The Last of the Foresters Part 8

We may understand the mortification of the great writer; the _irritable genus_ had in him no unfit representative, thus far at least. He caught Verty by the shoulder and shook him.

"Wake up, you young savage!" he cried, "sleeping when I am reading to you; rouse! rouse! or by the immortal G.o.ds I'll commit an a.s.sault and battery upon your barbarous person! Savage! barbarian! monster!"

Suddenly Mr. Roundjacket heard a hoa.r.s.e growl, and something like a row of glittering steel knives attracted his attention in the direction of his legs. This phenomenon was caused by the opening of Longears' huge mouth--that intelligent animal having espoused the cause of his master, so rudely a.s.saulted, and prepared for instant battle.

Fortunately, Verty woke up before the combat commenced; and seeing the hound standing in a threatening att.i.tude, he ordered him to lie down.

Longears obeyed with great alacrity, and was soon dozing again.

Then commenced, on the part of Mr. Roundjacket, an eloquent and animated remonstrance with Verty on the impropriety of that proceeding which he had just been guilty of. It was unfeeling, and barbarous, and unheard of, the poet observed, and but one thing induced him to pardon it--the wild bringing up of the young man, which naturally rendered him incapable of appreciating a great work of art.

Verty explained that he had been hunting throughout the preceding night--setting traps, and tramping over hill and through dale--and thus he had been overcome by drowsiness. He smiled with great good nature upon Mr. Roundjacket, as he uttered this simple excuse, and so winning was the careless suns.h.i.+ne of his countenance, that honest Roundjacket, uttering an expiring grumble, declared that nothing was more natural than his drowsiness. In future, he said, he would select those seasons when his--Verty's--senses were bright and wide-awake; and he begged the young man not to fear a repet.i.tion of what he might have heard--there were fifteen more cantos, all of which he would read, slowly and carefully explaining, as he went along, any difficulties.

Verty received this announcement with great good humor, and then began tracing over his paper, listlessly, the word "Redbud." That word had been the key-note of his mind throughout the morning--that was the real secret of his abstraction.

Miss Lavinia had informed him on that morning, when she had dismissed him from Apple Orchard, that Redbud was going away for the purpose of being educated; and that he, Verty, would act very incorrectly if he asked any one whither Redbud was going. Thus the boy had been rendered gloomy and sad--he had wandered about Apple Orchard, never daring to ask whither the young girl had gone--and so, in one of his wanderings, had encountered Mr. Rushton, who indeed was seeking him. He had easily yielded to the representations of that gentleman, when he a.s.sured him that he ought to apply his mind to something in order to provide for all the wants of his Indian mother--and this scheme was all the more attractive, as the neighborhood of Apple Orchard, to which his steps ever wandered, occasioned him more sadness than he had ever felt before. Redbud was gone--why should he go near the place again? The suns.h.i.+ne had left it--he had better seek new scenes, and try what effect they would have.

Therefore was it that Verty had become a lawyer's clerk; and it was the recollection of these causes of sadness which had made the boy so dull and languid.

Without Redbud, everything seemed dim to him; and he could not ask whither she had flown.

This was his sad predicament.

After receiving the a.s.surance of Roundjacket's pardon, Verty, as we have said, began scrawling over the copy of the deed he was making the name of Redbud. This persevering and thoughtful occupation at last attracted the attention of his companion.

"Redbud!" asked the poet, "who is Redbud, my young friend? I should conjecture that she was a young lady, from the name.--Stay, is there not a Miss Redbud Summers, daughter of the Squire of said name?"

Verty nodded.

"A friend of yours?"

"Yes," sighed Verty.

Mr. Roundjacket smiled.

"Perhaps you are making love to her?" he said.

"Making love?" asked Verty, "what is that?"

"How!" cried the poet, "you don't mean to say you are ignorant of the nature of that divine sentiment which elevates and enn.o.bles in so remarkable a degree--hem!--all humanity!"

"Anan!" said Verty, with an inquiring look.

Mr. Roundjacket returned this look for some moments, preserving a profound silence.

"My young friend," he said at last, "how old are you?"

"Eighteen, _ma mere_ says."

"Who's _mommer_, pray?"

"Mother."

"Oh," said the poet, with some confusion, "the fact is, your p.r.o.nunciation--but don't let us discuss that. I was going to say, that it is impossible for you to have reached your present period of life without making love to some lady."

Verty looked bewildered, but smiled.

Mr. Roundjacket was astounded at finding such savage ignorance in his companion;--he revolved in his mind the means of enlightening Verty, in vain.

At last he placed the end of his ruler upon his waistcoat, and said, mysteriously:

"Do you see me?"

"Yes," replied Verty.

"Well, sir, I made love to a young woman when I was six."

Verty looked interested.

"At twelve I had already had my heart broken three times," continued Mr. Roundjacket; "and now, sir, I make it a point to pay my addresses--yes, to proceed to the last word, the 'will you,'

namely,--once, at least, a year."

Verty replied that this was very kind in Mr. Roundjacket, and then rising, stretched himself, and took up his bow.

"I feel very tired," he said, "I wish I was in the woods."

And Verty turned his back on Mr. Roundjacket, strolled to the door, and leaning on his bow, gazed languidly out upon the busy street.

He presented a strange appearance there, at the door of the dingy office, in the middle of the busy and thriving town. He seemed to have been translated thither, from the far forest wilds, by the wave of some magician's wand, so little did he appear to be a portion of the scene. Verty looked even wilder than ever, from the contrast, and his long bow, and rugged dress, and drooping hat of fur, would have induced the pa.s.sers-by to take him for an Indian, but for the curling hair and the un-Indian face.

Verty gazed up into the sky and mused--the full sunlight of the bright October morning falling in a flood upon his wild accoutrements.

By gazing at the blue heavens, over which pa.s.sed white clouds, ever-changing and of rare loveliness, the forest boy forgot the uncongenial scenes around him, the reality;--and pa.s.sing perforce of his imagination into the bright realm of cloud-land, was again on the hills, breathing the pure air, and following the deer.

Verty had always loved the clouds; he had dreamed of Redbud often, while gazing on them; and now he smiled, and felt brighter as he looked.

His forest instincts returned, and, bending his bow, he carelessly fitted an arrow upon the leather string. What should he shoot at?

There was a very handsome fish upon a neighboring belfry, which was veering in the wind; and this glittering object seemed to Verty an excellent mark. As he was about to take aim, however, his quick eye caught sight of a far speck in the blue sky; and he lowered his bow again.

Placing one hand above his eyes, he raised his head, and fixed his penetrating gaze upon the white speck, which rapidly increased in size as it drew nearer. It was a bird with white wings, clearly defined against the azure.

Verty selected his best arrow, and placing it on the string, waited until the air-sailer came within striking distance. Then drawing the arrow to its head, he let it fly at the bird, whose ruffled breast presented an excellent mark.

The slender shaft ascended like a flash of light into the air--struck the bird in full flight; and, tumbling headlong, the fowl fell toward Verty, who, with hair thrown back, and outstretched arms, ran to catch it.

It was a white pigeon; the sharp pointed arrow had penetrated and lodged in one of its wings, and it had paused in its onward career, like a bark whose slender mast, overladen with canvas, snaps in a sudden gust.

Verty caught the pigeon, and drew the arrow from its wing, which was all stained with blood.