INTRODUCES A LEGAL PORCUPINE.
This was the voice of the Squire. It came just in time to create a
diversion.
"Why, there are my antlers!" cried the good-humored Squire. "Look,
Rushton! did you ever see finer!"
"Often," growled a voice in reply; and the Squire and his companion
entered.
Mr. Rushton was a rough-looking gentleman of fifty or fifty-five, with
a grim expression about the compressed lips, and heavy grey eyebrows,
from beneath which rolled two dark piercing eyes. His hair was slowly
retreating, and thought or care had furrowed his broad brow from
temple to temple. He was clad with the utmost rudeness, and resembled
nothing so much as a half-civilized bear.
He nodded curtly to Miss Lavinia, and took no notice whatever of
either Redbud or Verty.
"Why, thank for the antlers, Verty!" said the good-humored Squire.
"I saw Cloud, and knew you were here, but I had no idea that you had
brought me the horns."
And the Squire extended his hand to Verty, who took it with his old
dreamy smile.
"I could have brought a common pair any day," he said, "but I promised
the best, and there they are. Oh, Squire!" said Verty, smiling, "what
a chase I had! and what a fight with him! He nearly had me under him
once, and the antlers you see there came near ploughing up my breast
and letting out my heart's blood! They just grazed--he tried to bite
me--but I had him by the horn with my left hand, and before a swallow
could flap his wings, my knife was in his throat!"
As Verty spoke, his eyes became brighter, his lips more smiling, and
pushing his tangled curls back from his face, he bestowed his amiable
glances even upon Miss Lavinia.
Mr. Rushton scowled.
"What do you mean by saying this barbarous fight was pleasant?" he
asked.
Verty smiled again:--he seemed to know Mr. Rushton well.
"It is my nature to love it," he said, "just as white people love
books and papers."
"What do you mean by white people?" growled Mr. Rushton, "you know
very well that you are white."
"I?" said Verty.
"Yes, sir; no affectation: look in that mirror."
Verty looked.
"What do you see!"
"An Indian!" said Verty, laughing, and raising his shaggy head.
"You see nothing of the sort," said Mr. Rushton, with asperity; "you
see simply a white boy tanned--an Anglo-Saxon turned into mahogany by
wind and sun. There, sir! there," added Mr. Rushton, seeing Verty
was about to reply, "don't argue the question with me. I am sick of
arguing, and won't indulge you. Take this fine little lady here, and
go and make love to her--the Squire and myself have business."
Then Mr. Rushton scowled upon the company generally, and pushed them
out of the room, so to speak, with his eyes; even Miss Lavinia was
forced to obey, and disappeared.
Five minutes afterwards, Verty might have been seen taking his way
back sadly, on his little animal, toward the hills, while Redbud was
undergoing that most disagreeable of all ceremonies, a "lecture,"
which lecture was delivered by Miss Lavinia, in her own private
apartment, with a solemnity, which caused Redbud to class herself with
the greatest criminals which the world had ever produced. Miss
Lavinia proved, conclusively, that all persons of the male sex were
uninterruptedly engaged in endeavoring to espouse all persons of the
female sex, and that the world, generally, was a vale of tears, of
scheming and deception. Having elevated and cheered Redbud's spirits,
by this profound philosophy, and further enlivened her by declaring
that she must leave Apple Orchard on the morrow, Miss Lavinia
descended.
She entered the dining-room where the Squire and Mr. Rushton were
talking, and took her seat near the window. Mr. Rushton immediately
became dumb.
Miss Lavinia said it was a fine day.
Mr. Rushton growled.
Miss Lavinia made one or two additional attempts to direct the
conversation on general topics; but the surly guest strangled her
incipient attempts with pitiless indifference. Finally, Miss Lavinia
sailed out of the room with stately dignity, and disappeared.
Mr. Rushton looked after her, smiling grimly.
"The fact is, Squire," he said, "that your cousin, Miss Lavinia, is a
true woman. Hang it, can't a man come and talk a little business with
a neighbor without being intruded upon? Outrageous!"
The Squire seemed to regard his guest's surliness with as little
attention as Verty had displayed.
"A true woman in other ways is she, Rushton," he said, smiling--"I
grant you she is a little severe and prim, and fond of taking her
dignified portion of every conversation; but she's a faithful and
high-toned woman. You have seen too much character in your Courts to
judge of the kernel from the husk."
"The devil take the Courts! I'm sick of 'em," said Mr. Rushton, with
great fervor, "and as to _character_, there is no character anywhere,
or in anybody." Having enunciated which proposition, Mr. Rushton rose
to go.
The Squire rose too, holding him by the button.
"I'd like to argue that point with you," he said, laughing. "Come now,
tell me how--"
"I won't--I refuse--I will not argue."
"Stay to dinner, then, and I promise not to wrangle."
"No--I never stay to dinner! A pretty figure my docket would cut, if I
staid to your dinners and discussions! You've got the deeds I came to
see you about; my business is done; I'm going back."
"To that beautiful town of Winchester!" laughed the Squire, following
his grim guest out.
"Abominable place!" growled Rushton; "and that Roundjacket is
positively growing insupportable. I believe that fellow has a mania on
the subject of marrying, and he runs me nearly crazy. Then, there's
his confounded poem, which he persists in reading to himself nearly
aloud."
"His poem?" asked the Squire.
"Yes, sir! his abominable, trashy, revolting poem, called--'The
Rise and Progress of the Certiorari.' The consequence of all which,
is--here's my horse; find the martingale, you black cub!--the
consequence is, that my office work is not done as it should be, and I
shall be compelled to get another clerk in addition to that villain,
Roundjacket."
"Why not exchange with some one?"
"How?"
"Roundjacket going elsewhere--to Hall's, say."
Mr. Rushton scowled.
"Because he is no common clerk; would not live elsewhere, and because
I can't get along without him," he said. "Hang him, he's the greatest
pest in Christendom!"
"I have heard of a young gentleman called Jinks," the Squire said,
with a sly laugh, "what say you to him for number two?"
"Burn Jinks!" cried Mr. Rushton, "he's a jack-a-napes, and if he
comes within the reach of my cane, I'll break it over his rascally
shoulders! I'd rather have this Indian cub who has just left us."
"That's all very well; but you can't get him."
"Can't get him?" asked Rushton, grimly, as he got into the saddle.
"He would never consent to coop himself up in Winchester. True, my
little Redbud, who is a great friend of his, has taught him to read,
and even to write in a measure, but he's a true Indian, whether such
by descent or not. He would die of the confinement. Remember what
I said about _character_ just now, and acknowledge the blunder you
committed when you took the position that there was no such thing."
Rushton growled, and bent his brows on the laughing Squire.
"I said," he replied, grimly, "that there was no character to be found
anywhere; and you may take it as you choose, you'll try and extract an
argument out of it either way. I don't mean to take part in it. As to
this cub of the woods, you say I couldn't make anything of him--see if
I don't! You have provoked me into the thing--defied me--and I accept
the challenge."
"What! you will capture Verty, that roving bird?"
"Yes; and make of this roving swallow another bird called a secretary.
I suppose you've read some natural history, and know there's such a
feathered thing."
"Yes."
"Very well," said Mr. Rushton, kicking his horse, and cramming his
cocked hat down on his forehead. "I'll show you how little you know of
human nature and character. I'll take this wild Indian boy, brought up
in the woods, and as free and careless as a deer, and in six months
I'll change him into a canting, crop-eared, whining pen-machine, with
quills behind his ears, and a back always bending humbly. I'll take
this honest barbarian and make a civilized and enlightened individual
out of him--that is to say, I'll change him into a rascal and a
hypocrite."
With which misanthropic words Mr. Rushton nodded in a surly way to the
smiling Squire, and took his way down the road toward Winchester.
"Well, well," said the old gentleman, looking after him, "Rushton
seems to be growing rougher than ever;--what a pity that so noble
a heart should have such a husk. His was a hard trial, however--we
should not be surprised. Rough-headed fellow! he thinks he can do
everything with that resolute will of his;--but the idea of chaining
to a writing-desk that wild boy, Verty!"
And the old gentleman re-entered the house smiling cheerfully, as was
his wont.