The Last of the Foresters Part 81

"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," a.s.sented 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 ma.n.u.script 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 circ.u.mstance 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!"