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Updated: May 21, 2025
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.
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."
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."
Verty was asleep. Mr. Roundjacket's illusions were all dissipated the attentive listener was a sleeping listener his poem, dreadful to think of, had absolutely lulled Verty to slumber. 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.
Redbud was his one thought, the only image in his mind, and Roundjacket's words, "post-mark, the Bower of Nature," had overwhelmed him with the blissful expectation of a note from Redbud, with loving words of explanation in it, recalling him, making him once more happy. He tore open the letter, which was simply directed to "Mr. Verty, at Judge Rushton's office," and found his dream dispelled.
"Sir?" said Verty, for the tone of Roundjacket's observation was such as to convey the impression that he was about to speak. "I've got something for you, my dear fellow," said the poet. "Have you, sir?" "Yes; now guess what it is." "I don't think I could." "What do you imagine it can be?" Verty shook his head, and leaned upon his desk.
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
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.
This was his sad predicament. After receiving the assurance 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.
"Hum!" continues the Squire. "Oyez! the court is opened! First witness, Mr. Verty! Where, sir, did this conversation occur?" Verty smiles and colors. "At Mr. Roundjacket's, sir," he replies. "The hour, as near as you can recollect." "In the forenoon, sir." "Were there any circumstances which tend to fix the hour, and the day, in your mind?" "Yes, sir." "What were they?"
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