The Last of the Foresters Part 93

Redbud, training up a drooping vine, replied, laughing:

"Oh, no--I was only jesting. Don't mind my nonsense. Look at that pretty morning-glory."

Verty looked at Redbud, as if she were the object in question.

"You will hurt your hand," he said,--"those thorns on the briar are so sharp; take care!"

And Verty grasped the vine, and, no doubt, accidentally, Redbud's hand with it.

"Now I have it," he said; and suddenly seeing the double meaning of his words, the young man added, with a blush and a smile, "it is all I want in the world."

"What? the--oh!"

And Miss Redbud, suddenly aware of Mr. Verty's meaning, finds her voice rather unsafe, and her cheeks covered with blushes. But with the tact of a grown woman, she applies herself to the defeat of her knight; and, turning away, says, as easily as possible:

"Oh, yes--the thorn; it is a pretty vine; take care, or it will hurt your hand."

Verty feels astounded at his own boldness, but says, with his dreamy Indian smile:

"Oh, no, I don't want the thorn--the rose!--the rose!"

Redbud understands that this is only a paraphrase--after the Indian fashion--for her own name, and blushes again.

"We--were--speaking of cousin Lavinia," she says, hesitatingly.

Verty sighs.

"Yes," he returns.

Redbud smiles.

"And I was scolding you for replying to papa's question," she adds.

Verty sighs again, and says:

"I believe you were right; I don't think I could have told them what we were talking about."

"Why?" asks the young girl.

"We were talking about you," says Verty, gazing at Redbud tenderly; "and you will think me very foolish," adds Verty, with a tremor in his voice; "but I was asking Mr. Roundjacket if he thought you could--love--me--O, Redbud--"

Verty is interrupted by the appearance of Miss Lavinia.

Redbud turns away, blushing, and overwhelmed with confusion.

Miss Lavinia comes to the young man, and holds out her hand.

"I did not mean to hurt your feelings, just now, Verty," she says, "pardon me if I made you feel badly. I was somewhat nettled, I believe."

And having achieved this speech, Miss Lavinia stiffens again into imposing dignity, sails away into the house, and disappears, leaving Verty overwhelmed with surprise.

He feels a hand laid upon his arm;--a blushing face looks frankly and kindly into his own.

"Don't let us talk any more in that way, Verty, please," says the young girl, with the most beautiful frankness and ingenuousness; "we are friends and playmates, you know; and we ought not to act toward each other as if we were grown gentleman and lady. Please do not; it will make us feel badly, I am sure. I am only Redbud, you know, and you are Verty, my friend and playmate. Shall I sing you one of our old songs?"

The soft, pure voice sounded in his ears like some fine melody of olden poets--her frank, kind eyes, as she looked at him, soothed and quieted him. Again, she was the little laughing star of his childhood, as when they wandered about over the fields--little children--that period so recent, yet which seemed so far away, because the opening heart lives long in a brief s.p.a.ce of time. Again, she was to him little Redbud, he to her was the boy-playmate Verty. She had done all by a word--a look; a kind, frank smile, a single glance of confiding eyes. He loved her more than ever--yes, a thousand times more strongly, and was calm.

He followed her to the harpsichord, and watched her in every movement, with quiet happiness; he seemed to be under the influence of a charm.

"I think I will try and sing the 'Rose of Glengary,'" she said, smiling; "you know, Verty, it is one of the old songs you loved so much, and it will make us think of old times--in childhood, you know; though that is not such old, _old_ time--at least for me," added Redbud, with a smile, more soft and confiding than before. "Shall I sing it? Well, give me the book--the brown-backed one."

The old volume--such as we find to-day in ancient country-houses--was opened, and Redbud commenced singing. The girl sang the sweet ditty with much expression; and her kind, touching voice filled the old homestead with a tender melody, such as the autumn time would utter, could its spirit become vocal. The clear, tender carol made the place fairy-land for Verty long years afterwards, and always he seemed to hear her singing when he visited the room. Redbud sang afterwards more than one of those old ditties--"Jock o' Hazeldean," and "Flowers of the Forest," and many others--ditties which, for us to-day, seem like so many utterances of the fine old days in the far past.

For, who does not hear them floating above those sweet fields of the olden time--those bright Hesperian gardens, where, for us at least, the fruits are all golden, and the airs all happy?

Beautiful, sad ditties of the brilliant past! not he who writes would have you lost from memory, for all the modern world of music. Kind madrigals! which have an aroma of the former day in all your cadences and dear old fashioned trills--from whose dim ghosts now, in the faded volumes stored away in garrets and on upper shelves, we gather what you were in the old immemorial years! Soft melodies of another age, that sound still in the present with such moving sweetness, one heart at least knows what a golden treasure you clasp, and listens thankfully when you deign to issue out from silence; for he finds in you alone--in your gracious cadences, your gay or stately voices--what he seeks; the life, and joy, and splendor of the antique day sacred to love and memory!

And Verty felt the nameless charm of the good old songs, warbled by the young girl's sympathetic voice; and more than once his wild-wood nature stirred within him, and his eyes grew moist. And when she ceased, and the soft carol went away to the realm of silence, and was heard no more, the young man was a child again; and Redbud's hand was in his own, and all his heart was still.

The girl rose, with a smile, and said that they had had quite enough of the harpsichord and singing--the day was too beautiful to spend within doors. And so she ran gaily to the door, and as she reached it, uttered a gay exclamation. Ralph and f.a.n.n.y were seen approaching from the gate.

CHAPTER LXV.

PROVIDENCE.

Ralph was mounted, as usual, upon his fine sorrel, and f.a.n.n.y rode a little milk-white pony, which the young man had procured for her. We need not say that Miss f.a.n.n.y looked handsome and coquettish, or Mr.

Ralph merry and good-humored. Laughter was f.a.n.n.y's by undoubted right, unless her companion could contest the palm.

Miss f.a.n.n.y's first movement, after dismounting, was to clasp Miss Redbud to her bosom with enthusiastic affection, as is the habit with young ladies upon public occasions; and then the fair equestrian recognized Verty's existence by a fascinating smile, which caused the unfortunate Ralph to gaze and sigh.

"Oh, Redbud!" cried Miss f.a.n.n.y, laughing, and shaking gaily her ebon curls, "you can't think what a delightful ride I've had--with Ralph, you know, who has'nt been half as disagreeable as usual--"

"Come," interposed Ralph, "that's too bad!"

"Not for you, sir!"

"Even for me."

"Well, then, I'll say you are more agreeable than usual."

"That is better, though some might doubt whether that was possible."

"Ralph, you are a conceited, fine gentleman, and positively dreadful."