21. CHAPTER XXI.
IN WHICH REDBUD SUPPRESSES HER FEELINGS AND BEHAVES
WITH DECORUM.
In ten minutes, as she promised, Fanny deseended with Redbud,—her
arm laced around the slender waist of that young
lady, as is the wont with damsels,—and ready to give battle to
our friend Verty, upon any additional provocation, with even
greater zest than before.
Redbud presented a singular contrast to her companion.
Fanny, smiling, and full of glee, seemed only to have become
merrier and brighter for her “cry”—like an April landscape
after a rain. Redbud, on the contrary, was still sad, and oppressed
from the events of the morning; and, indeed, could
scarcely return Verty's greeting without emotion.
Resplendent in his elegant plum-colored coat—with stockings,
long embroidered waistcoat, and scarlet ribbon tied around his
powdered hair, Verty came forward to meet his innamorata, as
joyous and careless as ever, and, figuratively speaking, with open
arms.
What was his surprise to find that no smile replied to his own.
Redbud's face was calm—almost cold; she repelled him even
when he held out his hand, and only gave him the tips of her
fingers, which, for any warmth or motion in them, might have
been wood or marble.
Poor Verty drew back, and colored. Redbud change toward
him!—no longer care for him! What could this frigid manner
with which she met him, mean;—why this cool and distant bow,
in reply to his enthusiastic greeting?
Poor Verty sat down disconsolately, gazing at Redbud. He
could not understand. Then his glance questioned Miss Fanny,
who sat with a prim and demure affectation of stateliness, on
the opposite side of the room. There was no explanation here
either.
While Verty was thus gazing silently, and with growing embarrassment,
at the two young girls, Redbud, with a beating
heart, and trembling lips, played with the tassel of the sofa-cushion,
and studied the figure of the carpet.
Fanny came to the rescue of the expiring conversation, and
seizing forcibly upon the topic of the weather, inserted that useful
wedge into the rapidly closing crack, and waited for Verty to
strike the first blow.
Unfortunately, Verty did not hear her; he was gazing at
Redbud.
Fanny pouted, and tossed her head. So she was not good
enough for the elegant Mr. Verty!—she was not even worth a
reply! He might talk himself, then!
Verty did not embrace this tacit permission—he remained
silent; and gazing on Redbud, whose color began slowly to rise,
as with heaving bosom and down-cast eyes she felt the young
man's look—he experienced more and more embarrassment—a
sentiment which began to give way to distress.
At last he rose, and going to her side, took her hand.
Redbud slowly drew it away, still without meeting his gaze.
He asked, in a low voice, if she was angry with him.
No—she was not very well to-day; that was all.
And then the long lashes drooped still more with the heavy
drops which weighed them down; the cheeks were covered with
a deeper crimson; the slender frame became still more agitated.
Oh! nothing but those words—“if you would prevent him from
suffering”—could bear her through this trying interview: they
were enough, however—she would be strong.
And as she came to this determination, Redbud nearly sobbed
—the full cup very nearly ran over with its freight of tears.
With a beseeching, pleading glance, she appealed to Fanny to
come to her assistance.
Such an appeal is never in vain; the free-masonry of the sex
has no unworthy members. Fanny forgot in a moment her
“miff” with Verty, when she saw that for some reason Redbud
was very nearly ready to burst into tears, and wished to have
the young man's attention called away from her; she no longer
remembered the slight to herself, which had made her toss her
head, and vow that she would not open her lips again: she came
to the rescue, as women always do, and with the most winning
smile, demanded of Mr. Verty whether he would be so kind as
to do her a slight favor?
The young man sighed, and moved his head indifferently.
Fanny did not choose to see the expression, and positively beaming
with smiles, all directed, like a sheaf of arrows, full upon
the gentleman, pushed the point of her slipper from the skirt of
her dress, and said she would be exceedingly obliged to Mr.
Verty, if he would fasten the ribbon which had become loose.
Of course, Verty had to comply. He rose, sighing more than
ever, and crossing the room, knelt down to secure the rebellious
ribbon.
No sooner had he knelt, than Miss Fanny made a movement
which attracted Redbud's attention. Their eyes met, and Fanny
saw that her friend was almost exhausted with emotion. The
impulsive girl's eyes filled as she looked at Redbud; with a smile,
however, and with the rapidity and skill of young ladies at public
schools, she spelled something upon her fingers, grazing as she
went through the quick motions, the head of Verty, who was
bending over the slipper.
Fanny had said, in this sly way: “Say you are sick—indeed
you are!—you'll cry!”
Verty rose just as she finished, and Miss Fanny, with negligent
ease, thanked him, and looked out of the window.
Verty turned again toward Redbud. She was standing up—
one hand resting upon the arm of the sofa, from which she had
risen, the other placed upon her heart, as if to still its tumultuous
beating.
Verty's troubled glance fled to the tender, sorrowful face, and
asked why she had risen. Redbud, suppressing her emotion by
a powerful effort, said, almost coldly, that she felt unwell, and
hoped he would let her go up stairs. Indeed, (with a trembling
voice), she was—not well: he must excuse her; if—if—if he
would—come again.
And finding her voice failing her, poor Redbud abruptly left
the room, and running to her chamber, threw herself on the bed,
and burst into a passion of tears.
She had obeyed Miss Lavinia.
Yes! with a throbbing heart, eyes full of tears, a tenderness
toward her boy-playmate she had never felt before, she had preserved
her calmness. Crying was not wrong she hoped—and
that was left her.
So the child cried, and cried, until nature exhausted herself,
and rested.
