For some time the young man remained motionless and silent, thinking of Redbud, and smiling with the old proverbial delight of lovers, as the memory of her bright sweet face, and kind eyes, came to his thoughts.
There was now no longer any doubt, assuredly, that he was what was called "in love" with Redbud; Verty said as much to himself, and we need not add that when this circumstance occurs, the individual who comes to such conclusion, is no longer his own master, or the master of his heart, which is gone from him.
For as it is observable that persons often imagine themselves affected with material ailments when there is no good ground for such a supposition; so, on the other hand, is it true that those who labor under the disease of love are the last to know their own condition. As Verty, therefore, came to the conclusion that he must be "in love" with Redbud, we may form a tolerably correct idea of the actual fact.
Why should he not love her? Redbud was so kind, so tender; her large liquid eyes were instinct with such deep truth and goodness; in her fresh, frank face there was such radiant joy, and purity, and love! Surely, a mortal sin to do otherwise than love her! And Verty congratulated himself on exemption from this sad sin of omission.
He sat thus, looking with his dreamy smile through the window, across which the shadows of the autumn trees flitted and played. Listlessly he took up a pen, nibbed the feather with his old odd smile, and began to scrawl absently on the sheet of paper lying before him.
The words he wrote there thus unconsciously, were some which he had heard Redbud utter with her soft, kind voice, which dwelt in his memory.
"Trust in God."
This Verty wrote, scarcely knowing he did so; then he threw down the pen, and reclining in the old lawyer's study chair, fell into one of those Indian reveries which the dreamy forests seem to have taught the red men.
As the young man thus reclined in the old walnut chair, clad in his forest costume, with his profuse tangled curls, and smiling lips, and half-closed eyes, bathed in the vagrant gleams of golden sunlight, even Monsignor might have thought the picture not unworthy of his pencil. But he could not have reproduced the wild, fine picture; for in Verty's face was that dim and dreamy smile which neither pencil nor words can describe on paper or canvas.
At last he roused himself, and waked to the real life around him—though his thoughtful eyes were still overshadowed.
He looked around.
He had never been alone in Mr. Rushton's sanctum before, and naturally regarded the objects before him with curiosity.
There was an old press, covered with dust and cobwebs, on the top of which huge volumes of Justinian's Institutes frowned at the ceiling; a row of shelves which were crammed with law books; an old faded carpet covered with ink-splotches on his right hand, splotches evidently produced by the lawyer's habit of shaking the superfluous ink from his pen before he placed it upon the paper; a dilapidated chair or two; the rough walnut desk at which he sat, covered with papers, open law volumes, and red tape; and finally, a tall mantel-piece, on which stood a half-emptied ink bottle—which mantel-piece rose over a wide fire-place, surrounded with a low iron fender, on which a dislocated pair of tongs were exposed in grim resignation to the evils of old age.
There was little to interest Verty in all this—or in the old iron-bound trunks in the corners.
But his eye suddenly falls on a curtain, in the recess farthest from the door—the edge of a curtain; for the object which this curtain conceals, is not visible from the chair in which he sits.
Verty rises, and goes into the recess, and looks.
The curtain falls over a picture—Verty raises it, and stands in admiration before the portrait, which it covered.
"What a lovely child!" he exclaims. "I have never seen a prettier little girl in all my life! What beautiful hair she has!"
And Verty, with the curtain in his left hand, blows away the dust from the canvas.
The portrait is indeed exquisite. The picture represents a child of two or three years of age, of rare and surpassing beauty. Over its white brow hang long yellow ringlets—the eyes dance and play—the ripe, ruddy lips, resembling cherries, are wreathed with the careless laughter of infancy. The child wears a little blue frock which permits two round, fat arms to be seen; and one of the hands grasps a doll, drawn to the life. There is so much freshness and reality about the picture, that Verty exclaims a second time, "What a lovely little girl!"
Thus absorbed in the picture, he does not hear a growling voice in the adjoining room—is not conscious of the heavy step advancing toward the room he occupies—does not even hear the door open as the new comer enters.
"Who can she be!" murmurs the young man; "not Mr. Rushton's little daughter—I never heard that he was married, or had any children. Pretty little thing!"
And Verty smiled.
Suddenly a heavy hand was laid upon his shoulder, and a gruff, stern voice said:
"What are you doing, sir?"
Verty turned quickly; Mr. Rushton stood before him—gloomy, forbidding, with a heavy frown upon his brow.
"What are you prying into?" repeated the lawyer, angrily; "are you not aware, sir, that this is my private apartment? What has induced you to presume in such a manner?"
Verty was almost terrified by the sternness of these cold words, and looked down. Then conscious of the innocence of his action, raised his eyes, and said:
"I came in to give you the copy of the deed, sir,—and saw the curtain—and thought I would—"
"Pry into my secrets," said Mr. Rushton; "very well, sir!"
"I did not mean to pry," said Verty, proudly; "I did not think there was any harm in such a little thing. I hope, sir, you will not think I meant anything wrong," added Verty—"indeed I did not; and I only thought this was some common picture, with a curtain over it to keep off the dust."
But the lawyer, with a sudden change of manner, had turned his eyes to the portrait; and did not seem to hear the exclamation.
"I hope you will not think hard of me, Mr. Rushton," said Verty; "you have been very good to me, and I would not do anything to offend you or give you pain."
No answer was vouchsafed to this speech either. The rough lawyer, with more and more change in his expression, was gazing at the fresh portrait, the curtain of which Verty had thrown over one of the upper corners of the frame.
Verty followed the look of Mr. Rushton; and gazed upon the picture.
"It is very lovely," he said, softly; "I never saw a sweeter face."
The lawyer's breast heaved.
"And what ringlets—I believe they call 'em," continued Verty, absorbed in contemplating the portrait;—"I love the pretty little thing already, sir."
Mr. Rushton sat down in the chair, which Verty had abandoned, and covered his face.
"Did you know her?—but oh, I forgot!—how wrong in me!" murmuredVerty; "I did not think that she might be—Mr. Rushton—forgive my—"
The lawyer, with his face still covered, motioned toward the door.
"Must I go, sir?"
"Yes—go," came from the lips which uttered a groan—a groan of such anguish, that Verty almost groaned in unison.
And murmuring "Anna! Anna!" the lawyer shook.
The young man went toward the door. As he opened it, he heard an exclamation behind him.
He turned his head.
"What's this!" cried the lawyer, in a tone between a growl and a sob.
"What, sir?"
"This paper."
"Sir?"
"This paper with—with—'Trust in God' on it; did you write it?"
"I—I—must—yes—I suppose I did, sir," stammered Verty, almost alarmed by the tone of his interlocutor.
"What did you mean?"
"Nothing, sir!"
"You had the boldness to write this canting—hypocritical—"
"Oh, Mr. Rushton!"
"You wrote it?"
"Yes, sir; and it is right, though I did'nt mean to write it—or know it."
"Very grand!"
"Sir?"
"You bring your wretched—"
"Oh, I did'nt know I wrote it even, sir! But indeed that is not right, sir. All of us ought to trust in God, however great our afflictions are, sir."
"Go!" cried the lawyer, rising with a furious gesture—"away, sir!Preach not to me—you may be right—but take your sermons elsewhere.Look there, sir! at that portrait!—look at me now, a brokenman—think that—but this is folly! Leave me to myself!"
And strangling a passionate sob, the lawyer sank again into his chair, covering his face.
To describe the astonishment of Verty, as he hastily went out and closed the door, would be impossible. His face passed from red to pale, his eyes were full of bewilderment—he sat down, scarcely knowing what he did,
Roundjacket sat writing at his desk, and either had not heard, or pretended that he had not, any portion of the passionate colloquy.
Verty could do nothing all day, for thinking of the astonishing scene he had passed through. Why should there be anything offensive in raising the curtain of a portrait? Why should so good a man as Mr. Rushton, address such insulting and harsh words to him for such a trifling thing? How was it possible that the simple words, 'Trust in God,' had been the occasion of such anger, nay, almost fury?
The longer Verty pondered, the less he understood; or at least he understood no better than before, which amounted precisely to no understanding at all.
He got through his day after a very poor fashion; and, going along under the evening skies, cudgelled his brains, for the thousandth time, for some explanation of this extraordinary circumstance. In vain! the explanation never came; and finding himself near Apple Orchard, the young man determined to banish the subject, and go in and see Redbud.
The young girl had been imprudent in remaining out so late, on the preceding evening, and her cold had returned, with slight fever, which, however, gave her little inconvenience.
She lay upon the sofa, near the open window, with a shawl over her feet, and, when Verty entered, half-rose, only giving him her hand tenderly.
Verty sat down, and they began, to talk in the old, friendly way; and, as the evening deepened, to laugh and mention old things which they both remembered—uniting thus in the dim twilight all the golden threads which bind the present to the past—gossamer, which are not visible by the glaring daylight, but are seen when the soft twilight descends on the earth.
Redbud even, at Verty's request, essayed one of the old Scottish songs which he was fond of; and the gentle carol filled the evening with its joy and musical delight. This was rather dangerous in Verty—surely he was quite enough in love already! Why should he rivet the fetters, insist upon a new set of shackles, and a heavier chain!
Verty told Redbud of the singular circumstance of the morning, and demanded an explanation. Her wonder was as great as his own, however; and she remained silently gazing at the sunset, and pondering. A shake of the head betrayed her want of success in this attempt to unravel the mystery, especially the lawyer's indignation at the words written by Verty.
They passed from this to quite a grave discussion upon the truth of the maxim in question, which Redbud and her companion, we may imagine, did not differ upon. The girl had just said—"For you know, Verty, everything is for the best, and we should not murmur,"—when a gruff voice at the door replied:
"Pardon me, Miss Redbud—that is a pretty maxim—nothing more, however."
And Mr. Rushton, cold and impassable, came in with the jovial Squire.
"So busy talking, young people, that you could not even look out the window when I approach with visitors, eh?" cried the Squire, chuckling Miss Redbud under the chin, and driving the breath out of Verty's body by a friendly slap upon that gentleman's back. "Well, here we are, and there's Lavinia—bless her heart—with an expression which indicates protestation at the loudness of my voice, ha! ha!"
And the Squire laughed in a way which shook the windows.
Miss Lavinia smiled in a solemn manner, and busied herself about tea.
Redbud turned to Mr. Rushton, who had seated himself with an expression of grim reserve, and, smiling, said:
"I did not hear you—exactly what you said—as you came in, you know,Mr. Rushton—"
"I said that your maxim, 'All is for the best,' is a pretty maxim, and no more," replied the lawyer, regarding Verty with an air of rough indifference, as though he tad totally forgotten the scene of the morning.
"I'm sure you are wrong, sir," Redbud said.
"Very likely—to be taught by a child!" grumbled the lawyer.
Redbud caught the words.
"I know I ought not to dispute with you, sir," she said; "but what I said is in the Bible, and you know that cannot contain what is not true."
"Hum!" said Mr. Rushton. "That was an unhappy age—and the philosophy of Voltaire and Rousseau had produced its effect even on the strongest minds."
"God does all for the best, and He is a merciful and loving Being," said Redbud. "Even if we suffer here, in this world, every affliction, we know that there is a blessed recompense in the other world."
"Humph!—how?" said the skeptic.
"By faith?"
"What is faith?" he said, looking carelessly at the girl.
"I don't know that I can define it better than belief and trust inGod," said Redbud.
These were the words which Verty had written on the paper.
The glance of the lawyer fell upon the young man's face, and from it passed to the innocent countenance of Redbud. She had evidently uttered the words without the least thought of the similarity.
"Humph," said the lawyer, frowning, "that is very fine, Miss; but suppose we cannot see anything to give us a very lively—faith, as you call it."
"Oh, but you may, sir!"
"How?"
"Everywhere there are evidences of God's goodness and mercy. You cannot doubt that."
A shadow passed over the rough face.
"I do doubt it," was on his lips, but he could not, rude as he was, utter such a sentence in presence of the pure, childlike girl.
"Humph," he said, with his habitual growl, "suppose a man is made utterly wretched in this world—"
"Yes, sir."
"And without any fault of his own suffers horribly," continued the lawyer, sternly.
"We are all faulty, sir."
"I mean—did anybody ever hear such reasoning! Excuse me, but I am a little out of sorts," he growled, apologetically—"I mean that you may suppose a man to suffer some peculiar torture—torture, you understand—which he has not deserved. I suppose that has happened; how can such a man have your faith, and love, and trust, and all that—if we must talk theology!" growled the bearish speaker.
"But, Mr. Rushton," said Redbud, "is not heaven worth all the world and its affections?"
"Yes—your heaven is."
"Myheaven—?"
"Yes, yes—heaven!" cried the lawyer, impatiently—"everybody's heaven that chooses. But you were about to say—"
"This, sir: that if heaven is so far above earth, and those who are received there by God, enjoy eternal happiness—"
"Very well!"
"That this inestimable gift is cheaply bought by suffering in this world;—that the giver of this great good has a right to try even to what may seem a cruel extent, the faith and love of those for whom he decrees this eternal bliss. Is not that rational, sir?"
"Yes, and theological—what, however, is one to do if the said love and faith sink and disappear—are drowned in tears, or burnt up in the fires of anguish and despair."
"Pray, sir," said Redbud, softly.
The lawyer growled.
"To whom? To a Being whom we have no faith in—whom such a man has no faith in, I mean to say—to the hand that struck—which we can only think of as armed with an avenging sword, or an all-consuming firebrand! Pray to one who stands before us as a Nemesis of wrath and terror, hating and ready to crush us?—humph!"
And the lawyer wiped his brow.
"Can't we think of the Creator differently," said Redbud, earnestly.
"How?"
"As the Being who came down upon the earth, and suffered, and wept tears of blood, was buffeted and crowned with thorns, and crucified like a common, degraded slave—all because he loved us, and would not see us perish? Oh! Mr. Rushton, if there are men who shrink from the terrible God—who cannot lovethatphase of the Almighty, why should they not turn to the Saviour, who, God as he was, came down and suffered an ignominious death, because he loved them—so dearly loved them!"
Mr. Rushton was silent for a moment; then he said, coldly:
"I did not intend to talk upon these subjects—I only intended to say, that trusting in Providence, as the phrase is, sounds very grand; and has only the disadvantage of not being very easy. Come, Miss Redbud, suppose we converse on the subject of flowers, or something that is more light and cheerful."
"Yes, sir, I will; but I don't think anything is more cheerful than Christianity, and I love to talk about it. I know what you say about the difficulty of trusting wholly in God, is true; it is very hard. But oh! Mr. Rushton, believe me, that such trust will not be in vain; even in this world Our Father often shows us that he pities our sufferings, and His hand heals the wound, or turns aside the blow. Oh, yes, sir! even in this world the clouds are swept away, and the sun shines again; and the heart which has trusted in God finds that its trust was not in vain in the Lord. Oh! I'm sure of it, sir!—I feel it—I know that it istrue!"
And Redbud, buried in thought, looked through the window—silent, after these words which we have recorded.
The lawyer only looked strangely at her—muttered his "humph," and turned away. Verty alone saw the spasm which he had seen in the morning pass across the rugged brow.
While this colloquy had been going on, the Squire had gone into his apartment to wash his hands; and now issuing forth, requested an explanation of the argument he had heard going on. This explanation was refused with great bearishness by the lawyer, and Redbud said they had only been talking about Providence.
The Squire said that was a good subject; and then going to his escritoire took out some papers, placed them on the mantel-piece, and informed Mr. Rushton that those were the documents he desired.
The lawyer greeted this information with his customary growl, and taking them, thrust them into his pocket. He then made a movement to go; but the Squire persuaded him to stay and have a cup of tea. Verty acquiesced in his suggestion thatheshould spend the evening, with the utmost readiness—ma merewould not think it hard if he remained an hour, he said.
And so the cheerful meal was cheerfully spread, and the twigs in the fire-place crackled, and diffused their brief, mild warmth through the cool evening air, and Caesar yawned upon the rug, and all went merrily.
The old time-piece overhead ticked soberly, and the soft face of Redbud's mother looked down from its frame upon them; and the room was full of cheerfulness and light.
And still the old clock ticked and ticked, and carried all the world toward eternity; the fire-light crackled, and the voices laughed;—the portrait looked serenely down, and smiled.
Ralph stretched himself.
Mr. Jinks sipped his rum, and ruminated.
Ralph was smiling; Mr. Jinks scowling, and evidently busy with great thoughts, which caused his brows to corrugate into hostile frowns.
It was the room of Mr. Jinks, in Bousch's tavern, which saw the companions seated thus opposite to each other—the time, after breakfast; the aim of the parties, discussion upon any or every topic.
Mr. Jinks was clad in his habitual costume: half dandy, halfmilitaire; and when he moved, his great sword rattled against his grasshopper legs in a way terrifying to hear.
Ralph, richly dressed as usual, and reclining in his chair, smiled lazily, and looked at the scowling Mr. Jinks. The apartment in which the worthies were seated was one possessing the advantages of dormer windows, and an extensive prospect over the roofs of Winchester; the furniture was rough; and in the corner a simple couch stood, whereon Mr. Jinks reposed himself at night.
While the various events which we have lately adverted to have been occurring, Mr. Jinks has not forgotten that triple and grand revenge he swore.
Mr. Jinks has un-christian feelings against three persons, for three reasons:
First, against Verty: the cause being that gentleman's defiance and disregard of himself on various occasions; also his rivalry in love.
Second, against Miss Sallianna: beautiful and perfidious; the cause: slights put on his youthful love.
Third, against O'Brallaghan; the cause: impudence on various occasions, and slanderous reports relating to cabbaged cloth since the period of their dissolving all connection with each other.
Mr. Jinks has revolved, in the depths of his gloomy soul, these darling projects, and has, perforce of his grand faculty of invention, determined upon his course in two out of the three affairs.
Verty annoys him, however. Mr. Jinks has ceased to think of a brutal, ignoble contest with vulgar fists or weapons ever since the muzzle of Verty's rifle invaded his ruffles on the morning of his woes. He would have a revenge worthy of himself—certain, complete, and above all, quite safe. Mr. Jinks would wile the affections of Miss Redbud from him, fixing the said affections on himself; but that is not possible, since the young lady in question has gone home, and Apple Orchard is too far to walk. Still Mr. Jinks does not despair of doing something; and this something is what he seeks and ruminates upon, as the mixed rum and water glides down his throat.
Ralph yawns, laughs, and kicks his heels.
Then he rises; goes to the mantel-piece and gets a pipe; and begins to smoke—lazier than ever.
Mr. Jinks sets down his cup, and murmurs.
"Hey!" cries Ralph, sending out a cloud of smoke, "what are you groaning about, my dear fellow?"
"I want money," says Mr. Jinks.
"For what?"
"To buy a horse."
"A horse?"
Mr. Jinks nods.
"What do you want with a horse?"
"Revenge," replies Mr. Jinks.
Ralph begins to laugh.
"Oh, yes," he says, "we spoke of that; against Sallianna. I'll assist you, my boy. The fact is, I have caught the infection of a friend's sentiments on Sallianna the divine. I have a cousin who abominates her. I'll assist you!"
"No; that affair is arranged," says Mr. Jinks, with gloomy pleasure; "that will give me no trouble. That young man Verty is the enemy I allude to. I want revenge."
And Mr. Jinks rattled his sword.
Ralph looked with a mischievous expression at his friend.
"But I say," he observed, "how would a horse come in there? Do you want to run a-tilt against Sir Verty, eh? That is characteristic of you, Jinks!"
"No," says Mr. Jinks, "I have other designs."
"What are they?"
"You are reliable!"
"Reliable! I should say I was! Come, make me your confidant."
Mr. Jinks complies with this request, and details his plans against Verty and Redbud's happiness. He would ride to Apple Orchard, and win his rival's sweetheart's affections; then laugh "triumphantly with glee." That is Mr. Jinks' idea.
Ralph thinks it not feasible, and suggests a total abandonment of revengeful feelings toward Verty.
"Suppose I sent him a cartel, then," says Mr. Jinks, after a pause.
"A cartel?"
"Yes; something like this."
And taking a preparatory gulp of the rum, Mr. Jinks continues:
"Suppose I write these words to him: 'A. Jinks, Esq., presents his compliments to —— Verty, Esq., and requests to be informed at what hour Mr. Verty will attend in front of Bousch's tavern, for the purpose of having himself exterminated and killed? How would that do?"
Ralph chokes down a laugh, and, pretending to regard Mr. Jinks with deep admiration, says:
"An excellent plan—very excellent."
"You think so?" says his companion, dubiously.
"Yes, yes; you should, however, be prepared for one thing."
"What is that?"
"Mr. Verty's reply."
"What would that be, sir? He is not a rash young man, I believe?"
"No—just the contrary. His reply would be courteous and cool."
"Ah?"
"He would write under your letter, demanding at what hour you should kill him—'ten,' or 'twelve,' or 'four in the afternoon'—at which time he would come and proceed to bloodshed."
"Bloodshed?"
"Yes; he's a real Indian devil, although he looks mild, my clear fellow. If you are going to send the cartel, you might as well do so at once."
"No—no—I will think of it," replies Mr. Jinks; "I will spare him a little longer. There is no necessity for hurry. A plenty of time!"
And Mr. Jinks clears his throat, and for the present abandons thoughts of revenge on Verty.
Ralph sees the change of sentiment, and laughs.
"Well," he says, "there is something else on your mind, Jinks, my boy; what is it? No more revenge?"
"Yes!"
"Against whom, you epitome of Italian hatred."
Mr. Jinks frowns, and says:
"Against O'Brallaghan!"
"No!" cries Ralph.
"Yes, sir."
"I, myself, hate that man!"
"Then we can assist each other."
"Yes—yes."
"We can make it nice, and good, and fine," says Mr. Jinks, smacking his lips over the rum, as if he was imbibing liquid vengeance, and was pleased with the flavor.
"No!" cries Ralph again.
"Yes!" says Mr. Jinks.
"Revenge, nice and good?"
"Supreme!"
"How?"
"Listen!"
"Stop a moment, my dear fellow," said Ralph; "don't be hasty."
And, rising, Ralph went to the door, opened it, and looked out cautiously, after which, he closed it, and turned the key in the lock; then he went to the fire-place, and looked up the chimney with a solemn air of precaution, which was very striking. Then he returned and took his seat, and with various gurglings of a mysterious nature in his throat, said:
"You have a communication to make, Jinks?"
"I have, sir."
"In relation to revenge."
"Yes."
"Then go on, old fellow; the time is propitious—I am listening."
And Ralph looked attentively at Mr. Jinks.
The companions looked at each other and shook their heads; Mr. Jinks threateningly, Ralph doubtfully. That gentleman seemed to be dubious of his friend's ability to prepare a revenge suitable to the deserts of O'Brallaghan, who had sold his favorite coat.
Mr. Jinks, however, looked like a man certain of victory.
"Revenge, sir," said Mr. Jinks, "is of two descriptions. There is the straight-forward, simple, vulgar hitting at a man, or caning him; and the quiet, artistic arrangement of a drama, which comes out right, sir, without fuss, or other exterior effusion."
And after this masterly distinction, Mr. Jinks raised his head, and regarded Ralph with pride and complacency.
"Yes" said the young man; "what you say is very true, my boy; go on—go on."
"Genius is shown, sir, in the manner of doing it—"
"Yes."
"Of working on the materials around you."
"True; that is the test of genius; you are right. Now explain your idea."
"Well, sir," said Mr. Jinks, "that is easy. In this town, wherein we reside—I refer to Winchester—there are two prominent classes, besides the English-Virginia people."
"Are there?"
"Yes, sir."
"Tell me—you mean—"
"The natives of the Emerald Isle, and those from the land of sour krout," said Mr. Jinks, with elegant paraphrase.
"You mean Dutch and Irish?"
"Yes, sir."
"Very well; I understand that. Let me repeat: in the town ofWinchester there are two classes, besides the natives—Dutch andIrish. Is that right? I never was very quick."
"Just right."
"Well, tell me about them, and how your revenge is concerned with them. Tell me all about them. Dutch and Irish!—I know nothing of them."
"I will, sir,—I will tell you," said Mr. Jinks, gulping down one-fourth of his glass of rum; "and, I think, by the time I have developed my idea, you will agree with me that the revenge I have chalked out, sir, is worthy of an inventive talent higher than my own."
"No, no," said Ralph, in a tone of remonstrance, "you know there could be none."
"Yes," said Mr. Jinks, modestly, "I know myself, sir—I have very little merits, but there are those who are superior to me in that point."
Which seemed to mean that the quality of invention was the sole failing in Mr. Jinks' intellect—all his other mental gifts being undoubtedly superior to similar gifts in humanity at large.
"Well, we won't interchange compliments, my dear fellow," repliedRalph, puffing at his pipe; "go on and explain about the Dutch andIrish—I repeat, that I absolutely know nothing of them."
Mr. Jinks sipped his rum, and after a moment's silence, commenced.
"You must know," he said, "that for some reason which I cannot explain, there is a quarrel between these people which has lasted a very long time, and it runs to a great height—"
"Indeed!"
"Yes; and on certain days there is a feeling which can only be characterized by the assertion that the opposite parties desire to suffuse the streets and public places with each other's gory blood!"
"No, no!" said Ralph; "is it possible!"
"Yes, sir, it is more—it is true," said Mr. Jinks, with dignity. "I myself have been present on such occasions; and the amount of national feeling displayed is—is—worse than mouldy cloth," observed Mr. Jinks, at a loss for a simile, and driven, as he, however, very seldom was, to his profession for an illustration.
"I wonder at that," said Ralph; "as bad as mouldy cloth? I never would have thought it!"
"Nevertheless it's true—dooms true," said Mr. Jinks; "and there are particular days when the rage of the parties comes up in one opprobrious concentrated mass!"
This phrase was borrowed from Miss Sallianna. Mr. Jinks, like other great men, was not above borrowing without giving the proper credit.
"On St. Patrick's day," he continued, "the Dutch turn out in a body—"
"One moment, my dear fellow; I don't like to interrupt you, but this St. Patrick you speak of—he was the great saint of Ireland, was he not?"
"Good—continue; on St. Patrick's day—"
"The Dutch assemble and parade a figure—you understand, either of wood or a man—a figure representing St. Patrick—"
"Possible!"
"Yes; and round his neck they place a string of Irish potatoes, like a necklace—"
"A necklace! what an idea. Not pearls or corals—potatoes!" And Ralph laughed with an expression of innocent surprise, which was only adopted on great occasions.
"Yes," said Mr. Jinks, "of potatoes; and you may imagine what a sight it is—the saint dressed up in that way."
"Really! it must be side-splitting."
"It is productive of much gory sport," said Mr. Jinks.
"Ah!" said Ralph, "I should think so. Gory is the very word."
"Besides this they have another figure—"
"The Dutch have?"
"Yes."
"What is it?"
"It is a woman, sir—"
"No—no," said Ralph.
"It is, sir," replied Mr. Jinks, with resolute adherence to his original declaration,—"it is Saint Patrick's wife, Sheeley—"
"Oh, no!" cried Ralph.
"Yes; and she is supplied with a huge apron full of—what do you think?"
"Indulgences?" said Ralph.
"No, sir!"
"What then?"
"Potatoes again."
"Potatoes! Sheeley with her apron full of—"
"Excellent Irish potatoes."
"Would anybody have imagined such a desecration!"
"They do it, sir; and having thus laughed at the Irish, the Dutch go parading through the streets; and in consequence—"
"The Irish—?"
"Yes—"
"Make bloody noses and cracked crowns, and pass them current, too?" asked Ralph, quoting from Shakspeare.
"Yes, exactly," said Mr. Jinks; "and the day on which this takes place—Saint Patrick's day—is generally submerged in gore!"
Ralph remained for a moment overcome with horror at this dreadful picture.
"Jinks," he said, at last.
"Sir?" said Mr. Jinks.
"I fear you are too military and bloody for me. My nerves will not stand these awful pictures!"
And Ralph shuddered; or perhaps chuckled.
"That is only half of the subject," Mr. Jinks said, displaying much gratification at the deep impression produced upon the feelings of his companion; "the Irish, on St. Michael's day—the patron saint of the Dutch, you know—"
"Yes."
"The Irish take their revenge."
And at the word revenge, Mr. Jinks' brows were corrugated into a dreadful frown.
Ralph looked curious.
"How?" he said; "I should think the Dutch had exhausted the power and capacity of invention. St. Patrick, with a necklace of potatoes, and his wife Sheeley, with an apron full of the same vegetables, is surely enough for one day—"
"Yes, for St. Patrick's day, but not for St. Michael's," said Mr.Jinks, with a faint attempt at a witticism.
"Good!" cried Ralph; "you are a wit, Jinks; but proceed! On St.Michael's day—the patron saint of the Dutch—"
"On that day, sir, the Irish retort upon the Dutch by parading an image—wooden or alive—of St. Michael—"
"No!"
"An image," continued Mr. Jinks, not heeding this interruption, "which resembles St. Michael—that is, a hogshead."
"Yes," laughed Ralph, "I understand how a Dutch saint—"
"Is fat; that is natural, sir. They dress him in six pair of pantaloons, which I have heretofore, I am ashamed to say, fabricated,"—Mr. Jinks frowned here,—"then they hang around his neck a rope of sour krout—"
"No, no!" cried Ralph.
"And so parade him," continued Mr. Jinks.
Ralph remained silent again, as though overwhelmed by this picture.
"The consequence is, that the Irish feel themselves insulted," Mr. Jinks went on, "and they attack the Dutch, and then the whole street—"
"Is suffused in gory blood, is it not?" said Ralph, inquiringly.
"It is, sir," said Mr. Jinks; "and I have known the six pair of pantaloons, made by my own hands, to be torn to tatters."
"Possible!"
"Yes, sir!" said Mr. Jinks, irate at the recollection of those old scenes—he had been compelled to mend the torn pantaloons more than once—"yes, sir, and the wretches have proceeded even to shooting and cutting, which is worthy of them, sir! On some days, the Dutch and the Irish parade their images together, and then St. Patrick and St. Michael are brought face to face; and you may understand how disgraceful a mob they have—a mob, sir, which, as a military man, I long to mow with iron cannons!"
And after this dreadful simile, Mr. Jinks remained silent, Ralph also held his peace for some moments; then he said:
"But your revenge; how is that connected, my dear fellow, with the contentions of Dutch and Irish?"
Mr. Jinks frowned.
"Thus, sir," he said; "I will explain." "Do; I understand you to say that these customs of the two parties were the materials upon which your genius would work. How can you—"
"Listen, sir," said Mr. Jinks.
"I'm all ears," returned Ralph.
"Three days from this time," said Mr. Jinks, "these people have determined to have a great parade, and each of them, the Dutch and Irish, to exhibit the images of the Saints—"
"Yes—ah?" said Ralph.
"It is fixed for the time I mention; and now, sir, a few words will explain how, without damage to myself, or endangering my person—considerations which I have no right to neglect—my revenge on the hound, O'Brallaghan, will come out right! Listen, while I tell about it; then, sir, judge if the revenge is likely to be nice and good!"
And Mr. Jinks scowled, and gulped down some rum. He then paused a moment, stared the fire-place out of countenance, and scowled again. He then opened his lips to speak.
But just as he uttered the first words of his explanation, a knock was heard at the door, which arrested him.
Ralph rose and opened it.
A negro handed him a note, with the information, that the bearer thereof was waiting below, and would like to see him.
Ralph opened the letter, and found some money therein, which, with the signature, explained all.
"Jinks, my boy," he said, laughing, "we must defer your explanation; come and go down. The Governor has sent me a note, and Tom is waiting. Let us descend."
Mr. Jinks acquiesced.
They accordingly went down stairs, and issued forth.
At the door of the tavern was standing a negro, who, at sight of Ralph, respectfully removed his cap with one hand, while the other arm leaned on the neck of a donkey about three feet high, which had borne the stalwart fellow, as such animals only can.
The negro gave Mr. Ralph a message, in addition to the letter, of no consequence to our history, and received one in return.
He then bowed again, and was going to mount and ride away, when Ralph said, "Stop, Tom!"
Tom accordingly stopped.
Ralph looked from the donkey to Mr. Jinks, and from Mr. Jinks to the donkey; then he laughed.
"I say, my dear fellow," he observed, "you wanted a horse, did'nt you?"
"I did, sir," said Mr. Jinks.
"What do you say to a donkey?"
Mr. Jinks appeared thoughtful, and gazing at the sky, as though the clouds interested him, replied:
"I have no objection to the animal, sir. It was in former times, I am assured, the animal used by kings, and even emperors. Far be it from me, therefore, to feel any pride—or look down on the donkey."
"You'll have to," said Ralph.
"Have to what, sir?"
"Look down on Fodder here—we call him Fodder at the farm, because the rascal won't eat thistles."
"Fodder, sir?" said Mr. Jinks, gazing along the road, as though in search of some wagon, laden with cornstalks.
"The donkey!"
"Ah?—yes—true—the donkey! Really, a very handsome animal," said Mr. Jinks, appearing to be aware of the existence of Fodder for the first time.
"I asked you how you would like a donkey, instead of a horse, meaning, in fact, to ask if Fodder would, for the time, answer your warlike and gallant purposes? If so, my dear fellow, I'll lend him to you—Tom can go back to the farm in the wagon—it comes and goes every day."
Tom looked at Mr. Jinks' legs, scratched his head, and grinning from ear to ear, added the assurance that he was rather pleased to get rid of Fodder, who was too small for a man of his weight.
Mr. Jinks received these propositions and assurances, at first, with a shake of the head: he really could not deprive, etc.; then he looked dubious; then he regarded Fodder with admiration and affection; then he assented to Ralph's arrangement, and put his arm affectionately around Fodder's neck.
"I love that animal already!" cried the enthusiastic Mr. Jinks.
Ralph turned aside to laugh.
"That is highly honorable, Jinks, my boy," he said; "there's no trait of character more characteristic of a great and exalted intellect, than kindness to animals."
"You flatter me, sir."
"Never—I never flatter. Now, Tom," continued Ralph to the negro,"return homeward, and inform my dear old Governor that, next week,I shall return, temporarily, to make preparations for my marriage.Further, relate to him the fate of Fodder—go, sir."
And throwing Tom, who grinned and laughed, a piece of silver, Ralph turned again to Jinks.
"Do you like Fodder?" he said.
"I consider him the paragon of donkeys," returned Mr. Jinks.
And, hugging the donkey's neck—"Eh, Fodder?" said Jinks.
Fodder turned a sleepy looking eye, which was covered with the broad, square leather of the wagon-bridle, toward Mr. Jinks, and regarded that gentleman with manifest curiosity. Then shaking his head, lowered it again, remonstrating with his huge ears against the assaults of the flies.
"He likes you already! he admires and respects you, Jinks!" criedRalph, bursting into a roar of laughter; "a ride! a ride! mount, sir!"
"Is he vicious?" asked Mr. Jinks.
"Hum! hehasbeen known to—to—do dreadful things!" said Ralph, choking.
Mr. Jinks drew back.
"But he won't hurt you—just try."
"Hum! I'd rather test his character first," said Mr. Jinks; "of course I'm not afraid; it would be unnecessary for me to prove that, sir—I wear a sword—"
"Oh, yes?"
"But dangerous accidents have frequently resulted from—"
"Donkeys? you are right. But suppose I mount with you!" said Ralph, who had fallen into one of his mischievous moods.
"Hum! sir—will he carry double, do you think?"
"Carry double! He'd carry a thousand—Fodder would! Just get into the saddle, and I'll put my handkerchief on his back, and mount behind—I'll guide him. Come!"
And Ralph, with a suppressed chuckle, pushed Mr. Jinks toward the saddle.
Mr. Jinks looked round—cleared his throat—glanced at the expression of the donkey's eyes—and endeavored to discover from the movement of his ears if he was vicious. Fodder seemed to be peaceful—Mr. Jinks got into the saddle, his grasshopper legs reaching nearly to the ground.
"Now!" cried Ralph, vaulting behind him, "now for a ride!"
And seizing the reins, before Mr. Jinks could even get his feet into the stirrups, the young man kicked the donkey vigorously, and set off at a gallop.
Mr. Jinks leaned forward in the saddle with loud cries, balancing himself by the pummel, and holding on to the mane. Fodder was frightened by the cries, and ran like a race-horse, kicking up his heels, and indeed rendered Ralph's position somewhat perilous. But that gentleman was experienced, from earliest infancy, in riding bareback, and held on. He also held Mr. Jinks on.
The great swordsman continued to utter loud cries, and to remonstrate piteously. Only the clatter of his sword, and Ralph's shouts of laughter, answered him.
Still on! and in five minutes Fodder was opposite the store ofO'Brallaghan.
A brilliant idea suddenly struck Ralph; with the rapidity and presence of mind of a great general, he put it into execution.
Fodder found one rein loosened—the other drawn violently round; the consequence was, that from a straight course, he suddenly came to adopt a circular one. Mr. Jinks had just saved himself by wrapping his legs, so to speak, around the donkey's person, when Ralph's design was accomplished.
Fodder, obeying the pull upon the rein, sweeped down upon O'Brallaghan's shop, and in the midst of the cries of babies, the barking of dogs, and the shrill screams of elderly ladies, entered the broad door of the clothes-warehouse, and thrust his nose into Mr. O'Brallaghan's face, just as that gentleman was cutting out the sixth pair of pantaloons for himself, in which he was to personate St. Michael.
O'Brallaghan staggered back—Ralph burst into a roar of laughter, and sliding from Fodder, ignominiously retreated, leaving Mr. Jinks and O'Brallaghan face to face.
The scene which then ensued is dreadful to even reflect upon, after the lapse of so many years. Fodder backed into the street immediately, but he had accomplished the insult to O'Brallaghan. That gentleman ran out furiously, shears in hand, and with these instruments it seemed to be his intention to sever the epiglottis of Mr. Jinks, or at least his ears.
But, as on a former occasion, when Mr. Jinks threatened to rid the earth of a scoundrel and a villain, the execution of this scheme was prevented by the interposition of a third party; so on the present occasion did the neighbors interfere and quiet the combatants.
Ralph perfected the reconciliation by declaring that Fodder was the most vicious and dangerous of animals, and that no one could rationally wonder at his conduct on this occasion.
O'Brallaghan thereupon observed that he despised Mr. Jinks too much to touch him, and would forgive him; and so he elbowed his way through the crowd of gossips and re-entered his shop, scowling at, and being scowled at by, the severe Mr. Jinks.
Ralph also embraced the opportunity to slip through the crowd, and hasten round a corner; having achieved which movement, he leaned against a pump, and laughed until two babies playing on the side-walk nearly choked themselves with marbles as they gazed at him. Then chuckling to himself, the young-worthy returned toward the tavern, leaving Mr. Jinks to his fate.
No sooner had O'Brallaghan retreated into his store, than Mr. Jinks cast after him defiant words and gestures, calling on the crowd to take notice that O'Brallaghan had ignominiously yielded ground, and declined his, Mr. Jinks', proposition to have a combat.
If any wonder is felt at Mr. Jinks' bravery, we may dispel it, probably, by explaining that Mr. O'Brallaghan had two or three months before been bound over in a large sum to keep the peace of the commonwealth against the inhabitants of the said commonwealth, and especially that portion of them who dwelt in the borough of Winchester; which fact Mr. Jinks was well acquainted with, and shaped his conduct by. If there was anything which O'Brallaghan preferred to a personal encounter with fists or shillelahs, that object was money; and Mr. Jinks knew that O'Brallaghan would not touch him.
Therefore Mr. Jinks sent words of defiance and menace after the retreating individual, and said to the crowd, with dignified calmness:
"My friends, I call you to bear witness that I have offered to give this—this—person," said Mr. Jinks, "the amplest satisfaction in my power for the unfortunate conduct of my animal, which I have just purchased at a large sum, and have not exactly learned to manage yet. We have not come to understand each other—myself and Fodder—just yet; and in passing with a young man whom I kindly permitted to mount behind me, the animal ran into the shop of this—individual. If he wants satisfaction!" continued Mr. Jinks, frowning, and laying his hand upon his sword, "he can have it, sir! yes, sir! I am ready, sir!—now and always, sir!"
These words were ostensibly addressed to Mr. O'Brallaghan, who was, in contempt of Mr. Jinks, busily engaged at his work again; but, in reality, the whole harangue of Mr. Jinks was intended for the ears of a person in the crowd, who, holding a hot "iron" in her hand, had run up, like the rest, when the occurrence first took place.
This person, who was of the opposite sex, and upon whom Mr. Jinks evidently desired to produce an impression, gazed at the cavalier with tender melancholy in her ruddy face, and especially regarded the legs of Mr. Jinks with unconcealed admiration.
It was Mistress O'Calligan, the handsome ruddy lady, whom we have met with once before, on that day when Mr. Jinks, remembering O'Brallaghan's incapacity to fight, challenged that gentleman to mortal combat.
Between this lady and Mr. Jinks, on the present occasion, glances passed more than once; and when—O'Brallaghan not appearing—Mr. Jinks rode away from the shop of the dastard, in dignified disgust, he directed the steps of Fodder, cautiously and gently, around the corner, and stopped before the door of Mistress O'Calligan's lodging.
The lamented O'Calligan was gone to that bourne which we all know of, and his widow now supported herself and the two round, dirty-faced young gentlemen who had choked themselves in their astonishment at Ralph, by taking in washing and ironing, to which she added, occasionally, the occupation and mystery of undergarment construction.
Thanks to these toils, Mistress O'Calligan, who was yet young and handsome, and strong and healthy, had amassed a very snug little sum of money, which she had invested in a garden, numerous pigs, chickens, and other things; and, in the neighborhood, this lady was regarded as one destined to thrive in the world; and eventually bring to the successor of the lamented O'Calligan, not only her fair self, and good-humored smile included, but also no contemptible portion of this world's goods.
O'Brallaghan's ambition was to succeed the lamented. He had long made unsuccessful court to the lady—in vain. He suspected, not without justice, that the graceful and military Mr. Jinks had made an impression on the lady's heart, and hated Mr. Jinks accordingly.
It was before the low, comfortable cottage of Mistress O'Calligan, therefore, that Mr. Jinks stopped. And tying Fodder to the pump, he pushed aside the under-tunics which depended from lines, and were fluttering in the wind, and so made his entrance into the dwelling.
Mistress O'Calligan pretended to be greatly surprised and fluttered on Mr. Jinks' entrance; and laid down the iron she was trying, by putting her finger in her mouth, and then applying it to the under surface.
She then smiled; and declared she never was in such a taking; and to prove this, sat down and panted, and screamed good-humoredly to the youthful O'Calligans, not to go near that pretty horse; and then asked Mr. Jinks if he would'nt take something.
Mr. Jinks said, with great dignity, that he thought he would.
Thereupon, Mistress O'Calligan produced a flat bottle of poteen, and pouring a portion for her own fair self, into a cup, said that this was a wicked world, and handed the flask to Mr. Jinks.
That gentleman took a tolerably large draught; and then setting down the bottle, scowled.
This terrified Mistress O'Calligan; and she said so.
Mr. Jinks explained that he was angry,—in a towering rage; and added, that nothing but the presence of Mistress O'Calligan had prevented him from exterminating O'Brallaghan, who was a wretched creature, beneath the contempt, etc.
Whereto the lady replied, Really, to think it; but that these feelings was wrong; and she were only too happy if her presence had prevented bloodshed. She thought that Mr. Jinks was flattering her—with more of the same description.
Thus commenced this interview, which the loving and flattered Mistress O'Calligan wrongly supposed to be intended as one of courtship, on the part of Mr. Jinks. She was greatly mistaken. If ever proceeding was calm, deliberate, and prompted by revengeful and diabolical intentions, the proceeding of Mr. Jinks, on the present occasion, was of that description.
But none of this appeared upon the countenance of our friend. Mr. Jinks was himself—he was gallant, impressive; and warming with the rum, entered into details of his private feelings.
He had ever admired and venerated—he said—the character of the beautiful and fascinating Judith O'Calligan, who had alone, and by her unassisted merits, removed from his character that tendency toward contempt and undervaluation of women, which, he was mortified to say, he had been induced to feel from an early disappointment in love.
Mistress O'Calligan here looked very much flurried, and ejaculated,Lor!
Mr. Jinks proceeded to say, that the lady need not feel any concern for him now; that the early disappointment spoken of, had, it was true, cast a shadow on his life, which, he imagined, nothing but the gory blood of his successful rival could remove; that still he, Mr. Jinks, had had the rare, good fortune of meeting with a divine charmer who caused him to forget his past sorrows, and again indulge in hopes of domestic felicity and paternal happiness by the larean altars of a happy home. That the visions of romance had never pictured such a person; that the lady whom he spoke of, was well known to the lady whom he addressed; and, indeed, to be more explicit, was not ten thousand miles from them at the moment in question.
This was so very broad, that the "lady" in question blushed the color of the red bricks in her fire-place, and declared that Mr. Jinks was the dreadfulest creature, and he need'nt expect to persuade her that he liked her—no, he need'nt.
Mr. Jinks repelled the accusation of being a dreadful creature, and said, that however terrifying his name might be to his enemies among the men, that no woman had ever yet had cause to be afraid of him, or to complain of him.
After which, Mr. Jinks frowned, and took a gulp of the poteen.
Mistress O'Calligan thought that Mr. Jinks was very wrong to be talking in such a meaning way to her—and the lamented O'Calligan not dead two years. That she knew what it was to bestow her affections on an object, which object did not return them—and never, never could be brought to trust the future of those blessed dears a-playing on the side-walk to a gay deceiver.
After which observation, Mistress O'Calligan took up a corner of her apron, and made a feint to cry; but not being encouraged by any consternation, agitation, or objection of any description on the part of her companion, changed her mind, and smiled.
Mr. Jinks said that if the paragon of her sex, the lovely Judith, meant to say that he was a gay deceiver, the assertion in question involved a mistake of a cruel and opprobrious character. So far from being a deceiver, he had himself been uniformly deceived; and that in the present instance, it was much more probable that he would suffer, because the lovely charmer before him cared nothing for him.
Which accusation threw the lovely charmer into a flutter, and caused her to deny the truth of Mr. Jinks' charge; and in addition, to assert that there existed no proof of the fact that she did'nt care much more for Mr. Jinks than he did for her—and whether he said she did'nt, or did'nt say she did'nt, still that this did'nt change the fact: and so he was mistaken.
Whereupon Mr. Jinks, imbibing more poteen, replied that assertions, though in themselves worthy of high respect when they issued from so lovely and fascinating a source, could still not stand in opposition to facts.
Mistress O'Calligan asked what facts.
Which caused Mr. Jinks to explain. He meant, that the test of affection was doing one a service; that the loving individual would perform what the beloved wished; and that here the beautiful Judith was deficient.
To which the beautiful Judith, with a preparatory caution to the young O'Calligans, replied by saying, that she had never been tried; and if that was all the foundation for such a charge, the best way to prove its falseness was to immediately test her friendship.
At this Mr. Jinks brightened up, and leaning over toward the ruddy-faced Judith, whispered for some minutes. The whispers brought to the lady's face a variety of expressions: consternation, alarm, doubt, objection, refusal. Refusal remained paramount.
Mr. Jinks imbibed more poteen, and observed, with dignity, that he had been perfectly well aware, before making his communication, that the protestations of the lady opposite to whom he sat were like those of ladies in general, calculated to mislead and deceive. He would therefore not annoy her further, but seek some other—
Incipient tears from the lady, who thought Mr. Jinks cruel, unreasonable, and too bad.
Mr. Jinks was rational, and had asked a very inconsiderable favor; his beautiful acquaintance, Miss Sallianna, would not hesitate a moment to oblige him, and he would therefore respectfully take his departure—for some time, he was afraid, if not forever.
Mr. Jinks had played his game with much skill, and great knowledge of the lady whom he addressed. He brought out his trump, so to speak, when he mentioned Miss Sallianna, and alluded to his intention never to return, perhaps.
The lady could not resist. The moment had arrived when she was to decide whether she should supply the youthful O'Calligans with a noble father and protector, or suffer them still to inhabit the dangerous side-walk in infant helplessness, and exposed to every enemy.
Therefore the fair Mistress O'Calligan found her resolution evaporate—her objections removed—she consented to comply with Mr. Jinks' request, because the object of her affections made it—yes, the object of her affections for many a long day, through every accusation of cabbaged cloth, and other things brought by his enemies—the object of her ambition, the destined recipient of the garden, and the chickens, and the pigs, when fate removed her!
And having uttered this speech with great agitation, and numerous gasps, Mistress O'Calligan yielded to her nerves, and reposed upon Mr. Jinks' breast.
Fifteen minutes afterwards Mr. Jinks was going back to Bousch's tavern, mounted on Fodder, and grimacing.
"She'll do it, sir! she'll do it!" said Mr. Jinks; "we'll see. Look out for gory blood, sir!"
And that was all.