43. CHAPTER XLIII.
VERTY'S HEART GOES AWAY IN A CHARIOT.
Verty remained hard at work all the next day; and such was
the natural quickness of the young man's mind, that he seemed
to learn something every hour, in spite of the preoccupation
which, as the reader may imagine, his affection for our little
heroine occasioned.
Roundjacket openly expressed his satisfaction at the result of
the day's labor, and hazarded a sly observation that Verty would
not, on the next day, remain so long at his desk, or accomplish
so much. They could not complain, however, Mr. Roundjacket
said; Verty was a scion of the woods, a tamed Indian,
and nothing was more natural than his propensity to follow
the bent of his mind, when fancy seized him. They must
make allowances—he had no doubt, in time, everything would
turn out well—yes, Verty would be an honorable member of
society, and see the graces and attraction of the noble profession
which he had elected for his support.
Verty received these friendly words—which were uttered
between many chuckles of a private and dignified character—
with dreamy silence; then bowing to Mr. Roundjacket, mounted
Cloud, called Longears, and rode home.
On the following morning events happened pretty much as
Mr. Roundjacket had predicted.
Verty wrote for some moments—then stopped; then wrote
again for one moment—then twirled, bit, and finally threw down
his pen.
Roundjacket chuckled, and observed that there was much injustice
done him in not elevating him to the dignity of prophet.
And then he mildly inquired if Verty would not like to take
a ride.
Yes, Verty would like very much to do so. And in five
minutes the young man was riding joyfully toward the Bower
of Nature.
Sad news awaited him.
Redbud had suffered seriously from her wetting in the storm.
First, she had caught a severe cold—this had continued to increase—then
this cold had resulted in a fever, which threatened
to confine her for a long time.
Poor Verty's head drooped, and he sighed so deeply that
Fanny, who communicated this intelligence, felt an emotion of
great pity.
Could'nt he see Redbud?
Fanny thought not; he might, however, greet her as she
passed through the town. Word had been sent to Apple Orchard
of her sickness, and the carriage was no doubt now upon
its way to take her thither. There it was now—coming through
the willows!
The carriage rolled up to the door; Miss Lavinia descended,
and greeting Verty kindly, passed into the house.
In a quarter of an hour the severe lady came forth again,
accompanied by the simpering Miss Sallianna, and by poor Redbud,
who, wrapped in a shawl, and with red, feverish cheeks,
made Verty sigh more deeply than before.
A bright smile from the kind eyes, a gentle pressure of the
white, soft hand, now hot with fever, and the young girl was
gone from him. The noise of the carriage-wheels died in the
distance.
Verty remained for some moments gazing after it; then he
rose, and shaking hands with the pitying Fanny, who had lost all
her merriment, got slowly into the saddle and returned.
He had expected a day of happiness and laughter with Redbud,
basking in the fond light of her eyes, and rambling by her
side for happy hours.
He had seen her with fevered cheek and hand, go away from
him sick and suffering.
His arms hanging down, his chin resting on his breast, Verty
returned slowly to the office, sighing piteously—even Longears
seemed to know the suffering of his master, and was still and
quiet.
