University of Virginia Library

64. CHAPTER LXIV.
THE ROSE OF GLENGARY.

Redbud rose, smiling, and with the gentle simplicity of one
child to another, said:

“Oh! you ought not to have said that about cousin Lavinia,
Verty—ought you?”

Verty looked guilty.

“I don't think I ought,” he said.

“You know she is very sensitive about this.”

“Anan?” Verty said, smiling.

Redbud looked gently at the young man, and replied:

“I mean, she does not like any one to speak of it?”

“Why?” said Verty.

“Because—because—engaged people are so funny!”

And Redbud's silver laughter followed the words.

“Are they?” Verty said.

“Yes, indeed.”

Verty nodded.

“Next time I will be more thoughtful,” he said: “but I think
I ought to have answered honestly.”

Redbud shook her curls with a charming little expression of
affected displeasure.

“Oh, no! no!”

“Not answer?”

“Certainly not, sir—fie! in the cause of ladies!”

Verty laughed.

“I understand,” he said, “you are thinking of the books about
the knights—the old Froissart, yonder, in four volumes. But
you know there weren't any courts in those days, and knights
were not obliged to answer.”

Redbud, training up a drooping vine, replied, laughing:

“Oh, no—I was only jesting. Don't mind my nonsense.
Look at that pretty morning-glory.”

Verty looked at Redbud, as if she were the object in question.

“You will hurt your hand,” he said,—“those thorns on the
briar are so sharp; take care!”

And Verty grasped the vine, and, no doubt, accidentally, Redbud's
hand with it.

“Now I have it,” he said; and suddenly seeing the double
meaning of his words, the young man added, with a blush and a
smile, “it is all I want in the world.”

“What? the—oh!”

And Miss Redbud, suddenly aware of Mr. Verty's meaning,
finds her voice rather unsafe, and her cheeks covered with blushes.
But with the tact of a grown woman, she applies herself to
the defeat of her knight; and, turning away, says, as easily as
possible:

“Oh, yes—the thorn; it is a pretty vine; take care, or it will
hurt your hand.”

Verty feels astounded at his own boldness, but says, with his
dreamy Indian smile:

“Oh, no, I don't want the thorn—the rose!—the rose!”

Redbud understands that this is only a paraphrase—after the
Indian fashion—for her own name, and blushes again.

“We—were—speaking of cousin Lavinia,” she says, hesitatingly.

Verty sighs.

“Yes,” he returns.

Redbud smiles.

“And I was scolding you for replying to papa's question,” she
adds.

Verty sighs again, and says:

“I believe you were right; I don't think I could have told
them what we were talking about.”

“Why?” asks the young girl.

“We were talking about you,” says Verty, gazing at Redbud
tenderly; “and you will think me very foolish,” adds Verty, with
a tremor in his voice; “but I was asking Mr. Roundjacket if he
thought you could—love—me—O, Redbud—”

Verty is interrupted by the appearance of Miss Lavinia.

Redbud turns away, blushing, and overwhelmed with confusion.

Miss Lavinia comes to the young man, and holds out her
hand.

“I did not mean to hurt your feelings, just now, Verty,” she
says, “pardon me if I made you feel badly. I was somewhat
nettled, I believe.”

And having achieved this speech, Miss Lavinia stiffens again
into imposing dignity, sails away into the house, and disappears,
leaving Verty overwhelmed with surprise.

He feels a hand laid upon his arm;—a blushing face looks
frankly and kindly into his own.

“Don't let us talk any more in that way, Verty, please,” says
the young girl, with the most beautiful frankness and ingenuousness;
“we are friends and playmates, you know; and we ought
not to act toward each other as if we were grown gentleman
and lady. Please do not; it will make us feel badly, I am sure.
I am only Redbud, you know, and you are Verty, my friend and
playmate. Shall I sing you one of our old songs?”

The soft, pure voice sounded in his ears like some fine melody
of olden poets—her frank, kind eyes, as she looked at him, soothed
and quieted him. Again, she was the little laughing star of his
childhood, as when they wandered about over the fields—little

children—that period so recent, yet which seemed so far away,
because the opening heart lives long in a brief space of time.
Again, she was to him little Redbud, he to her was the boy-playmate
Verty. She had done all by a word—a look; a kind,
frank smile, a single glance of confiding eyes. He loved her
more than ever—yes, a thousand times more strongly, and was
calm.

He followed her to the harpsichord, and watched her in every
movement, with quiet happiness; he seemed to be under the
influence of a charm.

“I think I will try and sing the `Rose of Glengary,' ” she
said, smiling; “you know, Verty, it is one of the old songs you
loved so much, and it will make us think of old times—in childhood,
you know; though that is not such old, old time—at least
for me,” added Redbud, with a smile, more soft and confiding
than before. “Shall I sing it? Well, give me the book—the
brown-backed one.”

The old volume—such as we find to-day in ancient country-houses—was
opened, and Redbud commenced singing. The
girl sang the sweet ditty with much expression; and her kind,
touching voice filled the old homestead with a tender melody,
such as the autumn time would utter, could its spirit become
vocal. The clear, tender carol made the place fairy-land for
Verty long years afterwards, and always he seemed to hear her
singing when he visited the room. Redbud sang afterwards
more than one of those old ditties—“Jock o' Hazeldean,” and
“Flowers of the Forest,” and many others—ditties which, for
us to-day, seem like so many utterances of the fine old days in
the far past.

For, who does not hear them floating above those sweet fields
of the olden time—those bright Hesperian gardens, where, for us
at least, the fruits are all golden, and the airs all happy?

Beautiful, sad ditties of the brilliant past! not he who writes
would have you lost from memory, for all the modern world of

music. Kind madrigals! which have an aroma of the former
day in all your cadences and dear old fashioned trills—from
whose dim ghosts now, in the faded volumes stored away in garrets
and on upper shelves, we gather what you were in the old
immemorial years! Soft melodies of another age, that sound
still in the present with such moving sweetness, one heart at
least knows what a golden treasure you clasp, and listens thankfully
when you deign to issue out from silence; for he finds in
you alone—in your gracious cadences, your gay or stately voices
—what he seeks; the life, and joy, and splendor of the antique
day sacred to love and memory!

And Verty felt the nameless charm of the good old songs, warbled
by the young girl's sympathetic voice; and more than once
his wild-wood nature stirred within him, and his eyes grew moist.
And when she ceased, and the soft carol went away to the realm
of silence, and was heard no more, the young man was a child
again; and Redbud's hand was in his own, and all his heart
was still.

The girl rose, with a smile, and said that they had had quite
enough of the harpsichord and singing—the day was too beautiful
to spend within doors. And so she ran gaily to the door,
and as she reached it, uttered a gay exclamation. Ralph and
Fanny were seen approaching from the gate.