ONLY A FEW TEARS.
The theories of Miss Lavinia upon life and matrimony had so much truth
in them, in spite of the address and peculiarities of the opinions
upon which they were based, that Redbud was compelled to acknowledge
their justness; and, as a consequence of this acknowledgment, to shape
her future demeanor toward the young man in conformity with the advice
of her mentor.
Therefore, when Miss Redbud saw Verty approach, clad in his new
costume, and radiant with happy expectation, she hastily left the
window at which she had been standing, and, in the depths of her
chamber, sought for strength and consolation.
Let no one deride the innocent prayer of the child, and say that it
was folly, and unworthy of her. The woes of youth are not our woes,
and the iron mace which strikes down the stalwart man, falls not more
heavily upon his strong shoulders, than does the straw which bears to
the earth the weak heart of childhood.
Then, when the man frowns, and clenches his hand against the hostile
fate pressing upon him, the child only weeps, and endeavors to avoid
the suffering.
Redbud suffered no little. She loved Verty very sincerely as the
playmate of her earlier years, and the confidential friend of her
happiest hours. The feeling which was ripening in her heart had not
yet revealed itself, and she felt that the barrier now raised between
herself and the young man was cruel. But, then, suddenly, she would
recollect Miss Lavinia's words, recall that warning, that they
both would suffer--and so poor Redbud was very unhappy--very much
confused--not at all like herself.
We have said very little of this child's character, preferring rather
to let the current of our narrative reflect her pure features from
its surface, as it flowed on through those old border days which were
illustrated and adorned by the soft music of her voice, the kindness
of her smile. Perhaps, however, this is a favorable occasion to lay
before the reader what was written by a poor pen, in after years,
about the child, by one who had loved, and been rendered purer by
her. Some one, no matter who, had said to him one day--"Tell me about
little Redbud, whom you praise so much"--and he had taken his pen and
written--
"How can I? There are some figures that cannot be painted, as there
are some melodies which cannot be uttered by the softest wind which
ever swept the harp of Aeolus. You can scarcely delineate a star, and
the glories of the sunset die away, and live not upon canvas. How
difficult, then, the task you have imposed upon me, _amigo mio_--to
seal up in a wicker flask that moonlight; chain down, by words, that
flitting and almost imperceptible perfume--to tell you anything about
that music which, embodied in a material form, was known as Redbud!
"Observe how I linger on the threshold, and strive to evade what I
have promised to perform. What can I say of the little friend who made
so many of my hours pure sunshine? She was the most graceful creature
I have ever seen, I think, and surely merrier lips and eyes were never
seen--eyes very blue and soft--hair golden, and flowing like sunset on
her shoulders--a mouth which had a charming archness in it--and withal
an innocence and modesty which made one purer. These were the first
traits of the child, she was scarcely more, which struck a stranger.
But she grew in beauty as you conversed with her. She had the most
delightful voice I have ever heard--the kindest and most tender smile;
and one could not long be in her company without feeling that good
fortune had at last thrown him with one of those pure beings which
seem to be sent down to the earth, from time to time, to show us, poor
work-a-day mortals, that there are scales of existence, links as it
were, between the inhabitants of this world and the angels: for the
heavenly goodness, which sent into the circle which I lived in such
a pure ray of the dawn, to verify and illumine the pathway of my
life--thanks--thanks!
"How beautiful and graceful she was! When she ran along, singing, her
fair golden locks rippling back from her pure brow and rosy cheeks,
I thought a sunbeam came and went with her. The secret of Redbud's
universal popularity--for everybody loved her--was, undoubtedly,
that love which she felt for every one around her. There was so
much tenderness and kindness in her heart, that it shone in her
countenance, and spoke plainly in her eyes. Upon the lips, what a
guileless innocence and softness!--in the kind, frank eyes, what
all-embracing love for God's creatures everywhere! She would not tread
upon a worm; and I recollect to this day, what an agony of tears she
fell into upon one occasion, when some boys killed the young of an
oriole, and the poor bird sat singing its soul away for grief upon the
poplar.
"Redbud had a strong vein of piety in her character; and this crowning
grace gave to her an inexpressible charm. Whatever men may say, there
are few who do not reverence, and hope to find in those they love,
this feeling. The world is a hard school, and men must strike alone
everywhere. In the struggle, it is almost impossible to prevent the
mind from gathering those bitter experiences which soil it. It is so
hard not to hate so tremendous a task, to strangle that harsh and
acrid emotion of contempt, which is so apt to subdue us, and make the
mind the hue of what it works in, 'like the dyer's hand.' Men feel the
necessity of something purer than themselves, on which to lean; and
this they find in woman, with the nutriment I have spoken of--the
piety of this child. It did not make her grave, but cheerful; and
nothing could be imagined more delightful, than her smiles and
laughter. Sometimes, it is true, you might perceive upon her brow
what resembled the shadow of a cloud floating over the bright autumn
fields--and in her eyes a thoughtful dew, which made them swim,
veiling their light from you; but this was seldom. As I have spoken of
her, such she was--a bright spirit, who seemed to scatter around her
joy and laughter, gilding all the world she lived in with the kindness
of her smiles.
"Such, _amigo mio_, was little Redbud when I knew her; and I have
spoken of her as well as I could. No one can be more conscious of the
insufficiency of my outline than myself. My only excuse is, a want of
that faculty of the brain which--uniting memory, that is to say, the
heart, with criticism, which is the intellect--is able to embody with
the lips, or the pen, such figures as have appeared upon the horizon
of life. I can only say that I never went near the child, but I was
made better by her sincere voice. I never took her hand in my own, but
a nameless influence seemed to enter into my heart, and purify it. And
now, _amigo_, I have written it all, and you may laugh at me for my
pains; but that is not a matter of very great importance. Farewell!"
It is rather an anti-climax, after this somewhat practical account of
our little heroine, to inform the reader that Redbud was sitting down,
crying. Such was, however, the fact; and as conscientious historians
we cannot conceal it. Overwhelmed by Miss Lavinia's fatal logic, she
had no choice, no course but one to pursue--to avoid Verty, and thus
ward off that prospective "suffering;" and so, with a swelling heart
and a heated brain, our little heroine could find no better resource
than tears, and sobs, and sighs.