14. CHAPTER XIV.
THE THIRTEENTH OF OCTOBER.
Just as the boy left the surburban residence of Miss Redbud,
Mr. Roundjacket, who had been writing at his old dusty desk for
an hour, raised his head, hearing a knock at the door.
He thrust the pen he had been using behind his ear, and bade
the intruder “come in!”
One of the clients of Mr. Rushton made his appearance, and
inquired for that gentleman. Mr. Roundjacket said that Mr.
Rushton was “within,” and rose to go and summon him, the
visitor meanwhile having seated himself.
Mr. Roundjacket tapped at the door of Mr. Rushton's sanctum,
but received no answer. He tapped louder—no reply. Somewhat
irate at this, he kicked the door, and at the same moment
opened it, preparing himself for the encounter.
An unusual sight awaited him.
Seated at his old circular table, covered with papers and
books, Mr. Rushton seemed perfectly ignorant of his presence, as
he had not heard the noise of the kick. His head resting upon
his hand, the forehead drooping, the eyes half closed, the bosom
shaken by piteous sighs, and the whole person full of languor and
grief, no one would have recognized the rough, bearish Lawyer
Rushton, or believed that there could be anything in common
between him and the individual sitting at the table, so bowed
down with sorrow.
Before him lay a little book, which he looked at through a
mist of tears.
Roundjacket touched him on the shoulder, with a glance of
wonder, and said:—
“You are sick, sir!—Mr. Rushton, sir!—there is somebody to
see you.”
In truth, the honest fellow could searcely stammer out these
broken words; and when Mr. Rushton, slowly returning to a
consciousness of his whereabouts, raised his sorrowful eyes,
Roundjacket looked at him with profound commiseration and
sympathy.
“You have forgotten,” said Mr. Rushton, in a low, broken
voice, his pale lips trembling as he spoke,—“you don't keep
account of the days as I do, Roundjacket.”
“The days—I—”
“Yes, yes; it is natural for you to wonder at all this,” said
the weary looking man, closing the book, and locking it up in a
secret drawer of the table; “let us dismiss the matter. Did you
say any one wanted me? Yes, I can attend to business—my
mind is quite clear—I am ready—I will see them now, Roundjacket.”
And the head of the lawyer fell upon his arm, his bosom
shaken with sobs.
Roundjacket looked at him no longer with so much surprise—
he had understood all.
“Yes, yes, sir—I had forgotten” he muttered, “this is the
13th of October.”
Mr. Rushton groaned.
Roundjacket was silent for a moment, looking at his friend
with deep sympathy.
“I don't wonder now at your feelings, sir,” he said, “and I
am sorry I intruded on—”
“No, no - you are a good friend,” murmured the lawyer,
growing calmer, “you will understand my feelings, and not think
them strange. I am nearly over it now; it must come—oh! I
am very wretched! Oh! Anne! my child, my child!”
And allowing his head to fall again, the rough, boorish man
cried like a child, spite of the most violent efforts to regain his
composure and master his emotion.
“Go,” he said, in a low, broken voice, making a movement
with his hand, “I was wrong—I cannot see any one to-day—I
must be alone.”
Roundjacket hesitated; moved dubiously from, then toward
the lawyer; finally he seemed to have made up his mind, and
going out he closed the door slowly behind him. As he did so,
the key turned in the lock, and a stifled moan died away in the
inner chamber.
“Mr. Rushton is unwell, and can't transact business to-day,”
said Roundjacket, softly, for he was thinking of the poor afflicted
heart “within;” then he added, “you may call to-morrow, sir.”
The visitor went away, wondering at “Judge Rushton” being
sick; such a thing had never before occurred in the recollection
of the “oldest inhabitant.” Just as he had disappeared, the door
re-opened, and Verty made his appearance.
“I'm very sorry, Mr. Roundjacket,” said the boy, “for having
run off so this morning, but you see I was after that pigeon. I'll
stay till night, though, and work harder, and then it will be right
again.”
Instead of a very solemn and severe rebuke, Verty was surprised
to hear Mr. Roundjacket say, in a low and thoughtful
voice:—
“You need not work any to-day, Verty—you can go home if
you like. Mr. Rushton is unwell, and wishes to be quiet.”
“Unwell?” said the boy, “you don't mean sick?”
“Not precisely, but indisposed.”
“I will go and see him,” said the boy, moving towards the
door. Mr. Roundjacket interposed with his ruler, managing that
instrument pretty much as a marshal does his baton.
“No,” he said, “that is impossible, young man. But you
need give youself no uneasiness—Mr. Rushton is only a little
out of sorts. You will find him quite well to-morrow. Return
home now. There is your rifle.”
These words were uttered with so much decision, that Verty
made no further objection.
“Well,” he said, with his thoughtful smile, “I'm very sorry
Mr. Rushton is sick, but I'm glad I can go and hunt some for
ma mere. Must I go now, sir?”
“Yes, and come early to-morrow, there's some work; and
besides, your measure for the clothes must be taken.”
Verty nodded indifferently, and taking up his rifle, went out,
followed by Longears.
