The Last of the Foresters Part 34

CHAPTER XXVIII.

CONSEQUENCES OF MISS SALLIANNA'S Pa.s.sION FOR VERTY.

When Verty made his appearance at the office in Winchester, on the morning of the day which followed immediately the events we have just related, Roundjacket received him with a mysterious smile, and with an expression of eye, particularly, which seemed to suggest the most profound secrecy and confidence. Roundjacket did not say anything, but his smile was full of meaning.

Verty, however, failed to comprehend;--even paid no attention to his poetical friend, when that gentleman put his hand in his breast-pocket, and half-drew something therefrom, looking at Verty.

The young man was too much absorbed in gloomy thought to observe these manoeuvres; and, besides, we must not lose sight of the fact, that he was an Indian, and did not understand hints and intimations as well as civilized individuals.

Roundjacket was forced, at last, to clear his throat and speak.

"Hem!" observed the poet.

"Sir?" said Verty, for the tone of Roundjacket's observation was such as to convey the impression that he was about to speak.

"I've got something for you, my dear fellow," said the poet.

"Have you, sir?"

"Yes; now guess what it is."

"I don't think I could."

"What do you imagine it can be?"

Verty shook his head, and leaned upon his desk.

"It has some connection with the subject of numerous conversations we have held," said Roundjacket, persuasively, waving backward and forward the ruler which he had taken up abstractedly, and as he did so, indulging in a veiled and confidential smile; "now you can guess--can't you?"

"I think not, sir."

"Why, what have we been talking about lately?"

"Law."

"No, sir!"

"Havn't we?"

"By no means--that is to say, there is a still more interesting subject, my dear young savage, than even law."

"Oh, I know now--"

"Ah--!"

"It is poetry."

"Bah!" observed the poet; "you're out yet. But who knows? Your guess may be correct. It may be poetry."

"What, sir?"

"This letter for you, from a lady," said Roundjacket, smiling, and drawing from his pocket an elegantly folded billet.

Verty rose quickly.

"A letter for me, sir!" he said, blushing.

"Yes; not from a great distance though," Roundjacket replied, with a sly chuckle; "see here; the post-mark is the 'Bower of Nature.'"

Verty extended his hand abruptly, his lips open, his countenance glowing.

"Oh, give it to me, sir!"

Roundjacket chuckled more than ever, and handing it to the young man, said:

"An African of small dimensions brought it this morning, and said no answer was required--doubtless, therefore, it is _not_ a love-letter, the writers of which are well-known to appreciate replies. Hey! what's the matter, my friend?"

This exclamation was called forth by the sudden and extraordinary change in Verty's physiognomy. As we have said, the young man had received the letter with a radiant flush, and a brilliant flash of his fine eye; and thus the reader will easily comprehend, when we inform him, that Verty imagined the letter to be from Redbud. Redbud was his one thought, the only image in his mind, and Roundjacket's words, "post-mark, the Bower of Nature," had overwhelmed him with the blissful expectation of a note from Redbud, with loving words of explanation in it, recalling him, making him once more happy. He tore open the letter, which was simply directed to "Mr. Verty, at Judge Rushton's office," and found his dream dispelled. Alas! the name, at the foot of the ma.n.u.script, was not "Redbud"--it was "Sallianna!"

And so, when the young man's hopes were overturned, the bright flash of his clear eye was veiled in mist again, and his hand fell, with a gesture of discouragement, which Roundjacket found no difficulty in understanding.

Verty's face drooped upon his hand, and with the other hand, which held the letter, hanging down at the side of his chair, he sighed profoundly. He remained thus, buried in thought, for some time, Roundjacket gazing at him in silence. He was aroused by something pulling at the letter, which turned to be Longears, who was biting Miss Sallianna's epistle in a literary way, and this aroused him. He saw Roundjacket looking at him.

"Ah--ah!" said that gentleman, "it seems, young man, that the letter is not to your taste."

Verty sighed.

"I hav'nt read it," he said.

"How then--?"

"It's not from Redbud."

Roundjacket chuckled.

"I begin to understand now why your face changed so abruptly when you recognized the handwriting, Mr. Verty," said the poet; gently brandishing the ruler, and directing imaginary orchestras; "you expected a note from your friend, Miss Redbud--horrid habit you have, that of cutting off the Miss--and now you are unhappy."

"Yes--unhappy," Verty said, leaning his head on his wrist.

"Who's the letter from?"

"It's marked private and confidential, sir; I ought not to tell you--ought I."

"No, sir, by no means," said Roundjacket; "I would'nt listen to it for a bag of doubloons. But you should read it."

"I will, sir," Verty said, sighing.