HOW VERTY DISCOVERED A PORTRAIT, AND WHAT ENSUED.
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.