The Last of the Foresters · Chapter 51Chapter XLIX
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Busy with the various fortunes of our other personages, we have not been able of late to give much attention to the noble poet, Roundjacket, with whose ambition and great thoughts, this history has heretofore somewhat concerned itself.
Following the old, fine chivalric mansion, "Place aux dames!" we have necessarily been compelled to elbow the cavaliers from the stage, and pass by in silence, without listening to them. Now, however, when we have written our pastoral canto, and duly spoken of the sayings and doings of Miss Redbud and Miss Fanny—used our best efforts to place upon record what they amused themselves with, laughed at, and took pleasure in, under the golden trees of the beautiful woods, and in the happy autumn fields—now we are at liberty to return to our good old border town, and those other personages of the history, whose merits have not been adequately recognized.
When Verty entered Winchester, on the morning after the events, or rather idle country scenes, which we have related, he was smiling and joyous; and the very clatter of Cloud's hoofs made Longears merry.
Verty dismounted, and turned the knob of the office-door.
In opening, it struck against the back of Mr. Roundjacket, who, pacing hastily up and down the apartment, seemed to be laboring under much excitement.
In his left hand, Roundjacket carried a small brown newspaper, with heavy straggling type, and much dilapidated from its contact with the equestrian mail-bag, which it had evidently issued from only a short time before. In his right hand, the poet held a ruler, which described eccentric circles in the air, and threatened imaginary foes with torture and extermination.
The poet's hair stood up; his breath came and went; his coat-skirts moved from side to side, with indignation; and he evidently regarded something in the paper with a mixture of horror and despair.
Verty paused for a moment on the threshold; then took off his hat and went in.
Round jacket turned round.
Verty gazed at him for a moment in silence; then smiling:
"What is the matter, sir?" he said.
"Matter, sir!" cried Roundjacket—"everything is the matter, sir!"
Verty shook his head, as much as to say, that this was a dreadful state of things, and echoed the word "everything!"
"Yes, sir! everything!—folly is the matter!—crime is the matter!—statutory misdemeanor is the matter!"
And Roundjacket, overcome with indignation, struck the newspaper a savage blow with his ruler.
"I am the victim, sir, of editorial iniquity, and typographical abomination!"
"Anan?" said Verty.
"I am a victim, sir!"
"Yes, you look angry."
"I am!"
Verty shook his head.
"That is not right," he replied; "Redbud says it is wrong to be angry—"
"Redbud!"
"Yes, sir."
"Consign Miss Redbud—!"
"Oh, no!" said Verty, "don't do that."
"I have a right to be angry," continued Roundjacket, flourishing his ruler; "it would be out of the question for me to be anything else."
"How, sir?"
"Do you see that?"
And Roundjacket held up the paper, flourishing his ruler at it in a threatening way.
"The paper, sir?" said Verty.
"Yes!"
"What of it?"
"Abomination!"
"Oh, sir."
"Yes! utter abomination!"
"I don't understand, sir."
"Mark me!" said Roundjacket.
"Yes, sir."
"That is the 'Virginia Gazette.'"
"Is it, sir?"
"Published at Williamsburg."
"I think I've heard of it, sir."
"Williamsburg, the centre of civilization, cultivation, and the other ations!" cried Roundjacket, flourishing his ruler savagely, and smiling with bitter scorn.
"Ah!" said Verty, finding that he was expected to say something.
"Yes! the Capital of Virginia, forsooth!"
"Has Williamsburg made you angry, sir?"
"Yes!"
"But the 'Gazette'—?"
"Is the immediate cause."
Verty sat down.
"I'm sorry, sir," he said, smiling; "but I don't understand. I never read the newspapers. Nothing but the Bible—because Redbud wants me to: I hope to like it after awhile though."
"I trust you will never throw away your time on this thing!" cried Roundjacket, running the end of his ruler through the paper; "can you believe, sir, that the first canto of my great poem has been murdered in its columns—yes, murdered!"
"Killed, do you mean, sir?"
"I do—I mean that the illiterate editor of this disgraceful sheet has assassinated the offspring of my imagination!"
"That was very wrong, sir."
"Wrong? It was infamous? What should be done with such a man!" cried Roundjacket.
"Arrest him?" suggested Verty.
"It is not a statutable offence."
"What, sir?"
"Neglecting to send sheets to correct."
"Anan?" said Verty, who did not understand.
"I mean that I have not had an opportunity to correct the printed verses, sir; and that I complain of."
Verty nodded.
"Mark me," said Roundjacket; "the publisher, editor, or reviewer who does not send sheets to the author for correction, will inevitably perish, in the end, from the tortures of remorse!"
"Ah?" said Verty.
"Yes, sir! the pangs of a guilty conscience will not suffer him to sleep; and death only will end his miserable existence."
Which certainly had the air of an undoubted truth.
"See!" said Mr. Roundjacket, relapsing into the pathetic—"see how my unfortunate offspring has been mangled—maimed—a statutory offence—mayhem!—see Bacon's Abridgment, page ——; but I wander. See," continued Roundjacket, "that is all that is left of the original."
"Yes, sir," said Verty.
"The very first line is unrecognizable."
And Roundjacket put his handkerchief to his eyes and sniffled.
Verty tried not to smile.
"It's very unfortunate, sir," he said; "but perhaps the paper—I mean yours—was not written plain."
"Written plain!" cried Roundjacket, suppressing his feelings.
"Yes, sir—the manuscript, I believe, it is called."
"Well, no—it was not written plain—of course not."
Verty looked surprised, spite of his own suggestion.
"I thought you wrote as plain as print, Mr. Roundjacket."
"I do."
"Why then—?"
"Not do so in the present instance, do you mean?"
"Yes, sir."
"Young man," said Roundjacket, solemnly, "it is easy to see that you are shockingly ignorant of the proprieties of life—or you never would have suggested such a thing."
"What thing, sir?"
"Plain writing in an author."
"Oh!" said Verty.
"Mark me," continued Roundjacket, with affecting gravity, "the unmistakable evidence of greatness is not the brilliant eye, the fine forehead, or the firm-set lip; neither is the 'lion port' or noble carriage—it is far more simple, sir. It lies wholly in the hand-writing."
"Possible, sir?"
"Yes; highly probable even. No great man ever yet wrote legibly, and I hold that such a thing is conclusive evidence of a narrowness of intellect. Great men uniformly use a species of scrawl which people have to study, sir, before they can understand. Like the Oracles of Delphos, the manuscript is mysterious because it is profound. My own belief, sir, is, that Homer's manuscript—if he had one, which I doubt—resembled a sheet of paper over which a fly with inked feet has crawled;—and you may imagine, sir, the respect, and, I may add, the labor, of the old Greek type-setters in publishing the first edition of the Iliad."
This dissertation had the effect of diverting Mr. Roundjacket's mind temporarily from his affliction; but his grief soon returned in full force again.
"To think it!" he cried, flourishing his ruler, and ready to weep,—"to think that after taking all the trouble to disguise my clear running hand, and write as became an author of my standing—in hieroglyphics—to think that this should be the result of all my trouble."
Roundjacket sniffed.
"Don't be sorry," said Verty.
"I cannot refrain, sir," said Roundjacket, in a tone of acute agony; "it is more than I can bear. See here, sir, again: 'High Jove! great father!' is changed into 'By Jove, I'd rather!' and so on. Sir, it is more than humanity can bear; I feel that I shall sink under it. I shall be in bed to-morrow, sir—after all my trouble—'By Jove!'"
With this despairing exclamation Roundjacket let his head fall, overcome with grief, upon his desk, requesting not to be spoken to, after the wont of great unfortunates.
Verty seemed to feel great respect for this overwhelming grief; at least he did not utter any commonplace consolations. He also leaned upon his desk, and his idle hands traced idle lines upon the paper before him.
His dreamy eyes, full of quiet pleasure, fixed themselves upon the far distance—he was thinking of Redbud.
He finally aroused himself, however, and began to work. Half an hour, an hour, another hour passed—Verty was breaking himself into the traces; he had finished his work.
He rose, and going to Mr. Rushton's door, knocked and opened it. The lawyer was not there; Verty looked round—his companion was absorbed in writing.
Verty sat down in the lawyer's arm-chair.
For some time the young man remained motionless and silent, thinking of Redbud, and smiling with the old proverbial delight of lovers, as the memory of her bright sweet face, and kind eyes, came to his thoughts.
There was now no longer any doubt, assuredly, that he was what was called "in love" with Redbud; Verty said as much to himself, and we need not add that when this circumstance occurs, the individual who comes to such conclusion, is no longer his own master, or the master of his heart, which is gone from him.
For as it is observable that persons often imagine themselves affected with material ailments when there is no good ground for such a supposition; so, on the other hand, is it true that those who labor under the disease of love are the last to know their own condition. As Verty, therefore, came to the conclusion that he must be "in love" with Redbud, we may form a tolerably correct idea of the actual fact.
Why should he not love her? Redbud was so kind, so tender; her large liquid eyes were instinct with such deep truth and goodness; in her fresh, frank face there was such radiant joy, and purity, and love! Surely, a mortal sin to do otherwise than love her! And Verty congratulated himself on exemption from this sad sin of omission.
He sat thus, looking with his dreamy smile through the window, across which the shadows of the autumn trees flitted and played. Listlessly he took up a pen, nibbed the feather with his old odd smile, and began to scrawl absently on the sheet of paper lying before him.
The words he wrote there thus unconsciously, were some which he had heard Redbud utter with her soft, kind voice, which dwelt in his memory.
"Trust in God."
This Verty wrote, scarcely knowing he did so; then he threw down the pen, and reclining in the old lawyer's study chair, fell into one of those Indian reveries which the dreamy forests seem to have taught the red men.
As the young man thus reclined in the old walnut chair, clad in his forest costume, with his profuse tangled curls, and smiling lips, and half-closed eyes, bathed in the vagrant gleams of golden sunlight, even Monsignor might have thought the picture not unworthy of his pencil. But he could not have reproduced the wild, fine picture; for in Verty's face was that dim and dreamy smile which neither pencil nor words can describe on paper or canvas.
At last he roused himself, and waked to the real life around him—though his thoughtful eyes were still overshadowed.
He looked around.
He had never been alone in Mr. Rushton's sanctum before, and naturally regarded the objects before him with curiosity.
There was an old press, covered with dust and cobwebs, on the top of which huge volumes of Justinian's Institutes frowned at the ceiling; a row of shelves which were crammed with law books; an old faded carpet covered with ink-splotches on his right hand, splotches evidently produced by the lawyer's habit of shaking the superfluous ink from his pen before he placed it upon the paper; a dilapidated chair or two; the rough walnut desk at which he sat, covered with papers, open law volumes, and red tape; and finally, a tall mantel-piece, on which stood a half-emptied ink bottle—which mantel-piece rose over a wide fire-place, surrounded with a low iron fender, on which a dislocated pair of tongs were exposed in grim resignation to the evils of old age.
There was little to interest Verty in all this—or in the old iron-bound trunks in the corners.
But his eye suddenly falls on a curtain, in the recess farthest from the door—the edge of a curtain; for the object which this curtain conceals, is not visible from the chair in which he sits.
Verty rises, and goes into the recess, and looks.
The curtain falls over a picture—Verty raises it, and stands in admiration before the portrait, which it covered.
"What a lovely child!" he exclaims. "I have never seen a prettier little girl in all my life! What beautiful hair she has!"
And Verty, with the curtain in his left hand, blows away the dust from the canvas.
The portrait is indeed exquisite. The picture represents a child of two or three years of age, of rare and surpassing beauty. Over its white brow hang long yellow ringlets—the eyes dance and play—the ripe, ruddy lips, resembling cherries, are wreathed with the careless laughter of infancy. The child wears a little blue frock which permits two round, fat arms to be seen; and one of the hands grasps a doll, drawn to the life. There is so much freshness and reality about the picture, that Verty exclaims a second time, "What a lovely little girl!"
Thus absorbed in the picture, he does not hear a growling voice in the adjoining room—is not conscious of the heavy step advancing toward the room he occupies—does not even hear the door open as the new comer enters.
"Who can she be!" murmurs the young man; "not Mr. Rushton's little daughter—I never heard that he was married, or had any children. Pretty little thing!"
And Verty smiled.
Suddenly a heavy hand was laid upon his shoulder, and a gruff, stern voice said:
"What are you doing, sir?"
Verty turned quickly; Mr. Rushton stood before him—gloomy, forbidding, with a heavy frown upon his brow.
"What are you prying into?" repeated the lawyer, angrily; "are you not aware, sir, that this is my private apartment? What has induced you to presume in such a manner?"
Verty was almost terrified by the sternness of these cold words, and looked down. Then conscious of the innocence of his action, raised his eyes, and said:
"I came in to give you the copy of the deed, sir,—and saw the curtain—and thought I would—"
"Pry into my secrets," said Mr. Rushton; "very well, sir!"
"I did not mean to pry," said Verty, proudly; "I did not think there was any harm in such a little thing. I hope, sir, you will not think I meant anything wrong," added Verty—"indeed I did not; and I only thought this was some common picture, with a curtain over it to keep off the dust."
But the lawyer, with a sudden change of manner, had turned his eyes to the portrait; and did not seem to hear the exclamation.
"I hope you will not think hard of me, Mr. Rushton," said Verty; "you have been very good to me, and I would not do anything to offend you or give you pain."
No answer was vouchsafed to this speech either. The rough lawyer, with more and more change in his expression, was gazing at the fresh portrait, the curtain of which Verty had thrown over one of the upper corners of the frame.
Verty followed the look of Mr. Rushton; and gazed upon the picture.
"It is very lovely," he said, softly; "I never saw a sweeter face."
The lawyer's breast heaved.
"And what ringlets—I believe they call 'em," continued Verty, absorbed in contemplating the portrait;—"I love the pretty little thing already, sir."
Mr. Rushton sat down in the chair, which Verty had abandoned, and covered his face.
"Did you know her?—but oh, I forgot!—how wrong in me!" murmured Verty; "I did not think that she might be—Mr. Rushton—forgive my—"
The lawyer, with his face still covered, motioned toward the door.
"Must I go, sir?"
"Yes—go," came from the lips which uttered a groan—a groan of such anguish, that Verty almost groaned in unison.
And murmuring "Anna! Anna!" the lawyer shook.
The young man went toward the door. As he opened it, he heard an exclamation behind him.
He turned his head.
"What's this!" cried the lawyer, in a tone between a growl and a sob.
"What, sir?"
"This paper."
"Sir?"
"This paper with—with—'Trust in God' on it; did you write it?"
"I—I—must—yes—I suppose I did, sir," stammered Verty, almost alarmed by the tone of his interlocutor.
"What did you mean?"
"Nothing, sir!"
"You had the boldness to write this canting—hypocritical—"
"Oh, Mr. Rushton!"
"You wrote it?"
"Yes, sir; and it is right, though I did'nt mean to write it—or know it."
"Very grand!"
"Sir?"
"You bring your wretched—"
"Oh, I did'nt know I wrote it even, sir! But indeed that is not right, sir. All of us ought to trust in God, however great our afflictions are, sir."
"Go!" cried the lawyer, rising with a furious gesture—"away, sir! Preach not to me—you may be right—but take your sermons elsewhere. Look there, sir! at that portrait!—look at me now, a broken man—think that—but this is folly! Leave me to myself!"
And strangling a passionate sob, the lawyer sank again into his chair, covering his face.