University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.
MR. ROUNDJACKET MAKES HIMSELF AGREEABLE.

On the morning after the scenes which we have just related,
Mr. Roundjacket was seated on his tall three-legged stool, holding
in his left hand the MS. of his poem, and brandishing in his
right the favorite instrument of his eloquence, when, chancing to
raise his eyes, he saw through the window an approaching carriage,
which carriage had evidently conceived the design of
drawing up at the door of Mr. Rushton's office.

A single glance showed Mr. Roundjacket that this carriage
contained a lady; a second look told him that the lady was
Miss Lavinia.

We might very rationally suppose that the great poet, absorbed
in the delights of poesy, and thus dead to the outer world,
would have continued his recitation, and permitted such real,
sublunary things as visitors to pass unheeded. But such a conclusion
would not indicate a very profound acquaintance with the
character of Mr. Roundjacket—the most chivalric and gallant
of cavaliers.

Instead of going on with his poem, he hastily rolled up the
manuscript, thrust it into his desk, and hastening to a small
cracked mirror, which hung over the fire-place, there commenced
arranging his somewhat disordered locks and apparel, with serupulous
care.

As he finished this hasty toilette, the Apple Orchard carriage
drew up and stopped at the door, and Mr. Roundjacket rushed
forth.

Then any body who would have taken the trouble to look,
might have seen a gentleman opening the door of a chariot with
profuse bows, and smiles, and graceful contortions; and then a
lady accepting the proffered hand with solemn courtesy; and
then Mr. Roundjacket might have been observed leading the
lady elegantly into the office.

“A delightful morning—a very delightful morning, madam,”
said Mr. Roundjacket.

“Yes, sir,” said Miss Lavinia, solemnly.

“And you look in the best of health and spirits, madam.”

“Thank you, sir; I feel very well, and I am glad to think that
you are equally blest.”

“Blest!” said Mr. Roundjacket; “since you came, madam,
that may be very truly said.”

A ghost of a smile lit, so to speak, upon Miss Lavinia's face,
and then flew away. It was very plain that this inveterate man-hater
had not closed her ears entirely to the voice of her enemy.

Roundjacket saw the impression he had made, and followed it
up by gazing with admiring delight upon his visitor;—whose
countenance, as soon as the solemnity was forgotten, did not by
any means repel.

“It is a very great happiness,” said the cavalier, seating himself
on his stool, and, from habit, brandishing his ruler around
Miss Lavinia's head,—“it is a great happiness, madam, when we
poor professional slaves have the pleasure to see one of the divine
sex—one of the ladies of creation, if I may use the phrase. Lawbooks
and papers are—ahem!—very—yes, exceedingly—”

“Dull?” suggested the lady, fanning herself with a measured
movement of the hand.

“Oh! worse, worse! These objects, madam, extinguish all
poetry, and gallantry, and elevated feeling in our unhappy
breasts.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes, my dear madam, and after a while we become so dead

to all that is beautiful and charming in existence”—that was
from Mr. Roundjacket's poem—“that we are incapable even of
appreciating the delightful society of the fairest and most exquisite
of the opposite sex.”

Miss Lavinia shook her head with a ghostly smile.

“I'm afraid you are very gallant, Mr. Roundjacket.”

“I, madam? no, no; I am the coldest and most prosaic of
men.”

“But your poem?”

“You have heard of that?”

“Yes, indeed, sir.”

“Well, madam, that is but another proof of the fact which I
assert.”

“How, indeed?”

“It is on the prosaic and repulsive subject of the Certiorari.”

And Mr. Roundjacket smiled after such a fashion, that it was
not difficult to perceive the small amount of sincerity in this
declaration.

Miss Lavinia looked puzzled, and fanned herself more solemnly
than ever.

“The Certiorari, did you say, sir?” she asked.

“Yes, madam—one of our legal proceedings; and if you are
really curious, I will read a portion of my unworthy poem to
you—ahem!—”

As Mr. Roundjacket spoke, an overturned chair in the adjoining
room indicated that the occupant of the apartment had been
disturbed by the noise, and was about to oppose the invasion of
his rights.

Roundjacket no sooner heard this, than he restored the poem
to his desk, with a sigh, and said:

“But you, no doubt, came on business, madam—I delay you—
Mr. Rushton—”

At the same moment the door of Mr. Rushton's room opened,
and that gentleman made his appearance, shaggy and irate—a

frown upon his brow, and a man-eating expression on his compressed
lips.

The sight of Miss Lavinia slightly removed the wrathful expression,
and Mr. Rushton contented himself with bestowing a
dreadful scowl on Roundjacket, which that gentleman returned,
and then counteracted by an amiable smile.

Miss Lavinia greeted the lawyer with grave dignity, and said she
had come in, in passing, to consult him about some little matters
which she wished him to arrange for her; and trusted that she
found him disengaged.

This was said with so much dignity, that Mr. Rushton could
not scowl, and so he invited Miss Lavinia to enter his sanctum,
politely leading the way.

The lady sailed after him—and the door closed.

No sooner had she disappeared, than Mr. Roundjacket seized
his ruler, for a moment abandoned, and proceeded to execute innumerable
flourishes toward the adjoining room, for what precise
purpose does not very accurately appear. In the middle of this
ceremony, however, and just as his reflections were about to shape
themselves into words, the front door opened, and Verty made
his appearance, joyful and smiling.

In his hand Verty carried his old battered violin; at his heels
stalked the grave and dignified Longears.

“Good morning, Mr. Roundjacket,” said Verty, smiling; “how
do you do to-day?”

“Moderate, moderate, young man,” said the gentleman
addressed; “you seem, however, to be at the summit of human
felicity.”

“Anan?”

“Don't you know what felicity means, you young savage?”

“No, sir.”

“It means bliss.”

Verty laughed.

“What is that?” he said.

Mr. Roundjacket flourished his ruler, indignantly.

“Astonishing how dull you are occasionally for such a bright
fellow,” he said; “but, after the fashion of all ignoramuses, and
as you don't know what that is, I declare you to be one after
the old fashion. You need illustration. Now, listen.”

Verty sat down tuning his violin, and looking at Mr. Roundjacket,
with a smile.

“Felicity and bliss are things which spring from poetry and
women; convertible terms, you savage, but often dissevered.
Suppose, now, you wrote a great poem, and read it to the lady
of your affections, and she said it was better than the Iliad of
Homer,—how would you feel, sir?”

“I don't know,” Verty said.

“You would feel happiness, sir.”

“I don't think I would understand her. Who was Iliad, and
what was Homer?”

Mr. Roundjacket flourished his ruler, despairingly.

“You'll never write a poem, and you'll never be in love!” he
said, with solemn emphasis.

“Oh, you are wrong!” said Verty, laying his violin on the
desk, and caressing Longears. “I think I'm in love now, Mr.
Roundjacket!”

“What?”

“I'm in love.”

“With whom?”

“Redbud,” said Verty.

Roundjacket looked at the young man.

“Redbud Summers?” he said.

Verty nodded.

Roundjacket's face was suddenly illuminated with a smile;
and he looked more intently still at Verty.

“Tell me all about it,” he said, with the interest of a lover
himself; “have you had any moonlight, any flowers, music, and
that sort of things?”

“Oh, yes! we had the flowers!” said Verty.

“Where?”

“At old Scowley's.”

“Who's he?” asked Mr. Roundjacket, staring.

“What!” cried Verty, “don't you know old Scowley?”

“No.”

“She's Redbud's school-master—I mean school-mistress, of
course; and Mr. Jinks goes to see Miss Sallianna.”

Roundjacket muttered: “Really, a very extraordinary young
man.”

Then he added, aloud—

“Why do you think you are in love with Redbud?”

“Because you told me all about it; and I think from what—”

Just as Verty was going on to explain, the door of Mr. Rushton's
room opened again, and Miss Lavinia came forth.

She nodded to Verty, and asked him how he was.

“I'm very well,” said the young man, “and I hope you are
too, Miss Lavinia. I saw your carriage at the door, and knew
you were in here. Oh! how tight your hair is curled!” he
added, laughing.

Miss Lavinia drew herself up.

“I reckon you are going to see Redbud,” said Verty.

Miss Lavinia looked intently at him.

“Yes,” she said.

“Give my love to her,” said the young man, “and tell her
I'm coming to see her very soon—just as quick as I can get off
from this dull old place.”

Which words were accompanied by a smile, directed toward
Roundjacket. As to Miss Lavinia, she stood aghast at Verty's
extraordinary communication, and for some moments could not
get words to express her feelings.

Finally she said, solemnly—

“How—have you been—”

“To see Redbud, ma'am?”

“Yes.”

“I've been once,” Verty said, “and I'm going again.”

Miss Lavinia's face assumed a dignified expression of reproof,
and she gazed at the young man in silence. This look, however,
was far from daunting him, and he returned it with the most
fascinating smile.

“The fact is, Miss Lavinia,” he added, “Redbud wants somebody
to talk to up there. Old Scowley, you know, is'nt agreeable,
at least, I should'nt think she was; and Miss Sallianna is all the
time, I reckon, with Mr. Jinks. I did'nt see any scholars with
Redbud; but there ARE some there, because you know Redbud's
pigeon had a paper round his neck, with some words on it, all
about how `Fanny' had given him to her; and so there's a
`Fanny' somewhere—don't you think so? But I forgot, you
don't know about the pigeon—do you?”

Miss Lavinia was completely astounded. “Old Scowley,”
“Mr. Jinks,” “pigeon,” “paper round his neck,” and “Fanny,”
—all these objects were inextricably mingled in her unfortunate
brain, and she could not disentangle them from each other, or
discover the least clue to the labyrinth. She, therefore, gazed at
Verty with more overwhelming dignity than ever, and not deigning
to make any reply to his rhapsody, sailed by with a stiff inclination
of the head, toward the door. But Verty was growing
gallant under Mr. Roundjacket's teaching. He rose with great
good humor, and accompanied Miss Lavinia to her carriage—he
upon one side, the gallant head clerk on the other—and politely
assisted the lady into her chariot, all the time smiling in a manner
which was pleasant to behold.

His last words, as the door closed and the chariot drove off,
were—

“Recollect, Miss Lavinia, please don't forget to give my love
to Redbud!”

Having impressed this important point upon Miss Lavinia,
Verty returned to the office, with the sighing Roundjacket, humming
one of his old Indian airs, and caressing Longears.