1. CHAPTER I.
AT APPLE ORCHARD.
On a bright October morning, when the last century was
rapidly going down hill, and all old things began to give way to
the new, the sun was shining in upon the breakfast room at
Apple Orchard with a joyous splendor, which, perhaps, he had
never before displayed in tarrying at that domain, or any other.
But, about Apple Orchard, which we have introduced to the
reader in a manner somewhat abrupt and unceremonious. It
was one of those old wooden houses, which dot our valleys in
Virginia almost at every turn—contented with their absence from
the gay flashing world of cities, and raising proudly their mosscovered
roofs between the branches of wide spreading oaks, and
haughty pines, and locusts, burdening the air with perfume.
Apple Orchard had about it an indefinable air of moral happiness
and domestic comfort. It seemed full of memories, too; and
you would have said that innumerable weddings and christenings
had taken place there, time out of mind, leaving their influence
on the old homestead, on its very dormer-windows, and porch
trellis-work, and clambering vines, and even on the flags before
the door, worn by the feet of children and slow grandfather.
Within, everything was quite as old-fashioned; over the
mantel-piece a portrait, ruffled and powdered, hung; in the corner
a huge clock ticked; by the window stood a japanned cabinet;
and more than one china ornament, in deplorably grotesque
taste, spoke of the olden time.
This is all we can say of the abode of Mr. Adam Summers,
better known as Squire Summers, except that we may add, that
Apple Orchard was situated not very far from Winchester, and
thus looked upon the beauty of that lovely valley which poor
Virginia exiles sigh for, often, far away from it in other lands.
The sun shines for some time upon the well-ordered room,
wherein the breakfast-table is set forth, and in whose wide country
fire-place a handful of twigs dispel with the flame which wraps
them the cool bracing air of morning; then the door opens,
and a lady of some thirty autumns, with long raven curls and
severe aspect, enters, sailing in awful state, and heralded by
music, from the rattling keys which agitate themselves in the
basket on her arm, drowning the rustle of her dress. This is
Miss Lavinia, the Squire's cousin, who has continued to live
with him since the death of his wife, some years since.
The severe lady is superintending the movements of the brisk
negro boy who attends to breakfast, when the Squire himself,
a fat, rosy, good-humored old gentleman, in short breeches and
ruffles, makes his appearance, rubbing his hands and laughing.
Then, behind him, rosier than her father, dewy like the morning,
and angelic generally, behold our little heroine—Miss Redbud
Summers.
Redbud—she received this pretty name when she was a bady,
and as usually befalls Virginia maidens, never has been able to
get rid of it. Redbud is a lovely little creature, whom it is a
delight to look upon. She has a profusion of light, earling hair,
a fine fresh, tender complexion, deep, mild eyes, and a mouth of
that innocent and artless expression which characterizes childhood.
She is about sixteen, and has just emerged from short
dresses, by particular request and gracious permission from Miss
Lavinia, who is major-domo and manager in general. Redbud is,
therefore, clad in the morning-dress of young ladies of the
period. Her sleeves are ornamented with fluttering ribbons,
and her hair is brushed back in the fashion now styled
Pompadour,
but quite unpowdered. Her ears, for even heroines are
possessed of them, are weighed down by heavy golden ear-rings,
and a cloud of plain lace runs round her neck, and gently rubs
her throat. Pensiveness and laughter chase each other over her
fresh little face, like floating clouds;—she is a true child of the
South.
The Squire sits down in the large chair, in the corner of the
fire-place, and takes Miss Redbud on his knee. Then commences
a prattle on the part of the young lady, interrupted by much
laughter from the old gentleman; then the Squire swears profanely
at indolent Caesar, his spaniel, who, lying on the rug before
the fire, stretches his hind feet sleepily, and so makes an assault
upon his master's stockings; then breakfast is ready, and grace
being devoutly said, they all sit down, and do that justice to the
meal which Virginians never omit. Redbud is the soul of the
room, however, and even insists upon a romp with the old gentleman,
as he goes forth to mount his horse.
The Squire thus disappears toward the barn. Miss Lavinia
superintends the household operation of “washing up the tea
things,” and Redbud puts on her sun-bonnet, and goes to take a
stroll.
