University of Virginia Library

38. CHAPTER XXXVIII.
HOW LONGEARS SHOWED HIS GALLANTRY IN FANNY'S SERVICE.

It was one of those magnificent days of Fall, which dower the
world with such a wealth of golden splendor everywhere—but
principally in the mountains.

The trees rose like mighty monarchs, clad in royal robes of blue
and yellow, emerald and gold, and crimson; the forest kings and
little princely alders, ashes and red dogwoods, all were in their
glory. Chiefly the emperor tulip-tree, however, shook to the air
its noble vestments, and lit up all the hill-side with its beauty.
The streams ran merrily in the rich light—the oriole swayed upon
the gorgeous boughs and sang away his soul—over all drooped
the diaphanous haze of October, like an enchanting dream.

To see the mountains of Virginia in October, and not grow
extravagant, is one of those things which rank with the discovery
of perpetual motion—an impossibility.

Would you have strength and rude might? The oak is, yonder,
battered by a thousand storms, and covered with the rings
of forgotten centuries. Splendor? The mountain banners of
the crimson dogwood, red maple, yellow hickory and chestnut
flout the sky—as though all the nations of the world had met in
one great federation underneath the azure dome not built with
hands, and clashed together there the variegated banners which
once led them to war—now beckoning in with waving silken folds
the thousand years of peace! Would you have beauty, and a
tender delicacy of outline and fine coloring? Here is that too;

for over all,—over the splendid emperors and humble princes, and
the red, and blue, and gold, of oak, and hickory, and maple, droops
that magical veil whereof we spoke—that delicate witchery,
which lies upon the gorgeous picture like a spell, melting the
headlands into distant figures, beckoning and smiling, making the
colors of the leaves more delicate and tender—turning the autumn
mountains into a fairy land of unimagined spendor and delight!

Extravagance is moderation looking upon such a picture.

Such a picture was unrolled before the four individuals who
now took their way toward the fine hill to the west of the Bower
of Nature, and they enjoyed its beauty, and felt fresher and
purer for the sight.

“Isn't it splendid!” cried Fanny.

“Oh, yes!” Redbud said, gazing delightedly at the trees and
the sky.

“Talk about the lowland,” said Ralph, with patriotie scorn;
“I tell you, my heart's delight, that there is nothing, anywhere
below, to compare with this.”

“Not at Richmond?—but permit me first to ask if your
observation was addressed to me, sir?” said Miss Fanny, stopping.

“Certainly it was, my own.”

“I am not your own.”

“Aren't you?”

“No, and I never will be!”

“Wait till you are asked!” replied Ralph, laughing triumph-ntly
at this retort.

“Hum!” exclaimed Fanny.

“But you asked about Richmond, did you not, my beauty!”

“Ridiculous!” cried Fanny, laughing; “well, yes, I did.”

“A pretty sort of a place,” Ralph replied; “but not comparable
to Winchester.”

“Indeed—I thought differently.”

“That's not to the purpose—you are no judge of cities.”

“Hum! I suppose you are.”

“Of course!”

“A judge of everything?”

“Nearly—among other things, I judge that if you continue to
look at me, and don't mind where you are walking, Miss Fanny,
your handsome feet will carry you into that stream!”

There was much good sense in these words; and Fanny immediately
took the advice which had been proffered—that is to
say, she turned her eye away from the bantering lips of her companion,
and measured the stream which they were approaching.

It was one of those little mountain-brooks which roll their
limpid waters over silver sands; hurl by through whispering
ledges, the resort of snipe and woodcock; or, varying this quiet
and serene existence with occasional action, dart between abrupt
banks over mossy rocks, laughing as they fly onward to the open
sunlight.

The spot which the party had reached, united these characteristics
mentioned.

A path led to a mossy log, stretched from bank to bank, some
feet above the water—a log which had answered the purpose of
a bridge for a long time, it seemed; for both ends were buried in
the sward and the flowers which decorated it.

Below this, the limpid stream wound over bright sands and
pebbles, which glittered in the ripples like diamonds.

“Now!” cried Ralph, “here is a pretty pass! How are these
delightful young ladies to get over, Verty?”

“I don't know—I suppose they will walk,” observed Verty,
simply.

“Walk!”

“Yes.”

“What! when that very dog there had to balance himself in
traversing the log?”

“Who, Longears?”

“Yes, Longears.”

“He's not used to logs,” said Verty, smiling, and shaking his
head; “he generally jumps the streams, like Cloud.”

“Oh! you need'nt be afraid,” here interrupted Redbud, smiling,
and passing before Fanny quickly; “we can get over easily
enough.”

The explanation of which movement was, that Miss Redbud
saw the lurking mischief in Mr. Ralph's eyes, and wished at least
to protect herself.

“Easy enough!” cried Ralph, moving forward quickly.

“Yes; look!”

And with the assistance of Verty, who held one of her hands,
Redbud essayed to pass the bridge.

The moss rendered it slippery, and near the middle she almost
fell into the stream; with Verty's aid, however, the passage was
safely effected.

“There!” said Redbud, smiling, “you see I was right, Mr.
Ashley—was I not?”

“You always are!”

“And me, sir?” said Fanny, approaching the bridge with perfect
carelessness.

“You are nearly always wrong, my life's darling,” observed
Mr. Ralph.

“You are too bad, Ralph! I'll get angry!”

“At what?”

“At your impertinence!”

“I was not impertinent.”

“You were.”

“I was right.”

“You were not.”

“And the proof is, that you are going to do something wrong
now,” said Ralph, laughing.

“What, sir?”

“I mean, you think you are going to?”

“What! for goodness gracious sake!”

“Cross that log!”

“I certainly am going to,” said Fanny, putting her foot upon it.

“You certainly are not.”

“Who will prevent me?”

“I will, my heart's dear,” said Ralph, snatching Miss Fanny
up in his arms, and rapidly passing across with his burden; “nothing
easier! By Jove, there goes your slipper!”

In fact, just at the middle of the log, the ribbon, binding the
slipper to Miss Fanny's ankle, had broken—probably on account
of her struggles—and the luckless slipper had fallen into the
stream. It was now scudding along like a Lilliputian boat, the
huge rosettes of crimson ribbon standing out like sails.

Ralph burst into a roar of laughter, from which he was instantly
diverted by a rousing slap upon the cheek, administered
by the hand of Fanny, who cried out at his audacity.

“Cousins, you know!—we are cousins, darling; but what a
tremendous strength of arm you have!”

“Try it again, sir!” said Miss Fanny, pouting, and pulling
down her sleeve, which had mounted to her shoulder in the
passage.

“Never!” cried Ralph; “I am fully conscious of my improper
conduct. I blush to think of it—that is to say, my left cheek
does!”

“Served you right!” said Fanny.

“Uncharitable!”

“Impudent!”

“Unfortunate!”

With which retort, Mr. Ralph Ashley pointed to the slipperless
foot, which was visible beneath Miss Fanny's skirt, and
laughed.

Ralph would then have made immediate pursuit of the slipper,
but Verty detained him.

The young man called Longears, pointed out the rosetted boat
to that intelligent serviteur, and then turned to the company.

In two minutes Longears returned, panting, with the slipper
in his dripping mouth, from which it was transferred to the foot
of its mistress, with merry laughter for accompaniment.

This little incident was the subject of much amusing comment
to the party—in which Miss Fanny took her share. She had
soon recovered her good-humor, and now laughed as loudly as
the loudest. At one moment she certainly did blush, however—
that is to say, when, in ascending the hill—Verty and Redbud
being before—Mr. Ralph referred to the delight he had experienced
when he “saluted” her in crossing—which he could not
help doing, he said, as she was his favorite cousin, and her cheek
lay so near his own.

Fanny had blushed at this, and declared it false;—with what
truth, we have never been able to discover. The question is
scarcely important.