University of Virginia Library

23. CHAPTER XXIII.
THE RESULT.

Verty looked at Miss Sallianna, and sighed more deeply than
he had ever sighed before. The lady's face was full of the tenderest
interest; it seemed to say, that with its possessor all secrets
were sacred, and that nothing but the purest friendship, and
a desire to serve unhappy personages, influenced her.

Who wonders, therefore, that Verty began to think that it
would be a vast relief to him to have a confidant—that his inexperience
needed advice and counsel—that the lady who now
offered to guide him through the maze in which he was confounded
and lost, knew all about the labyrinths, and from the
close association with the object of his love, could adapt her
counsel to the peculiar circumstances, better than any one else in
the wide world? Besides, Verty was a lover, and when did
lover yet fail to experience the most vehement desire to pour
into the bosom of some sympathizing friend—of either sex—the
story of his feelings and his hopes? It is no answer to this, that,
in the present instance, the lover was almost ignorant of the fact,
that he loved, and had no well-defined hopes of any description.
That is nothing to your true Corydon. Not in the least. Will
he not discourse with rising and kindling eloquence upon everything
connected with his Phillis? Will not the ribbons on her
bodice, and the lace around her neck, become the most important
and delightful objects of discursive commentary?—the very
fluttering rosettes which burn upon her little instep, and the

pearls which glitter in her powdered hair, be of more interest
than the fall of thrones? So Corydon, the lover, dreams, and
dreams—and if you approach him in the forest-glade, he sighs and
talks to you, till evening reddens in the west, about Phillis, only
Phillis. And as the old Arcady lives still, and did at the time
of our history, so Corydons were ready to illustrate it, and our
young friend Verty felt the old pastoral desire to talk about his
shepherdess, and embrace Miss Sallianna's invitation to confide
his sorrows to her respective bosom.

“Come now, my dear Mr. Verty,” repeated that lady, “tell
me what all this means—are you in love, can it be—not with
Reddy?”

“Yes, ma'am, I believe I am,” said Verty, yielding to his
love. “Oh, I know I am. I would die for her whenever she
wanted me to—indeed I would.”

“Hum!” said Miss Sallianna.

“You know she is so beautiful and good—she's the best and
dearest girl that ever lived, and I was so happy before she treated
me coldly this morning! I'll never be happy any more!”

“Cannot you banish her false image?”

“False! she's as true as the stars! Oh, Redbud is not false!
she is too good and kind!”

Miss Sallianna shook her head.

“You have too high an opinion of the sex at large, I fear, Mr.
Verty,” she said; “some of them are very inconstant; you had
better not trust Redbud.”

“Not trust her!”

“Be careful, I mean.”

“How can I!” cried Verty.

“Easily.”

“Be careful? I don't know what you mean, Miss Sallianna;
but I suppose what you say is for my good.”

“Oh yes, indeed.”

“But I can't keep still, and watch and listen, and spy out

about anybody I love so much as Redbud—for I'm certain now
that I love her. Oh, no! I must trust her—trust her in everything!
Why should I not? I have known her, Miss Sallianna,
for years, and years—we were brought-up together, and we have
gone hand in hand through the woods, gathering flowers, and
down by the run to play, and she has showed me how to read and
write, and she gave me a Bible; and everything which I recollect
has something in it about Redbud—only Redbud—so beautiful,
and kind, and good. Oh, Miss Sallianna, how could I be
careful, and watch, and think Redbud's smiles were not here!
I could not—I would rather die!”

And Verty's head sank upon his hands which covered the ingenuous
blushes of boyhood and first love. In this advanced age
of the world, we can pity and laugh at this romantic nonsense—
let us be thankful.

Miss Sallianna listened with great equanimity to this outburst,
and smiling, and gently fanning Verty, said, when he had ceased
speaking:

“Don't agitate yourself, my dear friend. I suspected this.
You misunderstand my paternal counsel in suggesting to you a
suspicionative exemplification of dear little Reddy. Darling
child! she is very good; but remember that we cannot always
control our feelings.”

Verty raised his head, inquiringly.

“You do not understand?”

“No, ma'am,” he said; “I mean, Miss—”

“No matter—you'll get into the habit,” said the lady, with a
languishing smile; “I meant to observe, my dear friend, that
Reddy might be very good, and I suppose she is—and she might
have had a great and instructive affection for you at one period;
but you know we cannot control our sentiments, and Reddy has
probably fancied herself in love with somebody else.”

Verty started, and half rose.

“In love with somebody else?” he cried.

“Yes,” said the lady, smiling.

“Oh, no, no!” murmured the young man, falling again into
his seat.

Miss Sallianna nodded.

“Mind now—I do not assert it,” she said; “I only say that
these children—I mean young girls at Reddy's age—are very apt
to take fancies; and then they get tired of the youths they have
known well, and will hardly speak to them. Human nature is of
derisive and touching interest, Mr. Verty,” sighed the lady,
“you must not expect to find Reddy an exception. She is not
perfect.”

“Oh yes, she is!” murmured poor Verty, thinking of Redbud's
dreadful change, and yet battling for her to the last with the
loyal extravagance of a true lover; “she would not—she could
not—deceive me.”

“I do not say she would.”

“But—”

“I know what you are about to observe, sir; but, remember
that the heart is not in our power entirely”—here Miss Sallianna
sighed, and threw a languishing glance upon Verty. “No doubt
Reddy loved you; indeed, at the risk of deeming to flatter you,
Mr. Verty—though I never flatter—I must say, that it would
have been very extraordinary if Reddy had not fallen in love with
you, as you are so smart and handsome. Recollect this is not
flattery. I was going on to say, that Reddy must have loved
you, but that does not show that she loves you now. We cannot
compress our sentiments; and Diana, Mr. Verty, the god of
love, throws his darts when we are not looking—ah!”

Which last word of Miss Sallianna's speech represents a sigh
she uttered, as, after the manner of Diana, she darted a fatal
arrow from her eyes, at Verty. It did not slay him, however,
and he only murmured wofully,

“Do you mean Reddy has changed, then, ma'am? Oh, what
will become of me—what shall I do!”

Miss Sallianna threw a glance, so much more languishing
than the former, upon her companion, that had his heart
not been wrapped in Redbud, it certainly would have been
pierced.

“Follow her example,” simpered Miss Sallianna, looking down
with blushing cheeks, and picking at her fan with an air of girlish
innocence. “Could you not do as she has done—and—
choose—another object yourself?”

And Miss Sallianna raised her eyes, bashfully, to Verty's face,
then cast them with maidenly modesty upon the carpet.

“No, ma'am,” said Verty, thoughtfully, and quite ignorant of
the deadly attack designed by the fair lady upon his heart—“I
don't think I could change.”

In these simple words the honest Verty answered all.

“Why not?” simpered the lady.

“Because I don't think Redbud is in love with anybody else,”
he said; “I know she is not!”

“Why, then, has she treated you so badly?” said Miss
Sallianna, gradually forgetting her bashfulness, and reassuming
her languishing air and manner—“there must be some laborious
circumstance, Mr. Verty.”

Verty pressed his head with his hand, and was silent. All
at once a brighter light illumined the fair lady's face, and she
addressed herself to speak, first uttering a modest cough—

“Suppose I suggest a plan of finding out, sir,” she said; “we
might find easily.”

“Oh, ma'am! how?”

“Will you follow my advice?”

“Yes, ma'am—of course. I mean if it's right. Excuse me,
I did not mean—what was your advice, ma'am?” stammered
Verty.

The lady smiled, and did not seem at all offended at Verty's
qualification.

“It may appear singular to you at first,” Miss Sallianna said;

“but my advice is, that you appear to make love—to pay attentions
to—somebody else for a short time.”

“Attentions, ma'am?”

“Seem to like some other lady better than Redbud.”

“Oh, but that would not be right.”

“Why?”

“Because I don't.

Miss Sallianna smiled.

“I don't want you to change at all, Mr. Verty,” she said;
“only to take this modus addendi, which is the Greek for way,—
to take this way to find out. I would not advise it, of course, if
it was wrong, and it is the best thing you could do, indeed.”

Verty strongly combated this plan, but was met at every
turn, by Miss Sallianna, with ready logic; and the result, as is
almost always the case when men have the temerity to argue
with ladies, was a total defeat. Verty was convinced, or talked
obtuse upon the subject, and with many misgivings, acquiesced in
Miss Sallianna's plan.

That lady then went on in a sly and careful manner—possibly
diplomatic would be the polite word—to suggest herself as
the most proper object of Verty's experiment. He might make
love to her if he wished—she would not be offended. He
might even kiss her hand, and kneel to her, and perform any
other gallant ceremony he fancied—she would make allowances,
and not become angry if he even proceeded so far as to write
her billet-doux, and ask her hand in a matrimonial point of
view. Miss Sallianna wound up by saying, that it would be
an affair of rare and opprobrious interest; and, as a comedy,
would be positively deleterious, which was probably a lapsus linguæ
for “delicious.”

So when Verty rose to take his departure, he was a captive
to Miss Sallianna's bow and spear; or more accurately, to her
fan and tongue: and had promised to come on the very next
day, after school hours, and commence the amusing trial of

Reddy's affections. The lady tapped him with her fan, smiled
languidly, and rolled up her eyes—Verty bowed, and took his
leave of her.

He mounted Cloud, and calling Longears, took his way
sadly toward town. Could he not look back and see those
tender eyes following him from the lattice of Redbud's room—
and blessing him?