, and sighed more deeply than he had ever sighed before. The lady's face was full of the tenderest interest; it seemed to say, that with its possessor all secrets were sacred, and that nothing but the purest friendship, and a desire to serve unhappy personages, influenced her.
Who wonders, therefore, that Verty began to think that it would be a vast relief to him to have a confidant—that his inexperience needed advice and counsel—that the lady who now offered to guide him through the maze in which he was confounded and lost, knew all about the labyrinths, and from the close association with the object of his love, could adapt her counsel to the peculiar circumstances, better than any one else in the wide world? Besides, Verty was a lover, and when did lover yet fail to experience the most vehement desire to pour into the bosom of some sympathizing friend—of either sex—the story of his feelings and his hopes? It is no answer to this, that, in the present instance, the lover was almost ignorant of the fact, that he loved, and had no well-defined hopes of any description. That is nothing to your true Corydon. Not in the least. Will he not discourse with rising and kindling eloquence upon everything connected with his Phillis? Will not the ribbons on her bodice, and the lace around her neck, become the most important and delightful objects of discursive commentary?—the very fluttering rosettes which burn upon her little instep, and the pearls which glitter in her powdered hair, be of more interest than the fall of thrones? So Corydon, the lover, dreams, and dreams—and if you approach him in the forest-glade, he sighs and talks to you, till evening reddens in the west, about Phillis, only Phillis. And as the old Arcady lives still, and did at the time of our history, so Corydons were ready to illustrate it, and our young friend Verty felt the old pastoral desire to talk about his shepherdess, and embrace Miss Sallianna's invitation to confide his sorrows to her respective bosom.
"Come now, my dear Mr. Verty," repeated that lady, "tell me what all this means—are you in love, can it be—not with Reddy?"
"Yes, ma'am, I believe I am," said Verty, yielding to his love. "Oh, I know I am. I would die for her whenever she wanted me to—indeed I would."
"Hum!" said Miss Sallianna.
"You know she is so beautiful and good—she's the best and dearest girl that ever lived, and I was so happy before she treated me coldly this morning! I'll never be happy any more!"
"Cannot you banish her false image?"
"False! she's as true as the stars! Oh, Redbud is not false! she is too good and kind!"
Miss Sallianna shook her head.
"You have too high an opinion of the sex at large, I fear, Mr. Verty," she said; "some of them are very inconstant; you had better not trust Redbud."
"Not trust her!"
"Be careful, I mean."
"How can I!" cried Verty.
"Easily."
"Be careful? I don't know what you mean, Miss Sallianna; but I suppose what you say is for my good."
"Oh yes, indeed."
"But I can't keep still, and watch and listen, and spy out about anybody I love so much as Redbud—for I'm certain now that I love her. Oh, no! I must trust her—trust her in everything! Why should I not? I have known her, Miss Sallianna, for years, and years—we were brought up together, and we have gone hand in hand through the woods, gathering flowers, and down by the run to play, and she has showed me how to read and write, and she gave me a Bible; and everything which I recollect has something in it about Redbud—only Redbud—so beautiful, and kind, and good. Oh, Miss Sallianna, how could I be careful, and watch, and think Redbud's smiles were not here! I could not—I would rather die!"
And Verty's head sank upon his hands which covered the ingenuous blushes of boyhood and first love. In this advanced age of the world, we can pity and laugh at this romantic nonsense—let us be thankful.
Miss Sallianna listened with great equanimity to this outburst, and smiling, and gently fanning Verty, said, when he had ceased speaking:
"Don't agitate yourself, my dear friend. I suspected this. You misunderstand my paternal counsel in suggesting to you a suspicionative exemplification of dear little Reddy. Darling child! she is very good; but remember that we cannot always control our feelings."
Verty raised his head, inquiringly.
"You do not understand?"
"No, ma'am," he said; "I mean, Miss—"
"No matter—you'll get into the habit," said the lady, with a languishing smile; "I meant to observe, my dear friend, that Reddy might be very good, and I suppose she is—and she might have had a great and instructive affection for you at one period; but you know we cannot control our sentiments, and Reddy has probably fancied herself in love with somebody else."
Verty started, and half rose.
"In love with somebody else?" he cried.
"Yes," said the lady, smiling.
"Oh, no, no!" murmured the young man, falling again into his seat.
Miss Sallianna nodded.
"Mind now—I do not assert it," she said; "I only say that these children—I mean young girls at Reddy's age—are very apt to take fancies; and then they get tired of the youths they have known well, and will hardly speak to them. Human nature is of derisive and touching interest, Mr. Verty," sighed the lady, "you must not expect to find Reddy an exception. She is not perfect."
"Oh yes, she is!" murmured poor Verty, thinking of Redbud's dreadful change, and yet battling for her to the last with the loyal extravagance of a true lover; "she would not—she could not—deceive me."
"I do not say she would."
"But—"
"I know what you are about to observe, sir; but, remember that the heart is not in our power entirely"—here Miss Sallianna sighed, and threw a languishing glance upon Verty. "No doubt Reddy loved you; indeed, at the risk of deeming to flatter you, Mr. Verty—though I never flatter—I must say, that it would have been very extraordinary if Reddy hadnotfallen in love with you, as you are so smart and handsome. Recollect this is not flattery. I was going on to say, that Reddymusthave loved you, but that does not show that she loves you now. We cannot compress our sentiments; and Diana, Mr. Verty, the god of love, throws his darts when we are not looking—ah!"
Which last word of Miss Sallianna's speech represents a sigh she uttered, as, after the manner of Diana, she darted a fatal arrow from her eyes, at Verty. It did not slay him, however, and he only murmured wofully,
"Do you mean Reddy has changed, then, ma'am? Oh, what will become of me—what shall I do!"
Miss Sallianna threw a glance, so much more languishing than the former, upon her companion, that had his heart not been wrapped in Redbud, it certainly would have been pierced.
"Follow her example," simpered Miss Sallianna, looking down with blushing cheeks, and picking at her fan with an air of girlish innocence. "Could you not do as she has done—and—choose—another object yourself?"
And Miss Sallianna raised her eyes, bashfully, to Verty's face, then cast them with maidenly modesty upon the carpet.
"No, ma'am," said Verty, thoughtfully, and quite ignorant of the deadly attack designed by the fair lady upon his heart—"I don't think I could change."
In these simple words the honest Verty answered all.
"Why not?" simpered the lady.
"Because I don't think Redbud is in love with anybody else," he said;"I know she is not!"
"Why, then, has she treated you so badly?" said Miss Sallianna, gradually forgetting her bashfulness, and reassuming her languishing air and manner—"there must be some laborious circumstance, Mr. Verty."
Verty pressed his head with his hand, and was silent. All at once a brighter light illumined the fair lady's face, and she addressed herself to speak, first uttering a modest cough—
"Suppose I suggest a plan of finding out, sir," she said; "we might find easily."
"Oh, ma'am! how?"
"Will you follow my advice?"
"Yes, ma'am—of course. I mean if it's right. Excuse me, I did not mean—what was your advice, ma'am?" stammered Verty.
The lady smiled, and did not seem at all offended at Verty's qualification.
"It may appear singular to you at first," Miss Sallianna said; "but my advice is, that you appear to make love—to pay attentions to—somebody else for a short time."
"Attentions, ma'am?"
"Seem to like some other lady better than Redbud."
"Oh, but that would not be right."
"Why?"
"Because I don't."
Miss Sallianna smiled.
"I don't want you to change at all, Mr. Verty," she said; "only to take thismodus addendi, which is the Greek forway,—to take this way to find out. I would not advise it, of course, if it was wrong, and it is the best thing you could do, indeed."
Verty strongly combated this plan, but was met at every turn, by Miss Sallianna, with ready logic; and the result, as is almost always the case when men have the temerity to argue with ladies, was a total defeat. Verty was convinced, ortalked obtuseupon the subject, and with many misgivings, acquiesced in Miss Sallianna's plan.
That lady then went on in a sly and careful manner—possiblydiplomaticwould be the polite word—to suggest herself as the most proper object of Verty's experiment. He might make love to her if he wished—she would not be offended. He might even kiss her hand, and kneel to her, and perform any other gallant ceremony he fancied—she would make allowances, and not become angry if he even proceeded so far as to write her billet-doux, and ask her hand in a matrimonial point of view. Miss Sallianna wound up by saying, that it would be an affair of rare and opprobrious interest; and, as a comedy, would be positively deleterious, which was probably alapsus linguaefor "delicious."
So when Verty rose to take his departure, he was a captive to Miss Sallianna's bow and spear; or more accurately, to her fan and tongue: and had promised to come on the very next day, after school hours, and commence the amusing trial of Reddy's affections. The lady tapped him with her fan, smiled languidly, and rolled up her eyes—Verty bowed, and took his leave of her.
He mounted Cloud, and calling Longears, took his way sadly toward town. Could he not look back and see those tender eyes following him from the lattice of Redbud's room—and blessing him?
The young man had just reached the foot of the hill, upon which the Bower of Nature stood—have we not mentioned before the name which Miss Sallianna had bestowed upon the seminary?—when he heard himself accosted by a laughing and careless voice, and raised his head, to see from whom it proceeded.
The voice, apparently, issued from a gentleman who had drawn rein in the middle of the road, and was gazing at him with great good humor and freedom. Verty returned this gaze, and the result of his inspection was, that the new-comer was a total stranger to him. He was a young man of about nineteen, with handsome features, characterized by an expression of nonchalance and careless good humor; clad in a very rich dress, somewhat foppish, but of irreproachable taste; and the horse he bestrode was an animal as elegant in figure and appointments as his master.
"Hallo, friend!" the new-comer had said, "give you good-day."
Verty nodded.
"You don't recognize me," said the young man.
"I believe not," replied Verty.
"Well, that's all right; and it would be strange if you did," the young man went on in his careless voice; "we have never met, I think, and, faith! all I recognize about you is my coat."
"Your coat?"
"Coat, did I say?—worse than that! I recognize my knee-breeches, my stockings, my chapeau, my waistcoat!"
And the new-comer burst into a careless laugh.
Verty shook his head.
"They are mine, sir," he said.
"You are mistaken."
Verty returned the careless glance with one which seemed to indicate that he was not very well pleased.
"How?" he said.
"I maintain that you are wearing my clothes, by Jove! Come, let us fight it out;—or no! I've got an engagement, my dear fellow, and we must put it off. Fanny is waiting for me, and would be dying with disappointment if I didn't come."
With which the young fellow touched his horse, and commenced humming a song.
"Fanny?" said Verty, with a sad smile, "what! up at old Scowley's?"
"The very place! Why, you have caught the very form of words by whichI am myself accustomed to speak of that respectable matron."
"I know Miss Fanny."
"Do you?"
"Yes."
"Stop!" said the young man, laughing with his easy nonchalance; "tell me if we are rivals."
"Anan?" said Verty.
"Are you in love with her? Honor bright now, my dear fellow?"
"No," said Verty, drawn, he did not know how, toward the laughing young man; "no, not with—Miss Fanny."
"Ah, ah!—then with whom? Not the lovely Sallianna—the admirer of nature? Faith! you're too good-looking a fellow to throw yourself away on such a simpering old maid. By Jove! my dear friend, and new acquaintance, I like you! Let us be friends. My name's Ralph Ashley—I'm Fanny's cousin. Come! confidence for confidence!"
Verty smiled.
"My name is Verty," he said; "I havn't any other—I'm an Indian."
"An Indian!"
"Yes."
"Is it possible?"
Verty nodded.
"Why, you are an elegant cavalier, or the devil take it! I'm just from Williamsburg—from the college there; and I never saw a finerseigneurthan yourself, friend Verty. An Indian!"
"That's all," said Verty; "the new clothes change me. I got 'em atO'Brallaghan's."
"O'Brallaghan's? The rascal! to sell my suit! That accounts for all! But I don't complain of you. On the contrary, I'm delighted to make your acquaintance. Have you been up there?—I suppose you have?"
And the young man pointed toward the Bower of Nature.
"Yes," said Verty.
"Visiting?"
"Yes—Redbud."
"Pretty little Miss Summers?"
Verty heaved a profound sigh, and said, "Yes."
The young man shook his head.
"Take care, my dear fellow," he said, with a wise air, "I saw her in town the other morning, and I consider her dangerous. She would not be dangerous to me; I am an old bird among the charming young damsels of this wicked world, and, consequently, not to be caught by chaff—such chaff as brilliant eyes, and rosy-cheeks, and smiles; but, without being critical, my dear friend, I may be permitted to observe, that you look confiding. Take care—it is the advice of a friend. Come and see me at Bousch's tavern where I am staying, if my visnomy has made a favorable impression—Ah! there's Fanny! I must fly to her—the charming infant."
And the young man gave a farewell nod to Verty, and went on singing, and making signs to the distant Fanny.
Verty gazed after him for a moment; then heaving another sigh much more profound than any which had yet issued from his lips, went slowly on toward the town—his shoulders drooping, his arms hanging down, his eyes intently engaged in staring vacancy out of countenance. If we are asked how it happened that the merry, joyous Verty, whose face was before all sunshine, now resembled nobody so much as some young and handsome Don Quixote, reflecting on the obduracy of his Toboso Dulcinea, we can only reply, that Verty was in love, and had not prospered lately—that is to say, on that particular day, in his suit; and, in consequence, felt as if the world no longer held any more joy or light for him, forever.
With that bad taste which characterizes the victims of this delusion, he could not consent to supply the place of the chosen object of his love with any other image; and even regarded the classic and romantic Miss Sallianna as wholly unworthy to supplant Redbud in his affections. Youth is proverbially unreasonable and fastidious on these subjects, and Verty, with the true folly of a young man, could not discern in Miss Sallianna those thousand graces and attractions, linguistic, philosophical, historical and scientific, which made her so far superior to the child with whom he had played, and committed the folly of falling in love with. So he went along sighing, with his arms hanging down, as we have said, and his shoulders drooping; and in this melancholy guise, reached the office of Judge Rushton.
He found Mr. Roundjacket still driving away with his pen, only stopping at intervals to flourish his ruler, or to cast an affectionate glance upon the MS. of his great poem, which, gracefully tied with red tape arranged in a magnificent bow, lay by him on the desk.
On Verty's entrance the poet raised his head, and looked at him curiously.
"Well, my fine fellow," he said, "what luck in your wooing? You look as wo-begone as the individual who drew Priam's curtain at the dead of night. Come! my young savage, why are you so sad?"
Verty sat down, murmuring something.
"Speak out!" said Mr. Roundjacket, wiping his pen.
"I'm not very sad," Verty replied, looking perfectly disconsolate—"what made you think so, Mr. Roundjacket?"
"Your physiognomy, my young friend. Are you happy with such a face as that?'
"Such a face?"
"Yes; I tell you that you look as if you had just parted with all your hopes—as if some adverse fate had deprived you of the privilege of living in this temple of Thespis and the muses. You could not look more doleful if I had threatened never to read any more of my great poem to you."
"Couldn't?" said Verty, listlessly.
"No."
The young man only replied with a sigh.
"There it is—you are groaning. Come; have you quarreled with your mistress?"
Verty colored, and his head sank.
"Please don't ask me, sir," he said; "I have not been very happy to-day—everything has gone wrong. I had better get to my work, sir,—I may forget it."
And with a look of profound discouragement, which seemed to be reflected in the sympathizing face of Longears, who had stretched himself at his master's feet and now lay gazing at him, Verty opened the record he had been copying, and began to write.
Roundjacket looked at him for a moment in silence, and then, with an expression of affection and pity, which made his grotesque face absolutely handsome, muttered something to himself, and followed Verty's example.
When Roundjacket commenced writing, he did so with the regularity and accuracy of a machine which is set in motion by the turning of a crank, and goes on until it is stopped. This was the case on the present occasion, and Verty seemed as earnestly engaged in his own particular task. But appearances are deceptive—Indian nature will not take the curb like Anglo-Saxon—and a glance over Verty's shoulders will reveal the species of occupation which he became engaged in after finishing ten lines of the law paper.
He was tracing with melancholy interest a picture upon the sheet beneath his pen; and this was a lovely little design of a young girl, with smiling lips, kind, tender eyes, and cheeks which were round and beautiful with mirth. With a stroke of the pen Verty added the waving hair, brushed backa la Pompadourthe foam of lace around the neck, and the golden drop in the little ear. Redbud looked at you from the paper, with her modest eyes and smiles—and for a moment Verty gazed at the creation of his pencil, sighing mournfully.
Then, with a deeper sigh than before, he drew beneath this another sketch—the same head, but very different. The eyes now were cold and half closed—the lips were close together, and seemed almost disdainful—and as the gentle bending forward in the first design was full of pleasantabandonand graceful kindness, so the head in the present sketch had that erect and frigid carriage which indicates displeasure.
Verty covered his eyes with his hand, and leaning down upon the desk, was silent and motionless, except that a stifled sigh would at times issue from his lips, a sad heaving of his breast indicate the nature of his thoughts.
Longears rose, and coming to his master, wagged his tail, and asked, with his mute but intelligent glance, what had happened.
Verty felt the dog lick his hand, and rose from his recumbent posture.
"Yes, yes, Longears," he murmured, "I can't help showing it—even you know that I am not happy."
And with listless hands he took up the old violin which lay upon his desk and touched the strings. The sound died away in trembling waves—Roundjacket continued writing.
Verty, without appearing to be conscious of what he was doing, took the bow of the violin, and placing the instrument upon his shoulder, leaned his ear down to it, and drew the hair over the strings. A long, sad monotone floated through the room.
Roundjacket wrote on.
Verty, with his eyes fixed on vacancy, his lips sorrowfully listless, his frame drooping more and more, began to play a low, sad air, which sounded like a sigh.
Roundjacket raised his head, and looked at the musician.
Verty leaned more and more upon his instrument, listening to it as to some one speaking to him, his eyes closed, his bosom heaving, his under lip compressed sorrowfully as he dreamed.
Roundjacket was just about to call upon Verty to cease his savage and outrageous conduct, or Mr. Rushton, who was in the other room, would soon issue forth and revenge such a dreadful violation of law office propriety, when the door of that gentleman's sanctum opened, and he appeared upon the threshold.
But far from bearing any resemblance to the picture of the poet's imagination—instead of standing mute with rage, and annihilating the musician with a horrible scowl from beneath his shaggy and frowning brows, Mr. Rushton presented a perfect picture of softness and emotion. His head bending forward, his eyes half closed and filled with an imperceptible mist, his whole manner quiet, and sad, and subdued, he seemed to hang upon the long-drawn sighing of the violin, and take a mournful pleasure in its utterances.
Verty's hand passed more and more slowly backward and forward—the music became still more affecting, and passing from thoughtfulness to sadness, and from sadness to passionate regret, it died away in a wail.
He felt a hand upon his shoulder, and turned round. Mr. Rushton, with moist eyes and trembling lips, was gazing at him.
"Do not play that any more, young man," he said, in a low tone, "it distresses me."
"Distresses you, sir?" said Verty.
"Yes."
"What? 'Lullaby?'"
"Yes," muttered the lawyer.
Verty's sad eyes inquired the meaning of so singular a fact, but Mr.Rushton did not indulge this curiosity.
"Enough," he said, with more calmness, as he turned away, "it is not proper for you to play the violin here in business hours; but above all, never again play that music—I cannot endure the memories it arouses—enough."
And retiring slowly, Mr. Rushton disappeared, closing the door of his room behind him.
Verty followed him with his eyes until he was no longer visible, then turned toward Mr. Roundjacket for an explanation. That gentleman seemed to understand this mute interrogation, but only shook his head.
Therefore Verty returned to his work, sadly laying aside the two sketches of Redbud, and selecting another sheet to copy the record upon. By the time he had finished one page, Mr. Roundjacket rose from his desk, stretched himself, and announced that office hours were over, and he would seek his surburban cottage, where this gentleman lived in bachelor misery. Verty said he was tired, too; and before long had told Mr. Roundjacket good-bye, and mounted Cloud.
With Longears at his side, soberly walking in imitation of the horse, Verty went along toward his home in the hills, gazing upon the golden west, and thinking still of Redbud.
Instead of following Verty, who, like most lovers, is very far from being an amusing personage, let us go back and accompany Mr. Ralph Ashley, on his way to the Bower of Nature, where our young friend Fanny awaits him; and if these scenes and characters also fail to entertain us, we may at least be sure that they are from the book of human nature—a volume whose lightest chapters and most frivolous illustrations are not beneath the attention of the wisest. If this were not true, the present chronicler would never be guilty of the folly of expending his time and ink upon such details as go to make up this true history; it would be lost labor, were not the flower and the blade of grass, the very thistle down upon the breeze, each and all, as wonderful as the grand forests of the splendid tropics. What character or human deed is too small or trivial for study? Never did a great writer utter truer philosophy than when he said:
"Say not 'a small event!' Why 'small?'Costs it more pains than this, ye callA 'great event,' shall come to pass,Than that? Untwine me from the massOf deeds which make up life, one deedPower shall fall short in, or exceed!"
And now after this philosophical dissertation upon human life and actions, we may proceed to narrate the visit of Mr. Ralph Ashley, graduate of Williamsburg, and cousin of Miss Fanny, to the Bower of Nature, and its inmates.
Fanny was at the door when he dismounted, and awaited the young gentleman with some blushes, and a large amount of laughter.
This laughter was probably directed toward the somewhat dandified costume of the young gentleman, and he was not long left in the dark upon this point.
"How d'ye do, my dearest Fanny," said Mr. Ralph Ashley, hastening forward, and holding out his arms; "let us embrace!"
"Humph!" said Fanny; "indeed you shan't!"
"Shan't what—kiss you?"
"Yes, sir: you shall do nothing of the sort!"
"Wrong!—here goes!"
And before Miss Fanny could make her retreat, Ralph Ashley, Esq., caught that young lady in his arms, and impressed a salute upon her lips, so remarkably enthusiastic, that it resembled the discharge of a pistol. Perhaps we are wrong in saying that it was imprinted on his cousin's lips, inasmuch as Miss Fanny, though incapacitated from releasing herself, could still turn her head, and she always maintained that nothing but her cheek suffered. On this point we cannot be sure, and therefore leave the question undecided.
Of one fact, however, there can be no doubt—namely, that Mr. Ralph Ashley received, almost immediately, a vigorous salute of another description upon the cheek, from Miss Fanny's open hand—a salute which caused his face to assume the most girlish bloom, and his eyes to suddenly fill with tears.
"By Jove! you've got an arm!" said the cavalier, admiringly. "Come, my charming child—why did you treat me so cruelly?"
"Why did you kiss me? Impudence!"
"That's just what young ladies always say," replied her cavalier, philosophically; "whatever they like, they are sure to call impudent."
"Like?"
"Yes, like! Do you pretend to say that you are not complimented by a salute from such an elegant gentleman as myself?"
"Oh, of course!" said Miss Fanny, satirically.
"Then the element of natural affection—of consanguinity—has its due weight no doubt, my dearest. I am your cousin."
"What of that, man?"
"Everything! Don't you know that in this reputable province, calledVirginia, blood goes a great way? Cousins are invariably favorites."
"You are very much mistaken, sir," said Fanny.
"There it is—you girls always deny it, and always believe it," saidMr. Ralph, philosophically. "Now, you would die for me."
"Die, indeed!"
"Would'nt you?"
"Fiddlesticks!"
"That's an impressive observation, and there's no doubt about your meaning, though the original signification, the philological origin of the phrase, is somewhat cloudy. You won't expire for me, then?"
"No!"
"Then live for me, delight of my existence!" said Mr. Ralph Ashley, with a languishing glance, and clasping his hands romantically as he spoke; "live for one, whose heart is wrapped in thee!"
Miss Fanny's sense of the ludicrous was strong, and this pathetic appeal caused her to burst into laughter.
"More ridiculous than ever, as I live!" she cried, "though I thought that was impossible."
"Did you?"
"Yes."
Mr. Ashley gently twined a lock around his finger, and assuming a foppish air, replied:
"I don't know whether you thought it impossible for me to become more ridiculous; but you can't help confessing, my own Fanny, that you doubted whether I could grow more fascinating."
Fanny's lip curled.
"Oh, yes!" she said.
"Come—don't deny what was perfectly plain—it won't do."
"Deny—?"
"That you were desperately in love with me, and that I was your sweetheart, as the children say."
And Mr. Ralph gently caressed the downy covering of his chin, and smiled.
"What a conceited thing you are," said Fanny, laughing; "you are outrageous."
And having uttered this opinion, Miss Fanny's eyes suddenly fell, and her merry cheek colored. The truth was simply, that Ralph had been a frank, good-humored, gallant boy, and the neighborshadsaid, that he was Fanny's "sweetheart;" and the remembrance of this former imputation now embarrassed the nearly-grown-up young lady. No one could remain embarrassed in Mr. Ralph's society long however; there was so much careless ease in his demeanor, that it was contagious, and so Fanny in a moment had regained all her self-possession, and returned the languishing glances of her admirer with her habitual expression of satirical humor.
"Yes, perfectly outrageous!" she said; "and college has positively ruined you—you cannot deny it."
"Ruined me?"
"Wholly."
"On the contrary, it has greatly improved me, my dearest."
And Ralph sat down on the trellised portico, stretching out his elegant rosetted shoes, and laughing.
"I am not your dearest," said Fanny; "that is not my name."
"You are mistaken! But come, sit by me: I'm just in the mood to talk."
"No! I don't think I will."
"Pray do."
"No," said Fanny, shaking her head coquettishly, "I'll stand while your lordship discourses."
"You positively shan't!"
And with these words, the young man grasped Miss Fanny's long streaming hair-ribbon, and gently drew it toward him, laughing.
Fanny cried out. Ralph laughed more than ever.
There was but one alternative left for the young girl. She must either see her elegantly bound up raven locks deprived of their confining ribbon, and so fall in wild disorder, or she must obey the command of the enemy, and sit quietly beside him. True, there was the third course of becoming angry, and raising her head with dignified hauteur. But this course had its objections—it would not do to quarrel with her cousin and former playmate immediately upon his return; and again the movement of the head, which we have indicated, would have been attended by consequences exceedingly disastrous.
Therefore, as Ralph continued to draw toward him gently the scarlet ribbon, with many smiles and admiring glances, Miss Fanny gradually approached the seat, and finally sat down.
"There, sir!" she said, pouting, "I hope you are satisfied!"
"Perfectly; the fact is, my sweet Fanny, I never was anything elsebutsatisfied withyou! I always was fascinated with you."
"That's one of the things which you were taught at college, I suppose."
"What?"
"Making pretty speeches."
"No, they didn't teach that, by Jove! Nothing but wretched Latin, Greek and Mathematics—things, evidently, of far less importance than the art you mention."
"Oh! of course."
"And the reason is plain. A gentleman never uses the one after he leaves college, and lays them by with the crabbed books that teach them; while the art of compliment is always useful and agreeable—especially agreeable to young ladies of your exceedingly juvenile age—is't not?"
"Very agreeable."
"I know it is; and when a woman descends to it, and flatters a man—ah! my dear Fanny, there's no hope for him. I am a melancholy instance."
"You!" laughed Fanny, who had regained her good-humor.
"Yes; you know Williamsburg has many other things to recommend it besides the college."
"What things?"
"Pretty girls."
"Oh! indeed."
"Yes, and I assure you I did not neglect the opportunity of prosecuting my favorite study—the female character. Don't interrupt me—your character is no longer a study to me."
"I am very glad, sir."
"I made you out long ago—like the rest of your sex, you are, of course, very nearly angelic, but still have your faults."
"Thank you, sir."
"All true—but about Williamsburg—I was, I say, a melancholy sample of the effect produced by a kind and friendly speech from a lady. Observe, that the said speech was perfectly commonplace, and sprung, I'm sure, from the speaker's general amiability; and yet, what must I do, but go and fall in love with her."
"Oh!" from Fanny.
"Yes—true as truth itself; and, as a consequence, my friends, for the first, and only time, had a good joke against me. They had a tale about my going to his Excellency, the Governor's palace, to look at the great map there—all for the purpose of finding where the country was in which she lived; for, observe, she was only on a visit to Williamsburg—of studying out this boundary, and that—this river to cross, and that place to stop at,—the time it would take to carry my affections over them—and all the thousand details. Of course, this was not true, my darling Fanny, at least—"
"Ralph, you shall stop talking to me like a child!" exclaimed Fanny, who had listened to the details of Mr. Ashley's passion with more and more constraint; "please to remember that I am not a baby, sir."
Ralph looked at the lovely face, with its rosy-cheeks and flashing eyes, and burst out laughing.
"There, you are as angry as Cleopatra, when the slave brought her bad news—and, by Jove, Fanny, you are twice as lovely. Really! you have improved wonderfully. Your eyes, at this moment, are as brilliant as fire—your lips like carnation—and your face like sunlit gold; recollect, I'm a poet. I'm positively rejoiced at the good luck which made me bring such a lovely expression into your fair countenance."
Fanny turned her head away.
"Come now, Fanny," said Ralph, seriously, "I do believe you are going to find fault with my nonsense."
No reply.
Mr. Ralph Ashley heaved a sigh; and was silent.
"You treat me like a child," said Fanny, reproachfully; "I am not a child."
"You certainly are not, my dearest Fanny—you are a charming young lady—the most delicious of your sex."
And Mr. Ralph Ashley accompanied these words with a glance so ludicrously languishing, that Fanny, unable to command herself, burst into laughter; and the quarrel was all made up, if quarrel it indeed had been.