IN WHICH THE HISTORY RETURNS TO APPLE ORCHARD.
Having devoted much space in the foregoing pages to those scenes,
descriptive, grotesque, and sentimental, which took place at the Bower
of Nature and Winchester, it is proper that we should now go back to
the domain of Apple Orchard, and the inhabitants of that realm, so
long lost sight of in the contemplation of the graces and attractions
of Miss Sallianna, and the various planets which hovered in the wake
of that great feminine sun of love and beauty. Apple Orchard, so long
lost sight of, will not longer suffer itself to be neglected; and,
fortunately, the return of our heroine, Redbud, affords an opportunity
of passing away, for the time, from other scenes, and going thither in
her company.
Redbud's sickness did not last long. The girl had one of those
constitutions which, though they seem frail and delicate, yet, like
the reed, are able to resist what breaks more robust frames.
The wetting she had gotten, on the evening whose events we have
chronicled, had not seriously affected her;--a severe cold, and with
it some slight fever, had been the result. And this fever expended
itself completely, in a few days, and left the girl well again, though
quite weak and "poorly," as say the Africans.
Redbud, like most persons, was not fond of a sick-room; and after
sending word, day after day, to our friend Verty--who never failed to
call twice at least, morning and evening--that she was better, and
better, the girl, one morning, declared to cousin Lavinia that she was
well enough to put on her dressing-wrapper, and go down stairs.
After some demur, accompanied by many grave and solemn shakes of the
head, Miss Lavinia assented to this view of the case; and accordingly
set about arranging the girl's hair, which had become--thanks to the
fact that she could not bear it tied up--one mass of curls of the
color of gold; and this task having been performed with solemn but
affectionate care, the Squire made his appearance, according to
appointment, and taking his "baby," as he called our heroine of
sixteen and a half, in his arms, carried her down stairs, and
deposited her on a sofa, fronting the open window, looking on the
fresh fields and splendid autumn forest.
Redbud lay here gazing with delight upon the landscape, and smiling
pleasantly. The autumn hours were going to the west--the trees had
grown more golden than on that fine evening, when, with sad mishaps to
Fanny, the gay party had wandered over the hills, though not very far
away, and seen the thunder-storm suck in the dazzling glories of the
bannered trees. Another year, with all its light, and joy, and beauty,
slowly waned away, and had itself decently entombed beneath the thick,
soft bed of yellow leaves, with nothing to disturb it but the rabbit's
tread, or forest cries, or hoof-strokes of the deer. That year had
added life and beauty to the face and form of Redbud, making her a
woman-child--before she was but a child; and the fine light now in her
tender eyes, was a light of thought and mind, the mature radiance
of opening intellect, instead of the careless, thoughtless life of
childhood. She had become suddenly much older, the Squire said, since
going to the Bower of Nature even; and as she lay now on her couch,
fronting the dying autumn, the year which whispered faintly even now
of its bright coming in the Spring, promised to make her a "young
lady!"
And as Redbud lay thus, smiling and thinking, who should run in, with
laughing eyes and brilliant countenance, and black curls, rippling
like a midnight stream, but our young friend, Miss Fanny.
Fanny, joyous as a lark--and merrier still at seeing Redbud "down
stairs" again--overflowing, indeed, with mirth and laughter, like a
morn of Spring, and making old Caesar, dozing on the rug, rise up and
whine.
Fanny kissed Redbud enthusiastically, which ceremony, as everybody
knows, is, with young ladies, exactly equivalent to shaking hands
among the men; and often indicates as little real good-feeling
slanderous tongues have whispered. No one, however, could have
imagined that there was any affectation in Fanny's warm kiss. The very
ring of it was enough to prove that the young lady's whole heart was
in it, and when she sat down by Redbud and took her white hand, and
patted it against her own, the very tenderest light shone in Miss
Fanny's dancing eyes, and it was plain that she had not exaggerated
the truth, in formerly declaring that she was desperately in love
with Redbud. Ah! that fond old school attachment--whether of boy or
girl--for the close friend of sunny hours; shall we laugh at it? Are
the feelings of our after lives so much more disinterested, pure and
elevated?
So Miss Fanny chatted on with Redbud, telling her a thousand
things, which, fortunately, have nothing to do with our present
chronicle--else would the unfortunate chronicler find his pen laughed
at for its tardy movement. Fanny's rapid flow of laughing and
picturesque words, could no more be kept up with by a sublunary
instrument of record, than the shadow of a darting bird can be caught
by the eager hand of the child grasping at it as it flits by on the
sward.
And in the middle of this flow of words, and just when Fanny makes
a veiled allusion to an elderly "thing," and the propensity of the
person in question, to rob more juvenile young ladies of their
beaux--enter Miss Lavinia--who asks what thing Miss Fanny speaks of,
with a smile upon the austere countenance.
Fanny declines explaining, but blushes instead, and asks Miss Lavinia
where she got that darling shawl, which is really a perfect love of
a thing; and so, with smiles from Redbud, the conversation continues
until dinner-time, when the Squire makes his appearance, and after
kissing Miss Redbud, affects to take Miss Fanny by the elbows and bump
her head against the ceiling, baby-fashion. In this attempt, we need
not say, the worthy gentleman fails, from the fact, that young ladies
of seventeen, are, for some reason, heavier than babies, and are
kissed with much more ease, and far less trouble, standing on their
feet, than chucked toward the ceiling for that purpose.
Having dined and chatted pleasantly, and told a number of amusing
tales for Miss Redbud's edification--and against the silent protest
and remonstrance of said Miss Lavinia--the Squire declares that he
must go and see to his threshing; and, accordingly, after swearing at
Caesar, goes away; and is heard greeting somebody as he departs.
This somebody turns out to be Verty; and the young man's face blushes
with delight at sight of Redbud, whom he runs to, and devours with his
glances. Redbud blushes slightly; but this passes soon, and the kind
eyes beam on him softly--no confusion in them now--and the small hand
is not drawn away from him, but remains in his own.
And Fanny--amiable Fanny--knowing all about it, smiles; and Miss
Lavinia, staidest of her sex, suspecting something of it, looks
grave and dignified, but does not frown; and Verty, with perfect
forgetfulness of the presence of these persons, and much carelessness
in regard to their opinions, gazes upon Redbud with his dreamy smile,
and talks to her.
So the day passes onward, and the shades of evening take away the
merry voices--the bright sunset shining on them as they go. They must
come again without waiting for her to return their visit--says Redbud
smiling--and the happy laughter which replies to her, makes Apple
Orchard chuckle through its farthest chambers, and the portraits on
the wall--bright now in vagrant gleams of crimson sundown--utter a
low, well-bred cachinnation, such as is befitting in the solemn,
dignified old cavaliers and ladies, looking from their laces, and
hair-powder, and stiff ruffs, upon their little grandchild.
So the merry voices become faint, and the bright sunset slowly wanes
away, a rosy flush upon the splendid sky, dragging another day of work
or idleness, despair or joy, into oblivion!
Redbud lies and gazes at the noble woods, bathed in that rosy flush
and smiles. Then her eyes turn toward a portrait settling into shadow,
but lit up with one bright beam--and the dear mother's eyes shine on
her with a tender light, and bless her. And she clasps her hands, and
her lips murmur something, and her eyes turn to the western sky again.
And evening slowly goes away, leaving the beautiful pure face with
evident regret, but lighting up the kind blue eyes, and golden hair,
and delicate cheek, with a last vagrant gleam.
So the dim cheerful night came down--the day was dead.