University of Virginia Library

57. CHAPTER LVII.
CONTAINS AN EXTRAORDINARY DISCLOSURE.

Roundjacket was clad in a handsome dressing-gown, and was
reading, or essaying to read—for he had the rheumatism in his
right shoulder—a roll of manuscript. Beside him lay a ruler,
which he grasped, and made a movement of hospitable reception
with, as Verty came in.

“Welcome, welcome, my young friend,” said Roundjacket;
“you see me laid up, sir.”

“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,” assented 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 manuscript 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 circumstance 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 anybody 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!”

“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 circumstances, 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 assumed 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 glass 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
passing—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 assumption 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.

Verty gazed after it.

“I say, Mr. Roundjacket,” he observed, at length, “how
funny it is for Miss Lavinia to come to see you!”

“Hum!—hum!—we are—hum—ah—! The fact is, my dear
Verty!” cried Mr. Roundjacket, rising, and limping through a
pas seul, in spite of his rheumatism—“the fact is, I have been
acting the most miserable and deceptive way to you for the last
hour. Yes, my dear boy! I am ashamed of myself! Carried
away by the pride of opinion, and that fondness which bachelor's
have for boasting, I have been deceiving you! But it never
shall be said that Robert Roundjacket refused the amplest reparation.
My reparation, my good Verty, is taking you into my
confidence. The fact is—yes, the fact really is—as aforesaid, or
rather as not aforesaid, myself and the pleasing Miss Lavinia are
to be married before very long! Don't reply, sir! I know my
guilt—but you might have known I was jesting. You must have
suspected, from my frequent visits to Apple Orchard—hum—
hum—well, well, sir; it's out now, and I've made a clean breast
of it, and you're not to speak of it! I am tired of bachelordom,
sir, and am going to change!”

With these words, Mr. Roundjacket executed a pirouette upon
his rheumatic leg, which caused him to fall back in his chair,
making the most extraordinary faces, which we can compare to
nothing but the contortions of a child who bites a crab-apple by
mistake.

The twinge soon spent its force, however; and then Mr.
Roundjacket and Verty resumed their colloquy—after which,
Verty rose and took his leave, smiling and laughing to himself,
at times.

He had reason. Miss Lavinia, who had denounced wife-hunters,
was about to espouse Mr. Roundjacket, who had declared
matrimony the most miserable of mortal conditions; all which
is calculated to raise our opinion of the consistency of human
nature in a most wonderful degree.