The Last of the Foresters · Chapter 52Chapter LI
This chapter is not translated yet. You are reading the original.
To describe the astonishment of Verty, as he hastily went out and closed the door, would be impossible. His face passed from red to pale, his eyes were full of bewilderment—he sat down, scarcely knowing what he did,
Roundjacket sat writing at his desk, and either had not heard, or pretended that he had not, any portion of the passionate colloquy.
Verty could do nothing all day, for thinking of the astonishing scene he had passed through. Why should there be anything offensive in raising the curtain of a portrait? Why should so good a man as Mr. Rushton, address such insulting and harsh words to him for such a trifling thing? How was it possible that the simple words, 'Trust in God,' had been the occasion of such anger, nay, almost fury?
The longer Verty pondered, the less he understood; or at least he understood no better than before, which amounted precisely to no understanding at all.
He got through his day after a very poor fashion; and, going along under the evening skies, cudgelled his brains, for the thousandth time, for some explanation of this extraordinary circumstance. In vain! the explanation never came; and finding himself near Apple Orchard, the young man determined to banish the subject, and go in and see Redbud.
The young girl had been imprudent in remaining out so late, on the preceding evening, and her cold had returned, with slight fever, which, however, gave her little inconvenience.
She lay upon the sofa, near the open window, with a shawl over her feet, and, when Verty entered, half-rose, only giving him her hand tenderly.
Verty sat down, and they began, to talk in the old, friendly way; and, as the evening deepened, to laugh and mention old things which they both remembered—uniting thus in the dim twilight all the golden threads which bind the present to the past—gossamer, which are not visible by the glaring daylight, but are seen when the soft twilight descends on the earth.
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—"
"I said that your maxim, 'All is for the best,' is a pretty maxim, and no more," replied the lawyer, regarding Verty with an air of rough indifference, as though he tad totally forgotten the scene of the morning.
"I'm sure you are wrong, sir," Redbud said.
"Very likely—to be taught by a child!" grumbled the lawyer.
Redbud caught the words.
"I know I ought not to dispute with you, sir," she said; "but what I said is in the Bible, and you know that cannot contain what is not true."
"Hum!" said Mr. Rushton. "That was an unhappy age—and the philosophy of Voltaire and Rousseau had produced its effect even on the strongest minds."
"God does all for the best, and He is a merciful and loving Being," said Redbud. "Even if we suffer here, in this world, every affliction, we know that there is a blessed recompense in the other world."
"Humph!—how?" said the skeptic.
"By faith?"
"What is faith?" he said, looking carelessly at the girl.
"I don't know that I can define it better than belief and trust in God," said Redbud.
These were the words which Verty had written on the paper.
The glance of the lawyer fell upon the young man's face, and from it passed to the innocent countenance of Redbud. She had evidently uttered the words without the least thought of the similarity.
"Humph," said the lawyer, frowning, "that is very fine, Miss; but suppose we cannot see anything to give us a very lively—faith, as you call it."
"Oh, but you may, sir!"
"How?"
"Everywhere there are evidences of God's goodness and mercy. You cannot doubt that."
A shadow passed over the rough face.
"I do doubt it," was on his lips, but he could not, rude as he was, utter such a sentence in presence of the pure, childlike girl.
"Humph," he said, with his habitual growl, "suppose a man is made utterly wretched in this world—"
"Yes, sir."
"And without any fault of his own suffers horribly," continued the lawyer, sternly.
"We are all faulty, sir."
"I mean—did anybody ever hear such reasoning! Excuse me, but I am a little out of sorts," he growled, apologetically—"I mean that you may suppose a man to suffer some peculiar torture—torture, you understand—which he has not deserved. I suppose that has happened; how can such a man have your faith, and love, and trust, and all that—if we must talk theology!" growled the bearish speaker.
"But, Mr. Rushton," said Redbud, "is not heaven worth all the world and its affections?"
"Yes—your heaven is."
"My heaven—?"
"Yes, yes—heaven!" cried the lawyer, impatiently—"everybody's heaven that chooses. But you were about to say—"
"This, sir: that if heaven is so far above earth, and those who are received there by God, enjoy eternal happiness—"
"Very well!"
"That this inestimable gift is cheaply bought by suffering in this world;—that the giver of this great good has a right to try even to what may seem a cruel extent, the faith and love of those for whom he decrees this eternal bliss. Is not that rational, sir?"
"Yes, and theological—what, however, is one to do if the said love and faith sink and disappear—are drowned in tears, or burnt up in the fires of anguish and despair."
"Pray, sir," said Redbud, softly.
The lawyer growled.
"To whom? To a Being whom we have no faith in—whom such a man has no faith in, I mean to say—to the hand that struck—which we can only think of as armed with an avenging sword, or an all-consuming firebrand! Pray to one who stands before us as a Nemesis of wrath and terror, hating and ready to crush us?—humph!"
And the lawyer wiped his brow.
"Can't we think of the Creator differently," said Redbud, earnestly.
"How?"
"As the Being who came down upon the earth, and suffered, and wept tears of blood, was buffeted and crowned with thorns, and crucified like a common, degraded slave—all because he loved us, and would not see us perish? Oh! Mr. Rushton, if there are men who shrink from the terrible God—who cannot love that phase of the Almighty, why should they not turn to the Saviour, who, God as he was, came down and suffered an ignominious death, because he loved them—so dearly loved them!"
Mr. Rushton was silent for a moment; then he said, coldly:
"I did not intend to talk upon these subjects—I only intended to say, that trusting in Providence, as the phrase is, sounds very grand; and has only the disadvantage of not being very easy. Come, Miss Redbud, suppose we converse on the subject of flowers, or something that is more light and cheerful."
"Yes, sir, I will; but I don't think anything is more cheerful than Christianity, and I love to talk about it. I know what you say about the difficulty of trusting wholly in God, is true; it is very hard. But oh! Mr. Rushton, believe me, that such trust will not be in vain; even in this world Our Father often shows us that he pities our sufferings, and His hand heals the wound, or turns aside the blow. Oh, yes, sir! even in this world the clouds are swept away, and the sun shines again; and the heart which has trusted in God finds that its trust was not in vain in the Lord. Oh! I'm sure of it, sir!—I feel it—I know that it is true!"
And Redbud, buried in thought, looked through the window—silent, after these words which we have recorded.
The lawyer only looked strangely at her—muttered his "humph," and turned away. Verty alone saw the spasm which he had seen in the morning pass across the rugged brow.
While this colloquy had been going on, the Squire had gone into his apartment to wash his hands; and now issuing forth, requested an explanation of the argument he had heard going on. This explanation was refused with great bearishness by the lawyer, and Redbud said they had only been talking about Providence.
The Squire said that was a good subject; and then going to his escritoire took out some papers, placed them on the mantel-piece, and informed Mr. Rushton that those were the documents he desired.
The lawyer greeted this information with his customary growl, and taking them, thrust them into his pocket. He then made a movement to go; but the Squire persuaded him to stay and have a cup of tea. Verty acquiesced in his suggestion that he should spend the evening, with the utmost readiness—ma mere would not think it hard if he remained an hour, he said.
And so the cheerful meal was cheerfully spread, and the twigs in the fire-place crackled, and diffused their brief, mild warmth through the cool evening air, and Caesar yawned upon the rug, and all went merrily.
The old time-piece overhead ticked soberly, and the soft face of Redbud's mother looked down from its frame upon them; and the room was full of cheerfulness and light.
And still the old clock ticked and ticked, and carried all the world toward eternity; the fire-light crackled, and the voices laughed;—the portrait looked serenely down, and smiled.
Ralph stretched himself.
Mr. Jinks sipped his rum, and ruminated.
Ralph was smiling; Mr. Jinks scowling, and evidently busy with great thoughts, which caused his brows to corrugate into hostile frowns.
It was the room of Mr. Jinks, in Bousch's tavern, which saw the companions seated thus opposite to each other—the time, after breakfast; the aim of the parties, discussion upon any or every topic.
Mr. Jinks was clad in his habitual costume: half dandy, half militaire; and when he moved, his great sword rattled against his grasshopper legs in a way terrifying to hear.
Ralph, richly dressed as usual, and reclining in his chair, smiled lazily, and looked at the scowling Mr. Jinks. The apartment in which the worthies were seated was one possessing the advantages of dormer windows, and an extensive prospect over the roofs of Winchester; the furniture was rough; and in the corner a simple couch stood, whereon Mr. Jinks reposed himself at night.
While the various events which we have lately adverted to have been occurring, Mr. Jinks has not forgotten that triple and grand revenge he swore.
Mr. Jinks has un-christian feelings against three persons, for three reasons:
First, against Verty: the cause being that gentleman's defiance and disregard of himself on various occasions; also his rivalry in love.
Second, against Miss Sallianna: beautiful and perfidious; the cause: slights put on his youthful love.
Third, against O'Brallaghan; the cause: impudence on various occasions, and slanderous reports relating to cabbaged cloth since the period of their dissolving all connection with each other.
Mr. Jinks has revolved, in the depths of his gloomy soul, these darling projects, and has, perforce of his grand faculty of invention, determined upon his course in two out of the three affairs.
Verty annoys him, however. Mr. Jinks has ceased to think of a brutal, ignoble contest with vulgar fists or weapons ever since the muzzle of Verty's rifle invaded his ruffles on the morning of his woes. He would have a revenge worthy of himself—certain, complete, and above all, quite safe. Mr. Jinks would wile the affections of Miss Redbud from him, fixing the said affections on himself; but that is not possible, since the young lady in question has gone home, and Apple Orchard is too far to walk. Still Mr. Jinks does not despair of doing something; and this something is what he seeks and ruminates upon, as the mixed rum and water glides down his throat.
Ralph yawns, laughs, and kicks his heels.
Then he rises; goes to the mantel-piece and gets a pipe; and begins to smoke—lazier than ever.
Mr. Jinks sets down his cup, and murmurs.
"Hey!" cries Ralph, sending out a cloud of smoke, "what are you groaning about, my dear fellow?"
"I want money," says Mr. Jinks.
"For what?"
"To buy a horse."
"A horse?"
Mr. Jinks nods.
"What do you want with a horse?"
"Revenge," replies Mr. Jinks.
Ralph begins to laugh.
"Oh, yes," he says, "we spoke of that; against Sallianna. I'll assist you, my boy. The fact is, I have caught the infection of a friend's sentiments on Sallianna the divine. I have a cousin who abominates her. I'll assist you!"
"No; that affair is arranged," says Mr. Jinks, with gloomy pleasure; "that will give me no trouble. That young man Verty is the enemy I allude to. I want revenge."
And Mr. Jinks rattled his sword.
Ralph looked with a mischievous expression at his friend.
"But I say," he observed, "how would a horse come in there? Do you want to run a-tilt against Sir Verty, eh? That is characteristic of you, Jinks!"
"No," says Mr. Jinks, "I have other designs."
"What are they?"
"You are reliable!"
"Reliable! I should say I was! Come, make me your confidant."
Mr. Jinks complies with this request, and details his plans against Verty and Redbud's happiness. He would ride to Apple Orchard, and win his rival's sweetheart's affections; then laugh "triumphantly with glee." That is Mr. Jinks' idea.
Ralph thinks it not feasible, and suggests a total abandonment of revengeful feelings toward Verty.
"Suppose I sent him a cartel, then," says Mr. Jinks, after a pause.
"A cartel?"
"Yes; something like this."
And taking a preparatory gulp of the rum, Mr. Jinks continues:
"Suppose I write these words to him: 'A. Jinks, Esq., presents his compliments to —— Verty, Esq., and requests to be informed at what hour Mr. Verty will attend in front of Bousch's tavern, for the purpose of having himself exterminated and killed? How would that do?"
Ralph chokes down a laugh, and, pretending to regard Mr. Jinks with deep admiration, says:
"An excellent plan—very excellent."
"You think so?" says his companion, dubiously.
"Yes, yes; you should, however, be prepared for one thing."
"What is that?"
"Mr. Verty's reply."
"What would that be, sir? He is not a rash young man, I believe?"
"No—just the contrary. His reply would be courteous and cool."
"Ah?"
"He would write under your letter, demanding at what hour you should kill him—'ten,' or 'twelve,' or 'four in the afternoon'—at which time he would come and proceed to bloodshed."
"Bloodshed?"
"Yes; he's a real Indian devil, although he looks mild, my clear fellow. If you are going to send the cartel, you might as well do so at once."
"No—no—I will think of it," replies Mr. Jinks; "I will spare him a little longer. There is no necessity for hurry. A plenty of time!"
And Mr. Jinks clears his throat, and for the present abandons thoughts of revenge on Verty.
Ralph sees the change of sentiment, and laughs.
"Well," he says, "there is something else on your mind, Jinks, my boy; what is it? No more revenge?"
"Yes!"
"Against whom, you epitome of Italian hatred."
Mr. Jinks frowns, and says:
"Against O'Brallaghan!"
"No!" cries Ralph.
"Yes, sir."
"I, myself, hate that man!"
"Then we can assist each other."
"Yes—yes."
"We can make it nice, and good, and fine," says Mr. Jinks, smacking his lips over the rum, as if he was imbibing liquid vengeance, and was pleased with the flavor.
"No!" cries Ralph again.
"Yes!" says Mr. Jinks.
"Revenge, nice and good?"
"Supreme!"
"How?"
"Listen!"
"Stop a moment, my dear fellow," said Ralph; "don't be hasty."
And, rising, Ralph went to the door, opened it, and looked out cautiously, after which, he closed it, and turned the key in the lock; then he went to the fire-place, and looked up the chimney with a solemn air of precaution, which was very striking. Then he returned and took his seat, and with various gurglings of a mysterious nature in his throat, said:
"You have a communication to make, Jinks?"
"I have, sir."
"In relation to revenge."
"Yes."
"Then go on, old fellow; the time is propitious—I am listening."
And Ralph looked attentively at Mr. Jinks.