Читать книгу The Last of the Foresters - John Esten Cooke - Страница 21

Three days after the events which we have just related, or rather after the introduction of the reader to the three localities with which our brief history will concern itself, Mr. Roundjacket was sitting on his high stool in one corner of the office, preparing the papers in a friendly suit in Chancery.

It was about ten o'clock in the morning, and Verty, who rode home every evening, had just come in and had taken his seat at the desk in the corner appropriated to him, beneath the small dingy window, looking out upon the yard. Longears was stretched at his feet.

Verty's face was more dreamy and thoughtful than ever. The dim smile still dwelt upon his lips, and though his countenance had as much of the forest Indian character as ever, there was a languor about the drooping eyelids, with their long lashes, and a stoop in the usually erect neck, which betrayed the existence in the boy's mind of some ever-present sadness. His costume was just what it had always been—moccasins, deerskin leggings, a shaggy forest paletot, and fringed leather gauntlets, which now lay by him near his white fur hat. He had not changed by becoming a lawyer's clerk; but, on the contrary, grown more wild, apparently from the very contrast between his forest appearance and the dingy office.

At times Verty would stretch out his hand, and, taking his cedar bow from a chair, bend it thoughtfully, and utter the low Indian murmur, which has been represented by the letters, "ough" so unsuccessfully; then he would allow the weapon to slide from his nerveless hand—his head would droop—the dim dreamy smile would light up his features for an instant, and he would lean upon the desk and ponder—his countenance half enveloped by the long tangled chestnut hair which still flowed upon his shoulders in wild luxuriance.

Tired of thinking at last, Verty sighed, and took up his pen. For some moments it glided slowly over the law parchment, and the contortions of Verty's face betrayed the terrible effort necessary for him to make in copying. Then his eyes no longer sought the paper to be transcribed—his face lit up for a moment, and his pen moved faster. Finally, he rose erect, and surveyed the sheet, which he had been writing upon, with great interest.

Just beneath the words, "messuages, tenements, water courses, and all that doth thereunto pertain," Verty had made a charming sketch of a wild-fowl, with expanded wings, falling from the empyrean, with an arrow through his breast.

For some moments, the drawing afforded Verty much gratification: it finally, however, lost its interest, and the boy leaned his head upon his hand, and gazed through the window upon the waving trees which overshadowed the rear of the building.

Then his eyes slowly drooped—the dusky lashes moved tremulously—the head declined—and in five minutes Verty was asleep, resting his forehead on his folded arms.

The office was disturbed, for the next quarter of an hour, by no sound but the rapid scratching of Mr. Roundjacket's pen, which glided over the paper at a tremendous rate, and did terrible execution among plaintiffs, executors, administrators, and assigns.

At the end of that time, Mr. Roundjacket raised his head, uttered a prolonged whistle, and, wiping his pen upon the sleeve of his old office coat, which bore a striking resemblance to the gaberdine of a beggar, addressed himself to speech—

"Now, that was not wanted till to-morrow evening," he observed, confidentially, to the pigeon-holes; "but, to-morrow evening, I may be paying my addresses to some angelic lady, or be engaged upon my epic. I have done well; it is true philosophy to 'make assurance doubly sure, and to take a bond of fate.' Now for a revisal of that last stanza; and, I think, I'll read it aloud to that young cub, as Rushton calls him. No doubt his forest character, primitive and poetical, will cause him to appreciate its beauties. Hallo!"

Verty replied by a snore.

"What, asleep!" cried Mr. Roundjacket. "Now, you young sluggard! do you mean to say that the atmosphere of this mansion, this temple of Chancery, is not enlivening, sprightly, and anti-slumbrous? Ho, there! do you presume to fall asleep over that beautiful and entertaining conveyance, you young savage! Wake up!"

And Mr. Roundjacket hurled his ruler at Verty's desk, with the accuracy of an experienced hand. The ruler came down with a crash, and aroused the sleeper. Longears also started erect, looked around, and then laid down again.

"Ah!" murmured Verty, who woke like a bird upon the boughs, "what was that, ma mere?"

"There's his outlandish lingo—Delaware or Shawnee, I have no doubt!" said Mr. Roundjacket.

Verty rose erect.

"Was I asleep? he said, smiling.

"I think you were."

"This place makes me go to sleep," said the boy. "How dull it is!"

"Dull! do you call this office dull? No, sir, as long as I am here this place is sprightly and even poetical."

"Anan?" said Verty.

"Which means, in Iroquois or some barbarous language, that you don't understand," replied Mr. Roundjacket. "Listen, then, young man, I mean that the divine spirit of poesy dwells here—that nothing, therefore, is dull or wearisome about this mansion—that all is lively and inspiring. Trust me, my dear young friend, it was copying that miserable deed which put you to sleep, and I can easily understand how that happened. The said indenture was written by the within."

And Mr. Roundjacket pointed toward the sanctum of Mr. Rushton.

Verty only smiled.

Mr. Roundjacket descended from his stool, and cast his eyes upon the paper.

"What!" he cried, "you made that picture! How, sir Upon my word, young man, you are in a bad way. The youngster who stops to make designs upon a copy of a deed in a law office, is on the high-road to the gallows. It is an enormity, sir—horrible! dreadful!"

"What the devil are you shouting about there!" cried the voice of Mr. Rushton, angrily. And opening the door between the two rooms, the shaggy-headed gentleman appeared upon the threshold.

Roundjacket turned over the sheet of paper upon which Verty's design had been made; and then turned to reply to the words addressed to him.

"I am using my privilege to correct this youngster," he replied, with a flourish of his ruler, apparently designed to impress the shaggy head with the idea that he, Mr. Roundjacket, would not permit any infringement of his rights and privileges.

"You are, are you?" said Mr. Rushton.

"Yes, sir," replied the clerk.

"And what do you find to correct in Mr. Verty?"

"Many things."

"Specify."

"With pleasure."

And Mr. Roundjacket, inserting one thumb into the pocket of his long waistcoat, pointed with the ruler to Verty's costume.

"Do you call that a proper dress for a lawyer's clerk?" he said. "Is the profession to be disgraced by the entrance of a bear, a savage, a wild boy of the woods, who resembles a catamountain? Answer that, sir. Look at those leggins!"

And Mr. Roundjacket indicated the garments which reached to Verty's knees, with the end of his ruler.

"Well," said Mr. Rush ton, smiling, "I should think you might have them changed without troubling me, Verty."

The boy raised his head with a smile.

"How would you like a new suit of clothes?"

"I don't want any, sir."

"But these won't do."

"Why not, sir?"

"They're too primitive, you cub. Clothes, sir, are the essence of human society, and a man is known by his shell. If you wish to reap those numerous advantages for your mother, you must be re-habited."

"Anan?" said Verty.

"I mean you must dress like a Christian—get new clothes."

Verty smiled.

"You are willing, I suppose?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very well—that does honor to your filial affection, you handsome savage. Roundjacket, take this young man up to O'Brallaghan's to-morrow, and have his measure taken."

"With pleasure," said Mr. Roundjacket, who had evidently taken a great liking to Verty; "what sort of clothes?"

Mr. Rushton looked at the subject of the conversation. Verty was gazing through the window and dreaming. A smile passed over the grim features, and a sort of sigh issued from the compressed lips of the lawyer.

"Three suits, Roundjacket," said Mr. Rushton; "one common, another rich, another as elegant as O'Brallaghan can make. I really believe this boy is going to amuse me."

"A most remarkable youth," observed the clerk, "and draws sketches with astonishing ease."

"Ah?"

"Don't you, young man?"

Verty turned round, and interrogated Mr. Roundjacket with a look. He had evidently not heard the question.

"There, you are dreaming again, sir," said Mr. Rushton; "this will never do—come, write away. The idleness of this world is revolting!" he growled, returning to his sanctum, and closing the door with a bang.

Roundjacket pointed after him with his ruler.

"An odd fish, young man," he said, shaking his head; "take care not to make him your model. If you want a proper model to imitate, you need not go far. Modesty, which is my weakness, prevents my saying more."

And Mr. Roundjacket cleared his throat, and looked dignified.

"It was my purpose, before this interruption," he said, after a pause of some moments, "to read to you some portions of a work which will, probably, be spoken of extensively by the world."

And Mr. Roundjacket paused. Verty also was silent.

"All countries," said the poetical gentleman, with a preparatory flourish of his ruler, "have possessed localities famous in the history of literature:—as Athens, in Greece; the Island of Scio, where Homer first saw the light; and Stratford, where Shakspeare appeared. Now, sir, reasoning from analogy, which is the finest possible way of reasoning, we must conclude that Virginia has such a locality, and I leave you to decide the probable situation of it. It cannot be Williamsburg, the seat of government, for that place is given up to the vanity of life—to balls and horseraces, meetings of the House of Burgesses, and other varieties. Williamsburg, sir, cannot become famous—it is too near the sea. Then there is the thriving village of Richmond, to which they speak of moving the seat of government. I suppose, sir, that no one asserts that Richmond is ever likely to produce any remarkable men. Mark me, sir, that place will never be famous—it is too far from the sea. Now, what is the irresistible conclusion we arrive at from a view of these incontestable facts," observed Mr. Roundjacket, endeavoring to catch Verty's wandering eye; "why, my young friend, that Winchester here is to be the celebrated locality—that the great poet of Virginia will here arise! Is it not plain, sir?"