"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.
CHAPTER XX.
HOW MISS FANNY SLAMMED THE DOOR IN VERTY'S FACE.
As Redbud sat thus disconsolate, a footstep in the apartment attracted her attention, and raising her tearful eyes, she saw her friend Fanny, who had run in, laughing, as was her wont. Fanny was a handsome little brunette, about Redbud's age, and full of merriment and glee—perhaps sparkle would be the better word, inasmuch as this young lady always seemed to be upon the verge of laughter—brim full with it, and ready to overflow, like a goblet of Bohemian glass filled with the "foaming draught of eastern France," if we may be permitted to make so unworthy a comparison. Her merry black eyes were now dancing, and her ebon curls rippled from her smooth dark brow like midnight waves.
"Oh! here's your beau, Reddy!" cried Miss Fanny, clapping her hands; "you pretended not to know him as he came up the hill. Make haste! you never saw such an elegant cavalier as he has made himself!"
Redbud only smiled sadly, and turned away her head.
Miss Fanny attributed this manoeuvre to a feeling very different from the real one; and clapping her hands more joyfully than ever, cried:
"There you are! I believe you are going to pretend he ain't your beau!
But you need not, madam. As if I did'nt know all about it—"