CONTAINS AN EXTRAORDINARY DISCLOSURE.
Roundjacket was clad in a handsome dressing-gown, and was heading, or
essaying to read--for he had the rheumatism in his right shoulder--a
roll of manuscript. Beside him lay a ruler, which he grasped, and made
a movement of hospitable reception with, as Verty came in.
"Welcome, welcome, my young friend," said Roundjacket; "you see me
laid up, sir"
"You're not much sick, I hope, sir?" said Verty, taking the arm-chair,
which his host indicated.
"I am, sir--you are mistaken."
"I am very sorry."
"I thank you for your sympathy," said Roundjacket, running his fingers
through his straight hair; "I think, sir I mentioned, the other day,
that I expected to be laid up."
"Mentioned?"
"On the occasion, sir--"
"Oh, the paper!" said Verty, smiling; "you don't mean--"
"I mean everything," said Roundjacket; "I predicted, on that occasion,
that I expected to be laid up, and I am, sir."
This was adroit in Roundjacket. It was one of those skillful
equivocations, by means of which a man saves his character for
consistency and judgment, without forfeiting his character for truth.
"Well, it _was_ very bad," said Verty.
"Bad is not the word--abominable is the word--disgraceful is the
word!" cried Roundjacket, flourishing his ruler, and suddenly dropping
it as a twinge shot through his shoulder.
"Yes," assented Verty; "but talking about it will make you worse, sir.
Mr. Rushton asked me to come and see how you were this morning."
"Rushton is thanked," said Mr. Roundjacket,--"Rushton, my young
friend, has his good points--so have I, sir. I nursed him through a
seven month's fever--a perfect bear, sir; but he always is _that_.
Tell him that my arm--that I am nearly well, sir, and that nothing
but my incapacity to write, from--from--the state of my--feelings,"
proceeded Roundjacket, "should keep me at home. Observe, my young sir,
that this is no apology. Rushton and myself understand each other.
If I wish to go, I go--or stay away, I stay away. But I like the old
trap, sir, from habit, and rather like the bear himself, upon the
whole."
With this Mr. Roundjacket attempted to flourish his ruler, from habit,
and groaned.
"What's the matter, sir?" said Verty.
"I felt badly at the moment," said Roundjacket; "the fact is, I always
do feel badly when I'm confined thus. I have been trying to wile away
the time with the manuscript of my poem, sir--but it won't do. An
author, sir--mark me--never takes any pleasure in reading his own
writings."
"Ah?" said Verty.
"No, sir; the only proper course for authors is to marry."
"Indeed, sir?"
"Yes: and why, sir?" asked Mr. Roundjacket, evidently with the
intention of answering his own question.
"I don't know," replied Verty.
"Because, then, sir, the author may read his work to his wife, which
is a circumstance productive of great pleasure on both sides, you
perceive."
"It might be, but I think it might'nt, sir?" Verty said.
"How, might'nt be?"
"It might be very bad writing--not interesting--such as ought to be
burned, you know," said Verty.
"Hum!" replied Roundjacket, "there's something in that."
"If I was to write--but I could'nt--I don't think I would read it to
my wife--if I had a wife," added Verty.
And he sighed.
"A wife! you!" cried Mr. Roundjacket.
"Is there anything wrong in my wishing to marry?"
"Hum!--yes, sir; there is a certain amount of irrationality in _any_
body desiring such a thing--not in you especially."
"Oh, Mr. Roundjacket, you advised me only a few weeks ago to be always
_courting_ somebody--courting was the word; I recollect it."
"Hum!" repeated Roundjacket; "did I?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, sir, I suppose a man has a right to amend."
"Anan, sir?"
"I say that a man has a right to file an amended and supplemental
bill, stating new facts; but you don't understand. Perhaps, sir, I was
right, and perhaps I was wrong in that advice."
"But, Mr. Roundjacket," said Verty, sighing, "do you think I ought not
to marry because I am an Indian?"
This question of ethics evidently puzzled the poet.
"An Indian--hum--an Indian?" he said; "but are you an Indian, my young
friend?"
"You know _ma mere_ is, and I am her son."
Roundjacket shook his head.
"You are a Saxon, not an Aboriginal," he said; "and to tell you the
truth, your origin has been the great puzzle of my life, sir."
"Has it?"
"It has, indeed."
Verty looked thoughtful, and his dreamy gaze was fixed upon vacancy.
"It has troubled me a good deal lately," he said, "and I have been
thinking about it very often--since I came to live in Winchester, you
know. As long as I was in the woods, it did not come into my thoughts
much; the deer, and turkeys, and bears never asked," added Verty, with
a smile. "The travellers who stopped for a draught of water or a slice
of venison at _ma mere's_, never seemed to think anything about it,
or to like me the worse for not knowing where I came from. It's only
since I came into society here, sir, that I am troubled. It troubles
me very much," added Verty, his head drooping.
"Zounds!" cried Roundjacket, betrayed by his feelings into an oath,
"don't let it, Verty! You're a fine, honest fellow, whether you're an
Indian or not; and if I had a daughter--which," added Mr. Roundjacket,
"I'm glad to say I have not--you should have her for the asking. Who
cares! you're a gentleman, every inch of you!"
"Am I?" said Verty; "I'm glad to hear that. I thought I was'nt. And
so, sir, you don't think there's any objection to my marrying?"
"Hum!--the subject of marrying again!"
"Yes, sir," Verty replied, smiling; "I thought I'd marry Redbud."
"Who? that little Redbud!"
"Yes, sir," said Verty, "I think I'm in love with her."
Roundjacket stood amazed at such extraordinary simplicity.
"Sir," he said, "whether you are an Indian by blood or not, you
certainly are by nature. Extraordinary! who ever heard of a civilized
individual using such language!"
"But you know I am not civilized, sir."
Roundjacket shook his head.
"There's the objection," he said; "it is absolutely necessary that a
man who becomes the husband of a young lady should be civilized. But
let us dismiss this subject--Redbud! Excuse me, Mr. Verty, but you are
a very extraordinary young man;--to have you for--well, well. Don't
allude to that again."
"To what, sir?"
"To Redbud."
"Why, sir?"
"Because I have nothing to do with it. I can only give you my general
ideas on the subject of marriage. If you apply them, that is your
affair. A pretty thing on an oath of discovery," murmured the poetical
lawyer.
Verty had not heard the last words; he was reflecting. Roundjacket
watched him with a strange, wistful look, which had much kindness and
feeling in it.
"But why not marry?" said Verty, at last; "it seems to me sir, that
people ought to marry; I think I could find a great many good reasons
for it."
"Could you; how many?"
"A hundred, I suppose."
"And I could find a thousand against it," said Roundjacket. "Mark
me, sir--except under certain circumstances, a man is not the same
individual after marrying--he deteriorates."
"Anan?" said Verty.
"I mean, that in most cases it is for the worse--the change of
condition.
"How, sir?"
"Observe the married man," replied Roundjacket, philosophically--"see
his brow laden with cares, his important look, his solemn deportment.
None of the lightness and carelessness of the bachelor."
Verty nodded, as much as to say that there was a great deal of truth
in this much.
"Then observe the glance," continued Roundjacket, "if I may be
permitted to use a colloquialism which is coming into use--there
is not that brilliant cut of the eye, which you see in us young
fellows--it is all gone, sir!"
Verty smiled.
"The married man frequently delegates his soul to his better half,"
continued Roundjacket, rising with his subject; "all his independence
is gone. He can't live the life of a jolly bachelor, with pipe and
slippers, jovial friends and nocturnal suppers. The pipe is put out,
sir--the slippers run down--and the joyous laughter of his good
companions becomes only the recollection of dead merriment. He
progresses, sir--does the married man--from bad to worse; he lives in
a state of hen-pecked, snubbed, unnatural apprehension; he shrinks
from his shadow; trembles at every sound; and, in the majority of
cases, ends his miserable existence, sir, by hanging himself to the
bed-post!"
Having drawn this awful picture of the perils of matrimony, Mr.
Roundjacket paused and smiled. Verty looked puzzled.
"You seem to think it is very dreadful," said Verty; "are you afraid
of women, sir?"
"No, I am not, sir! But I might very rationally be."
"Anan?"
"Yes, sir, very reasonably; the fact is, you cannot be a lady's man,
and have any friends, without being talked about."
Verty nodded, with a simple look, which struck Mr. Roundjacket
forcibly.
"Only utter a polite speech, and smile, and wrap a lady's shawl around
her shoulders--flirt her fan, or caress her poodle--and, in public
estimation, you are gone," observed the poet; "the community
roll their eyes, shake their heads, and declare that it is very
obvious--that you are so far gone, as not even to pretend to conceal
it. Shocking, sir!"
And Roundjacket chuckled.
"It's very wrong," said Verty, shaking his head; "I wonder they do
it."
"Therefore, keep away from the ladies, my young friend," added
Roundjacket, with an elderly air--"that is the safest way. Get some
snug bachelor retreat like this, and be happy with your pipe. Imitate
me, in dressing-gown and slippers. So shall you be happy!"
Roundjacket chuckled again, and contemplated the cornice.
At the same moment a carriage was heard to stop before the door, and
the poet's eyes descended.
"I wonder who comes to see me," he said, "really now, in a chariot."
Verty, from his position, could see through the window.
"Why, it's the Apple Orchard chariot!" he said, "and there is Miss
Lavinia!"
At this announcement, Mr. Roundjacket's face assumed an expression of
dastardly guilt, and he avoided Verty's eye.
"Lavinia!" he murmured.
At the same moment a diminutive footman gave a rousing stroke with the
knocker, and delivered into the hands of the old woman, who opened the
door, a glass dish of delicacies such as are affected by sick persons.
With this came a message from the lady in the carriage, to the effect,
that her respects were presented to Mr. Roundjacket, whose sickness
she had heard of. Would he like the jelly?--she was passing--would be
every day. Please to send word if he was better.
While this message was being delivered, Roundjacket resembled an
individual caught in the act of felonious appropriation of his
neighbors' ewes. He did not look at Verty, but, with; a bad assumption
of nonchalance, bade the boy thank his mistress, and say that Mr.
Roundjacket would present his respects, in person, at Apple Orchard,
on the morrow. Would she excuse his not coming out?
This message was carried to the chariot, which soon afterwards drove
away.
Verty gazed after it.
"I say, Mr. Roundjacket," he observed, at length, "how funny it is for
Miss Lavinia to come to see you!"
"Hum!--hum!--we are--hum--ah--! The fact is, my dear Verty!" cried Mr.
Roundjacket, rising, and limping through a _pas seul_, in spite of his
rheumatism--"the fact is, I have been acting the most miserable and
deceptive way to you for the last hour. Yes, my dear boy! I am ashamed
of myself! Carried away by the pride of opinion, and that fondness
which bachelor's have for boasting, I have been deceiving you! But
it never shall be said that Robert Roundjacket refused the amplest
reparation. My reparation, my good Verty, is taking you into my
confidence. The fact is--yes, the fact really is--as aforesaid, or
rather as _not_ aforesaid, myself and the pleasing Miss Lavinia are to
be married before very long! Don't reply, sir! I know my guilt--but
you might have known I was jesting. You must have suspected, from my
frequent visits to Apple Orchard--hum--hum--well, well, sir; it's out
now, and I've made a clean breast of it, and you're not to speak of
it! I am tired of bachelordom, sir, and am going to change!"
With these words, Mr. Roundjacket executed a pirouette upon his
rheumatic leg, which caused him to fall back in his chair, making the
most extraordinary faces, which we can compare to nothing but the
contortions of a child who bites a crab-apple by mistake.
The twinge soon spent its force, however; and then Mr. Roundjacket and
Verty resumed their colloquy--after which, Verty rose and took his
leave, smiling and laughing to himself, at times.
He had reason. Miss Lavinia, who had denounced wife-hunters, was
about to espouse Mr. Roundjacket, who had declared matrimony the most
miserable of mortal conditions; all which is calculated to raise our
opinion of the consistency of human nature in a most wonderful degree.