44. CHAPTER XLIV.
IN WHICH THE HISTORY RETURNS TO APPLE ORCHARD.
Having devoted much space in the foregoing pages to those
scenes, descriptive, grotesque, and sentimental, which took place
at the Bower of Nature and Winchester, it is proper that we
should now go back to the domain of Apple Orchard, and the
inhabitants of that realm, so long lost sight of in the contemplation
of the graces and attractions of Miss Sallianna, and the various
planets which hovered in the wake of that great feminine sun of
love and beauty. Apple Orchard, so long lost sight of, will not
longer suffer itself to be neglected; and, fortunately, the return
of our heroine, Redbud, affords an opportunity of passing away,
for the time, from other scenes, and going thither in her company.
Redbud's sickness did not last long. The girl had one of
those constitutions which, though they seem frail and delicate,
yet, like the reed, are able to resist what breaks more robust
frames. The wetting she had gotten, on the evening whose
events we have chronicled, had not seriously affected her;—a
severe cold, and with it some slight fever, had been the result.
And this fever expended itself completely, in a few days, and
left the girl well again, though quite weak and “poorly,” as say
the Africans.
Redbud, like most persons, was not fond of a sick-room; and
after sending word, day after day, to our friend Verty—who
never failed to call twice at least, morning and evening—that she
was better, and better, the girl, one morning, declared to cousin
Lavinia that she was well enough to put on her dressing-wrapper,
and go down stairs.
After some demur, accompanied by many grave and solemn
shakes of the head, Miss Lavinia assented to this view of the
case; and accordingly set about arranging the girl's hair, which
had become—thanks to the fact that she could not bear it tied
up—one mass of curls of the color of gold; and this task having
been performed with solemn but affectionate care, the Squire
made his appearance, according to appointment, and taking his
“baby,” as he called our heroine of sixteen and a half, in his
arms, carried her down stairs, and deposited her on a sofa, fronting
the open window, looking on the fresh fields and splendid
autumn forest.
Redbud lay here gazing with delight upon the landscape, and
smiling pleasantly. The autumn hours were going to the west—
the trees had grown more golden than on that fine evening, when,
with sad mishaps to Fanny, the gay party had wandered over
the hills, though not very far away, and seen the thunder-storm
suck in the dazzling glories of the bannered trees. Another year,
with all its light, and joy, and beauty, slowly waned away, and
had itself decently entombed beneath the thick, soft bed of yellow
leaves, with nothing to disturb it but the rabbit's tread, or
forest cries, or hoof-strokes of the deer. That year had added
life and beauty to the face and form of Redbud, making her a
woman-child—before she was but a child; and the fine light
now in her tender eyes, was a light of thought and mind, the
mature radiance of opening intellect, instead of the careless,
thoughtless life of childhood. She had become suddenly much
older, the Squire said, since going to the Bower of Nature even;
and as she lay now on her couch, fronting the dying autumn, the
year which whispered faintly even now of its bright coming in
the Spring, promised to make her a “young lady!”
And as Redbud lay thus, smiling and thinking, who should
run in, with laughing eyes and brilliant countenance, and black
curls, rippling like a midnight stream, but our young friend, Miss
Fanny.
Fanny, joyous as a lark—and merrier still at seeing Redbud
“down stairs” again—overflowing, indeed, with mirth and laughter,
like a morn of Spring, and making old Cæsar, dozing on the
rug, rise up and whine.
Fanny kissed Redbud enthusiastically, which ceremony, as
everybody knows, is, with young ladies, exactly equivalent to
shaking hands among the men; and often indicates as little real
good-feeling slanderous tongues have whispered. No one, however,
could have imagined that there was any affectation in
Fanny's warm kiss. The very ring of it was enough to prove
that the young lady's whole heart was in it, and when she sat
down by Redbud and took her white hand, and patted it against
her own, the very tenderest light shone in Miss Fanny's dancing
eyes, and it was plain that she had not exaggerated the truth, in
formerly declaring that she was desperately in love with Redbud.
Ah! that fond old school attachment—whether of boy or girl—
for the close friend of sunny hours; shall we laugh at it? Are
the feelings of our after lives so much more disinterested, pure
and elevated?
So Miss Fanny chatted on with Redbud, telling her a
thousand things, which, fortunately, have nothing to do with our
present chronicle—else would the unfortunate chronicler find his
pen laughed at for its tardy movement. Fanny's rapid flow of
laughing and picturesque words, could no more be kept up with
by a sublunary instrument of record, than the shadow of a darting
bird can be caught by the eager hand of the child grasping at
it as it flits by on the sward.
And in the middle of this flow of words, and just when Fanny
makes a veiled allusion to an elderly “thing,” and the propensity
of the person in question, to rob more juvenile young
ladies of their beaux—enter Miss Lavinia—who asks what
thing Miss Fanny speaks of, with a smile upon the austere
countenance.
Fanny declines explaining, but blushes instead, and asks Miss
Lavinia where she got that darling shawl, which is really a perfect
love of a thing; and so, with smiles from Redbud, the conversation
continues until dinner-time, when the Squire makes his
appearance, and after kissing Miss Redbud, affects to take Miss
Fanny by the elbows and bump her head against the ceiling, baby-fashion.
In this attempt, we need not say, the worthy gentleman
fails, from the fact, that young ladies of seventeen, are, for some
reason, heavier than babies, and are kissed with much more ease,
and far less trouble, standing on their feet, than chucked toward
the ceiling for that purpose.
Having dined and chatted pleasantly, and told a number of
amusing tales for Miss Redbud's edification—and against the
silent protest and remonstrance of said Miss Lavinia—the Squire
declares that he must go and see to his threshing; and, accordingly,
after swearing at Cæsar, goes away; and is heard greeting
somebody as he departs.
This somebody turns out to be Verty; and the young man's
face blushes with delight at sight of Redbud, whom he runs to,
and devours with his glances. Redbud blushes slightly; but
this passes soon, and the kind eyes beam on him softly—no confusion
in them now—and the small hand is not drawn away from
him, but remains in his own.
And Fanny—amiable Fanny—knowing all about it, smiles;
and Miss Lavinia, staidest of her sex, suspecting something of it,
looks grave and dignified, but does not frown; and Verty, with
perfect forgetfulness of the presence of these persons, and much
carelessness in regard to their opinions, gazes upon Redbud with
his dreamy smile, and talks to her.
So the day passes onward, and the shades of evening take away
the merry voices—the bright sunset shining on them as they go.
They must come again without waiting for her to return their
visit—says Redbud smiling—and the happy laughter which replies
to her, makes Apple Orchard chuckle through its farthest
chambers, and the portraits on the wall—bright now in vagrant
gleams of crimson sundown—utter a low, well-bred cachinnation,
such as is befitting in the solemn, dignified old cavaliers and
ladies, looking from their laces, and hair-powder, and stiff ruffs,
upon their little grandchild.
So the merry voices become faint, and the bright sunset slowly
wanes away, a rosy flush upon the splendid sky, dragging
another day of work or idleness, despair or joy, into oblivion!
Redbud lies and gazes at the noble woods, bathed in that rosy
flush and smiles. Then her eyes turn toward a portrait settling
into shadow, but lit up with one bright beam—and the dear
mother's eyes shine on her with a tender light, and bless her.
And she clasps her hands, and her lips murmur something, and
her eyes turn to the western sky again. And evening slowly
goes away, leaving the beautiful pure face with evident regret,
but lighting up the kind blue eyes, and golden hair, and delicate
cheek, with a last vagrant gleam.
So the dim cheerful night came down—the day was dead.
