Redbud even, at Verty's request, essayed one of the old Scottish songs which he was fond of; and the gentle carol filled the evening with its joy and musical delight. This was rather dangerous in Verty—surely he was quite enough in love already! Why should he rivet the fetters, insist upon a new set of shackles, and a heavier chain!
Verty told Redbud of the singular circumstance of the morning, and demanded an explanation. Her wonder was as great as his own, however; and she remained silently gazing at the sunset, and pondering. A shake of the head betrayed her want of success in this attempt to unravel the mystery, especially the lawyer's indignation at the words written by Verty.
They passed from this to quite a grave discussion upon the truth of the maxim in question, which Redbud and her companion, we may imagine, did not differ upon. The girl had just said—"For you know, Verty, everything is for the best, and we should not murmur,"—when a gruff voice at the door replied:
"Pardon me, Miss Redbud—that is a pretty maxim—nothing more, however."
And Mr. Rushton, cold and impassable, came in with the jovial Squire.
"So busy talking, young people, that you could not even look out the window when I approach with visitors, eh?" cried the Squire, chuckling Miss Redbud under the chin, and driving the breath out of Verty's body by a friendly slap upon that gentleman's back. "Well, here we are, and there's Lavinia—bless her heart—with an expression which indicates protestation at the loudness of my voice, ha! ha!"
And the Squire laughed in a way which shook the windows.
Miss Lavinia smiled in a solemn manner, and busied herself about tea.
Redbud turned to Mr. Rushton, who had seated himself with an expression of grim reserve, and, smiling, said:
"I did not hear you—exactly what you said—as you came in, you know,
Mr. Rushton—"