The Last of the Foresters Part 86

Verty paused, and they went on slowly.

"We love him because he first loved us," said Redbud, thoughtfully.

"Yes, and what a love it must have been. Oh me!" said the young man, "I sometimes think of it until my heart is melted to water, and my eyes begin to feel heavy. What love it was!--and if we do not love in return, what punishment is great enough for such a crime!"

And Verty's face was raised with a dreamy, reverent look toward the sky. Youth, manhood, age--if they but thought of it!--but youth is a dream--manhood the waking--age the return to slumber. Busy, arranging the drapery of their couches, whether of royal purple or of beggar's rags, they cannot find the time to think of other things--even to listen to the grim breakers, with their awful voices roaring on the lee!

So, under the autumn skies, the young man and the maiden drew near home. Apple Orchard smiled on them as they came, and the bluff Squire, seated upon the portico, and reading that "Virginia Gazette" maligned by Roundjacket, gave them welcome with a hearty, laughing greeting.

The Squire declared that Redbud's cheeks were beginning to be tolerably red again; that she had been pretending sickness only--and then, with a vituperative epithet addressed to Caesar, the old gentleman re-commenced reading.

Redbud and Verty entered; and then the young man held out his hand.

"Are you going?" said the girl.

"Yes," he said, smiling, "unless you will sing me something. Oh, yes!

let me go away with music in my ears. Sing '_Dulce Domum_' for me, Redbud."

The young girl a.s.sented, with a smile; and sitting down at the harpsichord, sang the fine old ditty in her soft, tender voice, which was the very echo of joy and kindness. The gentle carol floated on the evening air, and seemed to make the autumn twilight brighter, everything more lovely--and Verty listened with a look more dreamy than before.

Then, as she sung, his eye was turned to the picture on the wall, which looked down with its loving eyes upon them.

Redbud ceased, and turned and saw the object of his regard.

"Mamma," she said, in a low, thoughtful voice,--"I love to think of her."

And rising, she stood beside Verty, who was still looking at the portrait.

"She must have been very good," he murmured; "I think her face is full of kindness."

Redbud gazed softly at the portrait, and, as she mused, the dews of love and memory suffused her tender eyes, and she turned away.

"I love the face," said Verty, softly; "and I think she must have been a kind, good mother, Redbud. I thought just now that she was listening to you as you sang."

And Verty gazed at the young girl, with a tenderness which filled her eyes with delight.

"She will bless you out of Heaven," he continued, timidly; "for you are so beautiful and good--so very beautiful!"

And a slight tremor pa.s.sed over the young man's frame as he spoke.

Redbud did not reply; a deep blush suffused her face, and she murmured something. Then the young head drooped, and the face turned away.

The last ray of sunlight gleamed upon her hair and pure white forehead, and then fled away--the day was ended.

Verty saw it, and held out his hand.

"We have had a happy evening, at least I have," he said, in a low voice; "the autumn is so beautiful, and you are so kind and good."

She did not speak; but a faint wistful smile came to her lips as she placed her hand softly in his own.

"Look! the picture is smiling on you now!" said Verty; "you are just alike--both so beautiful!"

"Oh!" murmured Redbud, blus.h.i.+ng; "like mamma?"

"Yes," said Verty, "and I saw the lips smile when I spoke."

They stood thus hand in hand--the tender mother-eyes upon them: then he turned and went away, looking back tenderly to the last.

Had the dim canvas smiled upon them, as they stood there hand in hand--a blessing on them from the far other world?

CHAPTER LX.

THE LODGE IN THE HILLS.

Sitting by the crackling twigs which drove away the cool airs of the autumn night with their inspiring warmth, the young man, whose early fortunes we have thus far endeavored to narrate, leaned his head upon his hand, and mused and dreamed.

Overhead the shadows played upon the rafters; around him, the firelight lit up the wild and uncouth interior, with its sleeping hounds, and guns, and fis.h.i.+ng-rods, and chests; on the opposite side of the fire-place, the old Indian woman was indulging, like Verty, in a reverie.

From time to time, Longears or Wolf would stir in their sleep, and growl, engaged in dreaming of some forest adventure which concerned itself with deer or other game; or the far cry of the whip-poor-will would echo through the forest; or the laughter of the owl suddenly come floating on, borne on the chill autumn wind.

This, with the crackle of the twigs, was all which disturbed the silence of the solitary lodge.

The silence lasted for half an hour, at the end of which time Verty changed his position, and sighed. Then looking at the old woman with great affection, the young man said:

"I was thinking who I was; and I wanted to ask you, _ma mere_--tell me."

The old woman looked startled at this address, but concealing her emotion with the marvellous skill of her people, replied in her guttural accent--

"My son wants to know something?"

"Yes, _ma mere_, that is it. I want to know if I really am your son."

The old woman turned her eyes from Verty.

"The fawn knows the deer, and the bear's cub knows his fellows,"

continued Verty, gazing into the fire; "but they laugh at me. I don't know my tribe."

"Our tribe is the Delaware," said the old Indian woman evasively--"

they came from the great woods like a river."

"Like a river? Yes, they know their source. But where did I spring from, _ma mere_?"

"Where was my son born?"

"Yes, tell me everything," said Verty; "tell me if I am your son.