University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.
FATHER VON HORN.

At night the whole household were gathered round the
fire-place in father Von Horn's great dining-room. In
that large fire-place, between the handirons which raised
their grotesquely-carved heads like towers, a bundle of
twigs and pine splinters, dispelled with their cheerful
blaze, and warmth, and merry crackling, the gloom, the
chill, and the silence of the long autumn evening.

Hunter John Myers was there with his little daughter,
and the rough old face, was such a pleasant face, as he
held on his broad breast the bright head of the child!
The red fire light streamed upon them, and enveloped
them in that soft, rosy light, which filtrates through the
evening clouds of August;—the small form of the child
rested calmly and confidingly in those rugged arms—she
seemed to have flown to that honest heart for refuge, and
finding it, to be content. They might have been taken
for some old Italian picture—for they did not move,
except when the hunter's hand gently smoothed the soft
silken hair, or the small arms clung closer around his
shoulder.

Nina was sitting busily occupied with her needlework,
and Barry, in a corner, was closely engaged at an obstinate
problem in arithmetic. Max was nowhere to be seen.

“Father,” said little Sally, looking up with her frank,
tender eyes, “I was just thinking how I should like to
see an Indian—you know you used to tell us so many

stories about them. Were they so bad, and were they
ugly?”

The hunter laughed.

“The ugliest varmints to be seen on a summer day,
daughter,” he said, “and I've seen enough of 'em to
know. Many's the time I have fought with them out on
the border—”

“That was a long, long time ago, wasn't it, father?
None of them ever came to Meadow Branch, you
know.”

“They've melted away off to the West this many a day,
daughter; but what put the Injuns in your head?”

“I was just thinking about them so, father. Was there
ever any Indians here in Martinsburg.”

“Plenty, plenty, and I could tell you many stories
about their doings when I was a boy. Old Courtlandt
the tall, up there”—the hunter pointed to a portrait hanging
over the fire-place—“and me, went out often in the
woods here when I was a boy, and many a narrow escape
we had. He was a brave man, and that's the face for all
the world.”

“Don't you think it's like Barry, father?”

“Why, now I come to look at it good, there is the very
same look out of the eyes.”

Barry, hearing his name called, turned round.

“Why, Barry's Courtlandt Von Horn all over again,”
he cried, “just like what he was! Ah, Barry, you have
an easier time now than we did in the old days. Then
it was all fighting—now it's all playing.”

“Do you mean our play acting, father?” asked the
child.

“No, daughter,” said the hunter, “I mean every thing
is softer, and pleasanter, and easier now. Why, in the
old time there was not a road to be seen any where, and
now you have a regular stage to the water;—and you
have your letters; seems to me,” added the hunter, laughing,

“I should like some body to write me a letter, though
I just can read.”

“Could he read?” asked the child, pointing to the portrait.

“Not a word,” said the hunter.

“But Barry can, father; he ain't like him in that.”

“Barry is all the better for it, daughter. Ah, all you
young folks have great privileges;—you ought to thank
Providence for 'em. Providence has done much for you,
and I'm in hopes to see schools all over the land yet.”

“We have enough in Martinsburg, sir,” said Nina,
“and we have more yet. We have a real Paris dancing-master,
Monsieur Pantoufle. And that reminds me that
he has not been to give me my music lesson to-day.”

As she was speaking a knock was heard at the door,
and Barry going to open it, the very gentleman in question
was ushered in.

Monsieur Pantoufle, with his cocked hat pressed upon his
heart, and his head gently turned over his right shoulder,
saluted the company with a profound bow.

“Mademoiselle Nina,” he said, with a most amiable
smile, “I have great happiness in seeing you look so
charming, so fresh. Monsieur,” he added, to the hunter,
“I am rejoice to see you.”

Room was made for Monsieur Pantoufle; and little Sally
was about to slide into her corner, but her father held her
tight.

“The little thing is coming to be a real fine lady,”
said the hunter, smiling tenderly on her, “Mr. Pantoufle
won't mind your sitting on your old father's knee, child.”

“A beautiful sight,” said Monsieur Pantoufle, with a
sad smile, and something like a sigh, “I love the young
people much, hélas! very much!”

“You did not bring me that pretty minuet you promised
me, Monsieur Pantoufle,” said Nina, “you promised
it to-day.”

“Oh, pardon Ma'mselle,” replied the gentleman, smiling
and shrugging his shoulders, “I was so engage to-day.”

“Very busy, sir?”

“Ah yes, Monsieur Max, your cousin, Ma'mselle, has
made me fence—you comprehend, with sword—all the
day.”

“Oh, I understand—”

“Ma'mselle said—?”

“It is for his play.”

“His play—ah yes; he act Romeo, is it not so?”

“Yes, sir—and there is Juliet,” said Nina, laughingly
pointing to the child.

“What a charming Juliet! I think I have never seen
more charming Juliet.”

Little Sally blushed.

“I am to act too, sir,” said Nina.

“Oh, are you?” cried the child.

“Yes, dear, after you, you know.”

“Oh, I'm so glad!”

Barry raised his head, listening attentively

“What's the matter, Barry?” asked Nina.

“I thought I heard Burt's footstep, cousin Nina.”

“Father! could it be father!” cried Nina, jumping up.

She ran to the door, and opening it was received into
two stalwart arms, and saluted by a hearty and loud
sounding kiss; at the same moment a cheerful voice
uttered the words:

“Well, good people!”

Father Von Horn, who now entered, was a bluff old
gentleman of decidedly Dutch figure, about the same age
as hunter John Myers. There was no similarity, however,
between these two men. Hunter John was completely
English, Virginian, in the character of his person
—father Von Horn was as wholly Teutonic. His face
was broad and red, his person corpulent, his voice guttural,
and suitable for the difficult ich's and diphthongs of

Fatherland. There was great dignity, however, united
with this bluff person—and no gentleman in the land
was more refined, or better bred, than Jacob Von Horn.
Opulent in his circumstances, and with a clear, just
mind, studiously cultivated by the best English and
German literature, it was impossible to class him with
those illiterate, and narrow-minded representatives of his
nation so often met with. Father Von Horn was a good
German gentleman, and no one had ever been ten minutes
in his company, without ascertaining as much. If
we add, that the old man was a warm admirer of every
thing German, and inherited all the superstition of his
sturdy mountain ancestry, this sketch of him will be
sufficient for the moment.

Hunter John grasped the old man's hand with friendly
warmth.

“Well, you got through soon, neighbor,” said the
hunter.

“Yes, neighbor Myers, I wanted to get down and see
you all. Where's Max?”

“Out visiting somebody, father,” said Nina, taking his
hat and gloves.

“Ah, the dog! he'll never stay at home and study.
Wasn't Barry there just now?”

“He's gone to see that Burt is attended to, father.”

“Good boy! Well, Mr. Pantoufle, I'm pleased to see
you; I hope your music gets on, Nina.”

And father Von Horn seemed as much pleased, and as
greatly bent on asking questions, as if he had been absent
a year instead of a fortnight.