University of Virginia Library

59. CHAPTER LIX.
THE PORTRAIT SMILES.

Our fine Virginia autumn not only dowers the world with
beautiful forests, and fresh breezes, and a thousand lovely aspects
of the beautiful world—fine golden sunsets, musical dawns, and
gorgeous noontides full of languide glory;—it also has its direct
influence on the mind.

Would you dream? Go to the autumn woods; the life there
is one golden round of fancies, such as come alone beneath
waning forests, where the glories of the flower-crowned summer
have yielded to a spell more powerful, objects more enthralling—
because those objects have the charm of a maiden slowly passing,
with a loveliness a thousand times increased, and sublimated, to
the holy skies.

Would you have active life? That is there too—the deer, and
sound of bugles rattling through the trees, and rousing echoes
which go flashing through the hills, and filling the whole universe
with jubilant laughter. Every mood has something offered for
its entertainment in the grand autumns of our Blue-Ridge dominated
land: chiefly the thoughtful, however, the screne and
happy.

You dream there, under the boughs all gold, and blue, and
crimson. Little things which obscured the eternal landscape,
pass away, and the great stars, above the world, come out and
flood the mind with a far other light than that which flowed
from earthly tapers and rushlights. The heart is purer for such

hours of thought; and as the splendid autumn marches on with
pensive smiles, you see a glory in his waning cheek which neither
the tender Spring, nor the rich, glittering Summer ever approached—an
expression of hope and resignation which is greater than
strength and victory. Ah, me! if we could always look, like
autumn, on the coming storms and freezing snows, and see the
light and warmth beyond the veil!

Verty went on beneath the autumn skies, and through the
woods, the rustle of whose leaves was music to his forest-trained
ear; and so arrived at Apple Orchard as the sun was setting
brightly behind the pines, which he kindled gloriously.

Redbud was seated at the window; and the kind eyes and lips
brightened, as the form of the young man became visible.

Verty dismounted and entered.

“I am very glad to see you!” said Redbud, smiling, and holding
out her small hand; “what a sweet evening for your ride
home.”

Redbud was clad with her usual grace and simplicity. Her
beautiful golden hair was brushed back from the pure, white
forehead; her throat was enveloped in a circlet of diaphanous
lace, and beneath this, as she breathed, the red beads of the coral
necklace were visible, rising and falling with the pulsations of her
heart. Redbud could not have very readily explained the reason
for her fancy in wearing the necklace constantly. It was
one of those caprices which every one experiences at times;—and
so, although the girl had quite a magazine of such ornaments, she
persisted in wearing the old necklace bought from the pedlar.
Perhaps the word Providence may explain the matter.

To the girl's observation, that he had a fine evening for his
ride homeward, Verty replied—Yes, that he had; that he could
not go by, however, without coming to see her.

And as he uttered these words, the simple and tender glances
of the two young persons encountered each other; and they
both smiled.

“You know you are not very well,” added Verty; “and I
could'nt sleep well if I did not know how you were, Redbud.”

The girl thanked him with another smile, and said:

“I believe I am nearly well now; the cold I caught the other
day has entirely left me. I almost think I might take a stroll,
if the sun was not so low.”

“It is half an hour high—that is, it will not get cool until
then,” Verty said.

“Do you think I would catch cold?” asked the girl, smiling.

“I don't know,” Verty said.

“Well, I do not think I will, and you shall wrap me in your
coat, if I do,” she said, laughing.

In ten minutes, Redbud and Verty were strolling through the
grove, and admiring the sunset.

“How pretty it is,” she said, gazing with pensive pleasure on
the clouds; “and the old grove here is so still.”

“Yes,” Verty said, “I like the old grove very much. Do you
see that locust? It was just at the foot of it, that we found the
hare's form, when Dick mowed the grass. You recollect?”

“Oh, yes,” Redbud replied; “and I remember what dear
little creatures they were—not bigger than an apple, and with
such frightened eyes. We put them back, you know, Verty—
that is, I made you,” she added, laughing.

Verty laughed too.

“They were funny little creatures,” he said; “and they would
have died—you know we never could have got the right things
for them to eat—yes! there, in the long grass! How Molly
Cotton jumped away.”

They walked on.

“Here, by the filbert bush, we used to bury the apples to get
mellow,” Verty said; “nice, yellow, soft things they were, when
we dug them up, with a smell of the earth about 'em! They
were not like the June apples we used to get in the garden,
where they dropped among the corn—their striped, red sides all
covered with dust!”

“I liked the June apples the best,” Redbud said, “but I
think October is finer than June.”

“Oh, yes. Redbud, I am going to get some filberts—will you
have some?”

“If you please.”

“So Verty went to the bushes, and brought his hat full of
them, and cracked them on a stone—the sun lighting up his
long, tangled curls, and making brighter his bright smile.

Redbud stooped down, and gathered the kernels as they jumped
from the shell, laughing and happy.

They had returned to their childhood again—bright and tender
childhood, which dowers our after life with so many tender,
mournful, happy memorials;—whose breezes fan our weary
brows so often as we go on over the thorny path, once a path of
flowers. They were once more children, and they wandered thus
through the beautiful forest, collecting their memories, laughing
here, sighing there—and giving an association or a word to
every feature of the little landscape.

“How many things I remember,” Verty said, thoughtfully,
and smiling; “there, where Milo, the good dog, was buried, and
a shot fired over him—there, where we treed the squirrel—and over
yonder, by the run, which I used to think flowed by from fairy
land—I remember so many things!”

“Yes—I do too,” replied the girl, thoughtfully, bending her
head.

“How singular it is that an Indian boy like me should have
been brought up here,” Verty said, buried in thought; “I think
my life is stranger than what they call a romance.”

Redbud made no reply.

“Ma mere would never tell me anything about myself,” the
young man went on, wistfully, “and I can't know anything except
from her. I must be a Dacotah or a Delaware.”

Redbud remained thoughtful for some moments, then raising
her head, said:

“I do not believe you are an Indian, Verty. There is some
mystery about you which I think the old Indian woman should
tell. She certainly is not your mother,” said Redbud, with a
little smiling air of dogmatism.

“I don't know,” Verty replied, “but I wish I did know. I
used to be proud of being an Indian, but since I have grown up,
and read how wicked they were, I wish I was not.

“You are not.”

“Well, I think so, too,” he replied; “I am not a bit like
ma mere, who has long, straight black hair, and a face the color
of that maple—dear ma mere!—while I have light hair, always
getting rolled up. My face is different, too—I mean the color—
I am sun-burned, but I remember when my face was very
white.”

And Verty smiled.

“I would ask her all about it,” Redbud said.

“I think I will,” was the reply; “but she don't seem to like
it, Redbud—it seems to worry her.”

“But it is important to you, Verty.”

“Yes, indeed it is.”

“Ask her this evening.”

“Do you advise me?”

“Yes. I think you ought to; indeed I do.”

“Well, I will,” Verty said; “and I know when ma mere
understands that I am not happy as long as she does not tell me
everything, she will speak to me.”

“I think so, too,” said Redbud; “and now, Verty, there is one
thing more—trust in God, you know, is everything. He will do
all for the best.”

“Oh, yes,” the young man said, as they turned toward Apple
Orchard house again, “I am getting to do that—and I pray
now, Redbud,” he added, looking toward the sky, “I pray to the
Great Spirit, as we call him—”

Redbud looked greatly delighted, and said:

“That is better than all; I do not see how any one can live
without praying.”

“I used to,” Verty replied.

“It was so wrong.”

“Yes, yes.”

“And Verty gazed at the sunset with his dreamy, yet kindling
eyes.

“If there is a Great Spirit, we ought to talk to him,” he said,
“and tell him what we want, and ask him to make us good; I
think so at least—”

“Indeed we should.”

“Then,” continued Verty, “if that is true, we ought to think
whether there is or is not such a spirit. There may be people in
towns who don't believe there is—but I am obliged to. Look
at the sun, Redbud—the beautiful sun going away like a great
torch dying out;—and look at the clouds, as red as if a thousand
deer had come to their death, and poured their blood out in a
river! Look at the woods here, every color of the bow in the
cloud, and the streams, and rocks, and all! There must be a
Great Spirit who loves men, or he never would have made the
world so beautiful.”

Verty paused, and they went on slowly.

“We love him because he first loved us,” said Redbud,
thoughtfully.

“Yes, and what a love it must have been. Oh me!” said the
young man, “I sometimes think of it until my heart is melted to
water, and my eyes begin to feel heavy. What love it was!—
and if we do not love in return, what punishment is great enough
for such a crime!”

And Verty's face was raised with a dreamy, reverent look
toward the sky. Youth, manhood, age—if they but thought of
it!—but youth is a dream—manhood the waking—age the return
to slumber. Busy, arranging the drapery of their couches,
whether of royal purple or of beggar's rags, they cannot find the

time to think of other things—even to listen to the grim breakers,
with their awful voices roaring on the lee!

So, under the autumn skies, the young man and the maiden drew
near home. Apple Orchard smiled on them as they came, and
the bluff Squire, seated upon the portico, and reading that “Virginia
Gazette” maligned by Roundjacket, gave them welcome
with a hearty, laughing greeting.

The Squire declared that Redbud's cheeks were beginning to
be tolerably red again; that she had been pretending sickness
only—and then, with a vituperative epithet addressed to Cæsar,
the old gentleman re-commenced reading.

Redbud and Verty entered; and then the young man held out
his hand.

“Are you going?” said the girl.

“Yes,” he said, smiling, “unless you will sing me something.
Oh, yes! let me go away with music in my ears. Sing `Dulce
Domum' for me, Redbud.”

The young girl assented, with a smile; and sitting down at
the harpsichord, sang the fine old ditty in her soft, tender voice,
which was the very echo of joy and kindness. The gentle carol
floated on the evening air, and seemed to make the autumn
twilight brighter, everything more lovely—and Verty listened
with a look more dreamy than before.

Then, as she sung, his eye was turned to the picture on the
wall, which looked down with its loving eyes upon them.

Redbud ceased, and turned and saw the object of his regard.

“Mamma,” she said, in a low, thoughtful voice,—“I love to
think of her.”

And rising, she stood beside Verty, who was still looking at
the portrait.

“She must have been very good,” he murmured; “I think her
face is full of kindness.”

Redbud gazed softly at the portrait, and, as she mused, the
dews of love and memory suffused her tender eyes, and she
turned away.

“I love the face,” said Verty, softly; “and I think she must
have been a kind, good mother, Redbud. I thought just now
that she was listening to you as you sang.”

And Verty gazed at the young girl, with a tenderness which
filled her eyes with delight.

“She will bless you out of Heaven,” he continued, timidly;
“for you are so beautiful and good—so very beautiful!”

And a slight tremor passed over the young man's frame as he
spoke.

Redbud did not reply; a deep blush suffused her face, and she
murmured something. Then the young head drooped, and the
face turned away.

The last ray of sunlight gleamed upon her hair and pure
white forehead, and then fled away—the day was ended.

Verty saw it, and held out his hand.

“We have had a happy evening, at least I have,” he said, in
a low voice; “the autumn is so beautiful, and you are so kind
and good.”

She did not speak; but a faint wistful smile came to her lips
as she placed her hand softly in his own.

“Look! the picture is smiling on you now!” said Verty;
“you are just alike—both so beautiful!”

“Oh!” murmured Redbud, blushing; “like mamma?”

“Yes,” said Verty, “and I saw the lips smile when I spoke.”

They stood thus hand in hand—the tender mother-eyes upon
them: then he turned and went away, looking back tenderly to
the last.

Had the dim canvas smiled upon them, as they stood there
hand in hand—a blessing on them from the far other world?