"Youwerea child in old times," said Mr. Ashley, throwing his foot elegantly over his knee; "and, I recollect, had a perfect genius for blindman's-buff; but, of course, at sixteen you have 'put away' all those infantile or 'childish things'—though I am sincerely rejoiced to see that you have not 'become a man.'"
Fanny laughed.
"I wish I was," she said.
"What?"
"Why a man."
"Oh! you're very well as you are;—though if you were a 'youth,' I'm sure, Fanny dear, I should be desperately fond of you."
"Quite likely."
"Oh, nothing truer; and everybody would say, 'See the handsome friends.' Come now, would'nt we make a lovely couple."
"Lovely!"
"Suppose we try it."
"Try what?"
"Being a couple."
Fanny suddenly caught, from the laughing eye, the young man's meaning, and began to color.
"I see you understand, my own Fanny," observed Mr. Ralph, "and I expected nothing less from a young lady of your quickness. What say you? It is not necessary for me to say that I'm desperately in love with you."
"Oh, not at all necessary!" replied Fanny, satirically, but with a blush.
"I see you doubt it."
"Oh, not at all."
"Which means, as usual with young ladies, that you don't believe a word of it. Well, only try me. What proof will you have?"
Fanny laughed with the same expression of constraint which we have before observed, and said:
"You have not looked upon the map of Virginia yet for my 'boundaries?'"
Ralph received the hit full in the front.
"By Jove! Fanny," he exclaimed, "I oughtn't to have told you that."
"I'm glad you did."
"Why?"
"Because, of course, I shall not make any efforts to please you—you are already 'engaged!'"
"Engaged! well, you are wrong. Neither my heart nor my hand is engaged. Ah, dear Fanny, you don't know how we poor students carry away with us to college some consuming passion which we feed and nurture;—how we toast the Dulcinea at oyster parties, and, like Corydon, sigh over her miniature. I had yours!"
"My—miniature?" said the lively Fanny, with a roseate blush, "you had nothing of the sort."
"Your likeness, then."
"Equally untrue—where is it?"
"Here!" said Mr. Ralph Ashley, laying his hand upon his heart, and ogling Miss Fanny with terrible expression. "Ah, Fanny, darling, don't believe that story I relate about myself—never has any one made any impression on me—for my heart—my love—my thoughts—have always—"
Suddenly the speaker became silent, and rising to his feet, made a courteous and graceful bow. A young lady had just appeared at the door.
This was Redbud.
The poor girl presented a great contrast to the lively Fanny, who, with sparkling eyes and merry lips, and rosy, sunset cheeks, afforded an excellent idea of the joyous Maia, as she trips on gathering her lovely flowers. Poor Redbud! Her head was hanging down, her eyes wandered sadly and thoughtfully toward the distant autumn horizon, and the tender lips wore that expression of soft languor which is so sad a spectacle in the young.
At Mr. Ralph Ashley's bow, she raised her head quickly; and her startled look showed plainly she had not been conscious of the presence of Fanny, or the young man on the portico.
Redbud returned the profound bow of Fanny's cavalier with a delightful little curtsey, and would have retired into the house again. But this Miss Fanny, for reasons best known to herself, was determined to prevent—reasons which a close observer might have possibly guessed, after looking at her blushing cheeks and timid, uneasy eyes. For everybody knows that if there is anything more distasteful and embarrassing to very young ladies than a failure on the part of gallants to recognise their claims to attention, that other more embarrassing circumstance is a too largequantumof the pleasing incense. It is not the present writer, however, who will go so far as to say that their usual habit of runningawayfrom the admirer should be taken, as in other feminine manoeuvres, by contraries.
So Fanny duly introduced Mr. Ralph Ashley to Miss Redbud Summers; and then, with a little masonic movement of the head, added, with perfect ease:
"Suppose we all take a walk in the garden—it is a very pretty evening."
This proposition was enthusiastically seconded by Mr. Ralph Ashley, who had regained his laughing ease again—and though Redbud would fain have been excused, she was obliged to yield, and so in ten minutes they were promenading up and down the old garden, engaged in pleasant conversation—which conversation has, however, nothing to do with this veracious history.
Just as they arrived, in one of their perambulatory excursions around the walks, at a small gate which opened on the hill-side, they discovered approaching them a worthy of the pedlar description, who carried on his broad German shoulders a large pack, which, as the pedlar jogged along, made, pretences continually of an intention to dive forward over his head, but always without carrying this intention into execution. The traveling merchant seemed to be at the moment a victim to that species of low spirits which attacks all his class when trade is dull; and no sooner had he descried the youthful group, than his face lighted up with anticipated business.
He came to the gate at which they stood, and ducking his head, unslung the pack, and without further ceremony opened it.
A tempting array of stuffs and ribbons, pencils, pinchbeck jewels and thimbles, scissors and knives, immediately became visible; with many other things which it is not necessary for us to specify. The pedlar called attention to them by pointing admiringly at each, and recommended them by muttering broken English over them.
With that propensity of young ladies to handle and examine all articles which concern themselves with personal adornment, Fanny and Redbud, though they really wanted nothing, turned over everything in the pack. But little resulted therefrom for the pedlar. He did not succeed in persuading Redbud to buy a beautiful dress pattern, with dahlias and hollyhocks, in their natural size and colors; and was equally unsuccessful with Fanny, who obstinately declined to reduce into her possession a lovely lace cap, such as our dear old grandmamas' portraits show us—though this description may be incorrect, as Fanny always said that the article in question was a night-cap.
Disappointed in this, the pedlar brought out his minor "articles;" and here he was more successful. Mr. Ashley bought sufficiently for his young lady friends at the seminary, he said, and Redbud and Fanny both purchased little things.
Fanny bought the most splendid glass breastpin, which she pretended, with a merry laugh, to admire "to distraction." Redbud, without knowing very well why, bought a little red coral necklace, which looked bright and new, and rattled merrily as she took it; for some reason the pedlar parted with it for a very small sum, and then somewhat hastily packed up his goods, and ducking his head in thanks, went on his way.
"Look what a very handsome breastpin I have!" said Fanny, as they returned through the garden; "I'm sure nobody would know that it is not a diamond."
"You are right," said Mr. Ashley, smiling, "the world is given to judging almost wholly from outward appearances. And what did you purchase, Miss Summers—or Miss Redbud, if you will permit me—"
"Oh, yes, sir," said Redbud, looking at him with her kind, sad eyes, "you need'nt be ceremonious withme. Besides, you're Fanny's cousin. I bought this necklace—I thought it old-fashioned and pretty."
Redbud was silent again, her eyes bent quietly upon the walk, the long lashes reposing thus upon the tender little cheeks.
"Old-fashioned and pretty," said the young man, with a smile, "did you not make a mistake there, Miss Redbud?"
"No, sir—I meant it," she said, raising her eyes simply to his own. "I think old-fashioned things are very often prettier and more pleasant than new ones. Don't you?"
"I do!" cried Fanny; "I'm sure my great grandmother's diamond breastpin is much handsomer than this horrid thing!"
And the young lady tore the pinchbeck jewel from her neck.
Mr. Ashley laughed.
"There's your consistency," he said; "just now you thought nothing could be finer."
Miss Fanny vehemently opposed this view of her character at great length, and with extraordinary subtilty. We regret that the exigencies of our narrative render it impossible for us to follow her—we can only state that the result, as on all such occasions, was the total defeat of the cavalier. Mr. Ralph Ashley several times stated his willingness to subscribe to any views, opinions or conclusions which Miss Fanny desired him to, and finally placed his fingers in his ears.
Fanny greeted this manoeuvre with a sudden blow in the laugher's face, from her bouquet; and Redbud, forgetting her disquietude, laughed gaily at the merry cousins.
So they entered, and met the bevy of young school girls on the portico, with whom Mr. Ralph Ashley, in some manner, became instantaneously popular: perhaps partly on account of the grotesque presents he scattered among them, with his gay, joyous laughter. After thus making himself generally agreeable, he looked at the setting sun, and said he must go. He would, however, soon return, he said, to see his dearest Fanny, the delight of his existence. And having made this pleasant speech, he went away on his elegant horse, laughing, good-humored, and altogether a very pleasing, graceful-looking cavalier, as the red sunset showered upon his rich apparel and his slender charger all its wealth of ruddy, golden light.
And as he went on thus, so gallant, in the bravery of youth and joy, a young lady, sitting on the sun-lit portico, followed him with her eyes; and leaning her fine brow, with its ebon curls, upon her hand, mused with a sigh and a smile. And when the cavalier turned round as the trees swallowed him, and waved his hat, with its fine feather, in the golden light, Miss Fanny murmured—"Really, I think—Ralph—has very much—improved!" Which seemed to be a very afflicting circumstance to Miss Fanny, inasmuch as she uttered a deep sigh.
Meanwhile our little Redbud gazed, too, from the brilliantly-illumined portico, toward the golden ocean in the west. The rich light lingered lovingly upon her golden hair, and tender lips and cheeks, and snowy neck, on which the coral necklace rose and fell with the pulsations of her heart. The kind, mild eyes were fixed upon the sunset sadly, and their blue depths seemed to hold more than one dew-drop, ready to pass the barrier of the long dusky lashes, which closed gradually as the pure white forehead drooped upon her hand.
For a long time the tender heart remained thus still and quiet; then her lips moved faintly, and she murmured—
"Oh, it is wrong—I know it is—I ought not to!"
And two tears fell on the child's hand, and on the necklace, which the fingers held.
We left our friend Verty slowly going onward toward the western hills, under the golden autumn sunset, with drooping head and listless arms, thinking of Redbud and the events of the day, which now was going to its death in royal purple over the far horizon.
One thought, one image only dwelt in the young man's mind, and what that thought was, his tell-tale lips clearly revealed:—"Redbud! Redbud!" they murmured; and the dreamer seemed to be wholly dead to that splendid scene around him, dreaming of his love.
There are those who speak slightingly of boyhood and its feelings, scoffing at the early yearnings of the heart, and finding only food for jest in those innocent and childish raptures and regrets. We do not envy such. That man's heart must be made of doubtful stuff, who jeers at the fresh dreams of youth; or rather, he must have no heart at all—above all, no sweet and affecting recollections. There is something touching in the very idea of this pure and unselfish emotion, which the hardened nature of the grown-up man can never feel again. Men often dream about their childhood, and shed unavailing tears as they gaze in fancy on their own youthful faces, and with the pencil of imagination slowly trace the old forms and images.
Said a writer of our acquaintance, no matter who, since no one read or thought of him:—"The writer of these idle lines finds no difficulty in painting for himself a Titian picture, in which, as in his life-picture, his own figure lies on the canvas. Long ago—a long, long time ago—in fact, when he was a boy, and loved dearly a child like himself, a child who is now a fair and beautiful-browed woman, and who smiles with a dreamy, thoughtful expression, when his face comes to her—long ago, flowers were very bright in the bright May day, by a country brookside. The butter-cups were over all the hills, for children to put under their chins, and pea-blossoms, very much like lady-slippers, swayed prettily in the wind. Beneath the feet of the boy and girl—she was a merry, bright-eyed child! how I love her still!—broke crocuses and violets, and a thousand wild flowers, fresh and full of fairy beauty. The grass was green and soft, and the birds rose through the air on fluttering wings, singing and rejoicing, and the clouds floated over them as only clouds in May can float, quickly, hopefully, with a dash of changeful April in them—not like those of August: for the May cloud is a maiden, a child, full of life and joy, running and playing, and looking playfully back at the winds as they rustle on—not August-like—a thoughtful ripened beauty, large, lazy, and contemplative, whose spring of youth has passed, whose summer has arrived, in all its wealth, and power, and languid splendor. Well, they wandered—the boy and girl—on the bright May day, pleasantly across the hills, and along the brook, which ran merrily over the pebbles as bright as diamonds. That boy has now become a man, and he has vainly sought, in all the glittering pursuits of life, an adequate recompense for the death of those soft hours. Having gone, as all things must go, they left no equivalent in the future. But not, therefore, in sadness does he write this: rather in deep joy, and as though he had said—
'Give me a golden pen, and let me leanOn heaped-up flowers—'
"So wholly flooded is his heart with the memory of that young, frank face. She wore a pink dress, he recollects—all children should wear either pink or white—and her hair was in long, bright curls, and her eyes were diamonds, full of light. He thought the birds were envious of her singing, when she carolled clearly in the bright May morning. He wove her a garland of flowers for her hair, and she blushed as she took it from his hands. She had on a small gold ring, and a red bracelet; and since that time he has loved red bracelets more than all barbaric pearls and gold. In those times, the trees were greener than at present, the birds sang more sweetly, and the streams ran far more merrily. They thought so at least, as they sat under a large oak, and he read to her, with shadowy, loving eyes, nearly full of happy tears, old songs, that 'dallied with the innocence of love, like the old age.' And so the evening went into the west, and they returned, and all the night and long days afterward her smile shone on him, brightening his life as it does now."
Who laughs? Is it at Verty going along with drooping forehead, and deep sighs; or at the unappreciated great poet, whose prose-strains we have recorded? Well, friends, perhaps you have reason. Therefore, let us unite our voices in one great burst of "inextinguishable laughter"—as of the gods on Mount Olympus—raised very high above the world!
Let us rejoice that we have become more rational, and discarded all that folly, and are busying ourselves with rational affairs—Wall-street, and cent per cent. and dividends. Having become men, we have put away childish things, and among them, the encumbrances of a heart. Who would have one? It makes you dream on autumn days, when the fair sunlight streams upon the sails which waft the argosies of commerce to your warehouse;—it almost leads you to believe that stocks are not the one thing to be thought of on this earth—that all the hurrying bustle of existence is of doubtful weight, compared with the treasures of that memory which leads us back to boyhood and its innocent illusions. Let us part with it, if any indeed remains, and so press on, unfettered, in the glorious race for cash. The "golden age" of Arcady is gone so long—the new has come! The crooks wreathed round with flowers are changed into telegraph-posts, and Corydon is on a three-legged stool, busy with ledgers—knitting his brow as he adds up figures. Let us be thankful.
Therefore, as we have arrived at this rational conclusion, and come to regard Verty and his feelings in their proper light, we will not speak further of the foolish words which escaped from his lips, as he went on, in the crimson sunset slowly fading. In time, perhaps, his education will be completed in the school of Rational Philosophy, under that distinguished lady-professor, Miss Sallianna. At present we shall allow him to proceed upon his way toward his lodge in the wilderness, where the old Indian woman awaits him with her deep love and anxious tenderness.
When Verty made his appearance at the office in Winchester, on the morning of the day which followed immediately the events we have just related, Roundjacket received him with a mysterious smile, and with an expression of eye, particularly, which seemed to suggest the most profound secrecy and confidence. Roundjacket did not say anything, but his smile was full of meaning.
Verty, however, failed to comprehend;—even paid no attention to his poetical friend, when that gentleman put his hand in his breast-pocket, and half-drew something therefrom, looking at Verty.
The young man was too much absorbed in gloomy thought to observe these manoeuvres; and, besides, we must not lose sight of the fact, that he was an Indian, and did not understand hints and intimations as well as civilized individuals.
Roundjacket was forced, at last, to clear his throat and speak.
"Hem!" observed the poet.
"Sir?" said Verty, for the tone of Roundjacket's observation was such as to convey the impression that he was about to speak.
"I've got something for you, my dear fellow," said the poet.
"Have you, sir?"
"Yes; now guess what it is."
"I don't think I could."
"What do you imagine it can be?"
Verty shook his head, and leaned upon his desk.
"It has some connection with the subject of numerous conversations we have held," said Roundjacket, persuasively, waving backward and forward the ruler which he had taken up abstractedly, and as he did so, indulging in a veiled and confidential smile; "now you can guess—can't you?"
"I think not, sir."
"Why, what have we been talking about lately?"
"Law."
"No, sir!"
"Havn't we?"
"By no means—that is to say, there is a still more interesting subject, my dear young savage, than even law."
"Oh, I know now—"
"Ah—!"
"It is poetry."
"Bah!" observed the poet; "you're out yet. But who knows? Your guess may be correct. It may be poetry."
"What, sir?"
"This letter for you, from a lady," said Roundjacket, smiling, and drawing from his pocket an elegantly folded billet.
Verty rose quickly.
"A letter for me, sir!" he said, blushing.
"Yes; not from a great distance though," Roundjacket replied, with a sly chuckle; "see here; the post-mark is the 'Bower of Nature.'"
Verty extended his hand abruptly, his lips open, his countenance glowing.
"Oh, give it to me, sir!"
Roundjacket chuckled more than ever, and handing it to the young man, said:
"An African of small dimensions brought it this morning, and said no answer was required—doubtless, therefore, it isnota love-letter, the writers of which are well-known to appreciate replies. Hey! what's the matter, my friend?"
This exclamation was called forth by the sudden and extraordinary change in Verty's physiognomy. As we have said, the young man had received the letter with a radiant flush, and a brilliant flash of his fine eye; and thus the reader will easily comprehend, when we inform him, that Verty imagined the letter to be from Redbud. Redbud was his one thought, the only image in his mind, and Roundjacket's words, "post-mark, the Bower of Nature," had overwhelmed him with the blissful expectation of a note from Redbud, with loving words of explanation in it, recalling him, making him once more happy. He tore open the letter, which was simply directed to "Mr. Verty, at Judge Rushton's office," and found his dream dispelled. Alas! the name, at the foot of the manuscript, was not "Redbud"—it was "Sallianna!"
And so, when the young man's hopes were overturned, the bright flash of his clear eye was veiled in mist again, and his hand fell, with a gesture of discouragement, which Roundjacket found no difficulty in understanding.
Verty's face drooped upon his hand, and with the other hand, which held the letter, hanging down at the side of his chair, he sighed profoundly. He remained thus, buried in thought, for some time, Roundjacket gazing at him in silence. He was aroused by something pulling at the letter, which turned to be Longears, who was biting Miss Sallianna's epistle in a literary way, and this aroused him. He saw Roundjacket looking at him.
"Ah—ah!" said that gentleman, "it seems, young man, that the letter is not to your taste."
Verty sighed.
"I hav'nt read it," he said.
"How then—?"
"It's not from Redbud."
Roundjacket chuckled.
"I begin to understand now why your face changed so abruptly when you recognized the handwriting, Mr. Verty," said the poet; gently brandishing the ruler, and directing imaginary orchestras; "you expected a note from your friend, Miss Redbud—horrid habit you have, that of cutting off the Miss—and now you are unhappy."
"Yes—unhappy," Verty said, leaning his head on his wrist.
"Who's the letter from?"
"It's marked private and confidential, sir; I ought not to tell you—ought I."
"No, sir, by no means," said Roundjacket; "I would'nt listen to it for a bag of doubloons. But you should read it."
"I will, sir," Verty said, sighing.
And he spread the letter out before him and read it carefully, with many varying expressions on his face. The last expression of all, however, was grief and pain. As he finished, his head again drooped, and his sorrowful eyes were fixed on vacancy.
"I'll tell you what it is, Verty, my friend," said Roundjacket, chuckling, "I don't think we make much by keeping you from paying a daily visit to some of your friends. My own opinion is, that you would do more work if you went and had some amusement."
"And I think so, too," said a rough voice behind the speaker, whose back was turned to the front door of the office; "it is refreshing to hear you talking sense, instead of nonsense, once in your life, Roundjacket."
And Mr. Rushton strode in, and looked around him with a scowl.
"Good morning, sir," said Verty, sadly.
"Good morning, sir?" growled Mr. Rushton, "no, sir! it's a a bad morning, a wretched, diabolical morning, if the sunispretending to shine."
"I think the sunshine is very pretty, sir."
"Yes—I suppose you do—I have no doubt of it—everything is pretty, of course,—Roundjacket!"
"Well?"
"Did you get exhibit 10?"
"I did, sir," replied Roundjacket, sighting his ruler to see if it was straight. "Have you had your breakfast, sir?"
"Yes, sir; why did you ask?"
"Oh, nothing—you know I thought you uncommonly amiable this morning."
Mr. Rushton scowled, and the ghost of a smile passed over his rigid lips.
"I am nothing of the sort! I'm a perfect bear!" he growled.
"Not inconsistent with my former observation that you were better than usual," observed Roundjacket, with an agreeable smile. "I can prove to you quite readily that—"
"You are a ninny—I have no doubt of it—if I would listen to your wretched jabber! Enough! if you talk any more I'll go home again. A fine state of things, truly—that I am to have my mind dissipated when I'm in working trim by the nonsense of a crack-brained poet!"
Roundjacket's indignation at this unfeeling allusion to his great poem was so intense, that for the moment he was completely deprived of utterance.
"And as for you, young man," said Mr. Rushton, smiling grimly at Verty, "I suppose you are following the ordinary course of foolish young men, and falling in love! Mark me, sir! the man that falls in love makes a confounded fool of himself—you had better at once go and hang yourself. Pretty people you are, with your 'eyes' and 'sighs'—your 'loves' and 'doves'—your moonlight, and flowers and ecstacies! Avoid it, sir! it's like honey-water—it catches the legs of flies like you, and holds you tight. Don't think you can take a slight sip of the wine, sir, and there leave off—no, sir, you don't leave off, you youngsters never do; you guzzle a gallon! The consequence is intellectual drunkenness, and thus you make, as I said before, confounded fools of yourselves! Bah! why am I wasting my time!—a vast deal of influence we people who give good advice possess! Young men will be fools to the end—go and see your sweetheart!"
And with a grim smile, the shaggy lawyer entered his sanctum, and banged the door, just as Roundjacket, still irate about the slur cast upon his poetry, had commenced reading in a loud voice the fine introductory stanzas—his hair sticking up, his eyes rolling, his ruler breaking the skulls of invisible foes. Alas for Roundjacket!—nobody appreciated him, which is perhaps one of the most disagreeable things in nature. Even Verty rose in a minute, and took up his hat and rifle, as was his habit.
Roundjacket rolled up his manuscript with a deep sigh, and restored it to the desk.
"Where are you going, young man?" he said. "But I know—and that is your excuse for such shocking taste as you display. As for the within bear," and Roundjacket pointed toward Mr. Rushton's apartment, "he is unpardonable!"
"Well, good-bye."
These latter words were uttered as Verty went out, followed byLongears, and closed the door of the office after him.
He had scarcely heard or understood Mr. Rushton's extraordinary speech: but had comprehended that he was free to go away, and in the troubled state of his mind, this was a great boon. Yes! he would go and suffer again in Redbud's presence—this time he would know whether she really hated him. And then that passage in the letter! The thought tore his heart.
What could the reason for this dislike possibly be? Certainly not his familiar ascent to her room, on the previous day. Could it have been because she did not like him in his fine clothes? Was this latter possible? It might be.
"I'll go to Mr. O'Brallaghan's and get my old suit—he has not sent them yet," said Verty, aloud; "then I'll go and see Redbud just as she used to see me in old times, at Apple Orchard, when we were—ah!—so happy!"
The "ah" above, represents a very deep sigh, which issued from Verty's breast, as he went along with the dignified Longears at his heels. Longears never left his master, unless he was particularly attracted by a small fight among some of his brethren, or was seized with a desire to thrust his nostrils against some baby playing on the sidewalk, (a ceremony which, we are sorry to say, he accompanied with a sniff,) throwing the juvenile responsibility, thereby, into convulsions, evidenced by yells. With these exceptions, Longears was a well-behaved dog, and followed his master in a most "respectable" manner.
Verty arrived at the fluttering doorway of O'Brallaghan's shop, and encountered the proprietor upon the threshold, who made him a low bow. His errand was soon told, and O'Brallaghan entered into extensive explanations and profuse apologies for the delay in sending home Mr. Verty's suit left with him. It would have received "attinshun" that very morning—it was in the back room. Would Mr. Verty "inter?"
Verty entered accordingly, followed by the stately Longears, who rubbed his nose against O'Brallaghan's stockings as he passed, afterwards shaking his head, as if they were not to his taste.
Verty found himself opposite to Mr. Jinks, who was driving his needle as savagely as ever, and, with a tremendous frown, chaunting the then popular ditty of the "Done-over Tailor." Whether this was in gloomy satire upon his own occupation we cannot say, but certainly the lover of the divine Miss Sallianna presented an appearance very different from his former one, at the Bower of Nature. His expression was as dignified and lofty as before; but as to costume, the least said about Mr. Jinks the better. We may say, however, that it consisted mainly of a pair of slippers and a nightcap, from the summit of which latter article of clothing drooped a lengthy tassel.
On Verty's entrance, Mr. Jinks started up with a terrific frown; or rather, to more accurately describe the movement which he made, uncoiled his legs, and raised his stooping shoulders.
"How, sir!" he cried, "is my privacy again invaded!"
"I came to get my clothes," said Verty, preoccupied with his own thoughts, and very indifferent to the hero's ire.
"That's no excuse, sir!"
"Excuse?" said Verty.
"Yes, sir—I said excuse; this is my private apartment, and I have told O'Brallaghan that it should not be invaded, sir!"
These indignant words brought Mr. O'Brallaghan to the door, whereupon Mr. Jinks repeated his former observation, and declared that it was an outrage upon his dignity and his rights.
O'Brallaghan displayed some choler at the tone which Mr. Jinks used, and his Irish blood began to rise. He stated that Mr. Verty had come for his clothes, and should have them. Mr. Jinks replied, that he had'nt said anything about Mr. Verty; but was contending for a principle. Mr. O'Brallaghan replied to this with an observation which was lost in his neck-handkerchief, but judging from as much as was audible, in defiance and contempt of Jinks. Jinks observed, with dignity and severity, that there were customers in the store, who were gazing at Mr. Verty, just as he was about to disrobe. O'Brallaghan muttered thereupon to himself some hostile epithets, and hastily returned to wait upon the customers, leaving Mr. Jinks dodging to avoid the eyes of the new-comers, but still preserving an expression of haughty scorn.
Meanwhile Verty had descried his old forest suit lying upon a shelf, and, laying down his rifle, had nearly indued his limbs therewith. In fifteen minutes he had completed the change in his costume, and stood before Mr. Jinks the same forest-hunter which he had been, before the purchase of the elegant clothes he had just taken off. Instead of rosetted shoes, moccasins; instead of silk and velvet, leather and fur. On his head, his old white hat had taken the place of the fashionable chapeau. Verty finished, by taking off the bow of ribbon which secured his hair behind, and scattering the profuse curls over his shoulders.
"Now," he sighed, looking in a mirror which hung upon the wall, "I feel more like myself."
Jinks gazed at him with dignified emotion.
"You return to the woods, sir," he said; "would that I could make up my mind to follow your example. This man, O'Brallaghan, however—"
And Mr. Jinks completed his sentence by savagely clipping a piece of cloth with the huge shears he held, as though the enemy's neck were between them.
Verty scarcely observed this irate movement.
"I'll leave the clothes here," he said; "I'm going now—good-bye."
And taking up his rifle, the young man went out, followed by Longears, who, to the last, bent his head over his shoulder, and gazed upon Mr. Jinks with curiosity and interest.
Jinks, with a savage look at O'Brallaghan, was about to return to his work, when a letter, protruding from the pocket of the coat which Verty had just taken off, attracted his attention, and he pounced upon it without hesitation.
Jinks had recognized the handwriting of Miss Sallianna in the address, and in an instant determined to use no ceremony.
He tore it open, and read, with savage scowls and horrible contortions of the visage, that which follows. Unfortunate Jinks—reading private letters is a hazardous proceeding: and this was what the hero read:
"Since seeing thee, on yester eve, my feelings have greatly changed in intensity, and I fluctuate beneath an emotion of oblivious delight. Alas! we young, weak women, try in vain to obstruct the gurgling of the bosom; for I perceive that even I am not proof against the arrows of the god Diana. My heart has thrilled, my dearest friend, ever since you departed, yester eve, with a devious and intrinsic sensation of voluminous delight. The feelings cannot be concealed, but must be impressed in words; or, as the great Milton says, in his Bucoliks, the o'er-fraught heart would break! Love, my dear Mr. Verty, is contiguous—you cannot be near the beloved object without catching the contagion, and to this fact I distribute that flame which now flickers with intense conflagration in my bosom. Why, cruel member of the other sex! did you evade the privacy of our innocent and nocturnal retreat, turning the salubrious and maiden emotions of my bosom into agonizing delight and repressible tribulation! Could you not practice upon others the wiles of your intrinsic charms, and spare the weak Sallianna, whose only desire was to contemplate the beauties of nature in her calm retreat, where a small property sufficed for all her mundane necessities? Alas! but yester morn I was cheerful and invigorating—with a large criterion of animal spirits, and a bosom which had never sighed responsible to the flattering vows of beaux. But now!—ask me not how I feel, in thinking ofthe personwho has touched my indurate heart. Need I say that the individual in question has only to demand that heart, to have it detailed to him in all its infantile simplicity and diurnal self-reliance? Do not—do not—diffuse it!
"I have, during the whole period of my mundane pre-existence, always been troubled with beaux and admirers. I have, in vain, endeavored to escape from their fascinating diplomas, but they have followed me, and continued to prosecute me with their adorous intentions. None of them could ever touch my fanciful disposition, which has exalted an intrinsic and lofty beau—idle to itself. I always had to reply, when they got down upon their knees to me, and squeezed my hands, that I could not force my sensations; and though I should ever esteem them as friends, I could not change my condition of maiden meditation and exculpation for the agitation of matrimonial engagements. I need not say that now my feelings have changed, and you, Mr. Verty, have become the idle of my existence. You are yet young, but with a rare and intrinsic power of intellect. In future, you will not pay any more intention to that foolish little Reddy, who is very well in her way, but unworthy of a great and opprobrious intelligence like yours. She is a mere child, as I often tell her, and cannot love.
"Come to your devoted Sallianna immediately, and let us discurse the various harmonies of nature. I have given orders not to admit any of my numerous beaux, especially that odious Mr. Jinks, who is my abomination. I will tell Reddy that your visit is to me, and she will not annoy you, especially as she is in love with a light young man who comes to see Fanny, her cousin, Mr. Ashley.
"Come to one who awaits thee, and who assigns herself
"Your devoted,
Jinks frowned a terrible frown, and ground his teeth.
For a moment, he stood gazing with profound contempt upon the letter which he had just read; then seizing his shears, snipped the unfortunate sheet into microscopic fragments, all the while frowning with terrible intensity.
The letter destroyed, Jinks stood for a moment with folded arms, scowling and reflecting.
Suddenly he strode to the other side of the room, kicking off his slippers as he went, and hurling his night-cap at the mirror.
"Yes!" he cried, grinding his teeth, "I'll do it, and without delay—perfidious woman!"
In ten minutes Mr. Jinks had assumed his usual fashionable costume, and buckled on his sword. A savage flirt of his locks completed his toilette, and in all the splendor of his scarlet stockings and embroidered waistcoat, he issued forth.
O'Brallaghan, as he passed through the shop, requested to be informed where Mr. Jinks was going.
Jinks stopped, and scowled at Mr. O'Brallaghan, thereby intimating that his, Jinks', private rights were insolently invaded by a coarse interrogatory.
O'Brallaghan observed, that if Mr. Jinks was laboring under the impression that he, O'Brallaghan, was to be frowned down by an individual of his description, he was greatly mistaken. And by way of adding to the force of this observation, Mr. O'Brallaghan corrugated his forehead in imitation of his adversary.
Jinks replied, that he was equally indifferent to the scowls of Mr. O'Brallaghan, and expressed his astonishment and disgust at being annoyed, when he was going out to take some exercise for the benefit of his health.
O'Brallaghan informed Mr. Jinks that the going out had nothing to do with it, and that he, Jinks, knew very well that he, O'Brallaghan, objected to nothing but the tone assumed toward himself by the said Jinks, whose airs were not to be endured, and, in future, would not be, by him. If this was not satisfactory, he, the said Jinks, might take the law of him, or come out and have it decided with shillalies, either of which courses were perfectly agreeable to him, O'Brallaghan.
Whereupon, Jinks expanded his nostril, and said that gentlemen did not use the vulgar Irish weapon indicated.
To which O'Brallaghan replied, that the circumstance in question would not prevent Mr. Jinks' using the weapon.
A pause followed these words, broken in a moment, however, by Mr.Jinks, who stated that Mr. O'Brallaghan was a caitiff.
O'Brallaghan, growing very red in the face, observed that Mr. Jinks owed his paternity to a "gun."
Jinks, becoming enraged thereupon, drew his sword, and declared his immediate intention of ridding the earth of a scoundrel and a villain.
Which intention, however, was not then carried into execution, owing to the timely arrival of a red-faced, though rather handsome Irish lady of twenty-five or thirty, who, in the broadest Celtic, commanded the peace, and threatened the combatants with a hot flat-iron, which she brandished in her stalwart fist.
O'Brallaghan laid down the stick which he had seized, and ogled the lady, declaring in words that the wish of mistress O'Callighan was law to him, and that further, he had no desire to fight with the individual before him, who had been making use of abusive and threatening language, and had even drawn his skewer.
Jinks stated that he would have no more altercation with an individual of Mr. O'Brallaghan's standing in society—he would not demean himself—and from that moment shook the dust of his, O'Brallaghan's, establishment from his, Jinks', feet. Which declaration was accompanied with a savage kick upon the door.
O'Brallaghan congratulated himself upon the extreme good fortune for himself involved in Mr. Jinks' decision, and hoped he would carefully observe the friendly and considerate advice he now gave him, which was, never to show his nose in the shop again during the period of his mundane existence.
Whereupon Jinks, annihilating his adversary with a terrific frown, stated his intention to implicitly observe the counsel given him, and further, to have revenge.
In which O'Brallaghan cheerfully acquiesced, observing that the importance attached by himself to the threats of Mr. Jinks was exactly commensurate with the terror which would be caused him by the kick of a flea.
And so, with mutual and terrible frowns, this alarming interview terminated: Mr. Jinks grimacing as he departed with awful menace, and getting his grasshopper legs entangled in his sword; Mr. O'Brallaghan remaining behind, though not behind the counter, paying devoted attention to the ruddy and handsome lady with the hot flat-iron, Mistress Judith O'Callighan, who watched the retreating Jinks with tender melancholy.
Let us follow Mr. Jinks.
That gentleman went on his way, reflecting upon the step which he had just taken, and revolving in his mind the course which he should pursue in future.
The result of his reflections was, that a matrimonial engagement would just answer his purpose, especially with a lady possessing a "small property—" at which words, as they left his muttering lips, Jinks frowned.
It was Miss Sallianna's favorite phrase.
Miss Sallianna!
The tumult which arose in Jinks' breast upon the thought of that young lady's treachery toward himself occurred to him, may, as our brother historians are fond of saying, "be better imagined than described." Before, Jinks' brows were corrugated into a frown; now, however, two mountain ridges, enclosing a deep valley, extended from the upper portion of the bridge of the Jinks nose to the middle of the Jinks forehead.
The despairing lover resembled an ogre who had not dined for two whole days, and was ready to devour the first comer.
What should he do? Take revenge, or marry the perfidious woman? Jinks did not doubt his ability to perform the latter; and thus he went on his way in doubt and wrath.
At least he would go that very morning and charge her with perfidy; and so having decided upon his course so far, he strode on rapidly.
Mr. Jinks bent his course toward Bousch's tavern, where he proposed to take up his temporary residence.
Since this house has become historical, let us say a word of it. It was one of those old wooden "ordinaries" of Virginia, which are now never seen in towns of any size, crouching only on the road-side or in obscure nooks, where the past lives still. It was a building of large size, though but two stories in height, and even then presented an ancient appearance, with its low eaves, small-paned windows, and stone slab before the door. Behind it was an old garden, and near at hand, two ponderous valves opened upon a large stable-yard full of bustling hostlers.
The neighborhood in which this ancient dwelling stood was not without a certain picturesqueness, thanks to the old, low-eaved houses, dating from the French-Indian wars, and grassy knolls, from which quarries of limestone stood out boldly; above all, because of the limpid stream, which, flowing from the west just by the portico of the old tavern, murmured gaily in the traveller's ear, and leaped toward him as he crossed it, or allowed his weary animal to bathe his nostrils in the cool water. Two or three majestic weeping-willows plunged their broad trunks and vigorous roots into the clear stream, and sighed forever over it, as, passing onward, it ran away from the Bousch hostelry toward its ocean, the Opequon.
This old tavern, which exists still, we believe, a venerable relic of the border past, was, in the year 1777, the abode of a "number of Quakers, together with one druggist and a dancing-master, sent to Winchester under guard, with a request from the Executive of Pennsylvania, directed to the County-Lieutenant of Frederick, to secure them." The reasons for this arrest and exile may be found in a Congressional report upon the subject, (Anno. 1776,) which states, that well-attested facts "rendered it certain and notorious that those persons were, with much rancour and bitterness, disaffected to the American cause;"—for which reason they were requested to go and remain in durance at Winchester, in Virginia. How they protested at Philadelphia against being taken into custody—protested again at the Pennsylvania line against being carried out of that state—protested again at the Maryland line against being taken into Virginia—and ended by protesting at Winchester against everything in general—it is all written in the Book of the Chronicles of the Valley of Virginia, by Mr. Samuel Kercheval, and also in an interesting Philadelphia publication, "Friends in Exile." To this day the old sun-dial in the garden of "Bousch's Tavern" has upon it the inscription:
"Exul patria causâ libertates" with the names of the unfortunate exiles written under it—always provided that the dial itself remains, and the rain, and snow, and sun, have not blotted out the words. That they were there, the present chronicler knows upon good authority. How the exiles passed their time at Winchester, and finally returned, will, some day, be embodied in authentic history.
It was many years after the quaker inroad; in fact the eighteenth century, with all its philosophical, political, and scientific "protests" everywhere, was nearly dead and gone, when another scene occurred at Bousch's tavern, which history knows something of. As that august muse, however, does not bury herself with personal details, we will briefly refer to this occurrence.
It was about mid-day, then, when a carriage, with travelling trunks behind it, and a white, foreign-looking driver and footman on the seat before, drew rein in front of the old hostelry we have described.
The footman descended from his perch, and approaching the door of the carriage, opened it, and respectfully assisted two gentlemen to alight. These gentlemen were dressed with elegant simplicity.
The first had an oval face, which was full of good-humor, and in which an imaginative eye might have discerned an odd resemblance to apear; the second, who seemed to be his brother, was more sedate, and did not smile.
The gentlemen entered the inn, and asked if dinner could be furnished. The landlord replied that nothing could be easier, and called their attention to a noise which issued from the next room.
The elder gentleman, whose accent had indicated his foreign origin, approached the door which led into the dining-room, followed by his companion.
They looked in.
A long table, covered with a profusion of everything which the most robust appetite could desire, was filled with ploughmen, rough farmers, hunters from the neighboring hills, and a nondescript class, which were neither farmers, ploughmen, nor hunters, but made their living by conveying huge teams from town to town. They were travelling merchants—not wagoners simply, as might have been supposed from their garments full of straw, and the huge whips which lay beside them on the floor. When they chewed their food, these worthies resembled horses masticating ears of corn; when they laughed, they made the windows rattle.
The good-humored traveller shook his head; over the face of his companion passed a disdainful smile, which did not escape the landlord.
As the elder turned round, he observed his servant inscribing their names in the tavern-book. He would have stopped him, but he had already written the names.
He thereupon turned to the landlord.
Could they not have a private room?
Hum!—it was contrary to rule.
They wanted to dine.
Could they not make up their minds to join the company?
The younger traveller could not, and would not—a room.
The landlord assumed a dogged expression, and replied that he made no distinction among his guests. What was good enough for one was good enough for all.
Then, the young traveller said, he would not stay in such a place.
The host replied, that he might go and welcome—the sooner the better—he wanted no lofty foreign gentlemen with their airs, etc.
The two gentlemen bowed with grave politeness, and made a sign to their servants, who came forward, looking with terrible frowns at Boniface.
Prepare the carriage to set out again—they would not dine there.
How Monseigneur would go on in spite of—
Enough—Monseigneur would consult them when it was necessary. Harness the horses again.
The result of which command was, that in ten minutes the two gentlemen were again upon the road.
The landlord watched them, with a frown, as they departed. He then bethought him of the book where the servant had inscribed their names, and opened it. On the page was written:
The landlord had driven from his establishment the future king of the French, and his brother, because they wanted a private apartment to dine in.
The common version that the Duke was personally assaulted, and turned out, is a mere fiction—our own account is the proper and true one.
So Bousch's Tavern was only fated to be historical, when Mr. Jinksapproached it—that character having not yet been attached to it.Whether the absence of such associations affected the larder in Mr.Jinks' opinion, we cannot say—probably not, however.
Certain is it that Jinks entered with dignity, and accosted the fat, ruddy, German landlord, Mr. Bousch, and proceeding to do what a quarter of a century afterwards a Duke imitated him in, asked for a private chamber. Mr. Bousch seemed to see nothing improper in this request, and even smiled an assent when Jinks, still scowling, requested that a measure of Jamaica rum might be dispatched before him, to his chamber.
Jinks then strolled out to the pathway before the tavern, and looked around him.
Suddenly there came out of the stable yard a young man, mounted on a shaggy horse, which young man was clad in a forest costume, and held a rifle in his hand.
Jinks directed a terrible glance toward him, and started forward.
As the horseman came out of the gateway, he found the road obstructed by Mr. Jinks, whose drawn sword was in his hand.
"Back! rash youth!" cried Jinks, with terrible emphasis, "or this sword shall split thy carcass—back!"
And the speaker flashed the sword so near to Cloud's eyes that he tossed up his head and nearly reared.
Verty had been gazing at the sky, and was scarcely conscious of Mr. Jinks' presence;—but the movement made by Cloud aroused him. He looked at the sword wonderingly.
"Stand back!" cried Jinks, "or thou art dead, young man! Turn your horse into that receptacle of animals again, and go not toward the Bower of Nature!"
"Anan?" said the young man, calmly.
"So you pretend not to understand, do you! Vile caitiff! advance one step at your peril—try to go and complete arrangements for a matrimonial engagement at the Bower of Nature, and thou diest!"
Verty was getting angry.
"Mr. Jinks, you'd better get out of the way," he said, calmly.
"Never! stand back! Attempt to push your animal toward me, and I slaughter him. Base caitiff! Know that the rival you have yonder is myself! Know that she loves you not, and is now laughing at you, however much she may have made you believe she loved you! She is a wretch!"
Verty thought Mr. Jinks spoke of Redbud—the dominant idea again—and frowned.
"Yes! a perfidious, unfeeling traitoress," observed Mr. Jinks, grimacing terribly; "and if thou makest a single step toward her, I will spit thee on my sword!"
Verty cocked his rifle, and placing the muzzle thereof on the Jinks' breast, made a silent movement of his head, to the effect, that Mr. Jinks would consult his personal safety by ceasing to obstruct the way.
Jinks no sooner heard the click of the trigger, and saw the murderous muzzle directed towards his breast, than letting his sword fall, he started back with a horrified expression, crying, "murder!" with all the strength of his lungs; and even in his terror and excitement varied this expression by giving the alarm of "fire!"—for what reason, he always declined to explain, even to his most intimate friends.
Verty did not even smile, though he remained for a moment motionless, looking at Mr. Jinks.
Then touching Cloud with his heel, he set forward again, followed by the dignified Longears. As for Longears, we regret to say, that, on the occasion in question, he did not comport himself with that high decorum and stately courtesy which were such distinguishing traits in his elevated character. His mouth slowly opened—his lips curled around his long, white teeth, and his visage was shaken with a nervous tremor, as, looking over his shoulder, he went on in Cloud's footsteps. Longears was laughing—positively laughing—at Mr. Jinks.
That gentleman ceased crying "fire!" and "murder!" as soon as he came to the conclusion that there was no danger from the one or the other. He picked up his sword, looked around him cautiously, and seeing that no one had observed his flight, immediately assumed his habitual air of warlike dignity, and extended his hand—which held the hilt of his undrawn sword—toward Verty. This gesture was so tragic, and replete with such kingly ferocity, that Mr. Jinks was plainly devoting Verty to the infernal gods; and the curses trembling on his lips confirmed this idea.
He was standing in this melo-dramatic attitude, gazing after the Indian, when he felt a hand upon his shoulder, and heard a jovial voice say, "How are you, Jinks, my boy! What's the fun?"
The voice was that of Mr. Ralph Ashley.
Jinks remained silent a moment. Standing face to face, the two personages surveyed each other in silence—the one laughing, joyous, ready for any amusement which would be so obliging as to turn up; the other stately, warlike, and breathing terrible and malignant vengeance.
Ralph laughed.
"I say, old fellow, what's the matter?" he asked; "you look decidedly blood-thirsty."
"I am, sir!"
"By Jove! I don't doubt it: you resemble Achilles, when he andAgamemnon had their miff. What's the odds?"
"I have been insulted, sir!"
"Insulted?"
"And tricked!"
"Impossible."
Jinks remained silent for a moment, looking after Verty.
"Yes," he said, with an awful scowl, "that young man has robbed me of my mistress—"
"Who—Verty?"
"Yes, sir."
Ralph burst out laughing.
"What are you laughing at?" asked Jinks, with dignity.
"At your falling in love with Redbud Summers."
"I am not, sir; perhaps in light moments I may have made that youthful damsel a few gallant speeches; but I did not refer to her, sir."
"To whom, then?"
"To the perfidious Sallianna."
"Oh!" cried Ralph, restraining his laughter by a powerful effort.
"What surprises you, sir?"
"Nothing."
"You laugh."
"Can't help it. The idea of your thinking Verty your rival in the affections of Miss Sallianna! Jinks, my boy, you are blinded with love—open your eyes, and don't think you can see while they are closed. I tell you, Verty is in love with Redbud—I know it, sir. Or, if he is not with Redbud, it's Fanny. No, I don't think it is Fanny," murmured Ralph, with a thoughtful expression; "I think I'm safe there. A dangerous rival!"
And Ralph smiled at his own thoughts.
"What did you say, sir?" asked Jinks, frowning in the direction of theBower of Nature.
"Nothing, my boy; but I say, Jinks, what makes you look so fierce? You resemble an ogre—you're not going to eat Mr. Verty?"
"No, sir; but I'm going to call him to account. If he is not my rival, he has stood in my way."
"How!"
"The perfidious Sallianna has fallen in love with him!"
And Jinks groaned.
Ralph took his arm with a sympathizing expression, and restraining a violent burst of laughter, said:
"Is it possible! But I knew something must have happened to make you so angry."
"Say furious!"
"Are you furious?"
"Yes, sir!"
"Come, now, I'll bet a pistole to a penny that you are revengeful in your present feelings.
"I am, sir!"
"What can you do?"
"I can defy my enemy."
"Oh, yes! I really forgot that; I must be present, recollect, at the encounter."
"You may, sir! I shall spit him upon my sword!"
And Jinks, with a terrible gesture, transfixed imaginary enemies against the atmosphere.
Ralph choked as he gazed at Mr. Jinks, and shaking with pent up laughter:
"Can't you find something, Jinks, for me to do?" he said, "this affair promises to be interesting."
"You may carry the challenge I propose writing, if you will, sir."
"If I will! as if I would not do ten times as much for my dear friendJinks."
"Thanks, sir."
"Promise me one thing, however."
"What is it, sir?"
"To be cool."
"I am cool—I'll throttle her!"
"Throttle!"
"Yes, sir; annihilate her!"
"Her!"
"Yes, the treacherous Sallianna. She has made me wretched forever—lacerated my existence, and I am furious, sir; I do not deny it."
"Furious?"
"Yes, sir; furious, and I have reason to be, sir. I am ferocious, sir;I am overwhelmed with rage!"
And Jinks ground his teeth.
"What, at a woman?"
"At a perfidious woman."
"Fie, Jinks! is it credible that a man of your sense should pay the sex so high a compliment?"
This view seemed to strike Mr. Jinks, and clearing his throat:
"Hum—ah—well," he said, "the fact is, sir, my feeling is rather one of contempt than anger. But other things have occurred this morning to worry me."
"What?"
Jinks circumstantially detailed his interview with O'Brallaghan, adding the somewhat imaginary incident of the loss of O'Brallaghan's left ear by a sweep of his, Jinks', sword.
"What! you cut off his ear!" cried Ralph.
"Yes, sir," replied Mr. Jinks, "close to the caitiff's head!"
"Jinks! I admire you!"
"It was nothing—nothing, sir!"
"Yes it was. It equals the most splendid achievements of antiquity."
And Ralph chuckled.
"He deserved it, sir," said Mr. Jinks, with modest dignity.
"Yes—you had your revenge."
"I will have more."
"Why, are you not satisfied?"
"No!"
"You will still pursue with your dreadful enmity the unfortunateO'Brallaghan?"
"Yes, sir!"
"Well, I'll assist you."
"It is my own quarrel. The house of Jinks, sir, can right its own wrongs."
"No doubt; but remember one circumstance. I myself hate O'Brallaghan with undying enmity."
"How is that, sir?"
"Can't you guess?"
"No."
"Why, he had the audacity to sell my plum-colored coat and and the rest of my suit to this Mr. Verty."
"Oh—yes."
"Abominable conduct! only because I did not call at the very moment to try on the suit. He would 'make me another,' forsooth, 'in the twinkle of an eye;' and then he began to pour out his disagreeable blarney. Odious fellow!"
And Ralph turned aside his head to laugh.
"Leave him to me," said Mr. Jinks, arranging his sword with grace and dignity at his side; "if you wish to assist me, however, you may, sir. Let us now enter this tavern, and partake of rum and crackers."
"By all means—there is just time."
"How, sir?" asked Mr. Jinks, as they moved toward the tavern.
"I have just ordered my horse."
"To ride?"
"Yes."
Jinks sighed.
"I must purchase a steed myself," he said.
"Yes?" rejoined Ralph.
"Yes. To make my visit to the perfidious Sallianna."
Ralph laughed.
"I thought you had abandoned her?"
"Never!"
"You wish to go and see her?"
"I will go this day!"
"Good! take half of my horse."
"Half?"
"Ride behind."
"Hum!"
"Come, my dear fellow, don't be bashful. He's a beautiful steed—look there, through the window."