19. CHAPTER XIX.
ONLY A FEW TEARS.
The theories of Miss Lavinia upon life and matrimony had so
much truth in them, in spite of the address and peculiarities
of the opinions upon which they were based, that Redbud
was compelled to acknowledge their justness; and, as a consequence
of this acknowledgment, to shape her future demeanor
toward the young man in conformity with the advice of her
mentor.
Therefore, when Miss Redbud saw Verty approach, clad in his
new costume, and radiant with happy expectation, she hastily left
the window at which she had been standing, and, in the depths
of her chamber, sought for strength and consolation.
Let no one deride the innocent prayer of the child, and say
that it was folly, and unworthy of her. The woes of youth are
not our woes, and the iron mace which strikes down the stalwart
man, falls not more heavily upon his strong shoulders, than does
the straw which bears to the earth the weak heart of childhood.
Then, when the man frowns, and clenches his hand against
the hostile fate pressing upon him, the child only weeps, and
endeavors to avoid the suffering.
Redbud suffered no little. She loved Verty very sincerely as
the playmate of her earlier years, and the confidential friend of
her happiest hours. The feeling which was ripening in her
heart had not yet revealed itself, and she felt that the barrier now
raised between herself and the young man was cruel. But,
then, suddenly, she would recollect Miss Lavinia's words, recall
that warning, that they both would suffer—and so poor Redbud
was very unhappy—very much confused—not at all like herself.
We have said very little of this child's character, preferring
rather to let the current of our narrative reflect her pure features
from its surface, as it flowed on through those old border
days which were illustrated and adorned by the soft music of her
voice, the kindness of her smile. Perhaps, however, this is a
favorable occasion to lay before the reader what was written
by a poor pen, in after years, about the child, by one who
had loved, and been rendered purer by her. Some one, no matter
who, had said to him one day—“Tell me about little Redbud,
whom you praise so much”—and he had taken his pen and
written—
“How can I? There are some figures that cannot be painted,
as there are some melodies which cannot be uttered by the softest
wind which ever swept the harp of æolus. You can scarcely
delineate a star, and the glories of the sunset die away, and live
not upon canvas. How difficult, then, the task you have imposed
upon me, amigo mio—to seal up in a wicker flask that moonlight;
chain down, by words, that flitting and almost imperceptible perfume—to
tell you anything about that music which, embodied in
a material form, was known as Redbud!
“Observe how I linger on the threshold, and strive to evade
what I have promised to perform. What can I say of the little
friend who made so many of my hours pure sunshine? She
was the most graceful creature I have ever seen, I think, and
surely merrier lips and eyes were never seen—eyes very blue and
soft—hair golden, and flowing like sunset on her shoulders—a
mouth which had a charming archness in it—and withal an innocence
and modesty which made one purer. These were the
first traits of the child, she was scarcely more, which struck a
stranger. But she grew in beauty as you conversed with her.
She had the most delightful voice I have ever heard—the kindest
and most tender smile; and one could not long be in her company
without feeling that good fortune had at last thrown him with
one of those pure beings which seem to be sent down to the
earth, from time to time, to show us, poor work-a-day mortals,
that there are scales of existence, links as it were, between the
inhabitants of this world and the angels: for the heavenly goodness,
which sent into the circle which I lived in such a pure ray
of the dawn, to verify and illumine the pathway of my life—
thanks—thanks!
“How beautiful and graceful she was! When she ran along,
singing, her fair golden locks rippling back from her pure brow and
rosy cheeks, I thought a sunbeam came and went with her. The
secret of Redbud's universal popularity—for everybody loved her
—was, undoubtedly, that love which she felt for every one around
her. There was so much tenderness and kindness in her heart,
that it shone in her countenance, and spoke plainly in her eyes.
Upon the lips, what a guileless innocence and softness!—in the
kind, frank eyes, what all-embracing love for God's creatures
everywhere! She would not tread upon a worm; and I recollect
to this day, what an agony of tears she fell into upon one
occasion, when some boys killed the young of an oriole, and the
poor bird sat singing its soul away for grief upon the poplar.
“Redbud had a strong vein of piety in her character; and this
crowning grace gave to her an inexpressible charm. Whatever
men may say, there are few who do not reverence, and hope to
find in those they love, this feeling. The world is a hard school,
and men must strike alone everywhere. In the struggle, it is
almost impossible to prevent the mind from gathering those bitter
experiences which soil it. It is so hard not to hate so tremendous
a task, to strangle that harsh and acrid emotion of contempt,
which is so apt to subdue us, and make the mind the hue of
what it works in, `like the dyer's hand.' Men feel the necessity
of something purer than themselves, on which to lean; and this
they find in woman, with the nutriment I have spoken of—the
piety of this child. It did not make her grave, but cheerful; and
nothing could be imagined more delightful, than her smiles and
laughter. Sometimes, it is true, you might perceive upon her
brow what resembled the shadow of a cloud floating over the
bright autumn fields—and in her eyes a thoughtful dew, which
made them swim, veiling their light from you; but this was seldom.
As I have spoken of her, such she was—a bright spirit,
who seemed to scatter around her joy and laughter, gilding all
the world she lived in with the kindness of her smiles.
“Such, amigo mio, was little Redbnd when I knew her; and I
have spoken of her as well as I could. No one can be more
conscious of the insufficiency of my outline than myself. My
only excuse is, a want of that faculty of the brain which—uniting
memory, that is to say, the heart, with criticism, which is the
intellect—is able to embody with the lips, or the pen, such figures
as have appeared upon the horizon of life. I can only say that
I never went near the child, but I was made better by her sincere
voice. I never took her hand in my own, but a nameless
influence seemed to enter into my heart, and purify it. And
now, amigo, I have written it all, and you may laugh at me for
my pains; but that is not a matter of very great importance.
Farewell!”
It is rather an anti-climax, after this somewhat practical account
of our little heroine, to inform the reader that Redbud was
sitting down, crying. Such was, however, the fact; and as conscientious
historians we cannot conceal it. Overwhelmed by
Miss Lavinia's fatal logic, she had no choice, no course but one
to pursue—to avoid Verty, and thus ward off that prospective
“suffering;” and so, with a swelling heart and a heated brain,
our little heroine could find no better resource than tears, and
sobs, and sighs.
