University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.
HOW VERTY DISCOVERED IN HIMSELF A GREAT FONDNESS FOR
APPLES.

Verty threw himself from his horse, and ran forward toward
Redbud with an expression of so much joy, that even Longears
perceived it; and, in the excess of his satisfaction, reared up on
Mr. Jinks, claiming his sympathy.

Mr. Jinks brushed his clothes, and protested, frowning. Verty
did not hear him, however—he was at the gate with Redbud.

“Oh!” he cried, “how glad I am to see you! What in the
world made you come here, Redbud, and stay away from me so
long?”

Redbud blushed, and murmured something.

“Never mind,” said Verty; “I'm so glad to see you, that I
won't quarrel.”

And he pressed the little hand which he held with such ardor,
that Redbud blushed more than ever.

But she had searcely uttered a word—searcely smiled on him.
What did it mean? Poor Verty's face began to be overclouded.

What did it mean. That is not a very difficult question to
us, however much it might have puzzled Verty. It meant that
Miss Lavinia had suggested to Redbud the impropriety of remaining
on terms of cordiality and friendship with a young gentleman,
who, after the fashion of all youths, in all ages of the
world, was desperately anxious to become some young lady's
husband. It meant that the “lecture” of this great female philosopher
had produced its effect,—that Miss Redbud had waked

to a consciousness of the fact, that she was a “young lady,” and
that her demeanor toward Verty was improper.

Before, she had thought that there was no great impropriety
in running to meet the forest boy, with whom she had played for
years, and whom she knew so very well. Now this was changed.
Cousin Lavinia saw a decided impropriety in her meeting Verty
with a bright smile, and giving him her hand, and saying, in her
frank, affectionate voice: “Oh! I'm so glad to see you!” Of
course, consin Lavinia knew all about it; and it was very dreadful
in her to have been treating Verty with so little ceremony—
very, very dreadful. Was she not growing up, and even did she
not wear long dresses? Was such conduct in a lady of sixteen
proper?

So, innocence listened to worldly wisdom, and pride overturned
simplicity; and, in consequence, our friend Verty found himself
opposite a young lady who blushed, and exhibited a most unaccountable
constraint, and only gave him the tips of her fingers,
when he was ready for, and expected, the most enthusiastic
greeting.

We must, however, speak of another influence which made
Redbud so cool;—and this will, very probably, have occurred to
our lady readers, if we have any, as the better explanation.
Separation! Yes, the separation which stimulates affection, and
bathes the eyes in the languid dews of memory. Strephon is never
so devoted as when Chloe has been removed from him—when
his glances seek for her in vain on the well-remembered lawn.
And Chloe, too, is disconsolate, when she no longer sees the
crook of her shepherd, or hears the madrigals he sings. Absence
smoothes all rough places; and the friend from whom we are
separated, takes the dearest place in the heart of hearts.

Redbud did not discover how much she loved Verty, until she
was gone from him, and the fresh music of his laughter was no
longer in her ears. Then she found that he held a very different
place in her heart from what she had supposed;—or rather, to

speak more accurately, she did not reflect in the least upon the
matter, but only felt that he was not there near her, and that she
was not happy.

This will explain the prim little ladylike air of bashfulness and
constraint which Redbud exhibited, when her eyes fell on Verty,
and the coolness with which she gave him her hand. The old
things had passed away—Verty could be the boy-playmate no
more, however much it grieved her. Thus reflected Miss Redbud;
and in accordance with this train of reasoning, did she conduct
herself upon the occasion of which we speak.

So, to Strephon's request to be informed why she came thither,
without telling him, Chloe replied with a blush:

“Oh, I came to school—sir,” she was about to add, but
did not.

“To school? Is this a school for young ladies?”

Redbud, with a delicate little inclination of the head, said yes.

“Well,” Verty went on, “I am glad I found you; for, Redbud,
you can't tell how I've been feeling, ever since you went
away. It seemed to me that there was a big weight resting on
my breast.”

Redbud colored, and laughed.

“Sometimes,” said Verty, smiling, “I would try and get it
away by drawing in my breath, and ever so long; but I could'nt,”
he added, shaking his head; “I don't know what it means.”

Mr. Jinks, who was dusting his rosetted shoes with a white
pocket handkerchief, grimaced at this.

“Well, well,” Verty went on, “I begin to feel better now,
since I've seen you; and, I think, I'll do better in my office
work.”

“Office work?” asked Redbud, beginning to grow more like
her former self.

“Oh, yes!” Verty replied; “I'm in Mr. Rushton's office now,
and I'm a lawyer's clerk;—that's what they call it, I believe.”

Redbud returned his bright smile. Her eye wandered toward

Cloud, who stood perfectly still—the turkey, which had not been
removed, yet dangling at his saddle-bow.

Verty followed the young girl's glance, and smiled.

“I know what you are looking at,” he said; “you are looking
at that wild turkey, and thinking that I am a poor sort of a
lawyer, with such a book to read out of. But I shot him coming
along.”

Redbud laughed; her coolness could not last in Verty's presence;
his fresh voice, so full of their old happy times, made her a
child again.

“And how did you find me?” she said, in her old tone.

“By your pigeon!”

“My pigeon?

“Yes, indeed; I shot him.”

“You shot him, Verty?”

Verty experienced,—he knew not why,—a feeling of extreme
delight, on hearing his name from her lips.

“Yes, I did so, Redbud,” he replied, confidentially, “and I cured
him, too. Look at him, up there on the roof, coo-cooing! He
was sailing over the town, and I sent an arrow after him, and
brought him straight down.”

“Oh, Verty! how cruel!”

“I never would'a shot him if I had seen the name on his
neck.”

“The name—yes—”

“Yours, Redbud. There was a piece of paper, and on it—but
here's the paper.”

And Verty took from his bosom the yellow scroll, and placed
it in Redbud's hand.

She took it, smiling, and read the words—“I am Miss Redbud's
pigeon, and Fanny gave me to her.”

“Oh, yes,” she said, “and I am glad he's come back; poor
fellow, I hav'nt seen him for days!”

“I had him,” said Verty.

“At home?”

“Yes.”

“Curing him?”

Verty nodded.

“You know that was what I wanted. I cured him, and then
let him go, and followed him, and found you.”

Verty, in an absent way, took Miss Redbud's hand, and was
guilty of the bad taste of squeezing it.

The reply and the action seemed to recall Redbud to herself;
and she suddenly drew back with a blush.

Verty looked astounded. In the midst of his confusion a
martial “hem!” was heard, and Mr. Jinks, who had been carefully
adjusting his toilette, drew near the lovers.

“Hem!” said Mr. Jinks, “a very fine day, Miss Redbud.
Loveliest of your sex and delight of the world, have I the
pleasure of seeing you in that high state of happiness and health
which of right should belong to you?”

With this Mr. Jinks bowed and gesticulated, and spread
out his arms like a graceful giraffe, and dispensed on every side
the most engaging grimaces.

Redbud bowed, with an amused look in her little blushing
face; and just as she had got through with this ceremony, another
personage was added to the company.

This was an elderly lady of severe aspect, who, clad in black,
and with an awfully high cap, which cast a shadow as it came,
appeared at the door of the house, and descended like a hawk
upon the group.

“Well, Miss Summers!” she said, in a crooked and shrill voice,
“talking to gentlemen, I see! Mr. Jinks, against rules, sir—
come, Miss, you know my wishes on this subject.”

As she spoke, her eyes fell upon the turkey hanging from
Cloud's saddle-bow.

“Young man,” she said to Verty, “what's the price of that
turkey?”

Verty was looking at Redbud, and only knew that the awful
Mrs. Scowley had addressed him, from Redbud's whispering to
him.

“Anan?” he said.

“I say, what's the price of that turkey?” continued the old
lady; “if you are moderate, I'll buy it. Don't think, though,
that I am going to give you a high price. You mountain people,”
she added, looking at Verty's wild costume, “can get along with
very little money. Come, how much?”

Verty on that occasion did the only artful thing which he ever
accomplished—but what will not a lover do?

He went to Cloud, took the fine gobbler from the saddle, and
bringing it to Mrs. Scowley, laid it at the feet of that awful
matron with a smile.

“You may have him,” said Verty, “I don't want him.”

“Don't want him!”

“No, ma'am—I just shot him so—on my way to my writing.”

“Your writing, sir?” said Mrs. Scowley, gazing at Verty with
some astonishment—“what writing?”

“I'm in Mr. Rushton's office, and I write,” Verty replied,
“but I don't like it much.”

Mrs. Scowley for a moment endeavored to look Verty out of
countenance, but finding that the young man seemed to have no
consciousness of the fact, and that he returned her gaze with
friendly interest, the ogress uttered a sound between a snort and
a cough, and said:—

“Then you did'nt come to sell the turkey?”

“No, indeed, ma'am.”

“For what, then?”

“I came to see Redbud,” replied Verty; “you know, ma'am,
that we know each other very well; I thought I'd come.” And
Verty smiled.

Mrs. Scowley was completely puzzled—she had never before

seen a gentleman of Verty's candor, and could find no words to
reply. She thought of saying to our friend that visiting a young
lady at school was highly criminal and reprehensible, but a glance
at the fat turkey lying on the grass at her feet, caused her to
suppress this speech.

As she gazed, her feeling relented more and more—Verty grew
still more amiable in her eyes—the turkey evidently weighed
more than twenty pounds.

“I'm much obliged to you, young man,” she said, “and I'll
take the turkey from you as a friend. Come in and have some
apples—there's a bell-mouth tree.”

“Oh yes!” said Verty, “I'm very fond of apples—but Redbud
may have some, too?” he added, smiling innocently.

“Hum!” said the ogress.

“Just a few, you know, ma'am,” said Verty, with his bright
smile. “I know from the way she looks that she wants some.
Don't you, Redbud?”

Poor Redbud's resolutions all melted—Verty's voice did it all
—she blushed and nodded, and said yes, she should like very
much to have some apples.

“Then you may go,” said the ogress, somewhat mollified,
“but don't touch the small trees—I'm keeping them.”

“Not for worlds!” said Verty.

“No, ma'am,” said Redbud.

And they crossed the lawn, and opening the gate of the spacious
and well-kept garden, passed in under the apple boughs.
As for Mr. Jinks, he accompanied Mrs. Scowley to the house,
bowing, grimacing, ambling, and making himself generally agreeable.
True, he resembled a grasshopper, standing erect, and going
through the steps of a minuet; but there was much elegance
in Mr. Jink's evolutions, and unbounded elasticity of limb. He
entered with Mrs. Scowley; and there, for the present, we shall
leave him.