The Last of the Foresters Part 1

The Last of the Foresters.

by John Esten Cooke.

PREFACE

Perhaps this story scarcely needs a Preface, but the child of the writer's invention comes to possess a place in his affections, and he is reluctant to send it forth into the wide world, without something in the nature of a letter of introduction, asking for it a kindly and charitable reception. It would be unjust to apply to this volume the tests which are brought to bear upon an elaborate romance. In his narrative of the adventures of Verty and Redbud, the writer has not endeavored to mount into the regions of tragedy, or chronicle the details of bloodshed on the part of heroes--but rather, to find in a picturesque land and period such traits of life and manners as are calculated to afford innocent entertainment. Written under the beautiful autumn skies of our beloved Virginia, the author would ask for the work only a mind in unison with the mood of the narrative--asking the reader to laugh, if he can, and, above all, to carry with him, if possible, the beautiful autumn suns.h.i.+ne, and the glories of the mountains.

Of the fine old border town, in which many of the scenes of the story are laid, much might be said, if it were here necessary, that Thomas Lord Fairfax, Baron of Cameron, and formerly half-owner of Virginia, sleeps there--that Morgan, the Ney of the Revolution, after all his battles, lies there, too, as though to show how n.o.bles and commoners, lords and frontiersmen, monarchists and republicans, are equal in death--and that the last stones of old Fort Loudoun, built by Lieutenant, afterwards General, Was.h.i.+ngton, crumble into dust there, disappearing like a thousand other memorials of that n.o.ble period, and the giants who ill.u.s.trated it:--this, and much more, might be said of Winchester, the old heart of the border, which felt every blow, and poured out her blood freely in behalf of the frontier. But of the land in which this old sentinel stands it is impossible to speak in terms of adequate justice. No words can describe the loveliness of its fair fields, and vainly has the present writer tried to catch the spirit of those splendid pictures, which the valley unrolls in autumn days. The morning splendors and magnificent sunsets--the n.o.ble river and blue battlements, forever escape him. It is in the midst of these scenes that he has endeavored to place a young hunter--a child of the woods--and to show how his wild nature was impressed by the new life and advancing civilization around him. The process of his mental development is the chief aim of the book.

Of the other personages of the story it is not necessary here to speak--they will relieve the author of that trouble; yet he cannot refrain from asking in advance a friendly consideration for Miss Redbud. He trusts that her simplicity and innocence will gain for her the hearts of all who admire those qualities; and that in consideration of her liking for her friend Verty, that these friends of her own will bestow a portion of their approbation upon the young woodman: pity him when he incurs the displeasure of Mr., Jinks: sympathise with him when he is overwhelmed by the reproaches of Mr. Roundjacket, and rejoice with him when, in accordance with the strictest rules of poetic justice, he is rewarded for his kindness and honesty by the possession of the two things which he coveted the most in the world.

RICHMOND, _June_, 1856.

THE LAST OF THE FORESTERS.

"_If we shadows have offended, Think but this, (and all is mended,) That you have but slumbered here While these visions did appear; And this weak and idle theme No more yielding than a dream, Gentles, do not reprehend_."

MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM.

THE LAST OF THE FORESTERS,

CHAPTER I.

AT APPLE ORCHARD.

On a bright October morning, when the last century was rapidly going down hill, and all old things began to give way to the new, the sun was s.h.i.+ning in upon the breakfast room at Apple Orchard with a joyous splendor, which, perhaps, he had never before displayed in tarrying at that domain, or any other.

But, about Apple Orchard, which we have introduced to the reader in a manner somewhat abrupt and unceremonious. It was one of those old wooden houses, which dot our valleys in Virginia almost at every turn--contented with their absence from the gay flas.h.i.+ng world of cities, and raising proudly their moss-covered roofs between the branches of wide spreading oaks, and haughty pines, and locusts, burdening the air with perfume. Apple Orchard had about it an indefinable air of moral happiness and domestic comfort. It seemed full of memories, too; and you would have said that innumerable weddings and christenings had taken place there, time out of mind, leaving their influence on the old homestead, on its very dormer-windows, and porch trellis-work, and clambering vines, and even on the flags before the door, worn by the feet of children and slow grandfathers.

Within, everything was quite as old-fas.h.i.+oned; over the mantel-piece a portrait, ruffled and powdered, hung; in the corner a huge clock ticked; by the window stood a j.a.panned cabinet; and more than one china ornament, in deplorably grotesque taste, spoke of the olden time.

This is all we can say of the abode of Mr. Adam Summers, better known as Squire Summers, except that we may add, that Apple Orchard was situated not very far from Winchester, and thus looked upon the beauty of that lovely valley which poor Virginia exiles sigh for, often, far away from it in other lands.

The sun s.h.i.+nes for some time upon the well-ordered room, wherein the breakfast-table is set forth, and in whose wide country fire-place a handful of twigs dispel with the flame which wraps them the cool bracing air of morning; then the door opens, and a lady of some thirty autumns, with long raven curls and severe aspect, enters, sailing in awful state, and heralded by music, from the rattling keys which agitate themselves in the basket on her arm, drowning the rustle of her dress. This is Miss Lavinia, the Squire's cousin, who has continued to live with him since the death of his wife, some years since.

The severe lady is superintending the movements of the brisk negro boy who attends to breakfast, when the Squire himself, a fat, rosy, good-humored old gentleman, in short breeches and ruffles, makes his appearance, rubbing his hands and laughing.

Then, behind him, rosier than her father, dewy like the morning, and angelic generally, behold our little heroine--Miss Redbud Summers.

Redbud--she received this pretty name when she was a baby, and as usually befalls Virginia maidens, never has been able to get rid of it. Redbud is a lovely little creature, whom it is a delight to look upon. She has a profusion of light, curling hair, a fine fresh, tender complexion, deep, mild eyes, and a mouth of that innocent and artless expression which characterizes childhood. She is about sixteen, and has just emerged from short dresses, by particular request and gracious permission from Miss Lavinia, who is major-domo and manager in general. Redbud is, therefore, clad in the morning-dress of young ladies of the period. Her sleeves are ornamented with fluttering ribbons, and her hair is brushed back in the fas.h.i.+on now styled _Pompadour_, but quite unpowdered. Her ears, for even heroines are possessed of them, are weighed down by heavy golden ear-rings, and a cloud of plain lace runs round her neck, and gently rubs her throat.

Pensiveness and laughter chase each other over her fresh little face, like floating clouds;--she is a true child of the South.

The Squire sits down in the large chair, in the corner of the fire-place, and takes Miss Redbud on his knee. Then commences a prattle on the part of the young lady, interrupted by much laughter from the old gentleman; then the Squire swears profanely at indolent Caesar, his spaniel, who, lying on the rug before the fire, stretches his hind feet sleepily, and so makes an a.s.sault upon his master's stockings; then breakfast is ready, and grace being devoutly said, they all sit down, and do that justice to the meal which Virginians never omit. Redbud is the soul of the room, however, and even insists upon a romp with the old gentleman, as he goes forth to mount his horse.

The Squire thus disappears toward the barn. Miss Lavinia superintends the household operation of "was.h.i.+ng up the tea things," and Redbud puts on her sun-bonnet, and goes to take a stroll.

CHAPTER II.

VERTY AND HIS COMPANIONS.

Redbud is sauntering over the sward, and listening to the wind in the beautiful fallwoods, when, from those woods which stretch toward the West, emerges a figure, which immediately rivets her attention. It is a young man of about eighteen, mounted on a small, s.h.a.ggy-coated horse, and clad in a wild forest costume, which defines clearly the outline of a person, slender, vigorous, and graceful. Over his brown forehead and smiling face, droops a wide hat, of soft white fur, below which, a ma.s.s of dark chestnut hair nearly covers his shoulders with its exuberant and tangled curls. Verty--for this is Verty the son, or adopted son of the old Indian woman, living in the pine hills to the west--Verty carries in one hand a strange weapon, nothing less than a long cedar bow, and a sheaf of arrows; in the other, which also holds his rein, the antlers of a stag, huge and branching in all directions; around him circle two n.o.ble deer-hounds. Verty strongly resembles an amiable wild cat; and when he sees Redbud, smiles more than ever.

The girl runs toward him, laughing gaily--

"Oh, Verty!" she says, "indeed I am very glad to see you. Where have you been?"

With which, she gives him her hand.

"At home," says Verty, with his bright, but dreamy smile; "I've got the antlers for the Squire, at last."

And Verty throws the rein on the neck of his little horse, who stands perfectly still, and leaps lightly to the ground. He stands for a moment gazing at Redbud with his dreamy and smiling eyes, silent in the suns.h.i.+ne like a shadow, then he pushes back his tangled chestnut curls, and laughs.

"I had a long chase," he says.

"For the deer?"

"Yes," says Verty, "and there are his horns. Oh, how bright you look."

Redbud returns his smile.

"I think I didn't live before I knew you; but that was long years ago," says Verty, "a very long time ago."

And leaning for a moment on his bow, the forest boy gazes with his singular dreamy look on Redbud, who smiles.

"Papa has gone out riding," she says, "but come, let's go in, and put up the antlers."

Verty a.s.sents readily to this, and speaking to his horse in some outlandish tongue, leaves him standing there, and accompanies Redbud toward the house.

"What was that you said?" she asked; "I didn't understand."

"Because you don't know Delaware," said Verty, smiling.

"Was it Indian?"