The Last of the Foresters Part 82

"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 circ.u.mstances, 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 a.s.sumed 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 gla.s.s 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 pa.s.sing--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 a.s.sumption 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.