2. CHAPTER II.
VERTY AND HIS COMPANIONS.
Redbud is sauntering over the sward, and listening to the wind
in the beautiful fallwoods, when, from those woods which stretch
toward the West, emerges a figure, which immediately rivets her
attention. It is a young man of about eighteen, mounted on a
small, shaggy-coated horse, and clad in a wild forest costume,
which defines clearly the outline of a person, slender, vigorous,
and graceful. Over his brown forehead and smiling face, droops
a wide hat, of soft white fur, below which, a mass of dark
chestnut hair nearly covers his shoulders with its exuberant and
tangled curls. Verty—for this is Verty the son, or adopted son
of the old Indian woman, living in the pine hills to the west—
Verty carries in one hand a strange weapon, nothing less than a
long cedar bow, and a sheaf of arrows; in the other, which also
holds his rein, the antlers of a stag, huge and branching in all
directions; around him circle two noble deer-hounds. Verty
strongly resembles an amiable wild cat; and when he sees Redbud,
smiles more than ever.
The girl runs toward him, laughing gaily—
“Oh, Verty!” she says, “indeed I am very glad to see you.
Where have you been?”
With which, she gives him her hand.
“At home,” says Verty, with his bright, but dreamy smile;
“I've got the antlers for the Squire, at last.”
And Verty throws the rein on the neck of his little horse, who
stands perfectly still, and leaps lightly to the ground.
He stands for a moment gazing at Redbud with his dreamy
and smiling eyes, silent in the sunshine like a shadow, then he
pushes back his tangled chestnut curls, and laughs.
“I had a long chase,” he says.
“For the deer?”
“Yes,” says Verty, “and there are his horns. Oh, how bright
you look.”
Redbud returns his smile.
“I think I didn't live before I knew you; but that was long
years ago,” says Verty, “a very long time ago.”
And leaning for a moment on his bow, the forest boy gazes
with his singular dreamy look on Redbud, who smiles.
“Papa has gone out riding,” she says, “but come, let's go in,
and put up the antlers.”
Verty assents readily to this, and speaking to his horse in some
outlandish tongue, leaves him standing there, and accompanies
Redbud toward the house.
“What was that you said?” she asked; “I didn't understand.”
“Because you don't know Delaware,” said Verty, smiling.
“Was it Indian?”
“Yes, indeed. I said to Cloud—that's his name you know—
I told him to crouch; that means, in hunter language, keep still.”
“How strange!”
“Is it? But I like the English better, because you don't
speak Delaware, my own tongue; you speak English.”
“Oh, yes!” Redbud says.
“I don't complain of your not speaking Delaware,” says
Verty, “for how could you, unless ma mere had taught you? She
is the only Indian about here.”
“You say ma mere—that means, `my mother,' don't it?”
“Yes; oh, she knows French, too. You know the Indian
and the French—I wonder who the French are!—used to live
and fight together.”
“Did they?”
Verty nods, and replies—“In the old days, a long, long time
ago.”
Redbud looks down for a moment, as they walk on toward
the house, perusing the pebbles. Then she raises her head and
says—
“How did you ever come to be the old Indian woman's son,
Verty?”
Verty's dreamy eyes fall from the sky, where a circling hawk
had attracted his attention, to Rēdbud's face.
“Anan?” he says.
Redbud greets this exhibition of inattention with a little pout,
which is far from unbecoming, and too frank to conceal anything,
says, smiling—
“You are not listening to me. Indeed, I think I am worth
more attention than that hawk.”
“Oh yes, indeed you are!” cries Verty; “but how can you
keep a poor Indian boy from his hunting? How that fellow
darts now! Look what bright claws he has! Hey, come a little
nearer, and you are mine!”
Verty laughs, and takes an arrow.
Redbud lays her hand upon his arm. Verty looks at the
hand, then at her bright face, laughing.
“What's the matter?” he says.
“Don't kill the poor hawk.”
“Poor hawk? poor chickens!” says Verty, smiling. “Who
could find fault with me for killing him? Nothing to my deer!
You ought to have seen the chase, Redbud; how I ran him; how
he doubled and turned; and when I had him at bay, with his
eyes glaring, his head drooping, how I plunged my knife into his
throat, and made the blood spout out gurgling!”
Verty smiled cheerfully at this recollection of past enjoyment,
and added, with his dreamy look—
“But I know what I like better even than hunting. I like to
come and see you, and learn my lessons, and listen to your talking
and singing, Redbud.
By this time they had reached the house, and they saw Miss
Lavinia sitting at the window. Verty took off his white fur hat,
and made the lady a low bow, and said—
“How do you do, Miss Lavinia?”
“Thank you, Verty,” said that lady, solemnly, “very well.
What have you there?”
“Some deer horns, ma'am.”
“What for?”
“Oh, the Squire said he wanted them,” Verty replied.
“Hum,” said Miss Lavinia, going on with her occupation of
sewing.
Verty made no reply to this latter observation, but busied himself
fixing up the antlers in the passage. Having arranged them
to his satisfaction, he stated to Redbud that he thought the Squire
would like them; and then preferred a request that she would
get her Bible, and read some to him. To this, Redbud, with a
pleasant look in her kind eyes, gave a delighted assent, and, running
up stairs, soon returned, and both having seated themselves,
began reading aloud to the boy.
Miss Lavinia watched this proceeding with an elderly smile;
but Verty's presence in some way did not seem agreeable to her.
Redbud closed the book, and said:—
“That is beautiful, isn't it, Verty?”
“Yes,” replied the boy, “and I would rather hear it than
any other book. I'm coming down every day to make you read
for me.”
“Why, you can read.”
“So I can, but I like to hear it,” said Verty; “so I am
coming.”
Redbud shook her head with a sorrowful expression.
“I don't think I can,” she said. “I'm so sorry!”
“Don't think you can!”
“No.”
“Not read the Bible to me?” Verty said, smiling.
“I'm going away.”
Verty started.
“Going away!—you going away? Oh no! Redbud, you
mus'nt; for you know I can't possibly get along without you,
because I like you so much.”
“Hum!” said Miss Lavinia, who seemed to be growing more
and more dissatisfied with the interview.
“I must go, though,” Redbud said, sorrowfully, “I can't
stay.”
“Go where?” asked the boy. “I'll follow you. Where
are you going?”
“Stop, Verty!” here interposed Miss Lavinia, with dignity.
“It is not a matter of importance where Redbud is going—and
you must not follow her, as you promise. You must not ask
her where she is going.”
Verty gazed at Miss Lavinia with profound astonishment, and
was about to reply, when a voice was heard at the door, and all
turned round.
