37. CHAPTER XXXVII.
NINA'S WEDDING AND MAX'S LETTER.
Father Von Horn found Monsieur Pantoufle “not at
home”—which circumstance was perhaps attributable to
the fact that that gentleman had seen him approaching
and, quietly instructing his servant what to say to his
visitor, had ensconced himself in his chamber.
Immediately upon his return father Von Horn asked
for Max and was informed that he had gone to his chamber.
After a moment's reflection the old man determined
to leave him undisturbed for a time, hoping that after an
hour or two his agitation and excitement would cool down,
and that this most unpleasant affair would be ended by a
frank explanation between himself and the young man.
Besides the wedding guests before very long began to
assemble, and his attention was attracted for the moment
to this more urgent matter.
The wedding was as gay as weddings usually are—
music, dancing, and feasting were the order of the evening,
and Nina never had looked prettier her friends informed
her, albeit there lingered in her pensive eyes some
evidence of the agitating scenes through which she had
so lately passed. But Nina's mind was now comparatively
relieved; her father had assured her that the whole
matter had blown over like a wind without injuring any
one; and lastly, the young girl saw there before her the
gentleman whose valuable life had been so lately threatened,
solemn and grave as usual it was true, but undeniably
enjoying excellent health and spirits. So when the
young girl stood up to be married, blushing and timid as
young girls will be on such interesting occasions, she
looked radiantly beautiful and joyful.
They were married: and then commenced anew the
feasting and revelry which were made such hearty affairs
of by our valiant and great forefathers—valiant as
trenchermen as in other ways; and those fair ladies we
look back upon with so much admiration and affection.
The stately minuet bowed itself through its complicated
part, the gay reel whirled merry couples through its joyous
mazes; the merriment and uproar was complete.
Then it was that father Von Horn, having heard nothing
of Max, determined to go and seek him.
He found the room empty; nowhere any trace of the
young man. His eye fell on the letter Max had written;
and foreboding something, with that instinct of the heart
whose wonderful power so often displays itself, the old
man took it, and read it hurriedly, with many heavy
sighs and mournful shakings of the head.
The letter was written very hastily, with evident agitation
on the writer's part, and many portions were blotted
with his tears.
It ran as follows:
“I must leave you, uncle; I ask your pardon for this
act, because you have always been most kind to me,
much kinder and more affectionate than I deserved, I
know. Just now I was angry, my blood was hot and I
uttered words which I should not have uttered. Pardon
this, too—for my brain is still heated, and my hand trembles
with agitation. I am going away, because I feel
that I can not remain; not on account of your harsh words
which irritated me at the moment; I no longer feel any
irritation. It is not on account of those words, but because
I should be miserable, a mere walking automaton,
if I were to remain longer in the place where my heart
has been so cruelly torn—not by any one's fault—no!—
by my destiny.
“I can write down here, what I should utter with difficulty—I
loved Nina more than as a mere cousin, too much
to hear of her marriage with equanimity. My heart is
even now, painfully affected by the despair I felt, on
receiving the intelligence of her engagement—though I
have done all in my power to curb this feeling. I did
not know how much I loved her until I lost her; so be
it! But I can not prevent this tear from falling on the
paper. I can not calm my feelings. Oh, I loved her so
much, sir! She was my playmate, my friend, my cousin,
and I thought that she would be my wife. This is, I
know, ridiculous; you will think it more so still, when
you reflect how mere a child I have always seemed, even
to the present hour—so light, so boyish;—but I loved
Nina as no man else could, and love her still. May every
blessing be hers and yours, sir!
“I do not know where I am going—any where. I only
know I can not stay here. My heart feels dead or burns;
my brain is by turns apathetic and feverish; it would
continue; I should be a shadow—mournful and sombre
—stalking in your way. Different scenes may change
me, and restore that thoughtless gayety which I had once.
Now, I must go.
“You have been a father to me, uncle; God bless you!
Pardon me for leaving you thus; I must; my brain is
unsettled, but steady enough to show me that this departure
is necessary. Again, for all your kindness to me
may God bless you. I loved you dearly, sir—and will
always. It racks my heart to write these lines; my hand
trembles, my eyes flush with fever and passionate tears.
All is dark before me; I am in a dream; my thoughts
wander.
“Heaven bless you—and Nina, sir. My going will
not hurt Barry, sir:—Barry is so dear to me, you know;
take care of him, uncle! Tell Nina good-by, for me; I
hope she will be happy, and not be too angry with me.
God bless her and all, and do not think too hard of me.
Take care of Barry, uncle. Farewell.
“Alas!” murmured the old man, raising his head, sorrowfully,
with a deep sigh. That sigh was answered by
another behind him; Nina had stolen from the company,
on the same errand which had drawn her father away.
“He is gone, Nina,” said the old man, “and here is his
letter.”
Nina read it, sobbing.
“There is no help for it, daughter,” said father Von
Horn; “but may Heaven guide the boy.”
The merry music floated to them; below all was joyous
uproar; above, in the solitary chamber, all anxiety
and gloom. Then were heard merry voices calling Nina,
and drying her eyes, she went down. The old man's
head sank, and again he murmured sadly that mournful
word, “alas!”
