OF THE EFFECT OF VERTY'S VIOLIN-PLAYING UPON MR. RUSHTON.
The young man had just reached the foot of the hill, upon which the
Bower of Nature stood--have we not mentioned before the name which
Miss Sallianna had bestowed upon the seminary?--when he heard himself
accosted by a laughing and careless voice, and raised his head, to see
from whom it proceeded.
The voice, apparently, issued from a gentleman who had drawn rein in
the middle of the road, and was gazing at him with great good
humor and freedom. Verty returned this gaze, and the result of his
inspection was, that the new-comer was a total stranger to him. He was
a young man of about nineteen, with handsome features, characterized
by an expression of nonchalance and careless good humor; clad in a
very rich dress, somewhat foppish, but of irreproachable taste;
and the horse he bestrode was an animal as elegant in figure and
appointments as his master.
"Hallo, friend!" the new-comer had said, "give you good-day."
Verty nodded.
"You don't recognize me," said the young man.
"I believe not," replied Verty.
"Well, that's all right; and it would be strange if you did," the
young man went on in his careless voice; "we have never met, I think,
and, faith! all I recognize about you is my coat."
"Your coat?"
"Coat, did I say?--worse than that! I recognize my knee-breeches, my
stockings, my chapeau, my waistcoat!"
And the new-comer burst into a careless laugh.
Verty shook his head.
"They are mine, sir," he said.
"You are mistaken."
Verty returned the careless glance with one which seemed to indicate
that he was not very well pleased.
"How?" he said.
"I maintain that you are wearing my clothes, by Jove! Come, let us
fight it out;--or no! I've got an engagement, my dear fellow, and we
must put it off. Fanny is waiting for me, and would be dying with
disappointment if I didn't come."
With which the young fellow touched his horse, and commenced humming a
song.
"Fanny?" said Verty, with a sad smile, "what! up at old Scowley's?"
"The very place! Why, you have caught the very form of words by which
I am myself accustomed to speak of that respectable matron."
"I know Miss Fanny."
"Do you?"
"Yes."
"Stop!" said the young man, laughing with his easy nonchalance; "tell
me if we are rivals."
"Anan?" said Verty.
"Are you in love with her? Honor bright now, my dear fellow?"
"No," said Verty, drawn, he did not know how, toward the laughing
young man; "no, not with--Miss Fanny."
"Ah, ah!--then with whom? Not the lovely Sallianna--the admirer of
nature? Faith! you're too good-looking a fellow to throw yourself
away on such a simpering old maid. By Jove! my dear friend, and
new acquaintance, I like you! Let us be friends. My name's Ralph
Ashley--I'm Fanny's cousin. Come! confidence for confidence!"
Verty smiled.
"My name is Verty," he said; "I havn't any other--I'm an Indian."
"An Indian!"
"Yes."
"Is it possible?"
Verty nodded.
"Why, you are an elegant cavalier, or the devil take it! I'm just
from Williamsburg--from the college there; and I never saw a finer
_seigneur_ than yourself, friend Verty. An Indian!"
"That's all," said Verty; "the new clothes change me. I got 'em at
O'Brallaghan's."
"O'Brallaghan's? The rascal! to sell my suit! That accounts for all!
But I don't complain of you. On the contrary, I'm delighted to make
your acquaintance. Have you been up there?--I suppose you have?"
And the young man pointed toward the Bower of Nature.
"Yes," said Verty.
"Visiting?"
"Yes--Redbud."
"Pretty little Miss Summers?"
Verty heaved a profound sigh, and said, "Yes."
The young man shook his head.
"Take care, my dear fellow," he said, with a wise air, "I saw her in
town the other morning, and I consider her dangerous. She would not be
dangerous to me; I am an old bird among the charming young damsels of
this wicked world, and, consequently, not to be caught by chaff--such
chaff as brilliant eyes, and rosy-cheeks, and smiles; but, without
being critical, my dear friend, I may be permitted to observe, that
you look confiding. Take care--it is the advice of a friend. Come and
see me at Bousch's tavern where I am staying, if my visnomy has made
a favorable impression--Ah! there's Fanny! I must fly to her--the
charming infant."
And the young man gave a farewell nod to Verty, and went on singing,
and making signs to the distant Fanny.
Verty gazed after him for a moment; then heaving another sigh much
more profound than any which had yet issued from his lips, went slowly
on toward the town--his shoulders drooping, his arms hanging down, his
eyes intently engaged in staring vacancy out of countenance. If we are
asked how it happened that the merry, joyous Verty, whose face was
before all sunshine, now resembled nobody so much as some young
and handsome Don Quixote, reflecting on the obduracy of his Toboso
Dulcinea, we can only reply, that Verty was in love, and had not
prospered lately--that is to say, on that particular day, in his suit;
and, in consequence, felt as if the world no longer held any more joy
or light for him, forever.
With that bad taste which characterizes the victims of this delusion,
he could not consent to supply the place of the chosen object of his
love with any other image; and even regarded the classic and
romantic Miss Sallianna as wholly unworthy to supplant Redbud in his
affections. Youth is proverbially unreasonable and fastidious on these
subjects, and Verty, with the true folly of a young man, could not
discern in Miss Sallianna those thousand graces and attractions,
linguistic, philosophical, historical and scientific, which made her
so far superior to the child with whom he had played, and committed
the folly of falling in love with. So he went along sighing, with his
arms hanging down, as we have said, and his shoulders drooping; and in
this melancholy guise, reached the office of Judge Rushton.
He found Mr. Roundjacket still driving away with his pen, only
stopping at intervals to flourish his ruler, or to cast an
affectionate glance upon the MS. of his great poem, which, gracefully
tied with red tape arranged in a magnificent bow, lay by him on the
desk.
On Verty's entrance the poet raised his head, and looked at him
curiously.
"Well, my fine fellow," he said, "what luck in your wooing? You look
as wo-begone as the individual who drew Priam's curtain at the dead of
night. Come! my young savage, why are you so sad?"
Verty sat down, murmuring something.
"Speak out!" said Mr. Roundjacket, wiping his pen.
"I'm not very sad," Verty replied, looking perfectly
disconsolate--"what made you think so, Mr. Roundjacket?"
"Your physiognomy, my young friend. Are you happy with such a face as
that?'
"Such a face?"
"Yes; I tell you that you look as if you had just parted with all your
hopes--as if some adverse fate had deprived you of the privilege of
living in this temple of Thespis and the muses. You could not look
more doleful if I had threatened never to read any more of my great
poem to you."
"Couldn't?" said Verty, listlessly.
"No."
The young man only replied with a sigh.
"There it is--you are groaning. Come; have you quarreled with your
mistress?"
Verty colored, and his head sank.
"Please don't ask me, sir," he said; "I have not been very happy
to-day--everything has gone wrong. I had better get to my work,
sir,--I may forget it."
And with a look of profound discouragement, which seemed to be
reflected in the sympathizing face of Longears, who had stretched
himself at his master's feet and now lay gazing at him, Verty opened
the record he had been copying, and began to write.
Roundjacket looked at him for a moment in silence, and then, with
an expression of affection and pity, which made his grotesque face
absolutely handsome, muttered something to himself, and followed
Verty's example.
When Roundjacket commenced writing, he did so with the regularity
and accuracy of a machine which is set in motion by the turning of
a crank, and goes on until it is stopped. This was the case on the
present occasion, and Verty seemed as earnestly engaged in his own
particular task. But appearances are deceptive--Indian nature will not
take the curb like Anglo-Saxon--and a glance over Verty's shoulders
will reveal the species of occupation which he became engaged in after
finishing ten lines of the law paper.
He was tracing with melancholy interest a picture upon the sheet
beneath his pen; and this was a lovely little design of a young girl,
with smiling lips, kind, tender eyes, and cheeks which were round and
beautiful with mirth. With a stroke of the pen Verty added the waving
hair, brushed back _a la Pompadour_ the foam of lace around the neck,
and the golden drop in the little ear. Redbud looked at you from the
paper, with her modest eyes and smiles--and for a moment Verty gazed
at the creation of his pencil, sighing mournfully.
Then, with a deeper sigh than before, he drew beneath this another
sketch--the same head, but very different. The eyes now were cold
and half closed--the lips were close together, and seemed almost
disdainful--and as the gentle bending forward in the first design was
full of pleasant _abandon_ and graceful kindness, so the head in the
present sketch had that erect and frigid carriage which indicates
displeasure.
Verty covered his eyes with his hand, and leaning down upon the desk,
was silent and motionless, except that a stifled sigh would at times
issue from his lips, a sad heaving of his breast indicate the nature
of his thoughts.
Longears rose, and coming to his master, wagged his tail, and asked,
with his mute but intelligent glance, what had happened.
Verty felt the dog lick his hand, and rose from his recumbent posture.
"Yes, yes, Longears," he murmured, "I can't help showing it--even you
know that I am not happy."
And with listless hands he took up the old violin which lay upon
his desk and touched the strings. The sound died away in trembling
waves--Roundjacket continued writing.
Verty, without appearing to be conscious of what he was doing, took
the bow of the violin, and placing the instrument upon his shoulder,
leaned his ear down to it, and drew the hair over the strings. A long,
sad monotone floated through the room.
Roundjacket wrote on.
Verty, with his eyes fixed on vacancy, his lips sorrowfully listless,
his frame drooping more and more, began to play a low, sad air, which
sounded like a sigh.
Roundjacket raised his head, and looked at the musician.
Verty leaned more and more upon his instrument, listening to it as
to some one speaking to him, his eyes closed, his bosom heaving, his
under lip compressed sorrowfully as he dreamed.
Roundjacket was just about to call upon Verty to cease his savage and
outrageous conduct, or Mr. Rushton, who was in the other room, would
soon issue forth and revenge such a dreadful violation of law office
propriety, when the door of that gentleman's sanctum opened, and he
appeared upon the threshold.
But far from bearing any resemblance to the picture of the poet's
imagination--instead of standing mute with rage, and annihilating the
musician with a horrible scowl from beneath his shaggy and frowning
brows, Mr. Rushton presented a perfect picture of softness and
emotion. His head bending forward, his eyes half closed and filled
with an imperceptible mist, his whole manner quiet, and sad, and
subdued, he seemed to hang upon the long-drawn sighing of the violin,
and take a mournful pleasure in its utterances.
Verty's hand passed more and more slowly backward and forward--the
music became still more affecting, and passing from thoughtfulness
to sadness, and from sadness to passionate regret, it died away in a
wail.
He felt a hand upon his shoulder, and turned round. Mr. Rushton, with
moist eyes and trembling lips, was gazing at him.
"Do not play that any more, young man," he said, in a low tone, "it
distresses me."
"Distresses you, sir?" said Verty.
"Yes."
"What? 'Lullaby?'"
"Yes," muttered the lawyer.
Verty's sad eyes inquired the meaning of so singular a fact, but Mr.
Rushton did not indulge this curiosity.
"Enough," he said, with more calmness, as he turned away, "it is not
proper for you to play the violin here in business hours; but above
all, never again play that music--I cannot endure the memories it
arouses--enough."
And retiring slowly, Mr. Rushton disappeared, closing the door of his
room behind him.
Verty followed him with his eyes until he was no longer visible, then
turned toward Mr. Roundjacket for an explanation. That gentleman
seemed to understand this mute interrogation, but only shook his head.
Therefore Verty returned to his work, sadly laying aside the two
sketches of Redbud, and selecting another sheet to copy the record
upon. By the time he had finished one page, Mr. Roundjacket rose from
his desk, stretched himself, and announced that office hours were
over, and he would seek his surburban cottage, where this gentleman
lived in bachelor misery. Verty said he was tired, too; and before
long had told Mr. Roundjacket good-bye, and mounted Cloud.
With Longears at his side, soberly walking in imitation of the horse,
Verty went along toward his home in the hills, gazing upon the golden
west, and thinking still of Redbud.