It was one of those magnificent days of Fall, which dower the world with such a wealth of golden splendor everywhere—but principally in the mountains.
The trees rose like mighty monarchs, clad in royal robes of blue and yellow, emerald and gold, and crimson; the forest kings and little princely alders, ashes and red dogwoods, all were in their glory. Chiefly the emperor tulip-tree, however, shook to the air its noble vestments, and lit up all the hill-side with its beauty. The streams ran merrily in the rich light—the oriole swayed upon the gorgeous boughs and sang away his soul—over all drooped the diaphanous haze of October, like an enchanting dream.
To see the mountains of Virginia in October, and not grow extravagant, is one of those things which rank with the discovery of perpetual motion—an impossibility.
Would you have strength and rude might? The oak is, yonder, battered by a thousand storms, and covered with the rings of forgotten centuries. Splendor? The mountain banners of the crimson dogwood, red maple, yellow hickory and chestnut flout the sky—as though all the nations of the world had met in one great federation underneath the azure dome not built with hands, and clashed together there the variegated banners which once led them to war—now beckoning in with waving silken folds the thousand years of peace! Would you have beauty, and a tender delicacy of outline and fine coloring? Here is that too; for over all,—over the splendid emperors and humble princes, and the red, and blue, and gold, of oak, and hickory, and maple, droops that magical veil whereof we spoke—that delicate witchery, which lies upon the gorgeous picture like a spell, melting the headlands into distant figures, beckoning and smiling, making the colors of the leaves more delicate and tender—turning the autumn mountains into a fairy land of unimagined splendor and delight!
Extravagance is moderation looking upon such a picture.
Such a picture was unrolled before the four individuals who now took their way toward the fine hill to the west of the Bower of Nature, and they enjoyed its beauty, and felt fresher and purer for the sight.
"Isn't it splendid!" cried Fanny.
"Oh, yes!" Redbud said, gazing delightedly at the trees and the sky.
"Talk about the lowland," said Ralph, with patriotic scorn; "I tell you, my heart's delight, that there is nothing, anywhere below, to compare with this."
"Not at Richmond?—but permit me first to ask if your observation was addressed to me, sir?" said Miss Fanny, stopping.
"Certainly it was, my own,"
"I am not your own."
"Aren't you?"
"No, and I never will be!"
"Wait till you are asked!" replied Ralph, laughing triumphantly at this retort.
"Hum!" exclaimed Fanny.
"But you asked about Richmond, did you not, my beauty?"
"Ridiculous!" cried Fanny, laughing; "well, yes, I did."
"A pretty sort of a place," Ralph replied; "but not comparable toWinchester."
"Indeed—I thought differently."
"That's not to the purpose—you are no judge of cities."
"Hum! I suppose you are."
"Of course!"
"A judge of everything?"
"Nearly—among other things, I judge that if you continue to look at me, and don't mind where you are walking, Miss Fanny, your handsome feet will carry you into that stream!"
There was much good sense in these words; and Fanny immediately took the advice which had been proffered—that is to say, she turned her eye away from the bantering lips of her companion, and measured the stream which they were approaching.
It was one of those little mountain-brooks which roll their limpid waters over silver sands; hurl by through whispering ledges, the resort of snipe and woodcock; or, varying this quiet and serene existence with occasional action, dart between abrupt banks over mossy rocks, laughing as they fly onward to the open sunlight.
The spot which the party had reached, united these characteristics mentioned.
A path led to a mossy log, stretched from bank to bank, some feet above the water—a log which had answered the purpose of a bridge for a long time, it seemed; for both ends were buried in the sward and the flowers which decorated it.
Below this, the limpid stream wound over bright sands and pebbles, which glittered in the ripples like diamonds.
"Now!" cried Ralph, "here is a pretty pass! How are these delightful young ladies to get over, Verty?"
"I don't know—I suppose they will walk," observed Verty, simply.
"Walk!"
"Yes."
"What! when that very dog there had to balance himself in traversing the log?"
"Who, Longears?"
"Yes, Longears."
"He's not used to logs," said Verty, smiling, and shaking his head; "he generally jumps the streams, like Cloud."
"Oh! you need'nt be afraid," here interrupted Redbud, smiling, and passing before Fanny quickly; "we can get over easily enough."
The explanation of which movement was, that Miss Redbud saw the lurking mischief in Mr. Ralph's eyes, and wished at least to protect herself.
"Easy enough!" cried Ralph, moving forward quickly.
"Yes; look!"
And with the assistance of Verty, who held one of her hands, Redbud essayed to pass the bridge.
The moss rendered it slippery, and near the middle she almost fell into the stream; with Verty's aid, however, the passage was safely effected.
"There!" said Redbud, smiling, "you see I was right, Mr. Ashley—was I not?"
"You always are!"
"And me, sir?" said Fanny, approaching the bridge with perfect carelessness.
"You are nearly always wrong, my life's darling," observed Mr. Ralph.
"You are too bad, Ralph! I'll get angry!"
"At what?"
"At your impertinence!"
"I was not impertinent."
"You were."
"I was right."
"You were not."
"And the proof is, that you are going to do something wrong now," saidRalph, laughing.
"What, sir?"
"I mean, youthinkyou are going to?"
"What! for goodness gracious sake!"
"Cross that log!"
"I certainly am going to," said Fanny, putting her foot upon it.
"You certainly arenot."
"Who will prevent me?"
"I will, my heart's dear," said Ralph, snatching Miss Fanny up in his arms, and rapidly passing across with his burden; "nothing easier! By Jove, there goes your slipper!"
In fact, just at the middle of the log, the ribbon, binding the slipper to Miss Fanny's ankle, had broken—probably on account of her struggles—and the luckless slipper had fallen into the stream. It was now scudding along like a Lilliputian boat, the huge rosettes of crimson ribbon standing out like sails.
Ralph burst into a roar of laughter, from which he was instantly diverted by a rousing slap upon the cheek, administered by the hand of Fanny, who cried out at his audacity.
"Cousins, you know!—we are cousins, darling; but what a tremendous strength of arm you have!"
"Try it again, sir!" said Miss Fanny, pouting, and pulling down her sleeve, which had mounted to her shoulder in the passage.
"Never!" cried Ralph; "I am fully conscious of my improper conduct. I blush to think of it—that is to say, my left cheek does!"
"Served you right!" said Fanny.
"Uncharitable!"
"Impudent!"
"Unfortunate!"
With which retort, Mr. Ralph Ashley pointed to the slipper-less foot, which was visible beneath Miss Fanny's skirt, and laughed.
Ralph would then have made immediate pursuit of the slipper, but Verty detained him.
The young man called Longears, pointed out the rosetted boat to that intelligent serviteur, and then turned to the company.
In two minutes Longears returned, panting, with the slipper in his dripping mouth, from which it was transferred to the foot of its mistress, with merry laughter for accompaniment.
This little incident was the subject of much amusing comment to the party—in which Miss Fanny took her share. She had soon recovered her good-humor, and now laughed as loudly as the loudest. At one moment she certainly did blush, however—that is to say, when, in ascending the hill—Verty and Redbud being before—Mr. Ralph referred to the delight he had experienced when he "saluted" her in crossing—which he could not help doing, he said, as she was his favorite cousin, and her cheek lay so near his own.
Fanny had blushed at this, and declared it false;—with what truth, we have never been able to discover. The question is scarcely important.
Thus leaving the sedgy stream behind, with all its brilliant ripples, silver sands, and swaying waterflags, which made their merry music for it, as it went along toward the far Potomac,—our joyful party ascended the fine hill which rose beyond, mounting with every step, above the little town of Winchester, which before long looked more like a lark's nest hidden in a field of wheat, than what it was—an honest border town, with many memories.
Verty and Redbud, as we have said, went first.
We have few artists in Virginia—only one great humorist with the pencil. This true history has not yet been submitted to him. Yet we doubt whether ever the fine pencil of Monsignor Andante Strozzi could transfer to canvas, or the engraver's block, the figures of the maiden and the young man.
Beauty, grace, and picturesqueness might be in the design, but the indefinable and subtle poetry—the atmosphere of youth, and joy, and innocence, which seemed to wrap them round, and go with them wherever they moved—could not be reproduced.
Yet in the mere material outline there was much to attract.
Redbud, with her simple little costume, full of grace and elegance—her slender figure, golden hair, and perfect grace of movement, was a pure embodiment of beauty—that all-powerful beauty, which exists alone in woman when she passes from the fairy land of childhood, or toward the real world, pausing with reluctant feet upon the line which separates them.
Her golden hair was secured by a bow of scarlet ribbon, her dress was azure, the little chip hat, with its floating streamer, just fell over her fine brow, and gave a shadowy softness to her tender smile: she looked like some young shepherdness of Arcady, from out the old romances, fresh, and beautiful, and happy. Poor, cold words! If even our friend the Signor, before mentioned, could not do her justice, how can we, with nothing but our pen!
This little pastoral queen leant on the arm of the young Leatherstocking whom we have described so often. Verty's costume, by dint of these outlined descriptions, must be familiar to the reader. He had secured his rifle, which he carried beneath his arm, and his eye dwelt on the autumn forest, with the old dreamy look which we have spoken of. As he thus went on, clad in his wild forest costume, placing his moccasined feet with caution upon the sod, and bending his head forward, as is the wont of hunters, Verty resembled nothing so much as some wild tenant of the American backwoods, taken back to Arcady, and in love with some fair Daphne, who had wiled him from the deer.
All the old doubt and embarrassment had now disappeared from Redbud's face; and Verty, too, was happy.
They went on talking very quietly and pleasantly—the fresh little face of Redbud lit up by her tender smile.
"What are you gazing at?" said the young girl, smiling, as Verty's eye fixed itself upon the blue sky intently; "I don't see anything—do you?"
"Yes," said Verty, smiling too.
"What?"
"A pigeon."
"Where?"
"Up yonder!—and I declare! It is yours, Redbud."
"Mine?"
"Yes—see! he is sweeping nearer—pretty pigeon!"
"Oh—now I see him—but it is a mere speck; what clear sight you have!"
Verty smiled.
"The fact is, I was brought up in the woods," he said.
"I know; but can you recognize—?"
"Your pigeon, Reddie? oh, yes! It is the one I shot that day, and followed."
"Yes—"
"And found you by—I'm very much obliged to him," said Verty, smiling; "there he goes, sweeping back to the Bower of Nature."
"How prettily he flies," Redbud said, looking at the bird,—"and now he is gone."
"I see him yet—another has joined him—there they go—dying, dying, dying in the distance—there! they are gone!"
And Verty turned to his companion.
"I always liked pigeons and doves," he said, "but doves the best; I never shoot them now."
"I love them, too."
"They are so pretty!"
"Oh, yes!" said Redbud; "and they coo so sweetly. Did you never hear them in the woods, Verty—moaning in their nests?"
"Often—very often, Reddie."
"Then the dove was the bird sent out of the ark, you know."
"Yes," said Verty, "and came back with the olive branch. I love to read that."
"What a long, weary flight the poor bird must have had!"
"And how tired it must have been."
"But God sustained it."
"I know," said Verty; "I wish I had been there when it flew back. How the children—if there were any children—must have smoothed its wings, and petted it, and clapped their hands at the sight of the olive branch!"
The simple Verty laughed, as he thought of the glee of the little ark-children—"if there were any."
"There are no olives here," he said, when they had gone a little further; "but just look at that hickory! It's growing as yellow as a buttercup."
"Yes, and see the maples!"
"Poor fellows!" said Verty.
"Why pity them?
"I always did; see how they are burning away. And the chestnuts—oh! I think we will get some chestnuts: here is a tree—and we are at the top of the hill."
Verty thereupon let go Redbud's arm, and busied himself in gathering a pile of the chestnuts which had fallen. This ceremony was attentively watched by Longears, who, lying with his front paws stretched out straight, his head bent knowingly on one side, and an expression of thoughtful dignity upon his countenance, seemed to be revelling in the calm delights of a good conscience and a mild digestion.
Fanny and her cavalier came up just as Verty had collected a pile of the chestnuts, and prepared some stones for the purpose of mashing them out.
The party thereupon, with much laughter, betook themselves to the task, talking gaily, and admiring the landscape as they munched—for even young ladies munch—the chestnuts.
One accident only happened, and that was not of an important nature. Longears, full of curiosity, like most intellectual characters, had approached very near Verty as he was mashing the chestnuts upon the stone selected for the purpose, and even in the excess of his interest, had protruded his nose in the vicinity of the young man's left hand, which held the nuts, while he prepared to strike it with the mass of limestone which he held in his right.
It chanced that Verty was talking to Fanny when Longears made this demonstration of curiosity, and did not observe him.
Longears sniffed.
Verty raised his stone.
Longears smelt at the chestnut in his master's grasp, his cold muzzle nearly touching it.
The stone crashed down.
Longears made a terrific spring backwards, and retiring to some distance rubbed his nose vigorously with his paws, looking all the while with dignified reproach at his master.
The nose had not suffered, however, and Longears was soon appeased and in a good humor again. The incident caused a great accession of laughter, and after this the chestnuts having been eaten, the party rose to walk on.
"How, sir."
"Well, madam."
"Keep your promise."
"Please to indicate it."
"I refer, sir, to your college album."
"Oh, certainly! here it is, my darling—all ready."
And Mr. Ralph Ashley, between whom and Miss Fanny this dialogue had taken place, seated himself beneath a magnificent tulip-tree; and with a movement of the head suggested a similar proceeding to the rest.
All being seated, the young man drew from his breast-pocket a small volume, bound in leather, and with a nod to Fanny, said:
"I have changed my mind—I can't read but two or three."
"Broken your promise, you mean."
"No, my own;—oh, no."
"Ralph, you are really too impudent!"
"How, pray?"
"And presumptuous!"
"Why?"
"Because, sir—"
"I call you 'my own' in advance? Eh?"
"Yes, sir!"
Fanny had uttered the words without reflection—intending them as a reply to Mr. Ralph's sentence, the words "in advance," being omitted therefrom. Everybody saw her mistake at once, and a shout of laughter greeted the reply.
Ralph assumed a close and cautious expression, and said:
"Well—I will be more careful in future. The fact is, that people who areto bemarried, should be as chary of their endearments, in public, as those whoaremarried."
General laughter and assent—except from Fanny, who was blushing.
"Nothing is more disagreeable," continued Ralph, philosophically, "than these public evidences of affection; it is positively shocking to see and hear two married people exchanging their 'dears' and 'dearests,' 'loves' and 'darlings'—especially to bachelors; it is really insulting! Therefore, it is equally in bad taste with those whoare to bemarried;—logically, consequently, and in the third place—and lastly—it is not proper, between myself and you, my Fanny—hum—Miss Fanny!"
This syllogistic discourse was received by Fanny with a mixture of blushes and satirical curls of the lip. "Hum!" more than once issued from her lips; and this expression always signified with the young lady in question—"indeed!"—"really!"—"you think that's mighty fine!"—or some other phrase indicative of scorn and defiance.
On the present occasion, after uttering a number of these "hums!"Fanny embodied her feelings in words, and replied:
"I think, Ralph, you are the most impudent gentleman I have ever known, and you wrong me. I wonder how you got such bad manners; at Williamsburg, I reckon. Hum! If you wait untilImarry you—!"
"I shall never repent the delay?" asked Ralph—"is that what you mean? Well, I don't believe I shall. But a truce to jesting, my charming cousin. You spoke of Williamsburg, and my deterioration of manners, did you not?"
"Yes!"
"I can prove that I have not deteriorated."
"Try, then."
"No, I would have to read all this book, which is full of compliments,Fanny; that would take all day. Besides, I am too modest."
"Oh!" laughed Fanny, who had recovered her good humor.
"Let us hear, Mr. Ralph," said Redbud, smiling.
"Yes—let us see how the odious, college students write and talk," added Fanny, laughing.
"Well, I'll select one from each branch," said Ralph: "the friendly, pathetic, poetical, and so forth. Lithe and listen, ladies, all!"
And while the company listened, even down to Longears, who lay at some distance, regarding Ralph with respectful and appreciative attention, as of a critic to whom a MS. is read, and who determines to be as favorable as he can, consistent with his reputation—while they listened, Ralph opened his book and read some verses.
We regret that only a portion of the album of Mr. Ralph Ashley has come down to modern times—the rats having devoured a greater part of it, no doubt attracted by the flavor of the composition, or possibly the paste made use of in the binding. We cannot, therefore, present the reader with many of the beautiful tributes to the character of Ralph, recorded in the album by his admiring friends.
One of these tributes, especially, was—we are informed by vague tradition—perfectly resplendent for its imagery and diction; contesting seriously, we are assured, the palm, with Homer, Virgil and our Milton; though unlike bright Patroclus and the peerless Lycidas, the subject of the eulogy had not suffered change when it was penned. The eulogy in question compared Ralph to Demosthenes, and said that he must go on in his high course, and gripe the palm from Graecia's greatest son; and that from the obscure shades of private life, his devoted Tumles would watch the culmination of his genius, and rejoice to reflect that they had formerly partaken of lambs-wool together in the classic shades of William and Mary; with much more to the same effect.
This is lost; but a few of the tributes, read aloud by Mr. Ralph, are here inserted.
The first was poetic and pathetic:
"Reclining in my apartment this evening, and reflecting upon the pleasing scenes through which we have passed together—alas! never to be renewed, since you are not going to return—those beautiful words of the Swan of Avon occurred to me:
'To be or not to be—that is the question;Whether 'tis better in this world to bearThe slings and arrows of—'
"I don't remember the rest; but the whole of this handsome soliloquy expresses my sentiments, and the sincerity with which,
"My dear Ashley,
"I am yours,
"——."
"No names!" cried Ralph; "now for another: Good old Bantam!"
"Oh, Mr. Bantam writes this, does he?" cried Fanny.
"Yes, Miss; for which reason I pass it—no remonstrances!—I am inflexible; here is another:
"I need not say how sorry I am to part with you. We have seen a great deal of each other, and I trust that our friendship will continue through after life. The next session will be dull without you—I do not mean to flatter—as you go away. You carry with you the sincere friendship and kindest regards of,
"Dear Ralph, your attached friend,
"—— ——."
"I like that very much, Mr. Ralph," said Redbud, smiling.
"You'd like the writer much more, Miss Redbud," said the young man; "really one of the finest fellows that I ever knew. I want him to pay me a visit—I have no other friend like Alfred."
"Oh, Alfred's his name, is it!" cried Fanny; "what's the rest? I'll set my cap at him."
"Alfred Nothing, is his name," said Ralph, facetiously; "and I approve of your course. You would be Mrs. Nobody, you know; but listen—here is the enthusiastic:
"You are destined for great things—it is yours to scale the heights of song, and snatch the crown from Ossa's lofty brow. Fulfil your destiny, and make your country happy!"
"—— ——."
"Oh, yes!" said Fanny; "why don't you!"
"I will!"
"Very likely!"
"I'm glad you agree with me; but here is theconsiderate."
And turning the leaf, he read—
"May your course in life be serene and happy; and may your friends be as numerous and devoted as the flies and mosquitos in the Eastern Range.
"Your friend, till death,
"—— ——."
"The fact is," said Ralph, in explanation, "that this is probably the finest wish in the book."
"Were there many flies?" said Fanny,
"Myriads!"
"And mosquitos?"
"Like sands on the seashore, and of a size which it is dreadful to reflect upon even now."
"Very large?"
"You may judge, my dear Fanny, when I tell you, that one of them flew against a scallop of oysters which the boots was bringing to my apartment, and with a single flap of his wings dashed it from the hand of the boots—it was dreadful; but let us get on: this is the last I will read."
And checking Miss Fanny's intended outburst at the oyster story, Mr.Ralph read on—
"You ask me, my dear Ashley, to give you some advice, and write down my good wishes, if I have any in your direction. Of course I have, my dear fellow, and here goes. My advice first, then, is, never to drink more than three bottles of wine at one sitting—this is enough; and six bottles is, therefore, according to the most reliable rules of logic—which I hate—too much. You might do it if you had my head; but you havn't, and there's an end of it. Next, if you want to bet at races, ascertain which horse is the general 'favorite,' and as our friend, the ostler, at the Raleigh says—go agin him. Human nature invariably goes wrong; and this a wise man will never forget. Next, if you have the playing mania, never play with anybody but gentlemen. You will thus have the consolation of reflecting that you have been ruined in good company, and, in addition, had your pleasure;—blacklegs ruin a man with a vulgar rapidity which is positively shocking. Next, my dear boy—though this I need'nt tell you—never look at Greek after leaving college, or Moral Philosophy, or Mathematics proper. It interferes with a man's education, which commences when he has recovered from the disadvantages of college. Lastly, my dear fellow, never fall in love with any woman—if you do, you will inevitably repent it. This world would get on quietly without them—as long as it lasted—and I need'nt tell you that the Trojan War, and other interesting events, never would have happened, but for bright eyes, and sighs, and that sort of thing. If you are obliged to marry, because you have an establishment, write the names of your lady acquaintances on scraps of paper, put them in your hat, and draw one forth at random. This admirable plan saves a great deal of trouble, and you will inevitably get a wife who, in all things, will make you miserable.
"Follow this advice, my dear fellow, and you will arrive at the summit of happiness. I trust I shall see you at the Oaks at the occasion of my marriage—you know, to my lovely cousin. She's a charming girl, and we would be delighted to see you.
"Ever, my dear boy,
"Your friend
"and pitcher,
"—— —— ——"
"Did anybody—"
"Ever?" asked Ralph, laughing.
"Such inconsistency!" said Fanny.
"Not a bit of it!"
"Not inconsistent!"
"Why, no."
"Explain why not, if you please, sir! I wonder if—"
"That cloud does not threaten a storm, and whether I am not hungry?" said Ralph, finishing Miss Fanny's sentence, putting the album in his pocket, and attacking the baskets.
"Come, my dear cousin, let us, after partaking of mental food, assault the material! By Jove! what a horn of plenty!"
And Ralph, in the midst of cries exclamatory, and no little laughter, emptied the contents of the basket on the velvet sward, variegated by the sunlight through the boughs, and fit for kings.
The lunch commenced.
It was a very picturesque group seated that day beneath the golden trees; and the difference in the appearance of each member of the party made the effect more complete.
Redbud, with her mild, tender eyes, and gentle smile and sylvan costume, was the representative of the fine shepherdesses of former time, and wanted but a crook to worthily fill Marlow's ideal; for she had not quite
"A belt of straw and ivy buds,With coral clasps and amber studs,—"
her slender waist was encircled by a crimson ribbon, quite as prettily embroidered as the zone of the old poet's fancy, and against her snowy neck the coral necklace which she wore was clearly outlined, rising and falling tranquilly, like May-buds woven by child-hands into a bright wreath, and launched on the surface of some limpid stream.
And Fanny—gay, mischievous Fanny, with her mad-cap countenance, and midnight eyes, and rippling, raven curls—Fanny looked like a young duchess taking her pleasure, for the sake of contrast, in the woods—far from ancestral halls, and laughing at the follies of the court. Her hair trained back—as Redbud's was—in the fashion calledLa Pompadour; her red-heeled rosetted shoes—her silken gown—all this was plainly the costume of a courtly maiden. Redbud was the country; Fanny, town.
Between Verty and Ralph, we need not say, the difference was as marked.
The one wild, primitive, picturesque, with the beauty of the woods.
The other richly dressed, with powdered hair and silk stockings.
This was the group which sat and laughed beneath the fine old tulip trees, and gazed with delight upon the splendid landscape, and were happy. Youth was theirs, and that sunshine of the breast which puts a spirit of joy in everything. They thought of the scene long years afterwards, and saw it bathed in the golden hues of memory; and sighed to think that those bright days and the child-faces had departed—faces lit up radiantly with so much tenderness and joy.
Do not all of us? Does the old laughter never ring again through all the brilliant past, so full of bright, and beautiful, and happy figures—figures which illustrated and advanced that past with such a glory as now lives not upon earth? Balder the beautiful is gone, but still Hermoder sees him through the gloom—only the form is dead, the love, and joy, and light of brilliant eyes remains, shrined in their memory. Thus, we would fain believe that no man loses what once made him happy—that for every one a tender figure rises up at times from that horizon, lit with blue and gold, called youth: some loving figure, with soft, tender smiles, and starlike eyes, and arms which beckon slowly to the weary traveller. The memory of the old youthful scenes and figures may be deadened by the inexorable world, but still the germ remains; and this old lost tradition of pure love, and joy, and youth, comes back again to bless us.
The young girls and their companions passed the hours very merrily upon the summit of the tall hill, from which the old border town was visible far below, its chimneys sending upward slender lines of smoke, which rose like blue and golden staves of olden banners, then were flattened, and so melted into air.
Winchester itself had slowly sunk into gloom, for the evening was coming on, and a storm also. The red light streamed from a mass of clouds in the west, which resembled some old feudal castle in flames; and the fiery furzes of the sunset only made the blackness of the mass more palpable.
Then this light gradually disappeared: a murky gloom settled down upon the conflagration, as of dying fires at midnight, and a cool wind from the mountains rose and died away, and rose again, and swept along in gusts, and shook the trees, making them grate and moan.
Verty rose to his feet.
"In five minutes we shall have a storm," he said. "Come, Redbud—andMiss Fanny."
Even as he spoke, the far distance pushed a blinding mass toward them, and a dozen heavy drops began to fall.
"We cannot get back!" cried Ralph.
"But we can reach the house at the foot of the hill!" said Fanny.
"No time to lose!"
And so saying, Verty took Redbud's hand, and leaving Fanny to Ralph, hastened down the hill.
Before they had gone twenty steps, the thunder gust burst on them furiously.
The rain was blinding—terrible. It scudded along the hill-side, driven by the wind, with a fury which broke the boughs, snapped the strong rushes, and flooded everything.
Redbud, who was as brave a girl as ever lived, drew her chip hat closer on her brow, and laughed. Fanny laughed for company, but it was rather affected, and the gentlemen did not consider themselves called upon to do likewise.
"Oh, me!" cried Verty, "you'll be drenched, Redbud! I must do something for your shoulders. They are almost bare!"
And before Redbud could prevent him, the young man drew off his fur fringed coat and wrapped it round the girl's shoulders, with a tenderness which brought the color to her cheek.
Redbud in vain remonstrated—Verty was immovable; and to divert her, called her attention to the goings on of Ralph.
This young gentleman had no sooner seen Verty strip off his coat for Redbud, than with devoted gallantry he jerked off his own, and threw it over Miss Fanny; not over her shoulders only, but her head, completely blinding her: the two arms hanging down, indeed, like enormous ears from the young girl's cheeks.
Having achieved this feat, Mr. Ralph hurried on—followed Verty and Redbud over the log, treating Miss Fanny much after the fashion of the morning; and so in ten minutes they reached the house at the foot of the hill, and were sheltered.
Fanny overflowed with panting laughter as she turned and threw the coat back to Ralph.
"There, sir!" she cried, "there is your coat! How very gallant in you!I shall never—no, sir, never forget your devotedness!"
And the young girl wrung the water from her curls, and laughed.
"Nothing more natural, my dear," said Ralph.
"Than what?"
"My devotedness."
"How?"
"Can you ask?"
"Yes, sir, I can."
"Would you have me a heathen?"
"A heathen!"
"Yes, Miss Fanny; the least which would be expected of a gentleman would be more than I have done, under the circumstances, and with the peculiar relationship between us.
"Oh, yes, cousinship!"
"No, madam, intended wedlock."
"Sir!"
"Come, don't blush so, my heart's delight," said Ralph, "and if the subject is disagreeable, that is, a reference to it in this public manner, I will say no more."
"Hum!"—
"There, now—"
"I think that your impudence—"
"Is very reasonable," said Ralph, filling up the sentence; "but suppose you dry your feet, and yourself generally, as Miss Redbud is doing. That is more profitable than a discussion with me."
This advice seemed excellent, and Fanny determined to follow it, though she did not yield in the tongue contest without a number of "hums!" which finally, however, died away like the mutterings of the storm without.
The good-humored old woman to whom the humble mansion belonged, had kindled a bundle of twigs in the large fire-place; and before the cheerful blaze the young girls and their cavaliers were soon seated, their wet garments smoking, and the owners of the garments laughing.
The good-humored old dame would have furnished them with a change, but this was declared unnecessary, as the storm seemed already exhausted, and they would, ere long, be able to continue their way.
Indeed, the storm had been one of those quick and violent outbursts of the sky, which seem to empty the clouds instantly almost, as though the pent up waters were shut in by a floodgate, shattered by the thunder and the lightning. Soon, only a few heavy drops continued to fall, and the setting sun, bursting in splendor from the western clouds, poised its red ball of fire upon the horizon, and poured a flood of crimson on the dancing streamlets, the glittering grass, and drenched foliage of the hill-side.
Redbud rose, smiling.
"I think we can go now," she said, "I am afraid to stay any longer—my clothes are very wet, and I have not health enough to risk losing any."
With which the girl, with another smile, tied the ribbon of her chip hat under her chin, and looked at Verty.
That gentleman rose.
"I wish my coat had been thicker," he said, "but I can't help it. Yes, yes, Redbud, indeed we must get back. It would'nt do for you to get sick."
"And me, sir!" said Fanny.
"You?" said Verty, smiling.
"Yes, sir; I suppose it would do for me?"
"I don't know."
"Hum!"
"I can tell you, dear," said Ralph, "and I assure you the thing would not answer under any circumstances. Come, let us follow Miss Redbud."
They all thanked the smiling old dame, and issuing from the cottage, took their way through the sparkling fields and along the wet paths toward home again. They reached the Bower of Nature just at twilight, and entering through the garden were about to pass in, when they were arrested by a spectacle on the rear portico, which brought a smile to every lip.
Mr. Jinks was on his knees before Miss Sallianna there.
Our last view of Mr. Jinks was at Bousch's tavern, when, mounting in a manner peculiar to himself behind Ralph, the warlike gentleman set out to take revenge.
He had ridden thus almost to the Bower of Nature; but on reaching the belt of willows at the foot of the hill, requested to be placed upon the earth, in order to make his toilet, to prepare himself for the coming interview, and for other reasons.
Ralph had laughed, and complied.
Mr. Jinks had seated himself upon a bank by the little stream—the same which we have seen the picnic party cross higher up—upon a log, and then drawing from his pocket a small mirror, he had proceeded to make his toilet.
This ceremony consisted in a scrupulous arrangement of his artificial locks—a cultivation of the warlike and chivalrous expression of countenance—and a general review of the state of his wardrobe.
He soon finished these ceremonies, and then continued his way toward the Bower of Nature.
He arrived just as Ralph had proposed the excursion to the young girls—consequently, some moments after the young fellow's interview with Miss Sallianna—and entered with the air of a conqueror and a master.
History and tradition—from which, with the assistance of imagination, (nothing unusual,) our veritable narrative is drawn—history affords us no information in regard to what occurred at this interview between Mr. Jinks and Miss Sallianna.
That the interview would have been terrific, full of reproaches, drowned in tears, objurgations, and jealous ravings, is certainly no more than the words of Mr. Jinks would have led an impartial listener to believe. But Mr. Jinks was deep—knew women, as he often said, as well as need be—and therefore it is not at all improbable that the jealous ravings and other ceremonies were, upon reflection, omitted by Mr. Jinks, as in themselves unnecessary and a waste of time. The reader may estimate the probabilities, pro and con, for himself.
Whatever doubt exists, however, upon the subject of this interview—its character and complexion—no doubt at all can possibly attach to the picturesque denouement which we have referred to in the last lines of our last chapter.
Mr. Jinks was on his knees before the beautiful Sallianna.
The girls and their companions saw it—distinctly, undoubtedly, without possibility of mistake; finally, hearing the sound of footsteps on the graveled walks, Mr. Jinks turned his head, and saw that they saw him!
It was a grand spectacle which at that moment they beheld: Mr. Jinks erect before his rival and his foes—Mr. Jinks with his hand upon his sword—Mr. Jinks with stern resolve and lofty dignity in his form and mien.
"Sir," said Mr. Jinks to Ralph, "I am glad to see you—!"
"And I am delighted, my dear Jinks!" returned Ralph.
"A fine day, sir!"
"A glorious day!"
"A heavy storm."
"Tremendous!"
"Wet?"
"Very!"
And Ralph wrung the water out of his falling cuff.
"I say, though," said he, "things seem to have been going on very tranquilly here."
"Sir?"
"Come, old fellow!" don't be ashamed of—"
"What, sir!Iashamed?"
"Of kneeling down—you know."
And Ralph, smiling confidentially, made significant signs over his shoulder toward Miss Sallianna, who had withdrawn with blushing diffidence to the other end of the portico, and was gently waving her fan as she gazed upon the sunset.
"The fact is, I was arranging her shoe-bow," said Mr. Jinks.
"Oh!" said Ralph, "gammon,"
"Sir?"
"You were courting her."
"Courting!"
"Ah—you deny it! Well, let us see!"
And to Mr. Jinks' profound consternation he raised his voice, and said, laughing:
"Tell me, Miss Sallianna, if my friend Jinks has not been courting you?"
"Oh, sir!" cried Miss Sallianna, in a flutter.
"Did you say, no?" continued Ralph, pretending to so understand the lady; "very well, then, I may advise you, my dear Jinks, not to do so."
"Do what, sir?"
"Court Miss Sallianna."
"Why not, sir?" cried Mr. Jinks, bristling up.
"Because you would have no chance."
"No chance, sir!"
Ralph's propensity for mischief got the better of him; and leaning over, he whispered in the warlike gentleman's ear, as he pointed to Miss Sallianna.
"I say, Jinks, don't you understand?—desperately in love—hum—with—hum—Verty here; no doubt of it!"
And Ralph drew back, looking mysterious.
Mr. Jinks cast upon the quiet Verty a glance which would have frozen giants into stone.
"No, sir! all explained!" he said.
"It can't be, my dear fellow," said Ralph, in a low tone. "Verty has the proofs."
"Did you speak to me?" said Verty, smiling: he had been talking withRedbud during this conference.
"Yes, I did," said Ralph. Verty smiled, and said:
"I did not hear what you asked."
"No wonder," said Ralph. And turning to Mr. Jinks:
"Observe," he said, in a low tone, "how Mr. Verty is trying to makeMiss Sallianna jealous."
"Perdition!" said Mr. Jinks.
"Oh, certainly!" replied Ralph, with solemn sympathy; "but here is Mr.Verty waiting patiently to hear what I have to say."
"Yes," said Verty, still smiling.
"It is Mr. Jinks who desires to speak," said Ralph, retiring with a chuckle, and leaving the adversaries face to face.
"Hum—at—yes, sir—I desired to speak, sir!" said Mr. Jinks, with threatening calmness.
"Did you?" said Verty, smiling.
"Yes, sir!"
"I can hear now."
"It is well that you can, sir! Mark me, sir! Some people cannot hear!"
"Ah?" said Verty, "yes, you mean deaf people!"
"I refer to others, sir!"
"Yes?"
"Nor can they see."
"Blind people," suggested Verty.
Mr. Jinks had an impression that Verty was trifling with him; and considering him too good-natured to quarrel, advanced toward him with a threatening gesture.
"I refer to people neither blind nor deaf, who cannot see nor hear insults, sir!" he said.
"I never knew any," said Verty, wondering at Mr. Jinks.
"You are one, sir!"
"Yes!"
"Do you mean I am afraid of anything?"
"I mean, sir, that I have been wronged."
"I don't care," said Verty, "you are not good-natured."
"What do you mean, sir?"
"You are angry."
"I am, sir!"
"I advise you not to be; you don't look handsome," said Verty."
"Sir!" cried Mr. Jinks.
Verty's face assumed an expression of mild inquiry.
"Will you fight?"
"Yes," said Verty, "but you ought not to fight with that old sword.It's too long, and besides it would frighten old Scowley—"
"Sir!" cried Mr. Jinks, ferociously.
"And I know Miss Sallianna would scream," said Verty. "I would'nt mind that, though—I would'nt—for I don't like her—she told me a story!"
Mr. Jinks flashed out his sword, and brandished it around his head.
"Oh, me! you've been scrubbing it!" said Verty, laughing.
To describe the terrific rage of Mr. Jinks at this disregard of himself, his threats and weapon, would be utterly impossible.
The great Jinks raved, swore, and executed such ferocious pirouettes upon his grasshopper legs, in the direction of the smiling Verty, that Ralph became alarmed at the consequence of his mischief, and hastened to the rescue.
"No, Jinks!" he cried, "there must be no fighting."
"No fighting!" cried Mr. Jinks, whose ferocity, as soon as he found himself held back, became tremendous,—"no fighting!"
"No," said Ralph.
"Release me, sir!"
"Never!" cried Ralph, pinning his arms.
"Hold me, sir! or I will at once inflict condign punishment upon this individual!"
"Certainly," said Ralph, beginning to laugh. "I will hold you; I thought you said release you!"
"I did, sir!" cried Mr. Jinks, making a very faint effort to get atVerty.
"Which shall I do?"
"I will murder him!" cried Mr. Jinks, struggling with more energy, from the fact that Ralph had grasped him more tightly.
"Jinks! Jinks! you a murderer!"
"I have been wronged!" said the champion, brandishing his sword.
"Oh, no."
"The respectable Mrs. Scowley has been insulted!"
"You are mistaken!"
"The divine Sallianna has been charged with falsehood!"
"A mere jest."
"Let me run the villain through!"
And Mr. Jinks made a terrific lunge with his sword at Verty, and requested Mr. Ashley to hold him tight, unless he wished to see the Bower of Nature swimming in "gory blood!"
The colloquy we have faithfully reported, took place in far less time than we have taken to narrate it.
Redbud had hastened forward with terror in her face, Fanny with bewilderment—lastly, Miss Sallianna had rushed up to the spot with a scream; the various personages came together just when Mr. Jinks uttered his awful threat in relation to "gory blood."
"Oh, Verty!" said Redbud.
Verty smiled.
"Alphonso!" cried Miss Sallianna, with distraction.
Alphonso Jinks made overwhelming efforts to get at his enemy.
"Please don't fight—for my sake, Verty!" murmured Redbud, with pale lips.
"Spare him, Alphonso!" cried Miss Sallianna, with a shake of agony in her voice; "spare his youth, and do not take opprobrious revenge!"
"He has wronged me!" cried Mr. Jinks.
"Pardon him, Alphonso!"
"He has insulted you!"
"I forgive him!" cried Miss Sallianna.
"I will have revenge!"
And Mr. Jinks brandished his sword, and kept at a distance from Verty, making a feint of struggling.
"Jinks," said Ralph, "you are tiring me out. I shall let you go in another second, if you don't put up that sword, and stop wrestling with me!"
This threat seemed to moderate Mr. Jinks' rage, and he replied:
"This momentary anger is over, sir—I forgive, that young man—Sallianna! beautiful Sallianna! for thy sake!"
But overcome with nerves, and the revulsion produced by this change in affairs, the beautiful Sallianna's head drooped upon one shoulder, her eyes were closed, and her arms were extended towards Mr. Jinks.
Before that gentleman was aware of the fact, Miss Sallianna had been overcome by nerves, and reclined in a faint state upon his bosom.
We need not detail the remaining particulars of the scene whose outline we have traced.
Verty, who had received all Mr. Jinks' threats and gesticulations with great unconcern, applied himself to conversation with Redbud again: and no doubt would have conversed all the evening, but for Ralph. Ralph drew him away, pointing to the damp clothes; and with many smiles, they took their leave.
The last thing the young men observed, was Mr. Jinks supporting Miss Sallianna, who had fainted a second time, and raising his despairing eyes to heaven.
They burst out laughing, and continued their way.
Verty remained hard at work all the next day; and such was the natural quickness of the young man's mind, that he seemed to learn something every hour, in spite of the preoccupation which, as the reader may imagine, his affection for our little heroine occasioned.
Roundjacket openly expressed his satisfaction at the result of the day's labor, and hazarded a sly observation that Verty would not, on the next day, remain so long at his desk, or accomplish so much. They could not complain, however, Mr. Roundjacket said; Verty was a scion of the woods, a tamed Indian, and nothing was more natural than his propensity to follow the bent of his mind, when fancy seized him. They must make allowances—he had no doubt, in time, everything would turn out well—yes, Verty would be an honorable member of society, and see the graces and attraction of the noble profession which he had elected for his support.
Verty received these friendly words—which were uttered between many chuckles of a private and dignified character—with dreamy silence; then bowing to Mr. Roundjacket, mounted Cloud, called Longears, and rode home.
On the following morning events happened pretty much as Mr.Roundjacket had predicted.
Verty wrote for some moments—then stopped; then wrote again for one moment—then twirled, bit, and finally threw down his pen.
Roundjacket chuckled, and observed that there was much injustice done him in not elevating him to the dignity of prophet. And then he mildly inquired if Verty would not like to take a ride.
Yes, Verty would like very much to do so. And in five minutes the young man was riding joyfully toward the Bower of Nature.
Sad news awaited him.
Redbud had suffered seriously from her wetting in the storm. First, she had caught a severe cold—this had continued to increase—then this cold had resulted in a fever, which threatened to confine her for a long time.
Poor Verty's head drooped, and he sighed so deeply that Fanny, who communicated this intelligence, felt an emotion of great pity.
Could'nt he see Redbud?
Fanny thought not; he might, however, greet her as she passed through the town. Word had been sent to Apple Orchard of her sickness, and the carriage was no doubt now upon its way to take her thither. There it was now—coming through the willows!
The carriage rolled up to the door; Miss Lavinia descended, and greeting Verty kindly, passed into the house.
In a quarter of an hour the severe lady came forth again, accompanied by the simpering Miss Sallianna, and by poor Redbud, who, wrapped in a shawl, and with red, feverish cheeks, made Verty sigh more deeply than before.
A bright smile from the kind eyes, a gentle pressure of the white, soft hand, now hot with fever, and the young girl was gone from him. The noise of the carriage-wheels died in the distance.
Verty remained for some moments gazing after it; then he rose, and shaking hands with the pitying Fanny, who had lost all her merriment, got slowly into the saddle and returned.
He had expected a day of happiness and laughter with Redbud, basking in the fond light of her eyes, and rambling by her side for happy hours.
He had seen her with fevered cheek and hand, go away from him sick and suffering.
His arms hanging down, his chin resting on his breast, Verty returned slowly to the office, sighing piteously—even Longears seemed to know the suffering of his master, and was still and quiet.