24. CHAPTER XXIV.
MR. HUDDLESHINGLE CONCEIVES AN IDEA: WITH THE CIRCUMSTANCES
WHICH LED TO THAT PHENOMENON.
The individual who monopolizes the whole conversation
in an assemblage of many persons, his talk flowing on like
a river which nothing can check, and absorbing such
chance sentences as others utter, as easily and gracefully
as a large stream absorbs into its bosom the little rills:
—such a talkative personage, despite every thing, is apt
to grow wearisome at last, and miss that attention which
other more silent individuals command.
We are afraid that the sayings and doings of Mr.
Max Courtlandt have filled too large a space in these
pages, and that the reader will very willingly good-speed
him on his journey to the mountains. Whether this be
the case or not, we shall proceed to report the words, and
actions of those other personages thrown by that impulsive
gentleman, almost completely in the back-ground. Mr.
Huddleshingle, with all his virtues, his peculiarities, his
devoted admiration for our heroine, will now take his
rightful place in this narrative, and perhaps act a more
prominent part than Max has hitherto played, figure in
a more striking catastrophe, than that which we have
described as occurring at the “Globe:”—Mr. Lyttelton,
that solemn devotee of legal lore, and prospective rival of
our hero in the affections of Nina, will have due attention
paid to his wise words and looks:—all the `neglected peronages'
finding the coast clear, and the silence no longer
invaded, by that merry laughter, full of joyous pride, will
take their rightful stations—usurped no longer—in our
comedy.
Max had gone away with a gay jest, beseeching Nina
not to lose her heart to Mr. Lyttelton, that walking law-book,
before he returned from his visit to the mountains.
What seemed then the merest jest, was soon no jest at all.
Mr. Lyttelton, dressed with unusual care, and radiant
with something which nearly approached a smile, called
at father Von Horn's scarcely half an hour after the departure
of the young man and hunter John. He came,
he said, to compliment Miss Nina on her admirable vivacity
and grace in the part of Lydia, which he had the
pleasure of seeing her perform, on the last evening at the
“Globe.” He had been very frequently, in his visits to
the north, to see the piece in many theatres, personated
by many beautiful women:—but he had never had the
pleasure, the happiness he might say, of witnessing a
performance so replete with grace and power, so full of
sparkling and fascinating vivacity, as that of the lady in
whose presence he now had the honor of being—then and
there.
These words were not precisely those uttered by Mr. Lyttelton,
that solemn admirer; but we have given a tolerably
accurate transcript of his remarkable and uncommon
speech on this occasion. That he had prepared himself
before undertaking such an extraordinary effort—
perhaps written it carefully and committed it to memory,
like many orators celebrated for their impromptu bursts
of eloquence—there seems little reason to doubt. True,
Mr. Lyttelton was not accustomed to con over or write
out his forensic addresses; but even the most fluent
orator, when he desires to make a profound impression,
studies beforehand his subject, selects and arranges his
sentences, seeks to discover the most winning gestures
and captivating tones. It was Mr. Lyttelton's object to
make a profound impression on this occasion:—and he
so far succeeded, that when he took his leave Nina acknowledged
to herself, with a sentiment of self condemnation,
that in heretofore regarding this gentleman as a decidedly
wearisome person, she had done him very great
injustice. As for Mr. Lyttelton, he went away completely
enslaved—and for twenty-four hours afterward was reported
to have not once looked into a law-book, or opened
a record. Strange power of love, even in the most stubborn
hearts.
Thus was the first step taken by Nina and her admirer,
hand-in-hand, toward the imaginary altar over which
presides that merry god, lover of jocund wedding bell-chimes,
and golden rings. Hand-in-hand: for we must
confess that Nina felt that Mr. Lyttelton's attention to
her were, all things considered, a most extraordinary
compliment, and she was not backward in betraying her
great satisfaction at his visit, and his promise to come
soon again. This visit was a compliment which no other
young lady could boast of: hitherto her admirer had been
wholly absorbed in his legal and political pursuits, had
forsworn the society of ladies, and had even—wrapped
up in his dusty papers, and law-volumes—seemed wholly
unconscious of the existence of such things as young girls.
He had not, however, on this account disappeared from
the eyes and thoughts of the marriageable young ladies
of the borough;—many had “set their caps” at the rising
young lawyer and politician; and not a few would have
returned no churlish answer to a declaration (not legal)
on his part. He was not agreeable, certainly—did not
dance—seldom smiled—was addicted to the unsocial habit
of falling into reveries, in which all consciousness of place
and people was lost upon his part: but he was undeniably
most intelligent, was of good “estate,” by no means
ill-looking, and was almost certain to be returned for Congress
in a year or two. Is it wonderful, therefore, that
Mr. William Lyttelton should be regarded as an eligible
person for matrimony, by the fair dames of the
borough; or that Nina should congratulate herself upon
having ensnared this formidable woman-hater?
Max knew not the sad consequences which were to
arise from his suggestion to Nina, in relation to the after-piece.
Had he dreamed of such a thing, we doubt
whether the young man would have taken so much pains
to persuade his cousin to appear in it. Her fascinating
appearance on that interesting occasion—beyond the least
doubt—fashioned and “shaped the ends” of her after
life, more powerfully than Max had dreamed they could.
She had completely charmed the sombre lawyer and politician—he
was now her willing slave, soon to assume
another, and very different position, in the eyes of the
law, at least.
Days and weeks glided away, and Max, absorbed in his
mountain sports, did not return. Nina was not sorry for
his absence, since she would have experienced some awkwardness
had he been present, and for a very simple
reason. Mr. Lyttelton was now her avowed suitor; that
gentleman called to see her every day; the house was
full of his presents—some of them exceedingly elegant
and costly: in a word, a new chapter had opened in the
book of Nina's existence; and that new chapter might
not be very much to her cousin Max's taste. Nina was
relieved by his absence—for she felt that Max had very
piercing eyes. If he loved her, on which point she had
never been able to make up her mind, how unpleasant
would be his presence!—If he was indifferent to her marriage
with Mr. Lyttelton, how dreadful his bantering
tongue! Nina was devoutly thankful for his absence.
So rolled on the days, the weeks, and at the end of a
month Mr. Lyttleton had paid the young lady such delicate
attentions, had made himself so agreeable, had ministered
so pleasantly to her vanity, by attending her to
every festival far and near—he, the austere business man
transformed, for the nonce, into a gay lady's man—that
Nina's heart was won; and so, one morning when Mr.
Lyttelton asked the delicate question, which is to so
many men a stumbling-block, Nina without hesitation
gave him her hand. Mr. Lyttelton solemnly kissed the
hand, and as he would doubtless have expressed it, the
“pleadings” were through, and the “issue” was made up.
Soon the interesting fact was made known by Nina, to
her relations and friends; father Von Horn would not
have forced his daughter to marry the marquis of Carrabas;
he was delighted to find that she had chosen so
worthy a man, and gave her his blessing. Nina's friends
received the intelligence with complacent smiles: they
had “known it from the very first,” they said. And so
the day was fixed, and Nina, to her profound astonishment,
reflected, that she would soon be that very character she
had declared she never would be—a married woman.
There was one person who received the intelligence of
her intended marriage, with profound wrath and bitter
jealousy of the happy man to be. This was Hans Huddleshingle,
who, as we know, was one of Nina's most persevering
admirers, and who never for a moment had
doubted his ultimate success—backed by the evident partiality
of her father for him as a German, and the graces
of his intellect and figure. Hans was overcome with
rage; then with despair; then a thousand projects chased
each other through his somewhat muddy brain, all bearing
on the subject of the marriage, and the means of
preventing its consummation.
One morning he heard that the day for Nina's marriage
was fixed; then suddenly flashed across his memory
a conversation he had heard, not long ago at father Von
Horn's, and a strange idea occurred to him.
He determined that this idea should be shaped into an
act.
